18
Bolan heard the clatter of autofire and realized the chopper was better armed than he’d thought. There was a machine gun on board. He didn’t bother to wonder why it hadn’t been used before, just swerved left and right. But the pilot had his target just where he wanted it and the gunner was getting his range and beginning to fix his target.
“Sorry, Hermano. Looks like we may need to abandon ship again.”
“Better than waiting until they—”
His words were cut off as a burst of 7.62 mm slugs ripped through the side window behind him. Glass showered across the interior. More bullets pounded the body of the SUV. A tire burst, rubber shredding.
“Now?” Escobedo asked.
“Now.”
Bolan hit the brakes and brought the vehicle to a stop, grabbing hold of the AK and slinging the Uzi around his neck. Escobedo pushed open his door and bailed out. The machine gun rounds kicked up dirt around the Escalade as Bolan freed his own door and dived off the seat. He hit the ground in a power roll that took him clear of the vehicle. When he hit, the Uzi slammed against his chest. The AK-74 was almost wrenched from his grasp, but he clutched it tightly.
He heard the roar of the helicopter as it closed in, the continuous chatter of the machine gun. Window glass blew out from the SUV, showering Bolan as he kept rolling. The chopper flew directly overhead, briefly casting its dark shadow across him. He came up on one knee, shouldering the AK, and triggered a long burst at the retreating aircraft, not expecting to score any hits as it sped away from him.
The helicopter made a tight turn and immediately homed in on Bolan’s position. It arced to the right, coming at him sideways. He moved just before the machine gun opened up once again, pulling up the AK-74 and returning fire.
Bolan had been hoping for a successful hit. He got more than he expected when the guy manning the machine gun fell back inside the cabin, blood spraying from his chest and shoulder. Bolan kept his finger on the trigger until the magazine was spent. He immediately ejected it and snapped another one into place, then took aim at the helicopter again. His burst raked into the chopper behind the passenger compartment. The last few rounds hammered the tail rotor. Its stability compromised, the chopper wavered in midair. It made a half-circle sweep, the pilot attempting to regain the control that he was losing.
“Smoke!” Escobedo yelled. “Coming from the engine.”
Sure enough, oily black smoke was streaming out through several vents. As the chopper lost height, the beat of the engine faltering, Bolan saw it was moving back in their direction—fast.
“Hermano, let’s go!” he said.
Bolan snatched the rest of his gear from the SUV, urged Escobedo forward, and they cleared the vehicle and ran.
* * *
“THIS BASTARD HAS the luck of the devil,” Mariposa said.
“I could call it something else,” Candy said.
“Rico, get us down. Now!”
Mariposa’s voice could be heard above the unhealthy sound of the distressed engine.
The pilot made a decent job of landing the stricken craft. Despite its ungainly cant during the descent, Rico managed to touch down without breaking the helicopter in half.
There was a wild scramble as the cartel soldiers abandoned their transport, hauling their weapons with them. By the time Candy extracted himself, just behind Mariposa, smoke was starting to fill the cabin.
As they moved away from the downed aircraft, Mariposa started to give out orders. “Find that yanqui. I want to cut out his heart and feed it to him.”
His crew moved off in the direction of the SUV.
Behind them, the helicopter was belching smoke, the thick clouds darkening the sky.
Mariposa had his sat phone in his hand, making contact with his home base. When he got through he began a tirade in rapid Spanish. Candy didn’t even attempt to translate.
“We will have reinforcements coming. It may take a while but they will find us,” Mariposa said.
“And in the meantime?”
“We hunt down your Escobedo and his new friend.”
Haven’t been too successful up to now, Candy said to himself. If Escobedo had stayed on the US side of the border things might have been different. Mariposa and his banditos were making one hell of a fuss, but not scoring many points.
Candy wanted to call Jessup to update him. Problem was, he didn’t have a single good thing to say, and he wasn’t about to make any criticism about Mariposa and his crew within earshot. So he left his phone zipped up in his pocket. He had switched the thing off, to prevent Jessup making contact from his end.
Candy followed the strung-out line of cartel soldiers trudging across the dry landscape, and tried to put himself in Cooper’s position. He and Escobedo were on foot now, having been forced to abandon the bullet-riddled SUV. This was the Mexican’s home turf. He would know the way to go, and it was obvious the pair would try for the border. It was still a great distance away. Cooper would have to adapt as he went, but Candy had a feeling that wouldn’t be a problem for the man, who seemed to have the ability to improvise around anything that stood in his way.
Makes your damn A La Muerte soldiers look like Boy Scouts, Ramon, Candy thought.
One of the soldiers, ranging ahead of the group, stopped and raised an arm, beckoning for the others to join him. The man was crouching in the dirt when they reached him. He pointed at scuff marks in the dust.
“They were here,” Candy heard him say. “They passed a little time ago.”
Mariposa examined the tracks, followed their path, nodding to himself. “Still heading north,” he said.
He pulled out his sat phone and made contact, reverting again to rapid Spanish. As he spoke, the rest of his crew moved on, following the tracks.
Mariposa nodded to Candy.
“We will have them soon.”
* * *
THE ONLY THING working in Bolan and Escobedo’s favor was the undulating landscape they were crossing. If they had been traveling over an open plain, the pursuing A La Muerte soldiers would have been able to spot them much faster. Still, Escobedo informed Bolan that soon they’d reach flatter terrain.
“We will have little cover then,” he said.
In the shade of a small stand of trees, Bolan looked back the way they had come, scanning the slopes they had recently crossed. He had no doubt that the cartel crew was moving along their trail. They were not about to turn around and go home.
He secured his backpack and made sure his weapons were all fully loaded. Escobedo watched him, curiosity in his eyes.
“None of this is new to you, is it?”
“Let’s say I’ve done it before.”
“Modest, too,” Escobedo commented.
“Is there anything out there?” Bolan asked. “Towns? Villages?”
Escobedo managed a smile. “You mean somewhere we might rent another vehicle?”
“A thought, but I guess not.”
“Senor Cooper, we are far from anywhere that could provide such a luxury.”
“So no more helicopters?”
“We may be able to hire a couple of burros from a farmer. If we come across anyone who owns them.”
Bolan picked up the AK he had leaned against a tree. “Let’s go,” he said.
They were about to move out when he heard the clatter of automatic fire. Earth spouted into the air only feet away.
Bolan shoved Escobedo aside, saw him stumble, and then spotted a running figure heading in their direction, firing as he came. Bolan dropped to one knee, pulling the AK into position, butt against his shoulder, as he tracked their assailant. He ignored the other man’s careless shots, took his moment and eased back on the trigger. His slug hit the target center mass. The guy stumbled, finger still on his own trigger as the muzzle dropped. He blew away half his left foot in a bloody haze, then slammed facedown on the ground.
“Hermano.” Bolan stood, turned to where Escobedo was pushing himself to his feet, caugh
t hold of the Mexican’s shirt and yanked him upright. “Move. Move.”
They broke right, keeping the small stand of trees between them and any further pursuers.
Bolan kept Escobedo in front while he monitored the trail behind them. If one of the cartel soldiers had gotten close, the others wouldn’t be far off.
“Hermano, do you know this area very well?”
Over his shoulder Escobedo said, “Pretty well. Why?”
“We need cover. Somewhere we can defend ourselves. If they push us into the open they’ll pick us off.”
“This is very rough country. Not many people. Not much of anything except—”
Escobedo faltered and went down on his knees as the crack of a single shot reached them. He reached up to clutch at the bloody wound in his right shoulder.
Bolan was at his side in seconds, grabbing his shirt again and pulling him back up. “Don’t go down,” he commanded. “Stop and they’ll be on us like a pack of wild dogs.”
The Mexican lurched to his feet, lips peeled back in a pained grimace. “I will not give them that pleasure.”
Bolan dragged Escobedo behind the closest trees, then turned and faced the oncoming opposition. He saw two of them converging as they approached. Autofire crackled. Wood splintered in all directions as bullets pummeled the trees. Bolan leaned against a solid trunk and raised his AK. He tracked the closest shooter and punched a quick pair of slugs into him, twisting him off his feet and dropping him to the ground. The other man threw a quick glance at his downed compadre. He took his eyes off the ball, and paid for it with a shot through the heart and a follow-up that took his left eye out before slicing through his skull.
Bolan could hear the first guy moaning. He swiveled his rifle around and took aim at the figure sprawled out in the dust. The AK cracked once and the shooter’s skull blew apart in a bloody spray.
Bolan turned his attention to Escobedo, helping him to his feet. The bullet had ripped through the fleshy part of his right upper shoulder, missing the bone but leaving messy entry and exit wounds. Blood was oozing from the torn flesh.
“Can you move on?” Bolan asked. “Soon as possible, I’ll check you out.”
Escobedo nodded. His face gleamed with sweat and he kept his hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder.
“We go through the trees,” he said with gritted teeth, pointing at a slightly larger copse a few dozen yards away. “Then there is a barranca a little way on the other side. A ravine. This one is quite big. It runs north for many miles.”
It was the best news Bolan could have hoped for. A deep ravine would provide them with some degree of cover, and it would lead them away from the pursuing cartel soldiers. It wouldn’t make A La Muerte vanish completely, but it might slow down their pursuit. Anything that might force their enemies to delay their chase was welcome.
Bolan transferred the rifle to his left hand, encircled Escobedo’s body with his powerful right arm and helped support the man as they moved through the timber.
Pursuit seemed to have waned for the moment. Bolan knew it would start again once the cartel counted their losses. He and Escobedo needed to use whatever time they had as efficiently as possible. If they managed to reach the ravine, they’d have a chance of getting clear.
They made it through the trees after a five-minute walk, emerging on open ground. Escobedo, despite the pain from his wound, thrust out his uninjured arm, fingers extended.
“To the right. There.”
Bolan gazed in the direction Escobedo indicated and saw where the ground dropped away. They’d have to cross a stretch of flat terrain before reaching the ravine. They would be totally exposed to any approaching cartel soldiers. Bolan understood the risk, but knew there was no other choice.
“Hermano, you set? We need to get over there, fast.”
“Sí, I understand. Don’t worry about me.”
Bolan smiled. “Oh, sure, that’s about to happen.”
He tightened his grip around the other man’s body, then surged forward, away from the trees and across the open terrain. Escobedo gasped as the jolting aggravated his shoulder, but Bolan ignored the cry. He’d do what he could to treat him once they made cover, but if the cartel thugs located them before they headed into the ravine, there would be no use worrying over a shoulder wound.
Escobedo almost lost his footing a couple times, and Bolan had to keep him upright without breaking his relentless stride. Dust trailed in their wake. The soldier concentrated on the lip of the gorge, pushing away thoughts of what might be at their backs.
The drop-off appeared in front of them. Bolan stared across the twenty-foot span, then down the rocky slope that plunged more than thirty feet to a narrow stream. The ravine wall was craggy, dotted with parched vegetation. The descent would be perilous in some spots, and while he didn’t doubt he could scale it safely, it would be a long, slow process, and he wasn’t sure Escobedo could manage it with only one good arm.
About twenty feet from where they stood, a section of the rock face seemed to have broken off, covering the slope with loose rubble. It was the only chance of a swift way down to the bottom.
“Was I right?” Escobedo asked, breaking into Bolan’s thoughts.
“You were,” he said. “Escobedo, you trust me?”
“With my life,” the man answered, following Bolan’s gaze to the debris-strewn slope. “A bullet in the back, mi amigo, or a wild ride down into hell? What choice do we have?”
“You said it. Just hang on.”
Then they stepped over the edge.
19
The moment their feet touched the slope, the loose stones and dirt shifted beneath them. Yet despite the uneven surface, Bolan and Escobedo negotiated the rock wall without injury. They slid and stumbled their way down, hitting the ravine floor amid clouds of acrid dust, with pebbles raining down around them. Once they’d come to a stop, Escobedo’s strength seemed to fail him; he sank to his knees, blood still oozing from his shoulder wound.
Bolan helped him stand up. “We keep moving north,” he said.
“If I had stayed at my place,” Escobedo panted, “I would be dead by now. If it wasn’t for that fact, I might be angry at what you are putting me through. I hope it will be worth it.”
“Stay angry,” Bolan said. “Anger is what you need to keep going right now.”
They turned north, following the thin stream at the bottom of the ravine, Bolan setting the pace. He wanted—needed—to get ahead of their pursuers. As determined as he was, Escobedo was not going to be able to maintain his pace until Bolan did some in-the-field first aid on his shoulder wound. They had to put as much distance as possible between them and the cartel before Escobedo’s strength failed completely and they had to stop. And so far, A La Muerte seemed to be making a habit of catching up.
* * *
“EVERY TIME I turn around we seem to have lost someone,” Candy said. “It’s a goddamn turkey shoot. And guess who’s the turkey.”
“But he can make mistakes,” Mariposa said. “Just like the one he made now. He has gone down into the barranca. He is boxed in. All we have to do is pluck him out.”
Candy wasn’t entirely convinced. Something was telling him Cooper had chosen the ravine deliberately. The guy was smart enough to understand the risks of going down there. Cooper would have his reasons. This was not a mistake. If Mariposa believed it was, he could be setting himself up for a big surprise.
When they reached the spot where Bolan and Escobedo had descended into the ravine, Mariposa ordered his men to go down first, while he and Candy brought up the rear. They slid and stumbled to the bottom, dust swirling around them.
“They will be moving north,” Mariposa said.
He issued orders and his crew moved out, searching for signs left behind by the two men they were following.
Candy studied their surroundings. He saw the logic in Cooper’s move. The ravine offered cover and he would be able to monitor the position of his pursuers. The man would
also realize that coming down here hemmed him in, though that was still safer than staying out on open ground. The rocks and foliage down here, along with the ravine walls themselves, would provide some protection. They would enable Cooper to watch his back as he and Escobedo kept moving.
Cooper had manipulated this situation to his advantage as much as possible, but there was one thing he couldn’t control. Candy had seen Escobedo stumble when a slug had hit him. That would slow them down and give the American more to worry about.
Still, Candy wasn’t too certain that Mariposa taking his crew down into the ravine was such a wise move. The confining nature of the place left them open to their enemy’s AK-74, and he was proving to be a damn good shot. He might even choose to make a stand, picking off Mariposa’s dwindling army one by one. Candy hoped the drug boss’s reinforcements arrived sooner rather than later.
Much sooner.
* * *
ESCOBEDO WAS FADING FAST. He was making an effort to stay upright and maintain a decent pace, but his wound was still bleeding and the blood loss was weakening him. Gripping his pistol in his right hand, his left hand still pressed to his shoulder, he moved on unsteady feet.
The guy was determined to keep going, Bolan saw. But sheer guts wouldn’t be enough to keep him standing for much longer.
Bolan was scanning the route ahead. The floor of the ravine was littered with tumbled rocks and coarse scrub. The hard-packed ground was crisscrossed with shadows where the sun couldn’t reach. If nothing else, the high walls would protect them from anyone trying for a swift shot. Coming down here wasn’t the perfect solution, but it was the best they were going to be offered.
Escobedo uttered a low moan, came to a stop and dropped to his knees. Bolan stood over him, then dropped to a crouch.
“I can’t go on anymore… Need to rest…”
Bolan gripped him under his uninjured arm and gently pulled him to his feet. He led him to the side of the ravine, settling him with his back against the wall. Bolan offered him water from his canteen, and while he drank, leaned his rifle against the rocks and took off his backpack.
The Cartel Hit Page 11