Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan powered across the compound, weaving in and out of the cattle pens. He ducked through the fence and headed for the Lincoln. The Executioner reached his concealed vehicle. He opened the trunk and threw his M-16 and the grenade satchel inside. He slid behind the wheel and fired up the engine, swinging the car around and driving away in a long sweep that took him well clear of the site. No shots were fired in his direction. Bolan imagined that both groups would have identified themselves by now and would be busy trying to figure out who had been trying to screw whom. He stopped once to strip off his equipment and change back into civilian clothing. The battle gear went into the canvas bag in the rear of the truck.

  Bolan used his smartphone to call 911. When his call was answered he spoke.

  “Northwest Meat-Packing Plant. Shots were fired and people are hurt. If you move fast, you might find a big cocaine haul there.”

  He finished the call and kept driving. A couple of minutes later he heard sirens wailing, moving in from different directions. A police cruiser sped past, siren howling and the light bar blazing.

  Bolan pulled in at the first truck stop he saw. Inside he chose a booth where he could see the road, ordered coffee and took out the cell phone he had acquired.

  He saw more police cruisers go by, as well as a fire truck and an ambulance.

  Bolan waited as his coffee was placed in front of him, then hit the number he had for Dembrow. He heard the number connect and ring.

  “What?” someone demanded. The tone was harsh.

  “You’re not Dembrow,” Bolan said.

  “No, I ain’t Dembrow. And who the fuck are you?”

  “He’ll know. Just put him on.”

  Bolan heard the guy suck in a sharp breath, then turn aside to speak away from the phone. Subdued voices, followed by someone snatching the phone from the first guy.

  “Make it fast. I ain’t too happy the way things turned out.”

  “The way things turned out, Dembrow?”

  “Mr. Dembrow to you.”

  “Dembrow, you have to earn respect before it’s returned.”

  “Listen, ass wipe, say what you have to else I’m liable to have your balls torn off and force-fed back to you,” Dembrow taunted.

  “Interesting concept. Useless, though, because we’ve never met and you don’t know who I am,” Bolan said.

  “Okay, boy, we’ve both proved we’re hard-asses, can we get to the sharp end?”

  “Looks to me your buddy Rojas set up your guys at the packing plant. Word coming out of Old Mexico has him working to cut you out of the game. Since you let that undercover agent, Manners, inside your organization, Rojas doesn’t see you as a long-term partner anymore.”

  Dembrow’s pause was long enough for Bolan to figure he had taken the bait. Maybe only tentatively and he hadn’t bitten down on the hook, but the silence told Bolan the man was considering.

  “Why the hell should I believe anything you say? You put me on to the meet and next thing my guys are being shot at. The whole thing was a damn massacre.”

  “That’s one of today’s ills,” Bolan said. “People don’t trust anymore. They take a genuine offer and start looking for the angles.”

  “I didn’t just come over the border with a bunch of wetbacks. You talked about angles—you must have one.”

  “Just one American to another. I see you have an upcoming problem so I thought I’d warn you. I wouldn’t want to see you backstabbed by a damn Mex pusher.”

  Dembrow’s harsh laugh rattled down the phone. “I’d love to see Rojas’s face if you quoted that line to him. Hell, the guy runs the biggest cartel in Mexico.”

  “Maybe he wants it all to himself. Cut out the local connection and deal his own cards. Go figure.”

  Bolan cut the call.

  “Have a nice day, Mr. Dembrow.”

  18

  Bolan would have been aware of something out of place if his door had been unlocked. But he inserted his key card, heard the click as the lock released and pushed the door open.

  The warning came too late. The sight of his clothing scattered across the bed alerted him, but he had already taken a step forward, and in that moment he caught the shadows on either side. Rough hands grabbed at his clothing, and he was propelled across the carpeted floor. He heard the rush of someone closing in. The solid slam of a hard blow across the back of his neck weakened him and Bolan dropped to his knees. A figure loomed over him, the stubby shape of a leather sap slashed down and delivered a stunning blow to the side of his skull, then a hard shoe drove into his side. The impact drove the breath from his body. More blows followed, not giving Bolan a chance to retaliate until he was flipped onto his back.

  One of his attackers bent to strike again and this time Bolan reacted, his right foot kicking out and up. The sole of his shoe caught the guy in the face and he staggered back, moaning as he put his hands to his smashed nose.

  “Son of a bitch broke my nose,” he said.

  “The hell with that,” someone else said. “Get the bastard under control.”

  The demand spurred on Bolan’s attackers and they closed on him with a vengeance, feet and hands beating him into reluctant submission.

  Bolan tried to ignore the frenzied attack, but even his resistance wavered and when his battered form was dragged to a kneeling position he was still fighting back. Then a savage blow to the back of his skull took away the final shreds of his ability to resist. A second blow started to bring down the blackness. In the final seconds before it enveloped him, Bolan saw, with startling clarity, a uniformed figure standing against the room’s far wall.

  It was Sam, the hotel bellman, watching Bolan with rabid interest, a crooked smile on his lips.

  Then the blackness reached out and drew Bolan into its embrace. Everything shut down around him.

  HE LAY STILL after he came to. He was in a world of pain, but it was bearable, and his ears attuned to what was around him. Extraneous sounds filtered through—movement, muted voices, the scrape of shoe leather on the hard concrete floor where he was lying.

  “I reckon the bastard is awake. Just lying there listening to us.”

  “You think so?” This was an older voice, rough and nasal. “So get the mother on his feet and in the fuckin’ chair.”

  Footsteps closed in on where Bolan lay. Hands grasped his clothing, and he was dragged across the floor and thrust onto a hard-backed chair. Bolan still needed time for his senses to realign themselves, so he stayed still.

  “Ain’t so damn smart now, Cooper. Figured you could come down here and make fools of us country boys? Like that last Fed tried. Hell, boy, you figure we’re that dumb?”

  The voice was harsh, with a low, raspy tone, and it had a mean edge to it.

  The guy stood in front of Bolan. He wore a rumpled suit, and his shirt clung damply to his stocky body. He had a flat, loose-fleshed face with small, angry eyes, and his hair was thin and sandy, showing an expanse of wrinkled scalp. He was kneading the thick fingers of his big hands. Bolan recognized him from the downloaded images Stony Man had sent him.

  Chris Malloy. Local deputy. A man on the take.

  “Nothing to say, huh? You make this huge mess and now that we caught you there isn’t a word?”

  “For you, Malloy? Oh, I’ve got words. But I’ll save them for the right time.”

  Malloy showed surprise at Bolan recognizing him. It made him miss a beat.

  “This is no place for you to be making threats,” he said.

  Bolan raised his head. “No threats, Malloy. Your secret is out. If you want, I can quote you on the illegal bank deposits. All the payoffs you’ve had from Dembrow. And don’t try going for it. The accounts have been blocked. Your money is ours now.”

  Malloy hit him, a deliberate punch that pushed Bolan’s head back, blood spurting from a torn lip. The man was unnerved. He stared at Bolan, his face ashen.

  “You can’t touch me,” he said, his conviction weak.

  Bolan had touched a n
erve, and Malloy was having difficulty handling the revelation. He turned away from Bolan and had hurried words with his two helpers. Malloy left the room, the slope of his shoulders telling Bolan the corrupt cop was worried.

  A third figure materialized from behind Bolan. It was Sam the bellman. He moved so that he was behind the other men. It was clear he got some kind of excitement from watching Bolan being manhandled. He still had that odd smile on his face, the flesh glistening with an oily sheen. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched.

  “What’s the problem, Sam?” Bolan asked. “Not a big enough tip, so you sold me to the local goon squad?”

  Sam’s sick smile widened.

  “This isn’t negotiable, by the way,” one of the men said. He was tall and lean, his dark hair cut close to his skull. “You let us in on what you’re doing here so we can cover our asses, then you die. Or you get a lot of pain and you still die.”

  “I hope the bastard plays stubborn,” the second guy said. He was the one Bolan had kicked. His nose was pushed out of line, still bloody, and there was no doubt he was hurting. Where the first man was lean, this one had the build of a wrestler, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest. He glared at Bolan with barely controlled rage. “I knew those guys who were killed at the shoot-out. I want to hurt the fucker.”

  “Ease off, Brad, we’ve got time.”

  Bolan noticed now that the lean guy was holding the 93-R. He carried it in his left hand. Taking a moment, Bolan checked out the rest of the room. No window. A strong light behind a wire cover filled the room with a bright glare. Apart from the chair Bolan occupied, there was no other furniture in the room. Brick walls and a concrete floor. In one corner of the room Bolan recognized his weapons bag. Next to it was the leather satchel with the money he had taken from the trunk of the Lincoln.

  The skinny guy noticed Bolan’s interest in the bags.

  “You travel hard,” he said. “Enough firepower to raise all hell. So what is that all about?”

  “I like to cover all eventualities.”

  “Fuck, yeah. Well, it doesn’t look like standard issue. What are you, pal, a salesman for Weapons Are Us? And what’s with the black Ninja outfit?”

  “Maybe I just like dressing up.”

  “Come on, Danny, let me ask the questions,” Brad said. He was getting restless, constantly dabbing at his nose with a bloody, wadded up towel. “I’ll get you answers.”

  He pushed forward, edging his partner aside.

  Bolan came up off the chair, a blur of motion as he went directly for Danny and the Beretta. He slammed into the guy, reaching for the pistol, closing his hand over the 93-R’s bulk and twisting. He drove the point of his left elbow up at Danny’s throat full-on and heard the crunch of cartilage. Danny choked. The Beretta came into Bolan’s hand and he clasped the butt, finger through the trigger guard.

  “Mother…” Brad yelled and swung toward Bolan.

  The Beretta arced around. Bolan stroked the trigger and the pistol chugged out a triburst that impacted against the side of Brad’s skull. The three 9 mm slugs cored in through the bone, tearing at the mass of the brain and blew out the opposite side. Brad stumbled. Coordination went and he fell heavily. Blood started to spread out from beneath his head.

  Bolan stepped back from Danny, brought the Beretta around and hit him with a triburst. The guy crumpled at the waist, went to his knees, then fell forward onto his face.

  Sam had witnessed the killings in stunned silence, his face turning a pasty white. He started forward, holding out one hand to ward off whatever he thought was coming. Bolan moved in and whipped the Beretta across Sam’s face. He stumbled back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, unconscious.

  “I hope they paid you enough,” Bolan said.

  Smoke hazed the stale air. Brass shell casings rolled across the concrete floor. Bolan took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts, then crossed to pick up his bags. He hung the ordnance bag from his left shoulder and carried the leather satchel in his left hand.

  The door opened easily. Bolan was faced with a wide, low-ceilinged cellar. Most of the floor space was filled by cartons and boxes holding electronic items—DVD players, television sets. There was also branded liquor and cigars. He didn’t have the time to check it all out. With this kind of merchandise on hand Bolan realized others had to be watching over the cellar. He located the stone steps that led topside and went up fast.

  19

  Bolan paused at the top of the steps. There was no door, just an opening, and he peered around the edge to see that he was in a large, rundown industrial warehouse. The floor was littered with old machinery, fuel drums and a couple of rusting trucks, sitting on cracked, flat tires. To Bolan’s left, high metal doors, pushed open on their slides, showed the exterior. More abandoned machinery and debris. A light breeze stirred the long grass and weeds that grew up through the concrete. Close to the open doors stood a pair of 4x4s. There was nothing derelict about them—they gleamed under the hot sun.

  Bolan took a look around the warehouse and spotted two armed men standing close together, enjoying a smoke break. Each gunner carried a slung SMG. Their casual attitude told Bolan they had not heard the shooting from the basement room. It was a lucky break that the Beretta made little noise when fired. The Executioner studied the warehouse and the section outside visible to him, wondering if the two sentries were the only ones around. It was possible there might be others outside. He decided if that was the case he would have to deal with the situation as it arose. He needed to get clear of the warehouse and the restrictions it laid on him. Bolan dropped the money satchel to the floor and lowered his bag to the step and unzipped it. He reached inside and searched through the contents until he found what he was looking for—a couple of stun grenades and his Uzi. He took out his shoulder rig for the Beretta, donned it and holstered the 93-R. The Uzi was loaded with a full clip.

  He was aware that in the open space of the warehouse, the stun grenades would lose a percentage of power. They performed best in smaller spaces, where the harsh explosion and the brilliant flash would impact fully. Bolan hoped there would be enough force to at least distract the two sentries and give him time to get within killing range.

  Once he had made his decision, Bolan acted on it without further deliberation. He pulled the pins on the canisters and lobbed them both at the pair. The grenades hit the warehouse floor, rolling a few feet closer to the targets even as they spotted them.

  One guy gave a startled yell.

  The other seemed fascinated by the objects as they slid across the concrete.

  The stun grenades detonated within seconds of each other.

  Bolan had turned away, covering his ears. He heard the crack of sound and saw the brilliant flash of light as an illumination on the wall. The moment the effects faded, Bolan moved away from the steps, the Uzi cradled in his hands as he loped across the warehouse toward his targets.

  The stun grenades had created enough of a disturbance to briefly disorient the two sentries, leaving them with aching ears and altered vision. Even so, they were able to make out Bolan’s threatening figure as he closed on them. One groped for his SMG, pulling it into firing position, the muzzle rising.

  Bolan already had the Uzi up and ready, tracking his targets. He stroked the trigger, feeling the weapon vibrate as it crackled sharply. The lethal volley of 9 mm slugs cut into the sentries, ravaging flesh and bone. The hot Parabellum rounds impacted with deadly force, spinning the pair in a short twist before they went down, blood staining their clothing and dappling the concrete. The sound of the shots echoed across the open expanse of the warehouse, then faded quickly.

  Bolan crossed to the bodies, clearing the dropped weapons away from them.

  He was alert to any approaching footsteps, his Uzi trained on the open doorway. Nothing happened. Bolan retrieved his bags. Just as he was about to walk away, he turned and descended the steps into the basement. He took out a couple of prepared ex
plosive packs, set the timers for four minutes and placed them in among the stacked goods. No point in wasting an opportunity to create a little more unrest. If Sam was lucky, he’d make it out.

  He made his way outside and picked the closer 4x4. The vehicle was not locked, and the keys were in the ignition. Bolan placed his bags inside, started the engine and eased away from the warehouse. He drove between other empty warehouse buildings until he located the exit ramp and followed it to the deserted service road. Looking around, Bolan could see that the whole of the industrial area was abandoned. At the head of the service road he picked up a sign that indicated the direction back to Cooter’s Crossing. He was twelve miles west of the town.

  As he drove along the on-ramp for the main highway, Bolan felt the vibration from the explosion at the warehouse. Glancing in his mirror he picked up the telltale rise of smoke.

  He used the 4x4’s in-car cell phone to call Stony Man Farm. Brognola picked up.

  “Good news, or bad?” the big Fed asked.

  Bolan brought him up to date, covering his kidnap and the aftermath.

  “Dembrow will be starting to worry what’s coming next,” Brognola said. “Time for a hard strike?”

  “Yeah. While he’s wavering.”

  “We got some feedback on the pair you dealt with. A local hit team that called themselves Preacher and Choirboy. It seems they decided on that because, rumor has it, they figured they delivered absolution to their victims. Hell, Striker, killers with a sense of irony. What next?”

  “Chris Malloy was part of the snatch team. I think I rattled him when I said we had knowledge of his illegal bank accounts. The guy went a funny color and took off. It might be worth dropping a hint to interested parties. If he’s running scared, he might do something stupid.”

  “Thanks for that. We already initiated a hold on those accounts. Aaron is getting clever with these operations. If Malloy tries to access his money now, he’ll get a big shock.” Brognola added, “The President is very pleased things are happening. What he really wants to hear about is the total shutdown of the Rojas Cartel.”