Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  “They won’t quit. But what have they got to go on? No witnesses. Manners was undercover, so all the feedback they have is his own. Dammit, Striker, it’s why you’re there.” Brognola’s last words were delivered with a hard edge, almost hinting that Bolan was the one with all the answers.

  The Executioner let his friend’s frustration wash over him. He understood the big Fed’s mood. Like Bolan, Hal Brognola accepted every loss personally. He worked the edge all the time, aware of the way the game was played—hard investigations that often produced minimal results and were frequently closed due to the death of courageous men and women. Brognola was a man of courage himself, and he carried the burden on his broad shoulders.

  The brief silence was broken when Brognola cleared his throat, his voice gruff as he said, “You didn’t deserve that, Striker.”

  “I’ll try not to lose any sleep over it,” Bolan said lightly. “Did Manners point the finger at any local cops who might be on the Rojas payroll?”

  “I’ve been going over the file reports the President delivered. Manners did talk about one in particular. A Deputy Chris Malloy. He works out of the narcotics squad for the county sheriff’s department, which is headquartered in a town called Cooter’s Crossing.”

  “Having a man right on the inside could come in handy for the cartel.”

  “Damn right it could. I had the cyberteam run a profile on the guy. They dug into Malloy’s personal computer files and uncovered a hidden folder. Malloy is computer smart, but there was no way he could stop Akira from breaking his encryptions. Malloy has a couple of bank accounts under a false name, and he gets regular deposits. Generous amounts, too. Akira followed the trail and traced the deposits back to a guy named Eugene Corey.” Akira Tokaido was the Farm’s top computer hacker. “And?”

  “Corey’s main business is a very successful vehicle franchise in the area. Anything from autos to trucks to big rigs. He has sites all around the country. He buys, sells, rents and runs ads on TV. ‘If it’s on wheels—we do the deals.’ That’s his slogan. Rumor has it, from the DEA files, that Corey supplies transport to the Rojas Cartel as a subsidiary to his main business, and pulls in some big bucks. There’s no direct connection, but with the number of sites he has scattered around the county, it’s hard to keep track of all vehicle movements. From what Akira’s probing has brought to light, it looks like he’s also slipped in payola for the cartel as an extra.”

  “It’s somewhere for me to start,” Bolan said.

  “I’ll have the data downloaded to your phone,” Brognola said.

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Anything else you need?”

  “Work up a file on Bondarchik. If Manners was correct on this weapons shipment to Rojas, it might be helpful if I know how it’s being done.”

  “You’ll have it all shortly.”

  BOLAN CRUISED the highway until he spotted a gas station. He turned in and filled the Ford’s big tank. While he was there, he checked water and tire pressure. Inside the convenience store he bought some bottles of water and a handful of health bars. He stored those in the cab, spun the wheel and drove across to the handy diner on the far side of the lot. Falling back on his military training, Bolan decided it was time to have a meal while he waited for Stony Man to send him the data he needed. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. The enemy wasn’t going to give you space if those needs came up at a bad time.

  Stepping inside brought back the memory of Pilar Trujillo. Sitting in one of the empty booths, waiting for his food and coffee, Bolan ran through that scenario once again: the chatter as she ate; her brief repose shattered by the bullets that had hammered into her, reducing her from a vibrant young woman to a shattered and disfigured corpse on the floor of the diner.

  “You okay?”

  Bolan glanced up at the concerned face of the waitress. She slid his plate in front of him and stood with a mug of steaming coffee in her hand.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just working on a problem I have to solve.”

  She put the mug on the table. “Don’t let it kill you, honey.”

  “That’s what I’m working on.”

  Bolan ate his meal. He was on his second mug of coffee when his phone rang. It was Price this time.

  “Data download will follow from this call,” she said. “There’s a small town twenty miles from your location. Your guy Corey has a big franchise there, because the town is a hub for rail freight distribution. It’s a kind of a crossroads in the area. Freight is shipped in and out by road and rail, which means it’s a busy junction. Manners mentioned it in his final report. He had the feeling it was one of the jumping-off points for the cartel.”

  “Cooter’s Crossing?”

  “You know I hate it when you do that. How did you know?”

  “Hal mentioned it when we last spoke. But all he gave me was the name of the place.”

  “A guy named Abe Cooter first set up the place back in the late 1800s. With all the cattle business and the railhead, he figured there was money to be made. And he was right. He lived until he was in his nineties and died a millionaire. There are still some cattle ranches around the area now. Cooter’s Crossing has a reputation as a tough town, so watch your back, Striker. That Deputy Malloy is down as a tough guy.”

  “I’ll watch out for him. Remind me how you knew where I was?” Bolan asked, curiosity spiking, tinged with a little unease because he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

  “Your rental,” Price said, “has a LoJack system built in. It’s standard in most new vehicles these days. Why?”

  “Because if you can track me, so can the opposition if they get my license number.”

  “How would they know that?”

  “These people know how to find things out. They have their methods.”

  “Damn, Striker, they could have a tail on you already. Is it time to lose your truck?”

  “Not yet. Maybe it’s time to let them show themselves.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “We’ll see,” Bolan said. “Download my stuff and stop frowning.”

  “I’m not frown… Hey, how did you know?”

  Bolan chuckled gently. “You just told me.”

  Price said her goodbyes and hit the button that sent the data to Bolan’s cell phone. He read it while he drank his third mug of coffee. By the time he left the diner and returned to his truck, he had enough on Eugene Corey to warrant a close inspection of the man and his business.

  9

  Cooter’s Crossing turned out to be larger than Bolan had expected. It had a modest financial district that housed banks and legal operations. He cruised through the center, following the main street until he spotted a modern hotel in the retail district. The soldier drove into the parking lot, took his luggage and walked inside. He was greeted by the smiling receptionist who quickly assured him they could find him a room. Minutes later the Executioner was in the elevator and on his way to the fourth floor, with the smiling bellman carrying Bolan’s clothing bag, while Bolan hung on to the one that held his ordnance.

  “First time in the Crossing?” the bellman asked. There was no mistaking his local accent.

  “First time,” Bolan said.

  “Business, or pleasure?”

  Bolan thought about that. “You could say business,” he said.

  “Busy town. You’ll find plenty going on.”

  Bolan nodded. That would be a fact if he had anything to do with it.

  The bellman, who had introduced himself as Sam by this time, led Bolan along the thickly carpeted corridor. He stopped at a room and used the key card to open the door. Bolan followed him inside, placed his bag to one side and allowed Sam to complete his task of explaining the amenities.

  “Anything I can do, just call, sir.”

  Bolan handed him a ten-dollar tip and assured Sam he would, then said, “How about a pot of fresh coffee? Can’t get on with that complimentary stuff.”

  The banknote vanished i
nto Sam’s pocket. “I’ll handle that for you, sir.”

  Once he was alone, Bolan opened his weapons carry-all and took out his cell phone and made a call to Stony Man Farm. When Price answered he updated her on his status.

  “Nice hotel?” she asked.

  “You’ll find out when my credit-card statement shows up.” Which was a standard joke between them. Bolan’s credit cards were preloaded so that there was no paper trail.

  Price made a disapproving sound. “On company expenses, too?”

  “It’s lonely on the road.”

  “Mmm. I’m sending you a contact number for Seminov.”

  “Thanks. You got anything else for me?”

  “This may be something or nothing. The cyberteam was trawling all local police sources and they came across this. A guest at the motel you used called the police when they found the manager injured. The manager refused to make any kind of statement. He said he’d had a fall, but passed out on them. Cops took him to a local emergency room. The guy was treated but still insisted on no statement. He refused to give them any information, so they had to let him go. Bear followed through and checked the attending officer’s computer report. The cop said it looked like the man had been pistol whipped around the head and hit in the face. There was nothing else they could do, so the file was logged and that was it. The guy’s name is Nick Hatcher. He has a file. Nothing serious. He’s just a petty criminal.” Price paused. “What do you think, Striker? Worth anything?”

  “Could be someone checking me out, or it could be an unrelated matter.”

  “Same motel? Close to the diner? I don’t like coincidences, Striker. Let’s face it, you’ve caused problems since you showed up in town. And these people are known for being touchy if anything threatens their setup.”

  “Hatcher at the motel. I’m guessing we know now why he took a beating,” Bolan said. “Most likely if they asked about me they would pick up my vehicle details from the registration card. If somebody had a connection in the police department and they ran a make on my truck, that would answer the question. An organization like Dembrow’s wouldn’t have a problem getting its hands on tracking technology.”

  “So, who can you trust?” Price asked. “The way I see it, nobody. That makes it hard for you to get information.”

  “That’s what I have you guys for,” Bolan said.

  “The trouble is, from here we can only yell ‘look out.’ We can’t do a damn thing more.”

  “Knowing you’re there is enough.”

  “Gee, Striker, you say the sweetest things.”

  BOLAN WAS STILL recalling the conversation when a tap on his door announced the arrival of his coffee. He sat at the room’s desk and ran through all the downloaded data Stony Man Farm had sent him. The accompanying photos Manners had gathered identified Corey and Malloy among a number of the Rojas Cartel’s known associates. The person Bolan took initial interest in was one Walter Quinn. The man’s rap sheet made interesting reading.

  Quinn had been into crime since his teenage years. In and out of prison, association with similar personalities, Quinn had recidivist qualities that made it clear he was never going to clean up his act. He also had a strong proclivity toward violence. During the past few years, he had been involved with Dembrow, and according to Manners, the man was involved in the transportation of drug shipments across the border. Specifically drugs coming from Rojas destined for Dembrow’s distribution network. Suspicions, though, were of no use when it came to scoring convictions. Quinn obviously had protection somewhere within the local law. Malloy, perhaps? His back was being covered, and there was also the added fail-safe of legal protection. Any hint of a charge being made brought the instant legal interference that assured Quinn would walk free and clear—which had happened a few times already.

  The Executioner’s cell phone rang. It was Aaron Kurtzman, the head of Stony Man Farm’s technology team, and Bolan went straight to the matter at hand.

  “You need something to get you a lever into Dembrow’s business?” Kurtzman asked, obviously relishing the moment.

  “What have you got?”

  “Eugene Corey,” Kurtzman said. “Since we scoped him out, I did some more checking, and got a line on his cell phone. I put a trace on his calls, sent and received, and downloaded all his recent calls. He touches base with a guy called Billy Joe Rankin quite a lot. Akira ran a check on Rankin, and the guy is one of Dembrow’s buddies. Worked with him for a while. The conversations with Corey are, shall we say, guarded. But guess who they were talking about yesterday?”

  “No games, Bear, I’m bushed.”

  “Okay. Walter Quinn. Bottom line is that Quinn will be getting in touch with Corey. Something about needing wheels for a pickup in a day or two. No specifics but what the hell, Striker, I don’t expect Quinn needs transport for a visit to Wal-Mart any time soon.”

  “Great work, Bear. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for. Stay on Corey and see if anything else shows up.”

  “I’ll stay tuned.”

  Bolan helped himself to another coffee as he went over what Kurtzman had just told him. It could turn out to be a real break.

  “Time’s running out for you, Quinn,” Bolan said quietly. “No get out of jail free card this time.”

  He used his cell phone to call a number that would connect him to someone he knew could provide him with a piece of electronic equipment able to help in the upcoming phase of his mission.

  During his long campaigns, with and without official sanction, Bolan had, through necessity, built a small network of covert suppliers of specialist equipment he could call on in times of need. It was not always possible, due to time, distance, and situation, for the Executioner to obtain weapons of war through his normal channels. So Bolan maintained his contacts, and from time-to-time he would call on them. Some were ex-military. A small number were men, even a few women, Bolan had extracted from bad situations, either of their own making, or as a result of what Bolan called misdirection. In the end, they had taken the hand he offered and moved on. The rescued rarely forgot the chance they had been given to step back into the sunlight, and none of his contacts had ever balked at assisting when the call came.

  Noah Decard was one of the saved. In the military he had been an electronic warfare specialist. Since his honorable discharge, he had set himself up in the surveillance business, bringing his skills to the commercial market. An unexpected involvement with an organization that was less than honest drew Decard into the murky clutches of violent men. Even though he stood up against the criminal element, Decard came close to losing everything—including his life—until an individual, with a penchant for dispatching lowlifes, came blistering in on a mission takedown. Decard had watched openmouthed as the Executioner had delivered his brand of justice and had brought down their headquarters. In the bloody aftermath, Decard, no fool when it came to recognizing a life-changing moment, had not simply thanked Bolan, but offered the mysterious man in black any help he might need in the future.

  Their paths hadn’t crossed for a couple of years since Bolan had last made contact, looking for a piece of specialist equipment. The telephone call that came one afternoon caught Decard in his office in San Antonio. The voice he hadn’t heard in a while was instantly recognizable.

  “Noah.”

  “Hey. How you doing? I figure this isn’t a social call.”

  “You guessed right.”

  Decard smiled. “Straight to the heart,” he said, smiling. “So what can I do for you?”

  Bolan explained in simple words what he needed.

  “No problem. Only questions are when and where?”

  “ASAP. Couriered to my hotel in Cooter’s Crossing.” Bolan relayed the address and his cover name.

  “I can have it delivered by midmorning tomorrow.”

  “You can bill me at the same address and I’ll settle up later.”

  “Hey, you trying to spoil our friendship? Who said anything about a bill? Just
put it down as my contribution to whatever you’re involved in.”

  “Thanks, Noah. I’m grateful for that.”

  “You need anything else?”

  “That’s all this time around.”

  “You watch yourself down there. I’ve heard that Cooter’s Crossing can be a bad place. Cover your back.”

  “Will do. And thanks again.”

  “Anytime, buddy.”

  THE HOTEL DESK CALLED Bolan’s room just after eleven the next morning. A courier had just delivered a package for him. Bolan went down and collected the heavy, shoe-box-sized item. Back in his room he opened the package and took out the contents: a new electronic tracking unit and a number of disc-shaped, magnetic bugs. One of the bugs attached to a vehicle would allow Bolan to follow wherever it traveled without being seen. He would be able to stay well behind the targeted vehicle and see its progress on the tracking unit’s GPS monitor.

  10

  Bolan was able to observe the car dealership without being seen. Across the road from Eugene Corey’s business was a shopping mall, and on the second floor a food court where Bolan sat at a terrace café overlooking the road and observed the dealership. Glass-walled walkways ran the length of the mall, and Bolan spent a few hours checking out the comings and goings of Corey’s customers and staff. He knew he was taking a chance that might never pay off, but right now it was the only direct lead he had to Quinn and a drug drop, so he decided to allow himself a couple of days staking out the business.

  It wasn’t the first time Bolan had devoted long hours to staking out the opposition. At least this time he wasn’t stretched out in wet grass, or concealed in some dank ditch, waiting for his enemy to show. He was also aware that if he spent too much time inside the mall he might be spotted. Malls were equipped with security cameras. If he was observed spending too much time in the mall, his motives might come under scrutiny. The last thing the Executioner wanted was to be seen and possibly questioned. He’d have to get the Farm to take care of the cameras.