The Cartel Hit

by Don Pendleton

  “Single guy who went into Escobedo’s building. He left by the back door. When the backup went in they found the two dead hombres. They got a look at the guy who left and a description of his wheels. Plate numbers. We circulated the information. I got a call from Rodriguez at the border crossing. The guy went through, heading into Mexico.”

  “Hatton played it smart, having someone stand watch.” Candy took the makings from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke. “Wonder what the guy found to send him across the border.”

  Lorenzo shrugged. “Whoever he is, this boy is no amateur.”

  “I’ll make a call.”

  Candy set off for the main house across the ranch yard. He went to his office, where he perched on the edge of his desk and picked up an unused burn phone, tapping in a number he knew from memory.

  “Hola, amigo. ¿Cómo estás?” he said.

  The man at the other end laughed. “You know, my friend,” he said in English, “your Spanish gets no better.”

  “Ramon, you are not wrong there.”

  “So what can I do for you? There has to be more than an excuse for you to practice your terrible Spanish.”

  “I need a little help with a problem.”

  Lorenzo, who had followed Candy inside, listened as he spoke. The moment Candy greeted Ramon, concern etched Lorenzo’s face. Candy saw him staring, and grinned.

  He was speaking with Ramon Mariposa, the head of A La Muerte.

  Mariposa listened in silence until Candy finished explaining the situation.

  “This Escobedo could make problems if his information passes into the hands of the law. If Jessup comes under close examination, it could expose our connection. I wouldn’t like that, Candy.”

  “Well, hell, son, Jessup isn’t too pleased, either,” Candy said. “Ramon, we’re pretty sure Escobedo is back on home turf. So this guy following him must be in Mexico, too.”

  “Then we need to find them both. This American could be our lead to Escobedo.”

  “I’ll come on down to you,” Candy said. “Give you guys a hand. That okay with you, amigo?”

  “Of course. I have always been in favor of cross-border cooperation.”

  “This willingness to cooperate couldn’t be shaded with self-preservation, would it?”

  Mariposa laughed. “My friend, you paint a very dim picture of me.”

  “Son, don’t forget I know you too well.”

  “Yes, you do. I look forward to seeing you soon. Then we can go hunt these cockroaches.”

  “Listen,” Candy said. “I’ll text you what we have on this yahoo. Vehicle make and registration. Give you a chance to have some of your boys pick up his trail.”

  “I’ll have a crew ready to go. There is only one road he can come along in this area. I have no doubt my men will find him.”

  6

  Chihuahua, Mexico

  A couple hours into his drive, Bolan heard his sat phone and picked up.

  “There’s a village coming up in about ten miles,” Price told him. “Your guy will be waiting in a vintage Buick. Dark blue. Whitewall tires and lots of chrome. There’s a cantina on your right when you reach the center of the village. I’m looking at it in real time via the satellite cameras. Looks like a pleasant little village. I’ll have Aaron stay on so we can see you make the contact. Your guy is a Mexican, name of Pablo Gutierrez. You’ll find this next piece of information interesting. Gutierrez was a business contact of the late Jack Regan. You remember Regan?”

  Regan had been an arms dealer who had crossed paths with the Stony Man teams on a number of occasions. Jack “Bubba” Regan had carved a niche for himself in the trade of illegal weapons, ready to sell to anyone who could show him ready money. Sides didn’t matter to him, just the payoff. Over time, he had traded with both sides of the coin in the US and worldwide. Good and bad. Until the day a deal went sour on him and he was killed in the middle of a firefight.

  “Not likely to forget him,” Bolan said, recalling the day Regan had died. The soldier had been there on a mission.

  “Then you won’t mistake Gutierrez,” Price said. “He’ll be parked near the cantina. And he’ll identify himself with a password.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up, Miss Price. Much appreciated.” They ended the call.

  Eventually, Bolan picked out the outline of the village through the thermal ripples bridging the road. There was a gas station, a couple stores. The cantina. A few well-used vehicles parked irregularly along the street.

  The described American gas-guzzler stood alongside the cantina. A thin film of dust lay over the paint job and the chrome accessories. He noticed the whitewall tires looked pristine. Not a mark or stain on the rubber.

  And leaning against the driver’s side door was the guy Price had named as Gutierrez. Lean and hollow-cheeked, the man was on the short side. The brim of his Panama hat shielded eyes that tracked Bolan’s movements as he parked and stepped out of the 4x4.

  “Cooper?” The voice was surprisingly soft, the Mexican accent strong.

  Bolan nodded. “Gutierrez?” The Panama hat bobbed up and down. Bolan said, “You’re making a delivery.”

  “Only for a special customer.”

  The passwords exchanged, Gutierrez turned and leaned inside the car, lifting out a black duffel bag. He passed it to Bolan.

  “You wish to check it? Only I have a long drive back and need to go.”

  Bolan could feel the solid weight of the contents. He unzipped the bag and quickly peered inside. Satisfied, he closed it up. “Looks good. Gracias.”

  Gutierrez said nothing more. He climbed into the Buick and fired up the engine, made a U-turn and headed back along the highway. Bolan drove to the gas station and topped up the 4x4’s tank, then rolled back onto the road and kept going. His sat phone rang. It was Price again.

  “You could have waved,” she said.

  “That would be a giveaway if I’m being watched.”

  “You are being watched, Striker.”

  “I meant by other than you.”

  “Another ten minutes and you’ll be out of range.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “Aaron has loaded the satnav route onto your phone, so you can’t miss Ascensión,” Price said. “Stay safe, Striker.”

  Bolan pulled over on the side of the empty road. He opened the duffel and lifted out the hardware, checking the contents.

  A Beretta 92FS with 9 mm Parabellum and a 15-round mag capacity. A pistol Bolan was familiar with, though he would have preferred the 93R. Gutierrez had included four additional magazines. The pistol was not new, but looked well maintained. There were also four 40-round magazines for the Uzi SMG in the bag, plus one already loaded in the weapon. Bolan had used the Israeli SMG on countless missions and was more than comfortable with the hardware. The duffel also contained a shoulder rig for the Beretta and a sheathed Cold Steel Tanto knife.

  Bolan took the 92FS out of the bag and placed it in the glove box, where he could reach it quickly. He pushed the duffel beneath the front passenger seat, then took a few of the cameras out of his luggage and placed them on the seat next to him. He was hoping there would not be any need to cover himself, but he was aware of his unofficial presence in Mexico and the complications that might present. Going undercover was always a risky proposition, placing him way outside the law.

  He fired up the engine and swung the 4x4 back onto the road. He drove at a steady speed, focusing on what lay ahead. If he failed to reach Escobedo before Jessup’s crew did, the Mexican’s life could be forfeit.

  Mack Bolan had operated in the wilderness for a long time. His chosen way of life was a one-man crusade against the evil side of humanity. He battled for Justice, without a waving flag or flowery rhetoric. He simply sided with the people who had no way to fight back against corruption and violence. Against men who saw the world as their cake and wanted to devour every last morsel. Bolan stood in their path and waged a never-ending war.

  He understood his li
mitations. The immense struggle to stem the tide.

  He did it because someone had to.

  He did it because he could.

  Glancing in his rearview mirror, Bolan realized a car was following him.

  As far as he knew, this was one of the few roads in the area, so he’d expected to see other traffic. But this vehicle was acting strangely, hanging back an odd distance. Unless the driver was cruising, in no hurry to get anywhere, he could be staying at a safe distance from Bolan’s 4x4 on purpose.

  The soldier had no idea how it had happened, but it seemed the opposition had tagged him. Seb Jessup’s organization was proving to be more than good. If nothing else, this showed Bolan that he was up against an enemy that could already be a few steps ahead of him.

  He wondered how much they knew. If Jessup already had wind of Escobedo’s whereabouts, why would they need to tail Bolan? They must be letting him lead them to their target.

  In any case, he had their company and needed to get them off his back. On the open road, he was unlikely to outrun them. He wasn’t going to buy them off. His only option would be to prevent them from following him.

  Bolan’s gaze dropped briefly to the edge of the duffel under the passenger seat. The Uzi should have the capability to dissuade them. Its powerful rate of fire would inflict damage to the trailing vehicle—and also to the men riding in it, if that was needed. He reached down and dragged the bag clear, unzipping it. Bolan eased the Uzi out and dropped it across his lap. He flipped the selector to full-auto.

  A quick check in the mirror showed him the vehicle was still following, maintaining its distance. He looked ahead and saw a rise in the road, where it followed the contours of the land—a natural ridge that crossed from west to east, stringing out for miles on either side. The moment Bolan dropped beyond the crest he would be out of sight until his pursuers reached the top, a few minutes later. As a plan, it was thin. But Bolan had worked similar bluffs before, and it would give him a slim window of opportunity. If the vehicle was not, in fact, following him, it would continue on its way. If it was, his pursuers would have to effect a rapid response. And within that narrow time frame Bolan would be offered his chance.

  7

  “He has vanished,” Julio Prieto said, leaning forward to stare out the dusty windshield. “How can he disappear on such a straight road?”

  Renaldo Calvera smacked the back of Prieto’s head. “He hasn’t vanished, you idiot. He has gone over the rise ahead. Just keep driving.”

  From the rear of the big SUV, the third man, Tito Villas, said, “Listening to you two is like being with children. It’s a good thing Mariposa can’t hear you. He sent us to find this Escobedo and deal with the American looking for him. So shut up and do it.”

  “We are, Villas,” Calvera said. “Just pass out the guns and stop being a pain.”

  The three men from A La Muerte were well armed. They carried a selection of handguns and automatic weapons. Their orders were simple, coming directly from Ramon Mariposa. They were to find the runaway, Hermano Escobedo, and make sure he would not be alive to offer his evidence to norteamericano law enforcement. The request had come via Mariposa’s American compadre, Candy. It was a simple one, a favor between friends. Candy himself would be traveling across the border to see that the assignment was carried out to his satisfaction. The trio from A La Muerte was going ahead to make sure Escobedo did not become lost again. Once they had located him, they would take out the American, as well.

  Prieto pushed his foot down on the gas pedal, anxious to get over the rise so they could keep their eyes on the other vehicle. The SUV sped over the crest, swaying as it hit the downside.

  “Dios,” Prieto said. “I told you he had gone.”

  The road ahead appeared to be empty. No vehicle. No lingering dust in the air.

  Prieto stomped on the brake. The SUV burned rubber as it swerved from side to side. In truth, Prieto was not a very good driver. He wrestled with the wheel as the car slithered along the slope.

  “There. There,” Calvera yelled. “He’s at the side of the road.”

  The SUV came to a swaying stop broadside across the pavement, and as they stared out the windows they saw the 4x4 parked on the shoulder, facing them. The driver was standing beside it.

  And he was holding a weapon.

  Villas snatched up handguns from the seat beside him and thrust one into Calvera’s hands. He practically threw a cut-down shotgun at Prieto.

  Calvera kicked open his door and tumbled out, then scrambled around to the rear of the SUV. Prieto and Villas exited together and brought their weapons to bear on the waiting man.

  It was Prieto who fired first, triggering a round hastily. The charge blew harmlessly wide of its intended target, a reckless move that was about to have serious repercussions for the trio.

  The American barely appeared to move as the dark configuration of his weapon arced toward them. Then he began to shoot, flame winking from the muzzle as the gun jacked out a rapid burst of autofire. Prieto gave a squeal of terror as a number of slugs hammered at his chest. He was pushed back against the open door of the SUV, more of the slugs shattering the window behind him.

  Even before Prieto went down, the American had dropped to a crouch and lined up the barrel of his weapon with Villas, catching him as he triggered his automatic pistol. The stream of bullets caught Villas across his right shoulder, knocking him sideways so that the burst chopped at his arm and side. He slid back across the rear seat, spattering it with his blood and fragments of flesh as he fell. A second burst burrowed under his jaw, angling up through his head to lodge in his brain.

  Calvera heard the bursts of fire. He was already cutting around the rear of the SUV, his pistol clutched tightly in his right hand. He ducked below the window level, heart pounding as he heard Prieto scream. Things were going badly. But he had committed himself, and as a loyal A La Muerte soldier, he could not back away. He thrust the pistol ahead of him as he rounded the vehicle, searching for a target. He spotted the crouching American as he put Villas down. Calvera jerked his pistol in that direction, finger pulling back on the trigger.

  In the fraction of time between firing and realizing he had been too slow, Calvera saw the mistakes that had been made. Prieto had committed them to action too quickly. His first shot had laid out what was going to happen before he had thought about it. They had been following the American so he might lead them to Escobedo. Too eager to make the first move, Prieto had gone ahead on his own, and once he had done that there was no going back. Now Prieto and Villas were injured, maybe even dead, and Calvera himself was in that transition between success and failure…

  He completed his trigger pull, saw the muzzle of his pistol rise as it fired. As the weapon discharged, he felt hard thumps against the chest, multiple strikes, and he felt himself falling backward under the impact. He rolled against the SUV, numbness flowing through his body. He had been shot. He slid to his knees, his free hand groping for some kind of support, but there was nothing to hold on to. Calvera hit the ground hard, thinking Mariposa was going to be angry because they had messed up…

  He coughed and tasted blood in his mouth, warm and brassy. His senses were fading and the only clear thought he acknowledged was that at least he had stayed true to the code.

  A la muerte.

  To the death.

  * * *

  BOLAN HELD HIS POSITION as he saw the third shooter fall, sprawling on the road behind the SUV. The pistol he had carried spilled from his hand as he relaxed in death. Rising to his feet, Bolan checked the other pair. Neither moved from where they had fallen. Their weapons lay on the ground near their bodies. Bolan approached cautiously; it was not unknown for men to make a final move after faking death. He had no intention of being caught by a trick like that.

  He went from man to man, kicking away dropped weapons, then gathering them from a safe distance. He paused briefly to confirm that his shots had been fatal. He took out his sat phone and photographed ea
ch body, then sent the images to Stony Man with a brief request for identification.

  Jessup was obviously playing a hard game. The man was pushing for a result, and that meant Bolan needed to be on his toes. What had happened here told him he could expect more.

  He returned to his vehicle, placed the Uzi on the seat beside him and the dead men’s weapons in the duffel, and drove away.

  Back on the road, Bolan watched for any further signs of pursuit, both ahead and behind. He saw nothing over the course of an hour.

  He finally made out the formation of buildings ahead, emerging from the heat haze. It was early evening. He still had a good distance to travel before reaching Ascensión, and needed to touch base with Stony Man, so decided to take a short break.

  As Bolan pulled up beside a small taqueria, his sat phone buzzed. He checked the message. It was from Aaron Kurtzman.

  A positive identification had been made of one of the dead men. The information had come from a DEA file on a gang operating out of Chihuahua—A La Muerte, an offshoot of a major drug cartel.

  The man was Renaldo Calvera, a soldier who worked under Ramon Mariposa. Mariposa was a drug lord who ran a wide territory all the way up to the border. Kurtzman had included additional information on the man, gathered from multiple agencies.

  Bolan scanned the data and the accompanying images attached, which showed a number of A La Muerte members. They included both the other men he had shot, as well as the head honcho himself. Bolan committed Mariposa’s image to memory.

  The soldier sent a text asking if there was a link between Mariposa and Seb Jessup. Kurtzman confirmed that there was. The DEA had evidence that the two men had done business together over a number of years. Drugs one way, weapons the other. A pairing of like minds.

  Neither operation had been affected by the scrutiny of the law. They were insulated by their lawyers and the simple fact that no one had the courage to go against them. To stand up against Jessup and the Mexican cartel would put any individual on the execution block. Which made Hermano Escobedo an exceptional man.