Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  “Leave that with me,” Price replied. “We have a cell phone number for Tomas Trujillo. It came from Manners via Pilar.” The mission controller read out the number. “Is that going to be a help?”

  “Definitely. Thanks.”

  16

  Bolan drove back to his hotel. He parked the Lincoln in a corner of the hotel’s basement garage. His weapons were back in the carry-all he carried with him back to his room. Before settling in, Bolan stashed the bag in the large closet, then took the time to have a shower before he dressed in fresh clothing.

  He called room service and ordered food and coffee. While he waited, he contacted Stony Man Farm again and asked for Kurtzman.

  “I need an empty building where I can arrange for a meet. Somewhere out of town and well away from locals. I don’t want the chance of any civilians getting hurt.”

  “I’ll work on it and get back to you,” Kurtzman said.

  “Make it fast. I need to set this up ASAP.”

  Bolan’s room-service order arrived a short time later and he realized how hungry he was. He had finished his meal and was downing a second cup of coffee when his cell phone rang. It was Kurtzman.

  “The Northwest Meat-Packing Plant stands on its own grounds. It’s been closed down for four years and it’s supposed to be under development, but no takers so far. The place is pretty well derelict. No other businesses are close by. Railway tracks run alongside the plant, and no one wanted to be near the place when it was up and running, so it’s isolated. I’ll send you a text with directions. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “Exactly what I’m looking for. Gracias.”

  “Hey, talking the lingo now.”

  Bolan ended the call. He drained his coffee, picked up his phone again and dialed in the phone number Price had supplied.

  It rang out for a long time before it was answered.

  “¿Quién habla?”

  “A friend who can help Benito Rojas get back his missing cargo,” Bolan said.

  “¿Qué?” The language changed abruptly. “Who the fuck are you? And what is this missing cargo you are talking about?” A pause, then, “How did you get my fucking number?”

  “Maybe I’m a fan, Trujillo. Tomas Trujillo, isn’t it?”

  “You screwing me around?”

  “Do some checking. Your delivery crew met with Walt Quinn to hand over a coke stack. They drove a black, customized Humvee. Quinn was waiting for them. Someone else was waiting for the meet to take place. They took out your crew and Quinn, and made off with the cargo. It’s easy enough for you to check out.”

  “Hombre, you shouldn’t play fucking games.”

  “This is no game. I don’t give a damn if you haven’t the time to listen. But I do know Rojas is not going to be a happy man if you lose him the chance to take back his coke.” Bolan could almost feel the tension as Trujillo considered his options. “Hey, I don’t have all day.”

  “Espere un momento.”

  Bolan picked up voices in the background. There was a rattle as the cell phone was transferred from one hand to another. A different voice came on the line.

  “What shit is this you are giving me?”

  “If you’re Benito Rojas, you’ll know what I’m talking about when you try to contact your delivery crew. So listen. I know about your cargo going missing. You want it back, I’ll tell you where it will be the day after tomorrow.”

  “So you say. How do I know this is not a trick?”

  “Figure it out, hombre. I know who took it and where it is. I could take the stuff myself and make my own deal if I felt inclined. But I understand you’re a big man. Anyone who decided to screw you over wouldn’t live long enough to spend the money. So I figure I’d give you back your shit, and maybe you’ll do me a favor and toss me some commission.”

  Rojas laughed. “I have to admire your initiative.”

  “I’m not looking for a pat on the back. Just a way to turn what I know into hard cash. Are you interested?”

  “That missing cargo is worth a great deal. A very great deal. Getting my hands on it is important to me.”

  “Then listen. The day after tomorrow at eight o’clock. The cargo will be waiting for pickup by an interested party at the old Northwest Meat-Packing Plant outside Cooter’s Crossing. You know it?”

  “Sí.”

  “Come in by the east gate. Main shed. Your cargo will be there. Send your people to pick it up. The interested party will be there, too, so tell your crew to watch their backs. And don’t move any earlier. You’ll be watched. Break the rules, the game is off.”

  “Do not fool with me,” Rojas said. “If this is not what you say…”

  “It wasn’t me who hijacked your shipment, Rojas. Maybe this is a way to find out who did.”

  “How will I contact you?”

  “No problem, Señor Rojas. I have this number, so I can call you.”

  BOLAN’S SECOND CALL ran along the same lines, except that he spoke directly to Marshal Dembrow. The American was in a no-nonsense mood.

  “You fucking with me, boy? Do you have my consignment?”

  “Your drugs? I don’t have them, but I know where they’ll be day after tomorrow—waiting for pickup by people who made an offer. It seems to me, Dembrow, that your pickup guy and Rojas’s crew were a little careless letting that coke get hijacked and themselves wiped out. Never would have figured Walt Quinn letting something like that happen. Always saw Walt as sharper than that.”

  “Fuck the reminiscences. How do you get off knowing where my stuff is?”

  “You don’t expect me to give up my sources,” Bolan said. “Let’s just say I keep my ears open and my head down. I’m in this for a kickback. You get your hands on the coke, I get a finder’s fee. That’s all. You interested?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe! Hell, Dembrow, I can hear you foaming at the mouth from here. If I do this for you, I expect to be paid.”

  “Where and when?”

  “Day after tomorrow. The Northwest Meat-Packing Plant, Cooter’s Crossing. The place was closed down years ago, so you shouldn’t be disturbed. Eight o’clock. West gate. The coke will be inside the main shed. Just watch out for the buyer’s crew. If anyone moves in before the deadline, the deal’s off and the coke gets reduced to ashes. Take it from me, you don’t want to screw around with these people. That’s it, Dembrow. Your choice.”

  Bolan cut the call and switched off his phone.

  He had set the deal in motion.

  All he could do now was sit back and see if both parties took the bait.

  17

  Bolan parked the Lincoln and went EVA. He was on the eastern perimeter of the packing plant, the railway tracks some distance behind him. He had scouted the area earlier in the day, finding a narrow, disused road that paralleled the sagging fence of the plant. On the other side rusted holding pens stretched almost all the way to the large, empty main packing shed. Other smaller huts dotted the site, all of them in disrepair. There had once been a spur line that allowed cattle cars to roll in close to the pens, but the tracks had rusted and were overgrown with grass and weeds. The whole area reeked of desolation and disuse. Loose corrugated steel sheets rattled in the dry wind blowing in from the wide land beyond Cooter’s Crossing.

  Crouching just inside the fence, Bolan scanned the area. It was just after four in the morning, dark and chilly. He knew without having yet seen them that there were others at the site. One of the two principals—he didn’t know which—had sent in an advance team. Bolan had spotted a dark-colored car parked on the far side of the site, behind a couple of old railcars. His recon had paid off. Checking the car, he touched the hood. It was still warm, and he could hear the soft pinging coming from the cooling engine.

  In the shadows Bolan studied the long packing shed. Dark figures flitted through a patch of moonlight. He smiled without humor. His senses had warned him that someone would try to gain the advantage. True to form the drug traffickers revealed t
heir nature. They were unable to act in any other way than by being duplicitous, by going against any promise made, no matter how nebulous.

  Fine by me, Bolan decided. You want to play—let’s do it by my rules.

  He crouch-walked, his blacksuited figure blending with the night shadows. Bolan was in his element, using the darkness as a partner, letting it conceal his movements as he neared the packing shed.

  The Beretta 93-R was in its shoulder rig. His only other weapon was the Cold Steel Tanto knife, the silky smooth blade hungry for blood.

  He counted his quarry as he moved back and forth, silent, probing the shadows.

  The three hardmen were speaking Spanish in muted voices.

  Inside the packing shed, the dark was interrupted by pale swaths of moonlight sliding in through gaps in the roof and walls. The main area empty, the sides of the building stacked with debris, tangled metalwork and discarded wooden frames.

  The trio, each carrying an SMG, moved back and forth. Their voices rose as they realized there was nothing to see. Whatever they might have expected didn’t appear to exist.

  One man produced a cell phone and punched in a number. He spoke rapidly. Bolan picked up the name Rojas. The man changed his tone, his agitation turned to deference as he spoke to his employer. Then he became apologetic. After a muttered farewell he snapped the phone shut and spoke to his companions.

  Bolan picked up some of the conversation.

  “What do we do?”

  “Look again, he orders.”

  A silence.

  Then, “So we look again.”

  The three split up. One started to check the debris inside the building. The others turned and took opposite exits from the plant.

  Bolan watched the inside man. He was quietly muttering to himself as he inspected the debris, moving across the shed in Bolan’s direction. The big American sank deeper into cover as the Mexican trafficker neared his position. The Executioner turned the Tanto cutting edge up, and as the guy stepped within touching distance, Bolan struck. The keen steel went in hard, up to the hilt, penetrating the pumping heart and tore it apart. Bolan turned his wrist, while his free hand reached up to catch hold of the man’s neck, pulling him down. The severed heart slowed, faltered, and the weakening trafficker fell to his knees. The only sound he uttered was a long release of air from his open mouth. The soldier lowered the still body to the floor, withdrawing the blade and sheathing it after wiping off the blood.

  Turning quickly, Bolan slipped the 93-R from its holster and went after the remaining members of the team.

  He located the first man, who stood only feet away from the exit door, his head moving back and forth as he searched without enthusiasm. Bolan issued a silenced burst to the back of the man’s skull, pitching the guy facedown on the ground.

  The lone survivor was around the far side of the shed, striding toward a stack of rusting metal drums. He stopped and turned, his move fast and done with purpose. Bolan assumed he had heard his approach. The guy brought his SMG around as he turned, the muzzle searching. Bolan dropped to a crouch, firing without hesitation, and placed the 3-round burst into the man’s chest. The Mexican dropped, his pulverized heart beating for a few more seconds before it shut down.

  Bolan dragged each body through the shadows, rolling them into an open storm culvert at the side of the site. He moved debris and covered the bodies. The Executioner then drove the trio’s car onto the unused, overgrown road where he had parked the Lincoln.

  Moments later Bolan brought the Lincoln to the packing shed where he unloaded the cocaine and stacked it on a wooden pallet in the center of the floor. Then he returned the Lincoln to its concealed spot on the side road. By the time he had completed his endeavors, it was coming up to six o’clock and the dawn was emerging from the darkness. Light broke through even as Bolan made his way inside the packing shed and worked his way into the tangle of debris lining one wall. He chose a spot where the corrugated side panels were loose, offering him an exit from the building once the action started.

  Bolan settled down to wait. He drew a plastic bottle of water from a side pocket of the blacksuit and took a sip.

  He was as ready as he ever could be.

  TWO MINUTES before eight o’clock, Bolan heard the sound of vehicles approaching from the east and west sides of the site. Tires slid on the dirt as the vehicles came to a stop. Doors slammed.

  Bolan heard the tall doors being pulled open.

  He picked up the sound of footsteps and the murmur of voices as the separate groups advanced into the gloom of the building.

  Bolan waited until everyone was inside the large shed before he stirred the pot. From his concealed position midway along the structure, he could make out the dark mass of each group. He didn’t wait any longer, knowing that recognition could occur at any moment. Bolan raised his Uzi and threw a swift burst in the direction of one group, then brought the muzzle around and fired a second burst at the other.

  The shots echoed with a tinny sound inside the abandoned meat-packing shed. Then came startled yells in Spanish and English. The shouting continued as orders were issued in angry tones, followed by the scattering of feet, and the inevitable rattle of return fire.

  Bolan backed away, using the debris to cover his retreat. He slid from the building through the gap in the corrugated sheeting. He emerged into the daylight, briefly shielding his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun, and stepped into the cover offered by the stacked metal drums and containers. Reaching the end of the stack, Bolan withdrew the tarp-wrapped bundle he had stashed there—the M-203 grenade launcher and the satchel of HE rounds from his weapons bag. Bolan loaded the first grenade, then moved on along the side of the building.

  He could still hear sporadic firing from inside the shed. It wouldn’t continue for much longer. The soldier increased his pace, crouching, his targets ahead of him at the east end of the packing shed. He spotted the parked 4x4s, top of the line models. It was an expensive collection of vehicles. Bolan sighted in and launched the first grenade. He was reloading even as the grenade hit and detonated, the target erupting in a blinding flash, followed by the gritty slam of the explosion. Shards of once pristine metal flew in all direction; fire and smoke rose from the shattered hulk of the vehicle. Bolan laid down two more grenades in quick succession, the dull thump of the explosions filling the hot air. In a matter of seconds he had reduced the parked vehicles to blazing wrecks, gutted and blackened. Debris rained back to earth.

  Bolan turned away, moving to the west end of the shed where he found more 4x4s, plus a gleaming Lexus in burnished silver. He aimed the M-203 at the Lexus and fired, the grenade’s curving trajectory ending when it slammed into the midsection of the luxury car. The Lexus blew apart in a burst of flame and smoke as armed men burst from the shed. The force of the blast sent them staggering. Bolan didn’t allow them time to recover. He loaded and fired two more grenades, taking out the rest of the vehicles and leaving the stunned enemy staring at thousands of dollars going up in smoke. Bolan scattered them with bursts from the M-16, 5.56 mm slugs catching unprotected bodies.

  His exercise completed, Bolan eased away from the scene. There was no more he could achieve here. His next move would be the phone calls to Rojas and Dembrow to add a little suspicion to the brew.

  The harsh command that reached his ears made Bolan pause. As he turned around he saw a thin, sallow-faced individual step out from behind a stack of wooden pallets, an autopistol in his left hand.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the guy asked, his accent unmistakably American. His pale eyes searched Bolan’s figure and took in the ordnance he wore. The man was clad in a crumpled suit, blood spattering the expensive material. His receding dark hair exposed a broad, glistening forehead. He stepped closer to Bolan, his gaze on the weaponry Bolan wore. He pointed his right hand at the M-16, and Bolan lowered the weapon.

  “You the son of a bitch who shot everything up back there?”

  “I guess I helped a little.�
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  The autopistol jerked. “So who do you work for?”

  “Department of Health and Sanitation. The old meat plant needed cleaning out.”

  “The fuck you say.”

  “One thing you should know. I never lie. That shed was full of vermin that had to be eradicated.”

  The implication was not lost on the guy—the soldier had to give him credit for that—and his sallow complexion flushed with righteous anger. Bolan saw his trigger finger tense and knew he had seconds to react. He dropped to the ground in the split second it took for the guy to pull the trigger, heard the sharp crack of the shot as the 9 mm slug passed over his head. Bolan hit the dusty ground, rolling and driving his legs around in a hard sweep. He caught the startled thug just above the ankles and watched him fall. Before his adversary hit the ground, Bolan had slipped the Cold Steel Tanto knife from its sheath. Using his left hand, he pushed himself off the ground, dropping half across the guy’s body.

  The glittering blade made two swift cuts. The first slashed across the man’s left wrist, biting deep and severing tendons and veins. His autopistol dropped from numbed fingers. A rising scream was cut off as the Tanto’s second slash cut deep into the guy’s neck, just below the right ear, sliding around and across his throat. The sound that emanated from the stricken man was little more than a wet gurgle. He was still bleeding out as Bolan regained his feet, picked up the grenade launcher and moved quickly from the scene of devastation.

  Behind him, thick smoke coiled into the cloudless Texas sky. The shooting had ceased altogether by then, but the crackling and popping from burning vehicles could still be heard, mingling with the confused and angry shouts coming from the dazed survivors.