Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  “Sí.”

  Bolan touched the old man on the shoulder, felt his bony hand as it grasped his own.

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  The old man watched as Bolan moved away, back across the wall. He continued to watch even after the tall American merged with the darkness. He looked beyond, to the big house, bathed in the cold glare from the security lights playing on it, and he offered a silent prayer—not for the American—but for the damned souls of the traffickers who were about to be sent to Hell.

  23

  Bolan eased into position on the ground. He could see the grouped vehicles at the front of the house. The security lights offered him a clear target area. The soldier eased the nylon sling off his back, placed it on the ground beside him and withdrew three of his half-dozen LAWs. He waited until any visible sentries had their backs to him, then raised himself into a kneeling position. Bolan picked up the first LAW and slid out the firing tube, arming the weapon. He laid it across his right shoulder, his cheek snug against the tube, and sighted in on his first target. His fingers pressed down on the firing lever. The M72 launched its missile with a throaty roar. The flash of ignition lit up the darkness as the missile streaked toward the target, arming itself as it flew. Bolan discarded the used launcher and picked up the second LAW while he watched the expensive SUV blow apart as the missile struck, heat flash destroying the interior. The gas tank ignited, exploding with a solid thump, the expended energy lifting the SUV’s rear off the ground. The stricken vehicle stood on end for seconds before crashing back to earth. Fire and smoke billowed from the wreck.

  The second LAW repeated the actions of the initial hit. This time Bolan went for an almost identical vehicle standing in the center of the parked vehicles. The force from the blast threw this car over on its side, smashing its considerable weight across a sleek Lamborghini Murciélago. The quarter-million-dollar car was crushed by the SUV. The fiery ball of flame completed the destruction of the Italian sports car. When Bolan added the third missile to the conflagration, he saw a Ferrari 575M Maranello and a Porsche GT2 vanish in the expensive flames, chunks of classic bodywork deposited across Dembrow’s frontage.

  Tucking the three remaining LAWs under his arm, Bolan moved quickly around the perimeter of the grounds, kneeling again as he spotted the rotating radar dish situated on top of the outbuilding attached to the main house. He hit the radar housing with his first missile. The explosion tilted the dish, but it continued to rotate. Bolan unleashed a second missile. The extent of the weapon’s destructive abilities was being stretched with a target like this—Bolan made sure his follow-up hit was closer on target. This time the dish canted, then collapsed onto the roof. Bolan used his third missile on the single window, moving dangerously close as he sighted in. He followed the flash trail of the missile as it curved, shattered the window and exploded inside the control room.

  The crackle of automatic fire warned the Executioner he had been spotted. He heard the whine and zip of slugs as Dembrow’s security crew opened up. For the moment, he still had the advantage of being away from the lights, in darkness—but that might not last. So Bolan moved, staying low, taking himself around the house, away from the burning vehicles and the damaged radar installation.

  In the distance he heard shouting. There seemed to be much confusion as the opposition attempted to comprehend what was happening. Bolan’s hard strike had caught the Dembrow crew napping and he needed to capitalize on that.

  The soldier dropped to one knee, swinging the slung M-16 into position. Bolan pulled an HE grenade from his pouch and loaded it into the M-203 launcher.

  The Executioner realized he would have to move in close to take on the Dembrow gunners—and he was more than ready. He needed to engage quickly before they grouped into some form of defensive resistance. The situation was not new to the big American. His blitz maneuver worked well against an unregulated enemy. Dembrow’s crew was not composed of trained military personnel. They were basically street thugs, more used to facing unarmed and threatened civilians. On this night they were up against a man steeped in combat, with a determination to win that they would never understand. It did not mean Bolan was going to have an easy time. He never treated his opponents with less than total respect. A casual shot from any weapon could be the one that put Bolan down. The Executioner always faced down every enemy soldier as if they were the best of the best.

  Bolan moved to the side of the house away from the burning vehicles, aiming for a shadowed area. He got to within twenty-five feet of the side wall before his approach was spotted and a gunner raced to intercept.

  The M-16 spit out a triburst, the 5.56 mm slugs finding their target and dropping the running man in his tracks as they hit the guy’s heart. Bolan checked behind, saw he was clear and moved on. He flattened against the wall of the house as a couple more hardmen advanced on his position. He let the pair get close before he leaned out and hit them with twin 3-round bursts. The men went down hard.

  Slugs peppered the stone wall a few inches from Bolan’s position. He dropped and rolled, staying at ground level, and returned fire. His first shots hit the closest attacker full in the face, toppling the screaming man backward, his blood spattering the face of his unnerved partner. The second guy paused to wipe the sticky blood from his face—it was his last ever mistake. Bolan’s 3-round burst stopped him dead.

  A window made the Executioner pause in midstride. He turned the rifle in the direction of the glass and fired a burst to shatter it, then triggered the M-203, sending an HE grenade into the house just before he stepped by the window. As the bomb detonated with a hard sound, debris blowing from the frame, Bolan plucked another round from his pouch and loaded it into the launcher.

  He dropped to one knee, close to the wall of the house, and laid down tribursts at the figures in front of him, his accurate fire dropping the armed resistance one after another. Return fire was haphazard, the gunners shooting wild at a target they could barely see in the darkness, while Bolan had his targets backlit by the burning vehicles.

  The soldier picked up the sound of someone moving behind him. He spun, the M-16 tracking with him, and heard the crackle of automatic fire as slugs chipped into the wall to his left. Bolan felt the sting of a close shot across his upper arm, ignored it and hit the shooter head-on. His own shots were delivered with unerring accuracy. The shooter went down with a moan, his right hip shattered and bloody. A second burst raked the guy’s skull, taking away a large chunk of bone and brain matter.

  A lull in the resistance prompted Bolan to backtrack. He reached the blown-out window and stepped over the low sill into the room. The HE grenade had laid waste to the interior, splintering furniture and blackening the walls. A hunched figure lay against one wall, flesh riven from bone in a glistening display. The guy still had his rifle clutched in a shriveled hand. Bolan stepped across the floor and peered around the door frame into the passage beyond, checking it out. The corridor seemed to end in a blank wall to his left, the right side taking him deeper into the house.

  His move from outside had left the defenders without a target. Before they realized he had changed position, Bolan used the brief calm to his advantage. He ejected the spent magazine from the M-16 and rammed home a fresh one. As he worked the cocking mechanism, Bolan noticed an armed figure straight ahead as the guy stepped into view from the base of a flight of stairs. He shouldered the rifle and dropped the man with a burst to the torso. The guy stumbled and crashed headlong into the wall, leaving a bloody smear on the smooth plaster surface.

  A yell of alarm was followed by a gunner leaning over the stair and aiming down at the intruder with a stubby SMG. Bolan dug in his heels and powered forward, dropping and rolling. He heard the harsh rattle of gunfire, the crack of the shots against the tiled floor of the passage. In the seconds he was down, Bolan twisted onto his back, raising the M-16, and raked the stairs with a double triburst. His target arched back, his chest riddled with 5.56 mm slugs. He fell back against the stair
s, sliding down to within feet of the base.

  Standing again, Bolan tilted the M-16 and fired the M-203, sending the HE round toward the head of the stairs. The blast ripped at the walls and brought down a section of ceiling in a shower of debris and rolling clouds of dust.

  Beyond the stairs a door stood ajar. Bolan booted it open and saw a furnished room. From the right side of his combat harness he pulled an AN-M14 TH3 incendiary grenade. Gripping the canister, he pulled the pin, leaned in the open door and dropped the grenade onto the carpeted floor, rolling it away from him. The AN had an extremely short fuse, no more than two seconds. Even as Bolan turned away, the grenade cooked up, releasing 800 grams of thermate that would burn for forty seconds at 2200°C, and was capable of melting through a half-inch homogeneous steel plate. The intense heat generated would turn the room into a raging inferno, consuming anything within range.

  Bolan moved across the open hall at the end of the passage. He heard men calling to one another and noted the signs of panic in their voices. He kicked open the double doors in front of him. As the doors swung wide, Bolan saw three gunners turn. But before they had completely faced about, he caught them with repeated tribursts from the M-16. Bodies shuddered, flesh punctured and bones splintered as Bolan dropped the would-be shooters, their blood pooling on the polished wood floor.

  Inside the room he used precious seconds to reload the M-203 launcher with an HE round. Before he exited the room he dropped a second incendiary canister, feeling the heat already starting to spread as he cleared the door.

  Just beyond Bolan’s position, the hall gave way to a generous living area where darting figures scrambled for cover behind furniture. Having easily spotted the men, Bolan triggered the HE grenade and pulled back for cover as the round sizzled into the large room. The crash of the explosion vibrated against the walls, framed pictures dropping from their hooks and smashing on the floor. When Bolan turned back to survey the grenade-blasted living room, he saw a bloodied man stagger upright from the shredded couch he’d been concealed behind. The guy was bloody faced, and his left arm, equally blood streaked, hung loosely at his side. The limb was almost severed at the shoulder, the flesh torn wide and showing bone. Blood pumped from the deep, pulped wound. A triburst from the M-16 dropped the guy to the scorched floor.

  Behind Bolan smoke was curling out from the rooms where he had delivered his incendiary bombs. Flames licked out of doorways, rising toward the ceiling and the thick supporting timber beams.

  MARSHAL DEMBROW, disbelieving the continuous sounds of destruction, felt the house shudder under the explosions. Overhead the lights flickered; gunfire rattled beyond his study; men were shouting. Whatever Dembrow had been expecting, it didn’t match up to the reality of the situation. It felt and sounded as if an army had invaded his home. He crossed the study, yanked open the doors to the gun cabinet and snatched a Franchi SPAS-15 shotgun. The powerful 12-gauge, semiautomatic weapon held a 6-shot magazine. Dembrow picked up a couple more, then headed for the study door. He yanked it open and looked straight into Hell.

  The sprawling living area had been destroyed. Furniture and decorations had been reduced to smoking debris. A number of bodies were sprawled across the floor.

  He saw Billy Joe Rankin, on his hands and knees, crawling aimlessly across the floor. His adviser had lost part of his face, leaving bloody pits where his eyes had been. Rankin lifted one shredded hand, his fingers missing, as soft sounds came from his bloody, dribbling mouth.

  Sickness rose from Dembrow’s stomach, and he tore his gaze away from Rankin. His eyes rested on the tall, black-clad figure on the far side of the room, an M-16 cradled against his hip. Dembrow knew who he was looking at—the man who had set off the train of events culminating in this destructive slaughter. There was something in the way the lone man stood there, overseeing the ruination of Dembrow’s life and organization, that made him shudder.

  “All this because of a fucking federal agent?” Dembrow shouted.

  “More than just that,” Bolan said. “For all the death and suffering you’ve caused. It stacks up, Dembrow. It stacks up very high, and there’s only one way to deal with vermin like you. Extermination.”

  The scream of pure rage that exploded from Dembrow’s throat preempted the raising of the shotgun, his finger curling around the trigger. He felt the weapon jerk, heard the thunder of the shot, then wondered why the blast was directed at the ceiling. His body had already reacted to the slam of the 5.56 mm slugs from Bolan’s M-16. The force slammed Dembrow back against the study door frame. He felt the pain, a spreading fire inside his chest, and when he coughed, a surge of blood burst from his lips. Bolan’s second burst tore at the man’s throat, and the trafficker dropped to his knees. Through the haze of smoke, Dembrow saw the man in black raise the rifle again and watched the smoke trail as he fired the grenade launcher. The grenade curved over Dembrow’s head and exploded inside the study. The blast hurled books from shelves and threw the big desk against the wall. Debris blew out the door, shredding the flesh of Dembrow’s back.

  Bolan took the last of his incendiary grenades and threw it into the big room, where the swell of incandescent heat became a raging torrent of white-hot fury. As he let go of the canister, Bolan turned and moved on, ready to face whatever was left of Dembrow’s crew.

  Slumped against the door frame, struggling for his final breath, Dembrow felt the hungry maw of the terrible fire as it expanded to engulf the room. The intense heat blistered his flesh, sloughing it from his bones, igniting his hair and searing his eyeballs. The last image he had was of Rankin, frozen in a motionless pose, burning up in front of him. His adviser’s mouth was wide in a silent scream, but no sound came out, only white and brilliant flame.

  24

  Bolan met little resistance as he exited the house. The main doors had been opened wide, and the draft that was pulled into the house helped fan the increasing flames at his back. Smoke billowed from windows broken by the intense heat. Only two armed figures moved to confront him, but Bolan was in no kind of mood to play games. His M-16 crackled in the half-light, the 5.56 mm slugs punching into yielding flesh and driving the pair to the ground.

  Searching for any remaining gunners Bolan stalked the grounds, circling until he was at the rear, facing the parked helicopter. He thumbed an HE grenade into the launcher and fired on the chopper. The bomb hit at the rear of the cabin, the blast tearing the alloy fuselage to shreds. Bolan had cleared the site when the ruptured tank blew, scattering blazing fuel in every direction.

  The Executioner made his slow return to where he had hidden his ride. He changed clothes and stowed his weapons. The bullet crease on his arm turned out to be nothing more than that. His blacksuit had taken the worst, leaving a slit in the material, but Bolan’s flesh had barely been marked. Thinking back, he considered himself lucky. Once again, his walk through the hellgrounds had left him unscathed, the enemy brought to its knees. Bolan put his quick success down to Dembrow’s crew having been caught unaware, their responses too slow. It reinforced his belief that the trafficker’s team was unschooled in real combat. They threatened and bullied, used physical violence on ordinary people who had little recourse. An attack by a combat-experienced soldier showed them to be no more than swaggering novices who carried guns but were not trained in outright defense and resistance tactics.

  The wound reminded Bolan that he was still mortal. He never allowed himself to become complacent. He carried his war directly to his enemies, took his knocks when it was his turn and never complained about it. The day he doubted himself would be the day he started to lose. The Executioner had no intention of allowing that day to come. If self-doubt ever did weaken his resolve, he would voluntarily step down. He might never have expressed that viewpoint to anyone, but he understood it himself, and that was enough for the time being.

  As he climbed back in the 4x4 and started the engine, he took a final look back. Dembrow’s house was fully ablaze. The flames reached high into the night s
ky, throwing an orange glow that would have been seen for miles—if there had been anyone in the area to see them.

  Bolan called Stony Man Farm on the 4x4’s cell phone. When Brognola came on, the soldier gave him a quick update.

  “One down,” the big Fed said. “I expect I’ll be hearing about it on the news. How much do you want to wager this will be reported as another drug gang fallout?”

  “Hal, there was some collateral fallout to this. I want you to make it right. Even if you have to bend the President’s arm.”

  “Hell, Striker, that’s the second time you’ve suggested I harass the Man. Trying to make me lose my pension?”

  The big Fed sighed. “Go on.”

  The Executioner filled him in about the domestic staff, and the fact that with Dembrow out of the picture they were defenseless and had no means to provide for themselves—and it had been Bolan who had made that happen.

  “I’m working for you and the President, so that ties us all in to this. Those people need help, Hal. Dembrow held them against their will, threatened them and treated them badly. Do the right thing.”

  “Times are, Striker, you would make a damn good lawyer. You plead a good defense. Okay, I’ll look into it.”

  “Thanks,” Bolan said. “So anything I need to know?”

  “Yeah. Give your buddy Seminov a call. He says he has something that will make you smile.”

  “GOOD TO HEAR your voice, tovarich,” Valentine Seminov boomed over the speaker. “It is true what I hear—that you have Vash Bondarchik on your current agenda? Tell me this is truly so.”

  Bolan sketched the Russian arms dealer’s connection to his mission. Seminov listened in silence, then exhaled a heavy sigh.

  “I want that bastard so bad it hurts.” Seminov added a quick string of words in Russian that Bolan had difficulty understanding, but he recognized the passion in Seminov’s outburst.