Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  He spent the first day in and around the mall. The second day, dressed in a different set of clothes—bought from the mall—he spent only a couple of hours inside the building, then took his observations outside. The time produced nothing. To his advantage, Bolan had limitless patience. Late in the morning on the third day, just when it was starting to look as if he would need to come up with a new approach, Walt Quinn showed up.

  Bolan was in his Ford, parked in a public parking area just down from Corey’s place. The 4x4 was near the perimeter wall of the parking lot. Bolan was about to refresh his parking stub when he saw a metallic blue Toyota sedan turn off the road and cruise past the rows of vehicles for sale. It ignored the customer parking and turned in to a spot at the rear of the main showroom building. Bolan slipped out of his truck and stood near the wall, watching, and recognized Walt Quinn’s stocky figure as the man climbed out of the Toyota.

  Quinn crossed to the rear of the showroom and went in through a service door. Bolan could see him through the glass-walled structure. The man seemed to know where he was going. He disappeared into an office, emerging minutes later with a tall, sandy-haired man. Bolan knew the face from the downloaded images—Eugene Corey. The pair were talking like old buddies as they returned to the exterior parking area. They crossed to a compound farther in the rear of the main lot, where Corey handed Quinn something. The object turned out to be a set of keys. Quinn raised his hand and pressed a button on the remote. Lights flashed on a light-gray panel truck. The pair spent some more time in conversation before Corey turned and made his way back inside the showroom. Quinn climbed into the truck and reversed it from its spot, then drove off the lot. Bolan started the Ford and exited the parking area. He pulled onto the road four cars down from the panel truck and tailed Quinn.

  They drove out of Cooter’s Crossing and picked up the main highway leading south. Since the highway was busy, it was easy for Bolan to maintain his tail without being spotted by his quarry.

  An hour later they were in open country, with little in the way of an urban landscape to be seen. This was scrub country, dusty and hot. The undulating terrain bordered the highway on each side. Bolan maintained as much distance as he could behind Quinn, but it was getting harder to maintain multiple vehicles between him and the man.

  A truck stop appeared and Quinn angled into the place. Bolan quickly realized this might allow him the opportunity to bug Quinn’s truck. He rolled the Ford off the road and parked between two semi-trailers.

  He reached for the carry-all and took the GPS tracking bug from the side pocket. He checked the power level. It was at maximum, which would give it at least a twenty-four-hour life. Quinn’s panel truck was farther along the line of parked vehicles and as Bolan passed it by he paused briefly, crouched and placed the bug in position at the rear of the panel truck’s steel bumper. The bug clung to the bumper by its powerful magnetic base.

  Bolan continued on until he cleared the parked vehicles and made his way inside the diner, taking a booth where he could watch Quinn. The Executioner ordered coffee. Quinn had a large burger and extra fries. As he ate he kept up a constant chatter with the young woman behind the counter. Whatever he was saying kept her grinning.

  They were in the diner for three-quarters of an hour. Bolan had sunk enough coffee to keep him awake until morning. When Quinn left, the soldier hung back until the panel truck exited the lot. Then he paid for his coffee and returned to his 4x4. The GPS tracking unit was compact and wide ranging. Bolan switched on the power and placed the device on the passenger seat. The unit went online and the satellite system aligned itself, displaying Quinn’s line of travel on the highway. Bolan rolled out of the diner’s parking lot and took his position about a half mile behind Quinn. It was down to the tracking unit now. All Bolan had to do was follow the pulsing dot on the screen.

  Wherever Quinn went, the Executioner would not be far behind.

  11

  The thought crossed the Executioner’s mind that there might be someone tracking him, following the signal sent out by his own vehicle. He understood the implications, accepted them and maintained his own quiet observations.

  Light began to fade a couple of hours later. Bolan had kept his distance as the traffic around him lessened. Now there was nothing between Bolan and Quinn’s panel truck. The soldier had extended his tailing distance to three-quarters of a mile.

  Quinn turned off the main highway, and Bolan watched the marker on his GPS screen and picked up speed once his quarry was out of sight. As he approached the spot where Quinn had turned, Bolan slowed, saw the narrow side road and coasted onto it. It looked like nothing more than a dusty dirt road. In his rearview mirror Bolan saw dust raised by his own vehicle visible even in the twilight.

  The GPS image showed that Quinn was far ahead. Bolan didn’t worry. He could afford to let the man stay where he was. The dirt road was uneven, giving Bolan a bumpy ride. It would be worse for Quinn. Panel trucks were not designed for this kind of surface.

  They traveled at least five miles before Quinn made another turn, drove another quarter mile, then came to an abrupt stop.

  Bolan watched the tracker image. It was motionless now. He monitored it for a few more minutes. Quinn had to have reached his destination.

  A quarter mile from Quinn’s spot Bolan turned off the dirt road and eased the 4x4 into a shallow dip in the landscape. The spot he had chosen was choked with scrub brush. Bolan reversed the Ford and backed as deep into the vegetation as he could, aware of the brush raking the sides of the truck.

  Changing into combat gear, blacksuit and boots, Bolan armed himself, the big .44 Magnum Desert Eagle holstered on his right hip, the 9 mm Beretta 93-R snug in the shoulder rig. A Cold Steel Tanto knife was sheathed on his left side. The Executioner’s longtime favorite and trusted 9 mm Uzi, fitted with a 32-round extended magazine, completed his ordnance. A lightweight combat harness carried extra magazines for his three weapons in closed pouches.

  Bolan waited until full dark before he moved out. There was minimal light from a pale moon, which suited the Executioner just fine. He had already assumed that Quinn would most likely be waiting until dawn before he made contact with his incoming visitors. They would be delivering him something from over the border.

  Speculation brought Bolan to the conclusion that Quinn had come to this lonely rendezvous to meet a crew from the Rojas Cartel. The cargo to be passed over would be a consignment of raw cocaine for delivery to one of Dembrow’s factories. The valuable coke, cut and processed, would double in capacity. Its street value would soar each time it moved along the processing chain until the version that hit the streets would be far removed from the pure drug Quinn was about to pick up. That would mean little to the addicts clamoring for it. The last thing their drug-addled brains would tell them would be to watch what they put into their bodies. Some would sicken. Others would die in agony, reacting to the additions to the coke. None of that mattered to the merchants who peddled the stuff. Their one and only point of interest was the money they got from selling the drugs.

  From the rich to the poor, the profit made from the coke Rojas was sending into America was all that mattered. The misery, the suffering, the addiction that fueled crime—it was all irrelevant to men like Marshal Dembrow and Benito Rojas. Every soldier in the Rojas Cartel was as guilty as the top men—Bolan had already marked them down for Executioner-style justice.

  He took his time approaching Quinn’s resting place. It turned out to be a large, tumbledown hut, long abandoned. Crouching in the sandy earth and scanning the hut, Bolan saw that Quinn had opened the sagging wooden doors and driven the panel truck inside, so that the only part of the vehicle still visible was the rear end. Bolan waited for an hour without seeing any movement before he closed in on the hut and slid along the passenger side of the truck. He checked inside the cab and saw Quinn stretched across the seats, a blanket pulled around him. Even through the closed windows of the truck Bolan could hear Quinn’s ragged breath
ing as the man slept.

  Backing off, Bolan made his way back to his own vantage point and settled down himself. He was going to have a long wait before Quinn’s delivery arrived. That didn’t worry Bolan. He could wait.

  The Texas night might prove to be a chilly one—but the coming day was sizing up to be hot.

  Executioner-style hot.

  12

  Choirboy hadn’t spoken for a while. He was slumped in his seat and looked as if he might be asleep. Preacher knew differently and left his partner alone. He would say his piece when he had thought it out.

  “You waiting on something?” Choirboy said eventually.

  Preacher smiled. “I am, son.”

  “So?”

  “I’m waiting for that guy to lead us away from town. Somewhere nice and private where we can deal with him without any pryin’ eyes. There’s too much business around here—people, cops and such. Hell, son, you should know that as much as I do. Sole reason we ain’t never been tagged. Because we are careful. Damn, you forgot that?”

  “No.”

  “You know what? I think you need a vacation. It comes to mind we been busy of late. A change of scene could be just what we need. We made enough cash to haul ourselves off somewhere and relax. What do you, say, son? Is it a good idea or what?”

  Choirboy nodded. He sat upright, pointing at the tracker screen display. “He’s moving again.”

  “He surely is.”

  They had been tracking the red Ford, following its progress through Cooter’s Crossing until it had veered off the main drag and picked up the highway that would take it across country.

  “Where the hell is he going now?” Choirboy asked.

  “South by the looks of it,” Preacher said.

  He eased the Lincoln out of the stream of traffic and cut across to pick up the highway. They were a good few miles behind the Ford, Preacher having stayed well back until he decided it was time to close in.

  “Why’s he been hanging around town the last couple of days?” Choirboy asked.

  “Do I look like a psychic, son? We’re getting paid to off the guy, not keep a check on his social calendar. Beauty of this here tracker is we can stay out of his shadow and still have him on our radar, so to speak.”

  They stayed on course, still holding back, tracking the red 4x4 into the dusk, observing as it swung off the highway. When they reached the turnoff, Preacher slowed, easing the heavy Lincoln onto soft, sandy soil. The Ford was well ahead now. Losing light made no difference. The signal blip still showed on the screen. Preacher brought the Lincoln to a crawl, feeling the vehicle losing some traction.

  “Wish he’d stayed on the blacktop,” Preacher muttered. “This old beauty ain’t designed for desert travel.”

  “You don’t say. Hell, I could walk faster than this.”

  Preacher cut the headlights, using only the side lights. The subdued illumination made it hard for him to stay on the trail proper, and a couple of times he veered to the side, the tires sinking into even softer soil. “Damn.”

  Choirboy glanced at his partner. “I’m wondering if that bastard knows we’re following him, and he’s leading us off the highway so he can bust our asses.”

  “There are times, son, when you have a highly suspicious turn of mind.”

  “Well, excuse me for thinking outside the box.”

  “No offence,” Preacher said. “You might have something. Never be afraid to look at a situation and extrapolate. Survival comes from looking at what might be, not always how it seems.”

  “Hey, he’s stopped.”

  “He sure has.”

  “Meeting someone?”

  Preacher stopped the car and turned off the engine.

  “What?”

  “It’s too risky driving farther. We get dug in, this Cooper guy is going to be the one doing the killing. I got a feeling that 4x4 isn’t going anywhere tonight, so we’ll wait until morning. I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours. If our friend moves, we’ll be ready.”

  The Ford remained stationary through the night. Preacher watched the pulsing red signal on the screen, wondering just what Cooper was doing out here. He debated whether to call Dembrow, then decided against it. They were being paid to take out this guy. It wouldn’t be professional to ring the client and ask him for advice. That wasn’t how Preacher and Choirboy operated. They ran their business on a strictly self-regulating basis. You took a man’s money and you did the job. You didn’t expect him to bail you out if things became tricky.

  He settled in the seat. One thing about the customized Lincoln. It was the most comfortable car he had ever ridden in. It was worth every penny he had paid to have the extras fitted. Come morning, once they completed their business with Cooper, Preacher and Choirboy would be that much closer to collecting the second half of their fee.

  CHOIRBOY WAS ON WATCH as the day brightened around them, warmth starting to filter into the car. He stirred. Beside him Preacher still slept. A quick look at the monitor showed the Ford was still parked. Choirboy opened his door and stepped outside. He glanced at his watch—it was well after nine.

  Choirboy roused Preacher.

  “We need to move,” he said.

  Preacher started the car. He recalled the soft trail and eased the Lincoln forward slowly, feeling the tires grip, then slip a little. He remained calm, easing them forward yard by yard until they hit a firmer stretch of the trail.

  They both spotted the distant smudge of dark smoke staining the clean sky, then heard two dull explosions, spaced apart. Then more black smoke.

  “What the hell is going on?” Preacher asked.

  A little while on and Choirboy said, “Son of a bitch is on the move.”

  “Good.”

  “You might want to rethink that statement,” Choirboy said. “He’s heading right at us.”

  “Son, I think we might be in business. Time to break out the tools and go to work.”

  13

  Quinn’s company arrived around seven in the morning. They came in a black, personalized Humvee, its large tires churning up the sandy earth. The driver approached the hut, swinging around and reversing to the panel truck. Quinn had been up and waiting for them. The transfer took place without any formality of any kind, which left Bolan little time to make his move.

  Aware his opportunity was limited, the soldier completed a second check of the numbers he would be going up against.

  One man stood by the Humvee, ignoring the activity taking place up front. His subgun hung from his neck by a plaited leather strap. The big vehicle had been reversed up to the open doors of the hut.

  Two was on a loose, roving patrol, and they obviously were not professionals. They were simply a pair of Latino hardmen, who would have had a drill sergeant tearing at his own buzz cut. Bolan didn’t mind their laxity. It was going to make his job that much easier.

  Quinn was busy taking the packs from Rojas’s man and transferring them to the back of the panel truck. Bolan could hear a continuous rattle of talk as the men worked. They might as well have been delivering bread, rather than the poisonous product they were casually handling. Bolan didn’t need to be any closer to recognize the thick, wrapped blocks of cocaine. He had seen similar packs many times before. Too many times.

  Death and suffering were in every one of the blocks.

  Bolan made a final check of the Beretta. He tapped the weapon, then holstered it and slipped from his cover to begin a circuitous approach that would bring him around to the roving guards. He used the tangled brush for cover, flitting from point-to-point silently, barely raising any dust as he moved. He rounded the far side of the shed, crouching in the deep shadow cast by the sun on the far end of the building and lay still as one of the guards slowly made another round.

  Bolan let the guy walk by before he eased up off the dusty ground, the blade of the Tanto knife gleaming as it followed through in a continuous arc that ended when he drew the razor edge across the guy’s exposed throat. The s
tricken guard struggled to contain the rush of hot blood flooding from the deep wound, too absorbed in his attempt to survive to even make an abortive attempt at yelling a warning. He fell to his knees, kicking against approaching death, unaware of Bolan’s moving form as the Executioner stepped away from him.

  The dead guard’s partner was starting to turn, holding out a thin cigar he wanted his partner to light. The unexpected vision of Bolan standing at the corner of the hut froze him for a split second, then he dropped the cigar and went for his slung SMG. Bolan dropped to one knee, sliding the Beretta from its holster and tilting the muzzle at an angle. The cigar was still falling when Bolan stroked the 93-R’s trigger. The Beretta emitted a soft whisper and sent a subsonic 9 mm slug on its brief journey. The slug struck the guard just above his right eye, the angle of the bullet coring in and up to cripple the guy’s brain functions. It emerged from the top of his skull in a hot spurt of bone and flesh. The guard’s head snapped back, and he went down in an ungainly sprawl.

  Ahead of Bolan was the Humvee, with its relaxed guardian. The soldier circled again, coming up behind the guy. He flicked the Beretta’s fire selector to 3-round burst and lined up on the back of the guard’s skull. A simple squeeze on the trigger put a trio of 9 mm slugs on target. The guy pitched forward, his shoulder slamming against the hood of the Humvee as he slumped across it, blood leaking copiously from the ragged hole in his face where two of the slugs had emerged.

  That left two—Quinn and the Latino guy helping him transfer the coke.

  As Bolan crept around the far side of the Humvee, he saw the Mexican close the rear door of the vehicle. The guy abruptly turned, suspicion on his face when he realized none of his crew were in sight. He was opening his mouth to speak, reaching for the pistol holstered on his hip, when Bolan struck from where he crouched. The Tanto’s blade went in under the guy’s jaw, slicing in through soft flesh, grating on bone to penetrate through the jaw, spiking the guy’s tongue. Bolan twisted on the handle, the blade cutting deep as he angled it clear. Bloody flesh parted easily. He turned the blade again, making a heavy left to right slash across the throat. The sentry dropped to his knees, blood spurting from his throat onto the dusty earth.