The wooden structure was long, narrow, with a timber loading bay at one end, and it looked aged. Bolan’s curiosity was aroused. If it held anything of value to Rojas, it went on Bolan’s list of targets. He stayed in the shadows as he moved its length, searching for an entrance. He found a door and eased it open. It swung on well-oiled hinges, which told him the place had a purpose. Fluorescent lights were attached to the overhead beams. Pulling the door shut, Bolan nodded to himself as he looked at the lines of stacked packages of pure cocaine.
Rojas’s main supply was waiting to be shipped out. Bolan didn’t even try to assess how much the coke would generate on the streets.
“Millions,” a voice whispered.
The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed into the flesh of Bolan’s neck.
“That was what you were asking yourself. How much is this all worth?”
A hand reached out and took the Uzi from Bolan’s hands, dropping it to the floor. The cold ring of steel didn’t move from the soldier’s flesh.
He recognized the voice from his earlier phone call to Rojas.
It belonged to Pilar Trujillo’s brother—Tomas.
“I knew you would come in here,” Trujillo crowed. “See, you are not so smart, Cooper. A man like you could not resist checking out this place. So that makes me the smart one. Yes?”
“So smart you let your own sister be gunned down by Dembrow’s goons. Must make you proud, Tomas.”
“It was her own mistake. She let herself get mixed up with that damned DEA agent. She could have made things difficult for Rojas. I told her to leave things alone, but she had to interfere.”
“It took courage to do the right thing. That’s something you wouldn’t understand.”
“I could kill you right here,” Trujillo gritted. Bolan felt the gun muzzle tremble. “Do you not believe me?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. You’ll still be a coward hiding behind Benito Rojas’s reputation.”
“No.” The single word was an enraged protest at the slight against his manhood.
The barrel of the pistol shook, drawing back slightly from contact with Bolan’s neck. Before Trujillo could control his anger, the Executioner made his move, pivoting on his heel in a right-hand turn, taking him clear of the threatening pistol. His hands reached to push Trujillo’s gun hand aside. He heard the weapon discharge and felt the heat of the slug fan his cheek. Then he had the wrist in his grasp, twisting brutally. Trujillo screamed as pain seared his limb. The pistol fell from his nerveless fingers, and Bolan swiftly slammed his right knee into the Mexican’s groin. The force pushed Trujillo back against the wall, and Bolan followed up with a hauled-off punch that hammered across his adversary’s jaw. The man’s head snapped to one side, then reversed as Bolan brought his right hand across in a backhand blow that had blood spurting from slack lips. Trujillo tried to fight back, but he was out of his league against the towering, black-clad man who remembered the beautiful young woman shot to death in his presence because she had stood up against the power of the drug lord. It was the sodden sound of Trujillo’s skull rapping against the timber wall that brought the Executioner back. The Mexican’s face was a bloody mask. Bolan wrenched the pistol from his hand, caught hold of the guy’s shirt and swung him away from the wall. He pushed Trujillo away from him. The Mexican backpedaled until the high wall of cocaine stopped him and he fell limply to the ground.
Bolan retrieved his discarded Uzi and slipped the strap over his shoulder.
“You won’t walk out of here,” Trujillo said through mashed and bloody lips.
“Neither will you,” Bolan said.
The Executioner backed up to the door and reached into his pouch for the last pair of incendiary canisters. He pushed the door open a couple of inches, then pulled the pin on the first canister. He threw it so that it landed on the top of the coke stash. The second canister he lobbed in a short arc that landed squarely in Trujillo’s lap.
Bolan had ducked through the door before the first flash of light from the canisters lit the sky. He loped around the far end of the coke warehouse and heard the tail end of Trujillo’s scream before the searing, white hot surge of thermate cut it off. The spreading, hungry burn reached out to scorch the timber walls of the building as Bolan rounded the rear structure and saw the big SUV parked with its driver’s door still open and the engine running. Bolan reached the vehicle and threw his Uzi on the passenger seat ahead of him.
He slammed the door shut, dropped the vehicle into Drive and floored the gas pedal. The powerful engine roared, and its tires burned against the ground as the SUV picked up speed. Bolan turned and hit the road, cutting directly in the direction of Rojas’s house. It was time to introduce himself to the cartel boss and do it in style.
35
Rojas had lost touch with Trujillo. His last contact had been when the man had called to say he had spotted Cooper and was about to corner him. But Trujillo’s cell phone had gone dead, and all Rojas could do was stare from his main house window in horror as his cocaine storage facility went up in flames.
“Damn you, Tomas, where the fuck are you? Why have you…”
The words dried in his throat. Rojas had just spotted the black SUV barreling across the road, racing directly toward the house and the very window he was standing near.
“Here. He is here,” he screamed at the remaining crew members.
The SUV loomed larger, bouncing as it sped across the lawn fronting the house. The front wheels hit the concrete edging and seemed to soar as it leaped at the window.
Rojas dropped the phone and hurled himself aside as the vehicle hit the window. There was a jangle of noise, the breaking of glass and the timber frame. Stone crashed into the room and the roar of the SUV’s engine filled the air. The SUV scattered furniture and men as it swept across the floor. It came to a sudden stop against a stone fireplace, a screaming crew member pinned, his thrashing body drenched with the torrent of blood gushing from his mouth.
Rojas hit the floor, amid a mass of debris, bruised and aching from his fall. He lay dazed, unable to fully understand how it had all happened—how one man could create such chaos. His thought only generated intense rage. This couldn’t be allowed to happen. He was Benito Rojas. He was a powerful man who held influential men in the palm of his hand. His fortune from the drugs he sold had made his income more than the gross national product of some small countries. He bought and he sold. He commanded respect. His word was law…yet right now he was crawling on his hands and knees among the wreckage of his own house.
And all because of a man he had not even laid eyes on.
The crackle of automatic fire reached his ears.
Cooper.
Was he still alive?
He had to see the man, to be there when the trigger was pulled and this nightmare ended.
Rojas stumbled to the SUV and pulled open the front passenger door. The vehicle was empty. He looked across the seat and saw that the driver’s door hung open too.
In the swirl of dust filling the room, Rojas saw a dark figure moving, a stubby SMG arcing back and forth. Brief muzzle-flashes came from the weapon. His men were yelling and cursing. The SMG kept crackling, spitting out short bursts.
Rojas worked his way around the SUV, tripping over debris, searching for a weapon. His own pistol was gone, having spilled from his fingers when he had fallen, and in the gloom he was unable to find it.
The shooting died for a few seconds, then resumed. Rojas heard a man scream and beg for mercy—but the firing continued. The man made no more sound.
Then a strange silence fell. The SUV’s engine had stalled and there was no more gunfire, only the subdued roar of the burning cocaine storehouse. Rojas experienced a moment of despair when he thought of the vast amount of money going up in smoke. For that alone he wanted to skin Cooper alive.
The drug lord stood in his demolished room, staring around him. His nerves were shredded. Only then did he feel the warm wash of blood down the left si
de of his face. He reached up and felt a large and ragged tear in his scalp.
“Where are you, Cooper? Let me look at you, gringo. Or are you afraid to show yourself?”
A soft sound behind Rojas made him turn.
The tall, black-clad figure, his face and hands darkened, made Rojas shiver. The big American was coated in dust, his face blood streaked, and Rojas noted with satisfaction that he was showing a glistening patch of blood across his right side. The eyes that looked at him were a startling shade of blue—cold, ice blue that seemed to cut right into Rojas. The intensity of those eyes made the drug lord catch his breath.
“Tell me who you are. Why you have done all this.”
“The who doesn’t matter,” Bolan said. “We both know the reason why. All of you. Dembrow. Trujillo. Malloy. You. Not one of you have a reason to be allowed to stay alive. You poisoned the very air you breathed. You sold misery and death and walked away laughing because the law couldn’t stop you.”
A little of the old arrogance surfaced.
“That is true. No laws can touch us,” Rojas replied.
“Lucky for me then. I don’t represent the law. And I can touch you.”
Bolan saw the expression of sheer surprise on Rojas’s face as the muzzle of the Uzi rose. As the drug lord dropped to the floor, desperately searching for a gun, the Executioner touched the trigger and put a burst into the man, leaving a bloody corpse on the floor. The last round hammered into Rojas’s skull, splitting bone and depositing the man’s brains in the dirt and dust.
36
Vash Bondarchik stood looking around at his despondent crew. They were all at a loss for what to do—until Litvenko turned to his boss.
“Okay. We have no plane. No way of getting it repaired. But we have a car. We should take it and leave this damned place, Vash. Drive until we hit a town and find a hotel. Then make contact with Tibor so he can make arrangements to fly us home.”
Bondarchik nodded, understanding exactly what had been said.
“You are right, Karl. Let’s do that. Get out of this miserable place before…”
The others were already scrambling to get inside the commandeered limousine. Litvenko had the driver’s door opened when he realized Bondarchik had not moved.
“Vash?”
“It’s him,” Bondarchik said.
“What?”
“The American. Cooper.”
Litvenko followed his pointing finger. He saw a tall figure moving slowly in their direction, flame from the still-burning service-hangar illuminating him.
“Let it go, Vash. He came for Rojas. Not for us.”
“We would have been gone by now if he hadn’t disabled the plane,” Bondarchik said.
“So let’s go.”
Litvenko saw the Desert Eagle in Bondarchik’s hand as he walked to face the approaching figure, his armed bodyguards on either side.
“He wanted to keep us here,” Bondarchik said. “Why?”
“I don’t think he’s in the mood to explain, Vash.”
“Then I’ll make him.”
He raised the large pistol.
“Cooper? What is this all about?” he asked, making a sweeping gesture in the direction of the Boeing. “You made me stay. I want to know why.”
“A favor for an old friend,” Bolan said.
“Friend? What old friend?”
“Commander Valentine Seminov. OCD.”
“Seminov? That bastard cop. I should have taken the advice someone gave me recently and had him dealt with. He doesn’t approve of me or my business. He thinks I am a mass murderer.”
“I have to agree with him on that. You trade in death. Make a profit from it.”
“Save me from bleeding hearts. So what did he want you to do?”
“Say goodbye.”
Bolan raised the M-16 he had retrieved on his way to the airstrip. Before Bondarchik could get off a shot, he fired twice, the 5.56 mm slugs tearing into the Russian’s heart, dropping him dead on the concrete.
Bondarchik’s bodyguards were frozen as they saw their boss go down, but they recovered quickly, readying their weapons.
The Executioner had dropped to the concrete, the M-16 tracking, and he opened fire from his prone position. The combat rifle crackled as he continued pulling the trigger. The 5.56 mm slugs blew holes in the bodyguards’ expensive suits, puncturing flesh as they cored in, toppling the bulky men to the ground.
Bolan climbed to his feet, slowly, aware of his side wound starting to bleed again.
The muzzle of the M-16 tracked around and settled on Litvenko.
“Weren’t you just leaving?” Bolan asked.
Litvenko raised his empty hands. “Yes.”
“Do it.”
Bolan watched the limo roll away. He fished out the com set and made contact with Casper.
“Come and pick me up, Bud. The airstrip beyond the dock. Bondarchik’s aircraft.”
“Any resistance still around?”
“I think we probably have the place to ourselves. The last gunners I saw were headed out of here. But bring your protection just in case.”
“Hey, you okay, Striker? You sound odd.”
“It’s been a busy night,” Bolan stated.
“Yeah? I can see the lights from here.”
“I figured you’d need a guide in,” Bolan said.
“Give me half an hour.”
The Executioner crossed to the Boeing and made his way up the mobile steps that were still in place. He released the door and stepped inside. The sheer luxury of the interior was overwhelming. Bolan located the kitchen area and searched until he located a first-aid kit. It held enough medical goods to have tended a small army. Bolan stripped to the waist and did what he could to clean up the wound before he applied a makeshift dressing. He eased back into his blacksuit and took a quick look around the kitchen. The well-stocked bar provided him with a bottle of expensive malt whisky. Bolan filled a glass halfway and took a swallow. Maybe not the advised medicine, but right then he didn’t give a damn.
Checking out the aircraft he came across what looked like a fully equipped office, complete with a cutting edge computer system. Bolan sat in the big executive chair and switched on the computer. Staring at the Cyrillic script on the large screen, a thought occurred. Bolan used his sat phone to contact Stony Man Farm. He asked for and got Kurtzman and told the man what he had found.
“This looks like Bondarchik’s mobile system. You think it could be linked to his mainframe back in Moscow?”
“Only one way to find out,” Kurtzman rumbled. “Let me in and we’ll suck it dry. Now I’ll tell you what you need to do to give me access. Don’t worry.”
Bolan drained his glass of whisky. The warm glow the liquor created felt good.
“Go ahead, Bear, I’m listening.”
Epilogue
From his room in the clinic, Bolan learned a great deal from the news channels on the wide TV screen. There was much speculation over the incidents surrounding the demise of the Rojas Cartel. No one knew exactly what had happened or who was responsible. The story being put out hinted at a major fallout between the two factions, but the debate continued almost a week after the events. There was plenty of video footage, endless discussions with media faces interviewing representatives from various agencies, and general confusion and speculation. As usual with these things, everyone had an opinion, made up or otherwise.
Bolan didn’t give a damn one way or the other. It was over. The agencies could pick over the bones and claim what they wanted. Rojas and Dembrow were dead. So was Bondarchik. Small victories in the big war, but victories nonetheless. Enough for the Executioner.
He was still in recovery. The bullet had been removed, but there had been some infection that left him weak. Bolan took the doctor’s advice and gave himself time out to rest. To be truthful, he was glad of the break. Though an enforced one, it was welcome.
His room overlooked the cultivated grounds—smooth lawns and tended flowe
r beds, a world away from the noise of battle. The crash of gunfire and explosions. Blood and death. The treacherous evil of the enemies he had to face.
And the unwelcome deaths of Don Manners and the beautiful Pilar Trujillo. A twist of fate had brought them together in the wrong place and time. Bolan still carried a little guilt where Pilar was concerned. His intervention had saved her from being hurt at the beginning of their short relationship, but even the presence of the Executioner had not been enough to keep her alive. He would remember Pilar for a long time.
On the positive side there had been bonuses. Kurtzman’s cyber magic had reached out and captured the data buried deep in Bondarchik’s computer system. His team had unraveled the complicated encryptions and hidden files, opening up a vast treasure trove of information, names, locations. The Bondarchik organization was exposed fully, and once Stony Man Farm had sent the collated data to Valentine Seminov, the OCD had the knowledge and the means to rip the arms dealer’s empire to shreds.
Seminov had been wild with excitement when he called Bolan at the clinic and told him of the success the OCD had achieved.
“They were like rats jumping a sinking ship, tovarich,” he said. “We had so much evidence it was overwhelming. The lawyers suddenly backed away and began to deny any connection to Bondarchik. It was wonderful to watch. Even Tibor Danko had nothing to say when we arrested him. Bondarchik’s contacts in high places started to blame one another. It will take months to sort it all out. Cooper, I owe you so much for this. I will always be in your debt. For everything. Not forgetting that you delivered my last message to Bondarchik in person.”
“One less to worry about,” Bolan said.
Brognola was happy with the outcome, and so was the President. Because of his need to stay distanced from the mission, he had not been able to speak to Bolan in person. His thanks were passed along via Brognola, who made it clear the Man felt deeply obligated to Bolan for what he had done and the risks he had taken.
Cartel Clash Page 17