Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  “Benito?” he asked as the Mexican slammed the phone back on its cradle.

  Rojas threw a scowling glance at his Russian guest, the thin veneer of politeness fading just as quickly as it had been put in place.

  “Not now,” he snapped, then began to give orders to his house crew. “Get the servants out. I don’t want to be tripping over some idiot trying to serve fucking cocktails if we need to defend ourselves.”

  The man turned and began to bellow orders to the domestic staff. They took no convincing, especially when they saw everyone wielding firearms. There was a general exodus toward the kitchen and the house’s rear exit.

  Sensing the coming confrontation, Bondarchik crossed the room and pushed open the door to the office where Litvenko was sitting with Rojas’s man.

  Litvenko raised his head from the laptop screen he was using.

  “What is it?”

  “It appears Señor Rojas may have an uninvited guest. One he has decidedly bad feelings toward.”

  “Did we hear gunfire?”

  Bondarchik nodded. “Until I learn otherwise, we will remain under Señor Rojas’s protection, Karl. So you and Hermano continue your session, okay?”

  “Whatever you say,” the unflappable Litvenko said. He glanced across at Calderon. “Are you happy to continue?”

  The Mexican shrugged. “This is what I am paid for. I am sure the security crew can handle whatever has happened.”

  Litvenko returned to his work and Bondarchik backed out of the room.

  When he saw Rojas again, standing at a sleek, modern executive desk in a corner of the main room, the man was conversing with Trujillo. The way they exchanged words did little to ease Bondarchik’s growing apprehension. He also realized there was little he could do. Not being able to understand the language left him out in the cold. Bondarchik didn’t enjoy being out of the loop—his life centered around and depended upon himself being the one in control. This situation made him nervous.

  DISTANT THOUGH it might have been, the increase in automatic fire reminded everyone in the house that there was a serious attack taking place. The sudden sharp explosions only increased the tension.

  Rojas crossed to a window. He could see the bursts of flame rising into the sky. The location was in the area of the building where the drug lord kept his vehicles. The exchanges of gunfire seemed to be somewhere at the far end of the building, near the dock. The rattle of fire began to lessen. Rojas hoped it meant any intruder—and he admitted to himself he thought it was likely the American, Cooper—had been dealt with.

  A few minutes later, after failing to reach any of his security people, Rojas’s misgivings returned. The night was lit up by a series of brilliant flashes as fireballs rose into the air. Then a series of dull explosions. One of the house crew came to where Rojas stood.

  “Boss,” he said, his voice fearful as if he was going to be held responsible, “we saw from the roof that all the boats have been set on fire. The dock, too. It is all ablaze.”

  “Has anyone called in? Has anyone seen anything?” Rojas demanded.

  The man shook his head. “Nothing, boss. We are unable to contact anyone.”

  “It has to be Cooper,” Trujillo said. “Only he would be crazy enough to try something like this.”

  Rojas rounded on him. Seeing Bondarchik standing close by and listening intently, Rojas switched to English.

  “Tomas, I think he is doing more than just trying. Look out there. He is destroying my fucking property. We should allow our guest to hear this as he is involved also.”

  “Maybe I should—”

  “No, no, no, Tomas. I believe you have done enough already. Wasn’t it you who agreed with Dembrow to send those idiot American hit men after the DEA agent?”

  “He was betraying us all.”

  “And since he was killed, hasn’t this Cooper been exacting his own revenge?”

  “Maybe he is not on his own. There could be a covert force working with him.”

  “You are wrong, Tomas. Cooper is on his own. That is why he is so hard to catch. Whoever he is, Cooper is a professional of high standing. He uses more than just his weapons. The man works with his mind. He has turned things back on us, made us do some of the work. He taunts us. Tricks us.”

  “But he is only a man, Benito. A bullet will kill him.”

  “Only if you get him in your sights,” Bondarchik ventured. “If he’s out there as we speak, he’ll use the night to his advantage, stay in the shadows and pick off your crew one by one. He won’t stay in one place long—his advantage is his mobility. Your people are in groups. They believe that because they are on home ground they are safe, but somehow Cooper will move around them. The man is a soldier.”

  Trujillo showed his scorn by his expression, then he said, “How do you figure to know all that shit?”

  Bondarchik smiled indulgently. “I wasn’t always an arms dealer,” he said by way of explanation.

  Rojas had been listening to the Russian.

  “He is right, Tomas. This American understands combat. He uses the darkness as a friend. While our people tramp around making noise, he will sit in some dark spot and shoot them down.”

  One of the Mexicans called out, “Some of the security lights have gone out.”

  Rojas moved to the phone that connected directly to the control room in the garage. He began to yell at the men on duty, but no one replied. Then a voice with an American accent came on line.

  “English only today.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Don’t you remember me, Rojas? From Cooter’s Crossing and the late Marshal Dembrow? At this moment, I’m the guy who just made sure your insurance premiums are headed skyward.”

  Rojas stared at the phone, a dagger wrenching at his gut.

  Cooper. The damn gringo was here, he thought. On his estate. Tearing it apart.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a low explosion inside the building.

  “Hey, all the security lights have gone out now,” someone called.

  Rojas screamed in pure frustration. He rounded on Trujillo, jabbing a finger at the younger man.

  “Take men. Find this bastard. I don’t care how. Just find him and kill him before he pulls this place down around our ears. This time, Tomas, you get your hands dirty. No hit teams to do it for you. Find Cooper and end it. It’s time to earn your money. Get out of my sight.”

  THE THOUGHT OF GOING out into the darkness terrified Trujillo. As with most of his breed, he had little spine for this kind of work. He drove around in a big car, wore expensive clothes and gave orders to others to carry out the wet work. But as scared as he was of the situation, he was more frightened of Benito Rojas. There were few men alive who dared stand up against the cartel’s top man—Trujillo was not one of them.

  He had just brought his men together, and they were checking and loading their weapons when the entire garage structure exploded in a huge blast that rocked the house. It cracked windows, split plaster and sent pictures sliding from their hooks to crash on the floor. The glare from the blast lit up the area. Debris was hurled for hundreds of feet.

  One of Trujillo’s team glanced up at the shimmering fireball, shaking his head.

  “El diablo anda esta noche,” he muttered.

  Trujillo was not a superstitious man, but he silently agreed with the sentiment.

  This truly was the Devil’s night.

  33

  “We cannot find him,” one of the crew called over a handset.

  “He is out there somewhere,” Rojas shouted.

  Bondarchik had his Desert Eagle in his hand, aware that sometime in the past twenty minutes, Rojas had started to lose his control. It might not have been apparent to the Mexican’s own people, but Bondarchik had been standing back, observing Rojas closely. The man was sweating badly, his actions becoming more frantic with each passing minute.

  The Russian was regretting his decision to make this trip. His idea had been to reassure his client an
d pave the way for future business. The way things were going, Rojas wouldn’t be in the market for any further shipments.

  Bondarchik made a fast decision. He moved to an unoccupied part of the noisy room, took out his cell phone and keyed in a number. It connected him to Danko.

  “Vash? What’s wrong? What is going on there? I can hear shouting.”

  “Rojas’s place is under attack. Half his property has been destroyed. Everything is blown up and on fire. My God, Tibor, it’s like being under siege. No, actually we are under siege.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “A debatable question. If I could get to the plane, I would take off and get the hell out of here. But this damned American, Cooper, is suspected of being behind all this. One man and he has Rojas’s crew running around helpless. No one can locate him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll survive. You are going to get in touch with the tanker and reroute it. Have the captain turn around and get back to Maracaibo. This damned sale is not going ahead, and I am not going to lose that cargo.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening, Vash.”

  “Swap places with me, Tibor, and you will be convinced.”

  The conversation was interrupted by another violent explosion that was heard by Danko.

  “Something blew up,” Bondarchik said, and he was unable to dispel the sensation of dread creeping over him. “Tibor, I have a feeling it might be the airstrip. This American is cutting off every avenue of escape.”

  Bondarchik heard Rojas in a rapid exchange over the com set he was clutching. He strode over to the man and demanded to know what was going on. When Rojas turned to face him, the Russian felt a chill when he saw the crooked smile on the man’s face.

  “We may have to extend your stay, Señor Bondarchik. My man tells me the airstrip has been hit.”

  “My plane? Has he damaged my plane?”

  Over the cell Danko was shouting to be heard. Bondarchik ignored it, the cell phone dangling from the hand at his side.

  “They can’t tell,” Rojas said, “and I don’t give a fuck. If you want to find out, go and take a look yourself. Be my guest.”

  “Maybe I should,” Bondarchik responded. “I can’t do any worse than your sniveling crew.”

  Rojas dismissed him with a wave of his hand, his attention back on the com set. He had located Trujillo and was screaming orders at the man.

  Bondarchik pushed open the door to the room where Litvenko was hard at work.

  “Karl, it’s time to get out of here. I am going to find out if we still have the means to fly.” He realized he still clutched the cell phone, Danko’s voice demanding a response. “We are leaving, Tibor. I need to check the plane. I will call you back.” He ended the call and dropped the cell phone in his pocket, jammed the Desert Eagle back into its holster.

  Calderon glanced at Bondarchik. “That suggests it may be time to move on myself.”

  “You may be right. Come on, Karl.”

  Litvenko closed his laptop and followed his employer out of the room.

  Bondarchik guided him away from the front of the house, where all the activity seemed to be taking place. The pair of bodyguards, weapons out now, flanked their employer.

  “Karl, the flight crew were given rooms along that corridor. Go and alert them. Tell them to leave as quietly as possible and find their way to the airstrip. I’m going ahead to see what has happened.”

  “From what I hear World War III is what has happened.”

  “Cheer up, Karl. We will laugh at this over a vodka back home. When you get the crew out, find transport and drive to the airstrip immediately.”

  Bondarchik turned and made his way through the rear of the house, surprised that there was little activity there. Did Rojas believe Cooper was only going to attack from the front of the property? He didn’t question the lack of logic, simply used the situation to his own advantage. He found a door that led outside. Keeping to the shadows, he moved around the house, realizing just how large it was. It took him some time before he cleared the property and used the planted shrubbery and flower beds to conceal his movement.

  He emerged on a concrete strip and saw a number of vehicles parked in a neat row. He checked the first one, a heavy American SUV, and opened the driver’s door. His bodyguards crowded into the rear. He started the powerful engine and swung the wheel to drive away from the house, following the route that had brought him there originally.

  The road curved around in a gentle sweep, dropping down a long slope, and for the first time Bondarchik was able to see the extent of the damage. The dock was ablaze, the gutted shells of burned-out speedboats half submerged in the water. The high flames from the large building just short of the dock had turned night into day. As Bondarchik drove by, he saw the bodies spread around the area. Skirting the section, he angled the SUV in the direction of the airstrip. Fire was still raging, and occasional, smaller explosions added to the scene of carnage. The Russian’s sense of foreboding grew as he cleared the last curve and drove onto the narrow road that led directly to the airstrip.

  The service hangar and the control tower were demolished, still burning fiercely. Wreckage and bodies littered the scene.

  But the Boeing was still there.

  Untouched.

  Bondarchik drove in the direction of the plane, his means of escape from this mad place. He would take his people, and they would leave Rojas to his struggle against Cooper. The Russian even found the energy to smile as he drew closer to the Boeing.

  The expression froze on his lips when he realized the aircraft was not standing squarely. He jammed on the brakes and the SUV came to a shuddering halt. Bondarchik almost fell out of the vehicle in his rush. He stumbled across the concrete, staring in disbelief.

  Every one of the Boeing’s landing wheels had flat tires. He saw the ragged holes in some of them where bullets had been fired into the rubber. His plane was crippled—there was no way it would get off the ground until the tires had been replaced.

  Bondarchik turned. Anger replaced reason, as he tore open his jacket and dragged out the big pistol.

  “Cooper. Cooper, you son of a bitch. Show yourself. Let me see you so I can fucking kill you.”

  34

  Bolan had shrugged off as much surplus equipment as possible so he could move faster. He left the M-16 propped against the side of a building but kept the Uzi. He still had his handguns and the combat knife, and decided that was enough for what he had to do.

  Crouching in the shadows of high bushes, he watched the erratic movements of Rojas’s men as they searched for him. He heard their raised voices—some angry, others tinged with frustration. Bolan’s black-clad figure hugged the darkness—his darkened face and hands merged him into near invisibility. The night and Bolan became allies. He allowed Rojas’s men to come to him, silently watching their progress. Some had managed to get hold of powerful flashlights, and the wavering beams of light made them easy targets for Bolan’s 93-R. Using the foregrip to steady his aim, Bolan waited for a target to wander into range before triggering a subsonic round. There was little sound. More noise came from the impact of the 9 mm slug as it cored into a targeted skull. Bolan put down three of Rojas’s men without any of the others even noting their numbers were being depleted. After each shot Bolan changed position, a whispering figure moving around the grounds with deadly purpose, lowering the odds as he brought himself closer to Rojas’s refuge.

  A nearby shout alerted Bolan. He turned and saw three gunners rushing in his direction. The bobbing beams of flashlights caught him. Someone yelled orders in Spanish, and Bolan realized that the men carrying the lights had raised the alarm too soon. Keeping the Executioner in their light beams left them fumbling for their weapons—their mistake, Bolan’s slim chance. He took it. The Beretta swept on track, Bolan selecting and firing, his single shots digging bloody holes in the hardmen. He put the first guy down with two fast shots to the chest, then dropped and rolled
, coming up on one knee to take down the second. The Mexican took a single round to the throat, falling, and the soldier hit him again before the man struck the earth. A hard shot rang out, and Bolan felt a solid thump in his right side, just below his ribs. The impact stalled him for a millisecond before he pumped three 9 mm slugs into the shooter. The guy went down with a high wail. Pushing back the dull ache in his side, the Executioner closed in on the downed men and delivered single shots to the heads to ensure they weren’t going to sit up and try again.

  He jammed the 93-R into its holster and brought the Uzi into play, moving away from the area and ducking into cover behind a small outbuilding. He crouched in the darkness, his fingers probing the bullet wound. They became moist with blood. He could feel the point of entry and probed deeper. He couldn’t be sure how deep the bullet had gone, but at least it wasn’t bleeding too much yet.

  Bolan considered his position. He was closer to the house now, but on two points his data was zero; he had no idea how many guns Rojas had inside the house, nor did he have a count of the number tracking him through the grounds. On top of that he had just sustained a wound. But the Executioner didn’t let that dissuade him. He was committed to his mission, and he would see it through regardless.

  He moved on, his target the distant bulk of the house, its lights shining through the wide windows. The place had to have its own generator. There were security lights around the house, some throwing strong light on the frontage, more beamed to illuminate the approach.

  Bolan leaned against the trunk of a tree and studied the house.

  He could make out people moving about inside. A sudden surge of pain blossomed around his wound. Bolan sucked in a breath and chose to ignore his body’s demand that he sit down and rest.

  Light caught his attention. The diffused illumination came from a building close by. The security lights around the structure were blacked out, but lights were coming from inside the building, which Bolan noticed was isolated and entirely out of character to the other buildings he had seen.