“Mr. Dembrow, I figured the best was if they were dead. Then we’re rid of the problem.”
“Peck, you don’t make decisions without passing it by me.” Dembrow slammed his hand down on his desk. “Call Dante. Pull the fuckin’ crew out before this happens. Do it now.”
Dante tapped the cell phone’s keypad. He heard the other phone ring, and keep ringing—and he knew he was too late.
4
Pilar paused, pushing away the remains of her meal. Bolan asked the waitress for more coffee. He felt for the young woman. Her life had been dramatically changed following the death of Manners, and the soldier understood her situation. The man she had loved had been snatched from her, and her own brother had the responsibility for that. He would not have liked to have been in that position.
“Since Tomas has gone across the border to see Rojas, I finally went back to Don’s apartment. It was torn apart. Dembrow’s people had been there. Perhaps they believed Don had left information lying around. They are that stupid. Did they expect he would display his reports for them to find?” She sat upright, thrusting her hands through her dark hair, shaking her head. “I could have cried when I saw what they had done to his apartment. It wasn’t much, but we had spent good times there. Then I found the lighter on the floor where it had been scattered with other things. I took a few personal items and wrapped them in a bundle. It was only as I walked away that those two followed me.”
“And that was when I showed up.”
“Lucky for me.” She smiled, raising her coffee cup. “I want to know how I can help. What can I tell you about Dembrow’s organization? Or Rojas?”
“All you know. Or believe you know.”
A sixth sense made Bolan’s combat senses flair. Something had altered the mood of the diner, and when he glanced beyond Pilar he saw that the diner was deserted. The waitress and the cook from the kitchen had vanished.
Bolan reached behind him and eased out the P-226. As he brought his hand to the front, Pilar’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon.
A moving shadow caught Bolan’s eye. Someone moved into view from the kitchen. The guy cleared the edge of the serving shelf. He carried a shotgun, the muzzle rising.
Bolan’s reaction was pure and simple. He two-fisted the SIG and triggered three fast shots. The 9 mm slugs centered in the guy’s chest, knocking him back. His hands jerked the shotgun up and it fired at the diner’s ceiling. Shots blasted at one of the light fittings, sparks showering as the fluorescent tubes exploded.
The door to the diner burst open, a lean figure stepping inside. The guy carried an SMG and he opened fire as the muzzle tracked in.
Bolan had reached out to grab Pilar and haul her out of the line of fire, but his action was a second too late. In a frozen moment of clarity he saw the coffee cup in her hand explode, the dark liquid shearing into fine drops. The line of slugs traveled along her arm and across her chest, the brutal impact shredding cloth and puncturing flesh. Gouts of blood flew everywhere as she was twisted under the impact. The stunned expression on Pilar’s beautiful face was suddenly obscured as the spray of slugs ripped into her jaw and cheek, taking away bone and tissue. Then her thick mass of black hair swung wildly in the instant before the top of her head exploded, blood and brain matter misting the air.
5
Rage at the wanton destruction of a young life fueled Bolan’s actions. Even as Pilar’s slender body fell back, the Executioner dropped to one knee below the level of the table. He took a single, hard breath, then launched himself from cover, knowing his move had gained him scant seconds. The gunner would be angling away from the door, seeking to regain his target. Bolan wasn’t about to allow him any leeway.
He heard the thump of booted feet on the diner floor and saw the guy’s lower legs in the gap between booths. Bolan snapped the SIG around, extended his right arm and put single shots into the guy’s knees, the 9 mm slugs shattering bone and dropping the shooter to the floor. As he stumbled, yelling in pain, the hardman came face-to-face with his attacker, and the intense look in the Executioner’s eyes told the man his life was at an end. He threw out one hand as if to plead for mercy, but his supplication was ignored. Bolan hit him with a triple volley that caved in his face and cored into his brain.
Bolan powered up off the floor, tucking the SIG back behind his belt and snatching up the abandoned SMG, an H&K MP-5. He noted the taped second magazine as he straightened and, checking the diner’s frontage, saw the black SUV parked at an angle on the diner’s lot, its doors gaping open. Three more armed figures were closing on the eatery, weapons up, confirming they were not stopping in for coffee.
As the lead gunner mounted the steps, Bolan triggered the SMG through the glass of the door. Glittering shards blew out, mingling with the sustained burst of automatic fire. The guy took the full force in his midsection, the volley tearing at his insides. A few 9 mm rounds blew out at the base of his spine, the impact of the burst wrenching him off the steps and depositing his writhing form on the pavement.
Bolan kicked the door, bursting into the open, and immediately engaged the other shooters. His MP-5 stuttered in a harsh rattle, his shots catching the pair before they could react in any substantial way. Bolan put them down with cold efficiency. He coolly changed magazines as the first clicked empty, then raked the bloody pair on the pavement again before turning the SMG on the SUV. The soldier hit the vehicle with the rest of the magazine, shredding tires, shattering windows and puncturing the gleaming bodywork.
When all the gunners had been silenced, he stood for a moment, the SMG’s muzzle pointed at the ground, then he turned and went back inside the diner. He paused briefly beside Pilar’s still form, checking her pulse and finding none, as he had expected.
“I let you down, Pilar Trujillo. Forgive me for that. But I’ll see this through, and that’s a promise.”
He walked behind the counter, through the kitchen and out the rear door. Bolan kept to the shadows, working his way back to the motel, breaking down the SMG as he went, throwing parts in all directions until he had discarded the weapon. His prints weren’t on file—thanks to the cybercrew at the Farm, so he wasn’t worried about that. He picked up the distant wail of sirens, so he stayed on the back lots, finally slipping inside the motel grounds and easing through the shadows to reach the path that led to the rooms. By the time he let himself back into his room, his anger had subsided to a controllable level.
But the sensation of loss hadn’t.
Pilar’s death would be with him for a while. Once again an innocent had died because she had become involved in the soulless determination of Evil to protect itself against exposure. Siding with Manners had drawn the young woman into the line of fire. Her enemies had tracked her, taking her life as casually as flicking off a light switch. Only this time they had not taken into account the response of the man with her. Bolan had already been involved in the matter, but his resolve had been strengthened by her death, a needless, unnecessary, cruel death. A vibrant young woman had been destroyed through greed and the hunger for power.
For Bolan, her death would offer yet another ghost to join the others. Though he had long ago accepted the dreams that sometimes visited him in the long dark nights, each new visitation simply affirmed the commitment he had made when he embarked on his War Everlasting.
The Executioner seldom dreamed about the enemies he had killed. Usually it was those who had been caught up in the violence through no fault of their own. He called them his friendly ghosts.
Bolan checked the motel courtyard through the window shutters. People were emerging from rooms, moving toward the street. He dropped the pistol into his carry-all, then he unbuttoned his shirt and ruffled his hair, opened his door and stepped outside, merging with the curious motel guests.
“What’s going on?” he asked, feigning a sleepy voice.
The young couple he had spoken to shrugged.
“Sounded like shooting,” the man said.
Bolan drif
ted along with the curious until they were stopped by uniformed police officers.
Standing in the crowd, Bolan cast a keen eye on the scene outside the diner. A number of police cruisers were parked on the street, their lights flashing. More sirens could be heard approaching the area. An ambulance, then a second, rolled in. A couple of minutes later a local TV station mobile unit showed up, and the event turned into a public spectacle. Bolan made sure he remained in the background in case any probing camera was turned in his direction.
Someone demanded to know what was going on.
“All we know, ma’am, is there’s been some shooting,” the lanky cop drawled. “Can’t tell you more ’cause we don’t know anything else.”
A couple of unmarked police cars showed up, plainclothes detectives moving in to take charge. More uniforms arrived, reinforcements to help hold back the crowd that was increasing. Bolan saw the crime scene investigation van roll up. Nothing would happen now until the CSI team had tagged and bagged the scene, outside and inside the diner.
The young couple Bolan had seen from the motel appeared at his side. The woman held herself close to the man.
“Did you see those bodies?” she said. “It looked just awful. We only stopped for overnight, and we’ll be glad to leave in the morning.”
“I heard somebody saying it was most likely something to do with drugs,” the man said. “You reckon it could be so?”
“Maybe,” Bolan said.
He turned away and walked back in the direction of the motel. As he crossed the courtyard the manager stepped out of his office.
“You see what happened?”
“Looks like some shooting at the diner.”
“Oh.”
Bolan made his way to his room and let himself back inside. He quickly packed, conscious of how the situation in town had changed. His closeness to Pilar’s death might easily compromise his presence. If anyone connected him to her, his anonymity might end. He couldn’t afford to come under police scrutiny.
He ran back over his activity since he and Pilar had arrived at the motel. It had already been dark and he had parked in close to the room, letting Pilar slip into the shadows as she left the vehicle. As far as he could recall, no one had been around when they had walked across the courtyard and onto the street. The only individual who might have seen them was the motel manager as they passed his office window. Their short walk to the diner had been along a deserted street due to the lateness of the hour. Bolan remembered the waitress in the diner. She had seen them together, and she might be able to provide the local LEOs with a description. Bolan knew he was going to need to move on, but he was not going to be able to do that so easily. Not with the local law camped just outside along the street.
A sudden thought came to him. Bolan crossed the room and turned on the TV. He used the remote to find the local station and found himself looking at the very scene he had just left. He upped the volume and heard a voice-over describing the scene.
“…have here are multiple killings. Three bodies outside the diner. Inside, the shocking discovery of three more. Two men and a young Latina all shot to death. The diner’s owner and waitress were found locked inside the cold room. I managed a few words with Homicide Detective Clarke Whittington, and he told me that at this moment the police cannot say what lies behind this tragedy. It is too early in the investigation to offer a reason…”
Bolan clicked off the TV, took out his cell phone and called Stony Man Farm. Brognola answered, admitting he had been watching the incident unfold on TV.
“Looks like you got trouble down there, Striker. Yeah, we’ve been monitoring the local TV station seeing that you were in the area. I have to admit they’re sometimes faster at reporting events than our sources.”
Bolan gave a short review of the night’s occurrences.
“I’m not off the hook yet,” he added. “Especially if anyone recalls seeing me in Pilar’s company. I’m going to have to relocate, but I can’t do much about it until morning. The diner’s a short walk from my motel, and the place is overrun by the local cops at the moment.”
“We’ll do what we can to scupper any potential threat,” Brognola said. “Aaron’s team will monitor all police frequencies, and the genius himself is trying to access the local computer system even as we speak.” The big Fed was referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm.
“Any result from that intel I queried earlier?”
“Yeah,” Brognola growled. “And you’re going to love this. It’s a Moscow telephone number. The Bear couldn’t get much joy apart from the location, so he made a call to your OCD pal, Valentine Seminov. It seems the number belongs to someone Seminov has been chasing for some time. A guy called Vash Bondarchik. He’s a big-time arms dealer, who’s well connected. Russian Mafia. He has clients worldwide. Seminov asked if he could help, and I said I would pass his request on.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. What about the name on the slip? Calderon?”
“Hermano Calderon. He works for Benito Rojas, handling technical matters. Weapons and such. Our friends at the DEA have a nice fat file on him, and the Bear somehow managed some cyber sleight-of-hand and downloaded it. Could be the guy to work these missiles for Rojas. Calderon is a little careless with his cell phone calls. Bear got into his call list and it appears he’s made a few to Bondarchik over the past few weeks. Also to the cell phone used by one Tibor Danko. Danko is Bondarchik’s SIC. Seminov knows the guy and says he’s a smart piece of work, which was the closest translation he could offer without resorting to really bad language.”
“Hell of a mix there,” Bolan said. “Something I can work on. Listen, I’ll move in the morning and make some distance from here. Monitor the situation and update me.”
“Yeah. Striker. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry about the young woman.”
“Not as sorry as the bastards who put out the hit are going to be,” Bolan said.
6
Marshal Dembrow was in top form, his powerful voice at full pitch as he berated the members of his local crew. Physically he was an impressive figure, topping the six-foot mark by a good three inches, his broad, less than handsome face darkened with his fury. The rest of his body was in proportion to his height. He was a fitness fanatic, working out every day in the expensively equipped gym attached to his spacious house. He also trained in martial arts, so the concept of being able to break bones was well within his ability. Not that he needed to use physical force—he paid people to do that for him. But he had done the deed himself on occasion.
At the moment, the thunder of his voice had the crew members subdued. They were all tough, but they might as well have been children as they stood ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. They were his men. He paid them well—very well—and provided whatever they needed. All he asked for in return was loyalty and a commitment to the business they were in. He got it. His people were in for the duration. As ruthless as they were in the pursuit of the Rojas Cartel’s needs, they were cowed as Dembrow ranted at them for turning a simple expedition into a total disaster.
As his rage subsided and the invective he spewed began to slow, Dembrow felt his control returning. He ran a hand through his collar-length blond hair and fixed his crew with a hard stare, delivering his concluding words.
“This isn’t what I pay you sons of bitches for. One guy. One fucking guy and he’s making all of you look like a bunch of mouth-breathin’ peckerwoods. This guy is smart, and he can handle himself. Just look what he did to Dante’s crew at the diner. One man, and he put them all down. Now I’m going to say it one more time. Nothing gets done until I give the say-so. Understand? I give the orders—you carry them out. For the moment walk easy. I don’t want the town getting too jumpy. If that happens, the cops will have to start rousting us, and I have enough to worry about. I’ll have this mother dealt with my way.”
The moment Dembrow stopped
ranting the subdued group turned and left the study, the last man out closing the door.
Dembrow leaned on his hands, his head hanging. Willing himself to calm down, he took deep breaths, sucking air deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. His anger finally contained, he stood and crossed to the well-stocked wet bar in the corner of the expansive, richly furnished room. He opened the glass-fronted cooler and took out a chilled bottle of beer, removed the cap and enjoyed a long swallow. The cold liquid didn’t satisfy him as it usually did, a sure sign that Dembrow was far from happy. He took out a second bottle and returned to slump behind his desk.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He drained the first bottle and opened the second.
The silent figure in the high-backed deep leather recliner facing the room’s big window slowly eased it around so he could see Dembrow. He had remained unheard and unseen during Dembrow’s bawling out of his crew. He stood and crossed to the bar, helping himself to a large tumbler of vintage bourbon.
Tall, lean, his thick dark hair framing a hollow-cheeked face, he wore all black and moved with a languorous grace. He sat down again, swirling the bourbon in the tumbler, breathing in the fumes.
His name was Billy Joe Rankin. He was Dembrow’s closest adviser, a thinker who viewed a problem from all angles before he offered any kind of advice.
“You want my opinion, Marshal? Get on the phone and call in Preacher and Choirboy. Turn those homicidal maniacs loose. This is their kind of work.”
“Dammit, Billy Joe, I don’t need this right now.”
“Marshal, this is a bad patch you’re going through. It’ll pass. Hey, you’ve gone through times like this before.”
“Oh, sure. This time I let a damned Fed into my organization. He skims off information they can maybe use against me and almost walks away with it.”
Cartel Clash Page 3