Cutting Edge, page 3
part #139 of The Executioner Series
Long years of battle on every front had taught the soldier that when fortune presented an opportunity to rest, he must take advantage of it. He leaned back against the tattered seat and closed his eyes, listening to the grind of the gears as the truck choked its way toward the lights of the border town.
The old man chattered continuously in both Spanish and broken English, explaining that he transported bottled water from Monterrey to Nuevo Laredo once a week. Bolan learned detailed biographies on the dog and the chickens, and the old Mexican had just started in on his wife and six daughters when they slowed to a stop in the downtown market area.
Bolan handed the old man a thousand-peso note, seeing surprise register on the wrinkled face. "You haven't seen me," he said as he opened the truck door. "Okay?"
The wrinkles disappeared in joy and greed. "I haven't seen anyone."
* * *
Once Bolan reached his murky room on the Vega Hotel's second floor, he checked to make sure the Desert Eagle and the rest of his gear was still hidden between the mattress and box springs. Satisfied, he reloaded the Beretta, then tossed his ragged, sweat-soaked clothes into the wastebasket before stepping into the shower.
Bolan was fastening the last button on a fresh shirt when he heard the muffled voices through the open window to the courtyard. Moving cautiously to peer through the partly open curtains, he looked down to see the odd assortment of Mexican police and cartel gunmen.
The Executioner watched as one of the gunners passed a fistful of pesos to the gray-haired old man from the water truck and then sent him on his way.
Bolan quietly slipped on the shoulder rig and cinched the Beretta into place. He had only a carryall of ammunition and one suitcase containing clothes. Zipping the small bag, he decided to donate the remainder of his clothing to any members of the hotel staff who could wear his size.
The warrior moved silently back to the corner of the window where the party below had just entered the hotel, leaving a lone uniformed policeman to guard the courtyard.
It was against the Executioner's code to do battle with law-enforcement officers of any country. However inefficient they might be, regardless of how tightly their hands were bound with the red tape of bureaucracy, he considered them allies in his lifelong war on crime.
Unless, like the old man from the water truck, they decided to play both ends against the middle.
Crooked cops were the lowest criminal life-form in the Executioner's opinion. They were twice guilty, having perverted and taken advantage of the public trust with which they'd been bestowed.
It appeared that the Mexican officials Bolan now heard climbing the stairs fit into this category, having struck some deal with the wealthy, powerful cartel.
But appearances could be deceiving. And just as with the masked men at the ranch, Bolan would take no chance of wrongfully killing honest men. The police he was about to face might just as easily be unknowing accomplices, victims of an elaborate cartel lie: an American attacked and robbed the Rodriguez ranch. He killed Manuel Rodriguez and a dozen other men.
As he heard the arrival of the mixed party in the hallway outside the room, Bolan looked down to the shabby policeman in the courtyard. Uniform shirt unbuttoned in the heat, the man stood smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He glanced occasionally upward but obviously felt no imminent threat from the window above.
That was his first mistake.
The second came when Bolan descended from the second-story window like a hawk swooping down on his prey. The surprised cop instinctively lowered his head against the attack, and the Executioner brought an elbow down on the back of his neck as he landed. The cigarette flew from the unconscious man's mouth as he fell forward, giving Bolan time to turn back to the window.
Ripping the Desert Eagle from his waistband, the Executioner fired four thunderous rounds from the .44, aiming high over the window. Adobe dust and splinters of wood fell harmlessly over an eight-point khaki hat that appeared momentarily in the opening, then ducked back inside.
By the time the police and cartel gunners descended the stairs, Bolan had covered the courtyard and was halfway down the alley that led to the marketplace.
He stopped abruptly at the end of the alley, tearing the shoulder rig from his back. He pulled off his shirt and replaced the holster on bare skin before concealing it under the shirt. The big .44 went into the carryall.
Bolan slowed his pace, walking casually down the bustling streets of the tourist area, past souvenir stands toward the parking garage where he'd left the rented Buick. Slabs of curried goat hung in the windows of butcher shops along the way, their enticing scent reminding the soldier that he hadn't eaten since morning. Ignoring the hunger, he moved on.
The garage was locked at 9:00 p.m., and Bolan knew he'd have to devise a method of entry without attracting attention.
He never got the chance.
Two blocks from the parking garage, Bolan rounded the corner past a neon sign advertising The Millionaire of Burlesque, and walked straight into the barrel of a .45.
The small man behind the automatic held the gun with both hands and smiled, revealing a solid row of gold teeth that matched the multitude of chains at his throat. The Executioner quickly noted the diamond stud in the man's left ear and the diamond and gold on the fingers gripping the gun.
Cartel, all the way.
No Mexican cop, even on the take, could afford an array of jewelry like that.
Bolan swept the .45 to the side and shoved the carryall into the grinning gold teeth. The .45 exploded into the street as the Executioner brought his foot upward in an arc, catching the gunner squarely in the groin. The man's screams were lost in the carnivallike street noise as Bolan wrested the automatic from his grip, thrust it within point-blank range and fired.
The two gunshots drew police and cartel gunners like vultures to a carcass. Bolan ducked into the burlesque club as gunfire pounded the entrance around him. Holding the .45 close to his body he pushed his way through the crowd and smoke. On stage at the rear of the bar, four seminude, lewdly gyrating women belted out an off-key rendition of "The Banana Boat Song."
Over his shoulder Bolan saw two uniforms enter the doorway, guns drawn. Making his way slowly through the press of sweating bodies, he neared the stage and saw that the only other exit lay somewhere behind the curtain.
As Bolan reached the platform, a tall muscular bouncer in a skintight tank top stepped in front of him. In an obviously practiced movement, the muscle man raised a sawed-off baseball bat and swung smoothly at the Executioner's head.
Bolan ducked under the attack, stepped forward and brought the barrel of the .45 down across the bridge of the burly man's nose. Blood gushed from the shattered bone and cartilage as the thick body met the floor like a felled oak.
The Executioner vaulted the steps, hearing gunshots followed by screams behind him. At the rear of the stage he dived through the curtain, coming up in a dressing room. A dozen barely dressed women looked up in surprise as the Executioner rolled to his feel and sailed toward the back door.
Finding it locked, Bolan lowered his shoulder and hit the door, splintering rotten wood from the frame as he burst into the dimly lighted alley.
He was greeted by two more cartel gunners. Bolan fired twice into the first man, tagging him in the face and throat before diving behind a trash can.
The second gunner raised the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun, pulled both triggers and sent the scatterload high over Bolan's head. Grasping under his sport coat, the man almost removed a revolver before the Executioner emptied the .45 into his chest.
Bolan dropped the useless weapon and pulled the Desert Eagle from the carryall. Sprinting down the alley, he tried the first door he came to and found it unlocked. As he closed it behind him he heard the rapid footfalls of his pursuers as they raced down the alley, cursing and arguing in Spanish.
Bolan found himself in an empty storage room that was stacked high with cases of whiskey, wine and beer. The store's proprietor looked up from his newspaper as the Executioner raced into view. Before the startled man could react, the warrior was through the front door and halfway down the street.
Gaining distance from the confusion, he slowed his pace and hid the .44 under his shirt as he blended in with the tourists in the marketplace.
A darkened side street took Bolan from the busy commerce area to a supermarket in the native section of town. He left the shadows for the crowded parking lot, dropping behind a car as a lone police vehicle sped by, siren screaming.
The second car he tried, a Lincoln Mark VII, was unlocked. He slid behind the wheel, ducking under the dash to join wires until the powerful engine coughed to life. Seeing no more signs of pursuit, he threw the car into reverse and backed onto the street.
Leaving the lights of Nuevo Laredo behind him, the Executioner drove southwest on Highway 2 toward Reynosa. It would be senseless to return to the ranch now. They would be ready and waiting.
But that state of heightened awareness wouldn't last forever. Soon, it would wear off and the cartel would feel secure in their operation once more.
Then the Executioner would return to carry on the fight.
Halfway between Camargo and Reynosa, Bolan cut the lights, left the highway and pulled onto an all but forgotten cow path that led to the river. The reflection of the moon off the Rio Grande was his only guide as he eased the Lincoln onto the rickety wooden bridge that connected two nations.
He'd take other back roads on the U.S. side of the border, coming out near McAlIen, Texas, where he could abandon the Mark VII in some parking lot. An anonymous phone call to the local authorities would ensure its return to the rightful owner in Mexico.
And soon, another rightful return would be made. Bolan would rightfully return to a ranch just outside the border city of Nuevo Laredo.
The Executioner didn't believe in leaving a job half-done.
* * *
Bolan thought of the motel bed that awaited him as he walked down the street from the Wal-Mart store to the Quo Vadis Inn. Stopping at a phone booth midway between the store and the motel, he dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed the McAllen police department. He gave the desk officer the Lincoln's description and location before hanging up when the man asked for his name. Wearily he circled the swimming pool to get to his room at the rear of the parking lot.
Bolan pulled the Beretta and Desert Eagle from his waistband and dropped them on the bed, then unzipped the carryall and removed a gun cleaning kit.
Brognola had been out of the office when he'd called earlier, and it was vital that he talk to the man from Justice before he proceeded. Bolan glanced at the pillows on the bed as he sat down. There was no point in trying to sleep until the return call came. He ejected the magazine from the Beretta and worked the slide, jacking the chambered round onto the bed next to him. Then, flipping the slide release, he dismantled the weapon.
There had been rumors for the past couple of years of a mysterious group of mercenaries operating along the Mexican-American border. They specialized in recovering airplanes that had been stolen in the U.S. and were then used to smuggle drugs from Mexico back across the border. The Mexicans, ever ready to romanticize their enemies, had named them the Vampire Bats. Bolan remembered the odd black Kevlar vests and hoods. The more he thought about it, the more ready he was to believe that this was the group who had attacked the ranch and taken the Cessna. But he had to make sure.
Twisting the cap from a bottle of solvent, he threaded a small cloth patch through the eye of the cleaning rod. He had just dipped it into the bottle when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.
"Striker." Brognola sounded tired.
Bolan held the receiver in place with his ear and shoulder, running the cleaning rod up and down the Beretta's barrel as he spoke. "I need some quick intel, Hal," he said, ignoring formalities. "There's a group of mercenaries operating along the border…"
Brognola chuckled. "For once I'm a step ahead of you, guy. I got a call about three this morning from an old acquaintance who's evidently the ringmaster of that circus."
"I noticed you said 'acquaintance. »
"You got it. Guy's name is Buddy Taylor. Think back. Ring a bell?"
"Yeah. Vaguely." Bolan set the barrel on the bed as his mind raced back over the years to the time and place where he'd first seen combat. "Buddy Taylor. War;hero… for a while. There were rumors of black market dealings, the needless slaughter of civilians."
"Right," Brognola said. "He was stationed for a while at Kaeson. My guess is that the rumors were true, or at least based on fact. He got caught with his hand in the cookie jar again in Vietnam. Seems there wasn't enough evidence for a court martial, but they pressured him out with a general discharge."
Bolan pressed a rag against the mouth of the solvent bottle and turned it upside down, letting the cloth absorb a small amount of the liquid. He picked up the Beretta's frame and began rubbing it down. "You've done your homework. But why'd he call you?"
"Seems that this time he's taken a bigger bite of the action than he was prepared to chew. Taylor's avoided cartel operations up until now, but he made a mistake this time. A big mistake. Not only was this a Colombian op, the Cessna they flew out was already loaded with coke."
"How much is he sitting on?" Bolan asked.
"Over three hundred keys. That's not the biggest shipment they've ever run, but it's enough to severely irritate the cartel drug lords. I guess the plane was so loaded down they couldn't even get it all in the hidden compartments they'd built. It was under the seats, on the floor. Everywhere." Brognola paused. "If it hadn't been, he might not ever have found it. Anyway, it's already cost Taylor two men. By the way, Striker, he mentioned some mysterious American who was shooting dopers at the ranch yesterday."
"You said he lost two men, Hal. I only saw one go down,"
"Well, the one you saw lived long enough to give up the identities of the rest. One of his pilots caught a couple of .22s in the brain when he got home. The cartel justice department works considerably faster than mine."
Bolan frowned. "How does he know the hit was cartel? Guys like him make a lot of enemies."
"According to the cops who investigated, the pilot's name was Randall Axe. The report says he was found with his throat slit and the tongue pulled down and out through the gash. Sound familiar?"
Bolan felt his fingers tighten around the gun frame. "Colombian necktie."
"Right. Anyway, Mr. Taylor is scared to death, and he proposed a trade. He'll give us the cocaine in exchange for a new face under the Witness Protection Program."
"You didn't go for it, did you?"
"Well," Brognola said, "yes and no. I agreed… with one stipulation. Taylor's got to finger all cartel operations and any other drug locations he knows about."
"And?"
"And he's not crazy about the idea. He's worried about testifying in court."
"Considering who we're dealing with, I'd say that's a pretty legitimate concern on his part."
"Yes, it is. But I told him not to worry. I was fairly sure that the man I sent with him would make sure things never got to court." Brognola paused. "You interested?"
Bolan set the gun frame on the bed. "I haven't hung up, have I? I'm going back to finish things at the ranch, one way or another. I can follow whatever trail I find there and eventually locate the other cartel sites, but this would be faster. Tell me about the rest of Taylor's group."
Bolan began rubbing a light coat of oil over the parts of the Beretta. He could hear the rustling of papers on the other end of the line before Brognola answered. "He uses a variety of people, but he's got three regulars," the Justice man said. "Guy named Jackson. Nothing spectacular on him. Regular Army for seven years before he busted out on drug charges. Then there's a woman, Janie Brewer. I don't know if you'll want her in on the deal or not."
"We'll see how it goes. Who's the third member of the team?"
"He's the interesting one. A Cuban name Felipe Valdez, formerly with Alpha 66."
Bolan frowned. Alpha 66 was a CIA-sponsored unit of Cuban nationals that operated out of the Florida Keys, running frequent guerrilla attacks against the Castro regime. The expatriate Cubans were zealots in their quest to rid their homeland of communism. So what was Valdez doing working for a bush-league merc like Buddy Taylor?
Brognola read his mind. "Seems that Valdez was in — charge of funds for his unit and his fingers got a little sticky. The Cubans let him go."
"He's lucky they let him live."
"Yeah. It seems there were extenuating circumstances that influenced them. Something about using the money to help his sister get out of Cuba. It's not real clear."
Bolan dropped the cleaning rag and began reassembling the 93-R. "Anything else I need to know?" he asked Brognola.
"Yeah. One other thing. I'm out on a limb on this one. Taylor insisted on holding the cocaine until after it's all over. I don't like it, but I was afraid if I pushed too hard he might decide he had a better chance of survival by trying to return the dope to the Colombians."
"They'd kill him anyway."
Brognola sighed. "I know that, and you know that. But I'm not sure he does. The only reason he's willing to trade with us at all is the fact that he doesn't know how to sell the coke himself without attracting a lot of attention."
"Honorable man I'll be working with."
"Right."
Bolan stifled a yawn. "You set up a meeting?" He shoved the magazine up the well of the Beretta and worked the slide, chambering a round while Brognola gave him the time and place.
"Anything else you'll need right now?" the big Fed asked.
The warrior thought for a moment, then said, "Yeah. Get in touch with Grimaldi. Tell him to pick a fast bird and stand by."
Bolan returned the phone to its cradle. He was determined to take his war all the way to the top of the Medellín cartel, which would eventually entail a trip to Colombia. When, exactly, he couldn't be sure of, and Grimaldi would have to be ready for takeoff at a moment's notice.
