QUINN CLIMBED BACK out of the panel truck’s cab where he had been helping himself to a swig from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. He was partial to the liquor and never left home without a quart bottle. He moved along the side of the truck, suddenly struck by the silence.
“Hey, Paco, you finished already?” he called. Silence greeted his request.
He swore.
Why did he always get the laziest sons of bitches assigned to help him?
Then he decided things were not quite right.
His right hand instinctively dropped to the pistol in a holster slung loosely around his waist. As his fingers touched the butt, a shadow flickered close on his right, too fast for him to fully register before he felt a left to right icy chill flash across his throat. As the cold sensation faded he experienced a burning in its place, then the sting of pain. His hand went to his throat in a natural reaction, and his fingers felt warm fluid. It was pulsing from a gaping wound in his throat, and Quinn knew it was blood, his own, now hot and sticky, surging over his fingers, spilling down his shirtfront in a rich cascade.
He saw, too, the figure dressed in midnight black, ice blue eyes staring at him without pity. A glittering steel blade in one raised hand. He knew now why Paco had not heeded his call. Quinn’s life burst from him as his heart continued to pump, draining his strength, his resistance. He was on his knees, then facedown on the dirty floor of the hut, the only sound the rasping gasps coming from his throat as he desperately attempted to catch his ebbing breath. He slipped into death without even noticing someone removing his cell phone from his shirt pocket.
BOLAN LOOKED inside the Humvee and found a couple of reserve jerricans of gasoline in webbing straps against the side of the body and removed them. Climbing into the Humvee, he drove it clear of the hut. Then the soldier closed the panel truck doors and moved the vehicle from the hut and into a clear space. Bolan uncapped the gas cans and doused the Humvee and the hut. He placed the last half-can in the panel truck. He located a lighter on one of the dead guards and used it to ignite the gasoline. As flames engulfed the Humvee and the hut, Bolan drove the panel truck to where he had left his own vehicle. He transferred the cocaine from the truck to the rear of his Ford. While he worked, he heard the soft thump as the Humvee’s gas tank blew, sending more flame and smoke skyward. When he had moved all the coke to the 4x4, Bolan moved his vehicle clear before he used the remaining gasoline to douse the panel truck and set it alight as well.
He drove away as the panel truck blazed and eventually heard the fuel tank explode, thick palls of black smoke rising to smear the Texas sky.
The Executioner had delivered his message to the cartel. It was a simple message.
Bolan wanted Rojas and Dembrow to know their business was under attack; to realize that they were no longer safe, because the Executioner was not held back by laws that protected the guilty as well as the innocent.
Confusion and distraction would aid Bolan. He wanted his enemies off guard, allowing him the chance to move in closer and inflict whatever harm he could. It was a strategy Bolan had employed many times before and in most instances it gave him the results he wanted.
14
Preacher walked around to the rear of the Lincoln and opened the trunk. A large, flat aluminum case was inside, alongside the leather satchel holding the money Dembrow had given them. Choirboy smiled and stroked the satchel. Then he snapped the catches on the aluminum case and opened the lid. The case was lined with foam rubber, and had cutouts for various weapons.
“What do you want?” he called out.
Preacher had slipped off his suit jacket and laid it across the Lincoln’s wide rear seat, placing his hat on top of it. When he joined Choirboy at the rear of the car, he leaned his hands against the rim of the trunk and studied the cased weapons.
“It’s early in the day to make decisions,” he said, “but she has to be done.”
He reached in and picked out a Glock 21 .45ACP. It was one of Preacher’s favorite weapons. He snapped in a magazine and worked the slide to arm the pistol. He pulled a leather belt and hip holster from the case, strapped it on and slid the Glock into the holster.
There was no hesitation when Choirboy hefted a Benelli M4 shotgun. He considered the combat weapon cool, with its sleek matte black configuration. The Super 90 looked to be a perfect fit in Choirboy’s hands. He fed in six 12-gauge shells, picking up more to drop into a pocket.
“We’re going to look foolish,” Choirboy said, “if it ain’t him. If it turns out to be a Border Patrol cruiser.”
“Trust me, son, it’s him.” Preacher helped himself to an M-16 A-4 rifle. “Come to daddy.”
The M-16 was the American military’s weapon of choice. Since its inception, the M-16 assault rifle had regenerated through various updates until the M-16 A-4 model. Chambered in 5.56 mm, taking a 30-round magazine, the weapon was capable of 3-round bursts, or single shot. Since the time he had been handed his first model, Preacher had taken to the rifle with a passion. He had owned and used different incarnations, but as far as he was concerned it was the M-16. Each new version became his challenge of the moment. He stripped it down, worked on every aspect of its makeup until he had the rifle tuned to perfection. He understood it, knew its limits and made it speak for him.
And he never, ever allowed anyone to touch his rifle.
Not even Choirboy—though they shared everything else they owned. Only one man had ignored the warnings and had been handling the M-16 when Preacher had walked in on him.
No one spoke, not even Preacher. He simply took the rifle from the guy’s hands and placed it back in its case. Everyone figured that was an end to it—except Choirboy. He had seen the empty expression in Preacher’s eyes, and he knew the worst was to come.
Nothing happened for a few days, and then word got around that the guy who had handled Preacher’s rifle had been found at the roadside out of town screaming for help because someone had skewered his eyes out and severed both his hands.
The matter was never brought up. No one would talk about it, or offer an explanation. It was as if the incident had never occurred. Nobody knew anything.
Except Choirboy.
And he wasn’t talking either.
Preacher picked up a 30-round magazine for the M-16 A-4. He tapped it against the Lincoln’s trunk edge, then clicked it into the rifle. Working the cocking lever, Preacher walked to the front of the Lincoln and leaned against the fender.
“How we going to do this?” Choirboy asked.
“Seeing as how we’re in the middle of nowhere and I don’t see any appreciable cover, son, there ain’t no way to go but direct.”
“He ain’t about to drive right up and let us shoot him,” Choirboy pointed out.
“True enough.”
Preacher checked the air again, nodding to himself as he established the lack of breeze. That in itself was unusual. More often than not there was a noticeable degree of air movement, sometimes quite strong. But this day, at least for the moment, the warming Texas air was motionless. Preacher hoped it would remain so.
Choirboy had taken a pair of binoculars from the glove box of the car, and he was scanning the rutted trail. He scanned the landscape, seeing nothing of interest—only the wide Texas emptiness.
“Nothing there,” he said, then swept the glasses back as he detected movement. “Wait. Wait. Son of a bitch, there he is. See his dust? You see it?”
“Hell, yes, I see it, son. And he’s coming right this way.”
Preacher shouldered the M-16 A-4, bracing himself close to the fender of the car. The red Ford had eased over the top of a slope in the trail and was clean in his sights. He had already calculated the vehicle was within range—and if it was in range Preacher could hit it.
BOLAN FELT the 4x4 roll over the lip of the slope. He immediately spotted the vehicle blocking the trail, and saw the two men beside it. One peered through binoculars while the other leveled a rifle in the Executioner’s direction.
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He remembered his suspicions of being followed. Being right about that was no comfort to him. It snapped him back from his moment of weariness following his long night watch over Walt Quinn.
You let things slide there. Expected too much. And now you might have to pay the price, he thought.
The seconds raced by, Bolan’s mind in a whirl of mental activity as he sought a solution to what was happening.
There was nowhere to run. No cover of any kind, just flat emptiness.
He needed to exit the Ford, get flat down on the ground where he would present a lesser target.
Bolan snatched up the Uzi from the seat beside him. The gun was fully loaded. As his fingers closed around the weapon, he stomped on the brake and brought the 4x4 to a crawl.
He worked the door handle. Rolling to the left, he let his shoulder slam against the door panel and it flew open. Bolan launched himself off the seat.
As he started to fall, he heard the chunk of a bullet strike the windshield, then slap against the back of the driver’s seat. He hit the dusty ground, grunting at the impact, moving instantly. He crawled toward the rear of the 4x4, kicking up clouds of dust. He knew he was marking his position, but right then he didn’t give a damn. His prime intention was to reach cover, any cover, before being killed.
A second shot threw a slug into the ground just short of his scrabbling feet. A third clipped the heel of his combat boot, wrenching his foot to one side.
“I MISSED THE MOTHER,” Preacher yelled. “Jesus, I don’t miss.”
“Well, hell, you did this time.”
Preacher broke away from the front of the Lincoln, moving fast as he closed on the truck. The 4x4 was still creeping forward slowly, under its own power.
“Go around,” Preacher yelled at his partner. “Go around, son, this bastard ain’t getting free and clear.”
Choirboy began a wide circle, the Benelli gripped tight against his side as he ran. The soft sand underfoot slowed him as it tugged at his boots. He could see the 4x4 side-on now, the wheels still turning slowly as the vehicle maintained some motion.
Choirboy crouched and tried to peer underneath the vehicle.
Where the hell was the guy?
Choirboy couldn’t see him at the rear of the Ford, or anywhere else. He had to be close, because there was no way he could have moved clear. There wasn’t a damn place to hide.
The man would have to be lower than a snake’s belly to conceal himself out here.
“Shit.”
Realization hit hard. The bastard hadn’t run. He was flat down on the ground. Choirboy turned, seeking his partner to warn him.
In trying to alert Preacher, Choirboy failed to see Bolan rise to his knees, coming up out of the shallow depression he had dropped into. The Uzi rose with him, the muzzle tracking in. The full-auto burst spit 9 mm slugs into Choirboy’s torso, kicking out spurts of blood as they struck. Choirboy gave a startled scream as he was hit. Pain was a new thing to him—usually he was inflicting it on others. Now he was the one twisting in agony, his body alive with terrible pain. He felt himself topple backward, the Benelli exploding with sound as his finger jerked back against the trigger.
Bolan heard the crackle of returned fire from the first shooter. Dirt geysered into the air around him. The shooter was firing on the move, not pausing to aim. Bolan recognized the hard sound of an M-16.
That meant a 30-round magazine.
Bolan caught a flicker of movement as the shooter ran behind the bulk of the truck, which was between them both now.
Damn.
The last thing the soldier wanted was some drawn out cat-and-mouse game.
Bolan crouched and flattened against the rear wheel of the 4x4. He bent to peer beneath the vehicle and saw his opponent’s lower legs and boots. He angled the muzzle of the Uzi around and triggered a burst that sheared into the dirt inches away as the guy shifted position. He was moving around the rear of the 4x4.
Bracing one foot against the tire, Bolan kicked back, shoving himself away from the Ford and falling on his back, the Uzi searching for its target.
Preacher stepped into view, his finger already on the trigger of the M-16. His guess that Bolan would still be hugging the bulk of the 4x4 was wrong. His misjudgment left him off guard, and Bolan stitched him with a sustained burst that cleared the Uzi’s magazine.
The multiple hits staggered Preacher. Flesh and bone erupted from his back, blowing out with stunning force. Preacher worked the trigger of the rifle, feeling it jerk as it fired. He felt the weapon slipping from his fingers. His gaze dropped, and he saw the bloody mess soaking his shirt. As he fell, he caught a glimpse of Choirboy’s equally bloody form on the ground yards away.
“He killed us, son,” he whispered before he fell facedown on the ground.
On his feet, Bolan moved to the Ford. He dropped the spent Uzi on the seat, leaning in to switch off the idling engine. He leaned against the side of the 4x4, pressing a hand to the spot in his side where one of the assassin’s bullets had burned across his skin. He slipped the Beretta from its shoulder holster and crossed to where the man lay. He checked the killer’s pulse, satisfying himself that the guy was dead, then he walked across to where the other man lay.
Choirboy lay bloody and still, except for his eyes. They stared up at Bolan. Choirboy’s bloody lips moved slowly as he formed words.
“Preacher dead?”
Bolan nodded.
“At least you done saved Dembrow from having to pay the rest of his fee.”
“He put out the contract on me?”
“Dembrow ain’t the sort who takes kindly to being messed with. You kind of upset him killing his boys.”
“He’s going to have to get used to that.”
Choirboy made a weak smile. “I do believe you mean it.”
“You kill Don Manners?”
“What the hell,” Choirboy said. “Ain’t as if I’m walking away from this. Yeah. Preacher and me done for him.”
Choirboy saw the chill message in Bolan’s eyes and as he took his last breath, he could only think that Dembrow better watch his back.
15
Bolan stood beside the Ford. The tracking device in the vehicle had made it possible for Preacher and Choirboy to locate him. It had come that close. Time to make a change. He reached a decision, climbed into the 4x4 and drove to where the big Lincoln sat. He cleared the drugs from the Ford and stacked them in the Continental’s spacious trunk, where he also placed his weapons bag. Bolan inspected the aluminum case of weapons found in the Lincoln and took the ammunition that would feed his own weapons, then dumped the case on the ground. The leather satchel in the trunk yielded a substantial amount of cash. The hit team’s payment from Dembrow? Bolan left the satchel where it was.
Before he did anything else Bolan stripped out of his combat gear and changed back into civilian clothing. There was a small first-aid box clipped to the side of the Lincoln’s trunk. He cleaned the burn mark on his side and placed an adhesive bandage over it, then closed and locked the trunk. His Beretta went into the Lincoln’s glove box. As he went to climb into the vehicle, Bolan saw the coat and hat on the rear seat. He opened the door and threw the garments out of the car.
Bolan started the Lincoln, feeling the surge of power from the big engine. Aware of how the big cruiser sat low against the trail, he turned the car carefully, not wanting it to bog down. He kept the car in the center of the trail as he drove. The air-conditioning unit pumped out a cool draft that felt good against his face.
The Lincoln had been customized with extras that included a fitted sat phone. He tapped a number that would be routed to Stony Man Farm and listened to the contact being made over the inset speakers.
Barbara Price’s calm voice was a welcome relief.
“Are the eyes of Texas still upon you?” she asked.
“Keeping me busy.”
“Nice to hear. On that theme I have updates for you following on from what Hal said. Bear found out some deta
ils on the perps at the diner. They were definitely associated with Marshal Dembrow. And they were local street soldiers. Low on the ladder.”
“But at least we know who they collected their blood money from.”
Bolan’s thoughts dwelled again on Pilar Trujillo, a beautiful young woman who had been drawn into the hungry maw of evil through no fault of her own. And she had paid the ultimate price—cut down by the lowlifes who took their orders from Marshal Dembrow. It was an unnecessary death through association and an old story Bolan had heard so many times before. The darkness reached out and touched any who stepped within range. There was no distinction between good or bad. Collateral damage—a cold, oblique reference that encompassed those who suffered through the deliberate actions of others. Bolan could never accept the concept as ever being justified.
“You still there?” Price asked.
“I’m here. Message for the head man,” Bolan said. “Tell him I hit one of the cartel deliveries today—cargo from Mexico to the local agent. Rojas to Dembrow. Walt Quinn was there to pick up the consignment. It was his last collection ever. The delivery team is down, too, and I have the consignment in the trunk of my car. Enough coke to probably fund the Farm for the next couple of years, if we were into that.”
“Nice score, Striker. What happens to the coke?”
“I’m going to use it as bait to draw in both parties. Rojas and Dembrow are going to want it back. If I can make it work, they’ll be fighting each other over it.”
“I like the sound of that. Take care, Striker, these are nasty people.”
“I know,” Bolan said. “One more thing. You can relay a message for me to the DEA, however you want to send it. Tell them the hit team who took out Don Manners has been paid in full. They won’t be taking on any more contracts. They were bank-rolled by Marshal Dembrow. The only name I got was Preacher. They might want to check it out.”
Cartel Clash Page 7