Bolan uncapped one of the canteens and took a swallow of water. He checked the trail behind him, seeing no movement.
He was convinced A La Muerte was still coming. The crew that had showed up in Ascensión would not have been alone. More would be on their way.
He set off again, maintaining a steady pace that covered the ground without tiring him. He could feel the sun through his cap, the material of his shirt. Bolan had no trouble following the thin, almost invisible trail Father Xavier had outlined for him. The priest had most likely walked this way himself on more than one occasion. Bolan admired the man’s dedication to his people. His faith in his God kept him going in this lonely place.
Bolan kept moving. He noticed a change in the light and saw that the dark clouds were now overhead. The sunlight faded, and minutes later he felt the first raindrops. They came hard and fast, building to a downpour as he moved into the trees. The vegetation bent under the fierce rain. Bolan pushed his way forward, shoulders hunched. Despite the foliage, he was soon drenched.
He held the AK-74 against his chest. The weapon was locked and loaded. Some instinct told him pursuit was not far behind. He had not seen anything, but countless combat situations had planted the intuitive senses that warned him when danger was close. A La Muerte was not far behind. The storm was unlikely to stop them.
If they came within range, Bolan would.
The ground underfoot quickly became waterlogged. He spotted a couple streams running down the hillside. They had already overflowed their banks, the water white with foam.
Farther Xavier’s directions kept Bolan moving higher. By his calculations, in a couple miles he would break free from the treed slopes and find himself above the wide plain where the Escobedo property was located.
He turned, standing on a section of exposed ground that allowed him to look back the way he had come. A moving object below the tree line caught his eye. Even through the sheet of heavy rain, Bolan could make out the shape of an SUV. It was heading up the slope in his general direction, and he didn’t need any more convincing about who was riding in the vehicle.
A La Muerte.
His enemies were on their way.
* * *
THERE WERE SIX cartel soldiers in the SUV.
Benito Salazar, riding alongside the driver, had been scanning the way ahead through powerful binoculars. The information they’d got from the priest back in Ascensión had confirmed that the American had been in the village. The holy man had not been able to deny it. There were two disabled vehicles and four fallen cartel men.
Father Xavier had given up his knowledge quite freely, seeming almost too eager to provide it. Of course, there had been the incentive of a knife held against his throat.
Directions in hand, the men had climbed back into the SUV and driven out of Ascensión, leaving the village and the padre intact. Not one of Mariposa’s men had felt it necessary to murder a priest. That was a sacrilege none of them wished to be tainted by. Killing came easy to them, but few were willing to risk eternal damnation for the sake of it.
As the SUV crawled up into the hills, Salazar opened the SUV’s glass sunroof and stood on the seat, scanning the land ahead with the binoculars. They covered the distance quickly, despite the uneven ground.
Mariposa called them on their sat phone, demanding to know what was happening. When they told him about the dead crew in the first vehicle, his anger became a living thing that threatened to burst through the receiver. The sound of his voice could be heard by all six men in the SUV. The one holding the phone, Espinoza, had no words to respond, so he simply listened.
“You find that yanqui. He dies as well as Escobedo. Understand?”
“Sí, Jefe.”
“I hold you all responsible. You understand that? This has gone on long enough. A La Muerte cannot let this bastard go free. You follow him. You find him. You destroy him.”
The call ended abruptly.
“If we don’t find this American I don’t believe we should go back,” Espinoza said. “He will tear off our cojones with his bare hands.”
“Don’t say that even as a joke,” the driver said.
“What makes you think I was joking?”
“Hey, hombres,” Salazar said. “Do you want to know what I think? I think you talk too much. And I have seen the yanqui we are looking for.”
He slid back down to his seat, activating the button that closed the sunroof. As the panel clicked into place it began to rain. The downpour was heavy, the rain bouncing off the windshield.
“Where?” The driver, Santiago, peered through the glass, which the wipers were struggling to keep clear.
“Directly ahead. He has moved into those trees. Get close. Three of us can follow him. The rest of you line up along the edge of the trees and watch in case he comes out again.”
They each checked their weapons and put on the comsets they carried, making certain they were all on the same channel.
“Remember what Mariposa said,” Espinoza warned. “I have no intention of losing my cojones, so let us track this damned American and kill him. Then we go on and find Escobedo.”
12
The cartel crew was close. Too close. Bolan didn’t intend to move on with them at his heels. If he simply pushed ahead, he might unwittingly lead them to their target. Once he reached Escobedo, he knew they might face more opponents. But Bolan wanted to give himself—and Escobedo—a little more time to prepare for that eventuality.
Bolan watched six fully armed figures climb out of the SUV as it reached the tree line. They were no more dressed for the weather than he was. He stayed put as they grouped together, discussing tactics. In the end, three of them began to trudge through the downpour into the woods. The remaining trio spread out to survey the area.
Bolan pushed his way through the foliage.
Three to deal with first.
Then the ones staying out of the trees.
Bolan was thinking about the SUV. If he could get his hands on that it would make the rest of his trek to Escobedo’s hideout much easier.
The trio separated as soon as they were among the trees. They moved about twenty-five feet apart, then began to walk forward.
Bolan pinpointed each man’s line of travel, knowing he might lose them in the dense foliage. But he was going to take the fight to them, and the fact that they had separated would make his task easier.
The guy closest to Bolan’s position was coming quickly, with little caution. He was too confident, and it was that attitude that brought him nearer to Bolan than he should have been. Cartel soldiers were used to facing ordinary citizens and using threatening behavior. They had limited tactical experience. The Executioner was about to offer them the real thing.
The man pushed through tangled branches and shrubs, and Bolan shrank back as he approached. He came across a fallen tree, the trunk massive and overgrown with vines and other plants that had sprouted along its gnarled length. Bolan crouched behind it and laid the Uzi and the AK-74 on the ground, unsheathing his Tanto knife. He picked up a low murmur, and the pattern of the guy’s speech told Bolan he was speaking into a comset. He was telling his partners he was sure he had their quarry located. That the yanqui was close by and he would soon find him and make his kill.
Bolan would have agreed to that. The man was near. Very near. He just had the scenario wrong. It would be Bolan finding him.
The clink of metal on metal sounded as the cartel soldier took another step closer, his equipment giving him away. He was muttering to himself as he edged around the twisted roots of the tree and then on along its length. He stepped into Bolan’s field of vision, and when he tilted his weapon, Bolan caught a dull gleam of light as it rippled along the barrel. That gave him his target and he made use of it.
In one swift motion, the Executioner sprang from his hiding spot, his left hand driving forward to grasp the guy’s throat, his right striking hard at the midsection of the exposed torso. The Tanto’s cold blade sliced through
clothing and sank in up to the hilt. He felt the man shudder as he slid the penetrating blade left to right to extend the wound. A harsh groan burst from the Mexican’s lips. Bolan slid his left hand around the back of the guy’s neck, yanking him forward, pulling his body in closer to the cutting blade. He felt warm blood oozing from the stab site. Bolan pushed the weakening man against the log, leaning on him hard, feeling the tremors that followed the damage done by the knife. The guy let out a long, ragged sigh as he began to slip to the ground. Bolan kept up the pressure until all movement and sound ceased. Then he pulled out the knife, cleaned the steel blade against the man’s shirt and sheathed it.
He could hear faint noises coming from the headset the man was wearing. Bolan slipped the device from the body, held it close and listened to the transmission. He identified two voices. One ordered the other to silence, then spoke in swift Spanish. “Enrico, what is going on? Talk to me. Where are you?”
“I found him,” Bolan said, keeping his voice low. “You want to come and see?”
There was a brief silence.
“You are not Enrico…who are you?”
“The one you cannot find. The one who is going to send you to hell.”
A violent shout burst through the comset. Bolan retrieved his weapons, suspending the Uzi by its strap around his neck. He carried the AK-74 in his hands, ready for use, and moved away from the cover of the fallen tree. The cartel members knew he was around and capable of facing whatever they had ready for him. One man down and two still in the vicinity. He listened to the comset, picking out the sound of their movements and the whispered conversation between them.
The heavy downpour would work to his advantage. Anything that would distract his enemies, make them function less as a unit, would allow him to move around with more ease. Flexibility, the ability to slip in and out quickly, these were Bolan’s aces. And he would use them well. If he worked it right he could break down their numbers, leave them wondering where the next hit might come from.
Crouching in the shadows, he focused his attention on the comset chatter as the cartel soldiers assessed their next move.
Bolan checked out the AK-74, set the fire rate to single shot. The Kalashnikov was familiar to him and he knew its capabilities; it had a decent range and accuracy. The assault rifle would serve him well as an intermediate sniper weapon.
He focused on peripheral sound, tuning in to the noise the Mexicans made as they moved through the bushes, searching for him. They were not the quietest pair. They brushed against leaves, stepped on twigs and disrupted stones and dirt. Small sounds, but to Bolan they indicated the whereabouts of his quarry.
One man cursed into the comset. Things were not going the way they wanted. These narco warriors expected matters to fall easily into their hands, and when that didn’t happen, they allowed their impatience to show. Bolan didn’t mind that. If they became unsettled, their concentration would slip. Which would give him a fraction of an advantage.
He turned slightly as he heard someone stumble in the undergrowth off to his right. Bolan leaned forward, squinting in the gray light filtering through the dripping canopy.
Nothing at first. Bolan stayed still. If the guy was close by he would show himself eventually…
And he did.
The bright color of his shirt gave him away. Even in the gloomy light, it stood out. Bolan shouldered the AK and trained the barrel on the figure, raising the muzzle so it pointed at the target’s head. The cartel soldier carried a similar model automatic rifle to the one Bolan was holding.
The man’s head began to turn toward Bolan as if he had picked up a visual himself.
The Executioner didn’t hesitate.
He held the target for a split second longer, then pulled back on the trigger. The AK-74 cracked sharply. The 5.45 slug covered the distance in a breath of time and the guy jerked sideways as it struck the side of his skull, coring through and emerging in a burst of red. Bolan saw the guy fall, all control gone.
The sound carried through the comset like an echo, followed by a stream of Spanish. A man asking where his partner was.
Now Bolan heard footsteps heading in his direction. He burrowed deeper into the greenery. It wouldn’t conceal him at close range, but he hoped he was hidden enough to surprise the approaching enemy.
The guy stepped into a clearing about thirty feet away. He was wearing baggy pants and a sleeveless jerkin over a light shirt. He was also carrying an AK-74, holding it at his side as he glanced around. Water streamed down his face. As he pivoted slightly, Bolan saw he was wearing a holstered automatic pistol on his right hip.
Bolan heard the comset crackle.
He picked up the harsh Spanish as the guy spoke.
“Hey, gringo, I know you can hear me. I just want to let you know I am going to kill you soon. No fooling. You are a dead man. When I have killed you, I will take your fucking head to show my jefe…”
The final word that left his mouth was followed by the crack of the shot from Bolan’s AK. He put a slug into the guy’s head above his left eye. The shot was clean. It traversed the target’s skull and blew out the rear, taking bone and brains with it. Blood sprayed from the wound and the guy dropped without a sound.
The moment he’d fired, Bolan withdrew into the deeper foliage, pulling the assault rifle into cover with him. Then he crouched in the shadows, watching and listening for the surviving cartel soldiers on the edge of the forest.
Bolan could hear someone breathing over the comset. The man’s air came in short, sharp bursts as he took in what had just happened.
And that he himself was being tracked by the unseen American A La Muerte had come to kill.
Bolan worked his way back to where he’d spotted the SUV. Rain sluiced down through the leaves, but he was already soaked. He could feel it dripping onto his sodden ball cap. He had pulled the AK-74 close to his body so it wouldn’t snag on the tangled undergrowth when he moved. He’d cut their team in half, and the remaining soldiers on the scene would be assessing their own position, listening for him to make a sound that would betray his presence. That was fine with him. He had played this game many times. He was comfortable waiting it out, banking on the other guys not being as patient.
The rain began to ease off as the storm moved on, away to the east. The forest became quieter. Bolan held his ground, making no moves that might give him away. He watched the surrounding area intently for any sign of the opposition.
When it came, he might have missed it if he’d blinked.
A tiny disturbance in the branches to his left, maybe twenty feet away. It lasted no more than a second, but it told Bolan someone was close by. He remained motionless, let the other guy initiate action.
The man stepped out of the tangle of tree limbs, half crouching as he moved. He swiveled his head from side to side, surveying the area. He was a big man. Broad across the shoulders and with a heavy torso. Despite his bulk, he was light on his feet.
He stopped suddenly, head coming forward as if he had picked up on something.
Bolan chose his moment. He brought the AK up to his shoulder, drawing a bead on the man’s forehead.
The A La Muerte member was staring directly at him now, lifting his own weapon. Bolan’s finger was on the trigger, but the Mexican fired first, unwilling to take that extra second to fully engage his target. His shot went wide, ripping at dirt to Bolan’s left, shredding leaves. The man fired again, hastily, on full-auto, peppering the tree trunks and forest floor.
Bolan held his position, staying in his crouch. In the microsecond it took the guy to let loose another round, Bolan took aim and fired a single slug, hitting his enemy directly between the eyes. He punched out two more shots and the back of the man’s skull exploded from the combined force of the three bullets. He toppled like a felled oak, body rigid, and hit the ground hard.
Two left.
Bolan heard raised voices and heavy breathing through the comset as the cartel soldiers hurried to find their fal
len compatriot.
Bolan stayed put for a time, just listening. Finally, satisfied that neither man was nearby, he eased out of concealment far enough to help himself to the extra magazines the guy he’d just shot had been carrying, adding to his own ammunition supply.
As the storm retreated, the temperature began to rise. Bolan’s skin dried quickly, then began to gleam with sweat. Through the upper canopy, he saw the sky lighten as the clouds drifted away.
He did a slow scan of the area ahead of him, toward the open terrain where he could make out the shape of the cartel’s SUV. That vehicle would give him a huge advantage. He’d be able to cover the rest of the distance to Escobedo’s hideout in far less time than it would take him to walk, and he’d get a head start on any additional cartel troops.
But his first priority was taking down the remaining pair.
The comset had fallen silent. Mariposa’s men had obviously decided they’d been giving away too much information. Discretion replaced their earlier bravado.
Bolan had to eliminate them as quickly as possible. There could already be others on their way. And each time he took down an A La Muerte member he was twisting the knife. Mariposa’s pride was taking a beating and he was not going to accept the fact lightly.
Despite his sense of urgency, Bolan kept still, knowing that patience paid off in this kind of situation. Being a sniper required a certain detachment of mind and body; the stillness that would not betray his presence to the enemy; the keen vision and hearing that would detect the slightest indication of his target’s presence. When that moment came, the sniper had to be ready to recognize the sign and react to it. Move too soon and the target might be alerted and slip away. Too late and the tables might easily be reversed, the hunter becoming the hunted.
The Cartel Hit Page 8