The Cartel Hit

by Don Pendleton

Finally, the soldier eased Escobedo’s hand away from the wound. He saw the hole in his shirt where the bullet had come out. A small advantage; at least the slug wasn’t still in there. Bolan peeled Escobedo’s shirt back, revealing the puckered hole and torn skin. Blood still oozed from the wound, but it had started to congeal. Bolan opened his pack and removed the small first aid kit.

  “Hermano, I want you to keep watch while I deal with this,” he said. “You see any of them, say something.”

  The Mexican nodded. His face was damp with sweat.

  Bolan slipped on thin latex gloves, then used a couple antiseptic wipes to clean around the entry and exit wounds. He folded gauze into pads and staunched the holes, back and front. Finally, he wound a bandage around Escobedo’s shoulder, looping it under his armpit and securing it with adhesive tape. It was basic, crude medical aid, but it was the best Bolan could offer in the circumstances. He pulled Escobedo’s shirt back into place.

  “Cooper,” his patient whispered. “Thirty feet back. Near the left wall. I see one man.”

  Bolan reached out slowly and retrieved the AK-74, sliding it into position. He looked back the way they had come, and sure enough, he spotted a man crouched behind a fallen boulder that was about eight feet across. Bolan could make out the guy’s right arm and shoulder, and half his head.

  And the comset in his exposed hand. The cartel soldier was already speaking into it, checking in with his teammates behind him.

  Bolan brought the rifle to his shoulder and sighted along the barrel. He made a quick calculation, then squeezed the trigger, the weapon nudging back against him. The 5.45 caliber bullet caught the man in the head. There was a flash of red from the rear of his skull and he went down and lay still.

  Bolan couldn’t say how much time he had just bought, but he knew he and Escobedo were short on it. He snatched up his gear and gestured with the rifle. “Let’s move.”

  Escobedo pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly for a few seconds. “I’ll make it,” he said. “I won’t let them win.”

  * * *

  THE ADVANCE SCOUT was sprawled out in front of them. His final message had brought the others to this spot at a run, but by the time they’d reached him, he was down, the back of his head blown out.

  Now Mariposa was on his phone, engaged in an aggressive conversation with his home base. Candy had no idea what was happening. Mariposa’s wild ranting was lost on him. Even so, he could feel the hostility in the jefe’s tone.

  What had started for Mariposa as an agreement to help out a friend had transformed into a personal vendetta. The cartel boss had committed men and time to the cause, and the more the American did to defy him, the more Mariposa’s need to hunt him down and kill him grew. Cooper was cutting a swathe through the opposition. His skills at evasion and his uncompromising responses were tearing Mariposa’s troops apart.

  The drug lord had backed himself into a corner and the only way left open to him was to score a victory over Cooper. He couldn’t walk away now even if he wanted to.

  Pride was one thing, Candy would admit, but Mariposa was taking it too far.

  The cartel leader shut off his phone, composed himself, then gestured at the group before him. “I have ordered a crew to make for the far end of the barranca,” he said. “If they can reach there before those cabrónes…” He gave a characteristic shrug.

  Candy fell in with the others and they continued along the rock-strewn path. Altogether, there were five of them: Mariposa, Rico, the two remaining A La Muerte soldiers…and himself.

  Should be enough to deal with one American.

  Going on numbers alone, it was a reasonable assumption.

  But given what had already happened, Candy had doubts.

  He hunched his shoulders against the solid beat of the sun and wondered just how he had let himself get drawn into this deal. He smiled at the thought. He knew damn well what had enticed him. The money he’d been offered. Too much to turn down. As always, it came down to the cash. Candy never could walk away from a deal where big money was the sweetener. His weakness. The drug that sucked him in every time.

  He couldn’t resist the promise of money in his hands. Thick rolls of bills. That always did it for Candy.

  And now he was stuck out here in the back end of Chihuahua, tagging along with A La Muerte. Sweating his ass off and tracking two shadows: the guy hauling Candy’s target along, cutting down his pursuers like someone swatting flies off an apple pie. And Hermano Escobedo.

  The catalyst who had set this whole mess in motion.

  If the gardener hadn’t stumbled on Seb Jessup in one of his murderous rages and gained evidence that would send the man away, Escobedo would not be on the run. Mariposa wouldn’t be involved.

  And Candy wouldn’t be out in the Mexican badlands, traipsing around like a damned idiot watching the A La Muerte troops dwindle.

  The whole affair had come about because Escobedo had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And of all the men who could have stumbled into a situation like that, it had to be him, a man determined to stand up for “justice.”

  The son of a bitch had to have been one of those people who couldn’t stay the hell away. They saw something they figured was wrong, and felt the need to do something about it. Instead of turning his back, Escobedo had gone yelling to the cops, laying Seb Jessup open to a jail sentence.

  What the hell was that all about?

  Hadn’t the dumb-ass realized he was simply volunteering for the death sentence to come crashing down on his own head? He’d been too eager to play the concerned citizen to understand it didn’t work that way. You didn’t go around pointing the finger at someone like Seb Jessup, and not expect to have that finger bitten off and rammed down your throat.

  Jessup valued his life, but more, he valued his business. Giving it up wasn’t in his universe. He had built it from nothing. To the point where it was worth millions. Jessup loved the money and the power. His was a world of take, take, take, and the hell with everyone else. From his hardscrabble beginnings Seb had built his criminal empire by sheer dedication. No one lone Mexican was going to take that away from him.

  Ramon Mariposa was driven by similar emotions. Cooper had defied him. Killed his men. Mariposa’s pride would refuse to accept those losses. Like Jessup, the Mexican had too much invested to allow a single man to challenge him.

  Candy couldn’t keep a thin smile off his lips. He was caught in the middle of it all. If Cooper had stayed on his side of the border, back in Texas, Candy could have tracked him and taken the guy out without even setting foot in this godforsaken country. On home ground, he would have had his own boys around him and they would have pinned Cooper down without all this macho bullshit. But Candy was here now, with no way to back out. He gripped his Kalashnikov. All he needed was a chance for a good clean shot and Cooper would be out of their hair. Son of a bitch was good, but a well-placed slug would be better.

  20

  Bolan and Escobedo pushed forward, aware at every turn that they were still being pursued. The enemy was not giving up.

  Bolan’s attention was divided between watching the trail behind them and keeping Escobedo on his feet. The Mexican was struggling. Blood loss, pain and exhaustion were threatening to put him down. Yet there he was, still moving, fighting for every step. His face was taut with concentration. Sweat streamed down his cheeks, ran into his eyes. The bandage over his wound was damp with fresh blood.

  Bolan heard the growl of a powerful motor somewhere above them. Mariposa had obviously pulled in additional support. It meant there were more A La Muerte soldiers in the area. It also meant transport. Something to consider. With Escobedo becoming progressively weaker, traveling on foot was no longer a long-term, viable option.

  They paused in a cluster of man-sized rocks that would provide cover. Bolan stowed his weapons and gear behind one of the boulders, keeping just the sheathed Tanto knife. He could feel Escobedo watching him closely.

  “What are you d
oing?”

  “Trying to get us out of here,” Bolan said.

  He swapped magazines in the AK and set the selector to single shot, then handed the weapon to Escobedo.

  “Stay undercover. There’s a full magazine in there. Gives you thirty shots. All you need to do is keep pulling the trigger.”

  “Saying it like that makes it sound so easy.”

  “We’re running out of options, Hermano. If we keep heading north, they can track us easily. Truth is, you won’t make many more miles on foot. We can’t turn back, so the only way is up.”

  Escobedo scanned the rocky slope. “What will you find up there?”

  Bolan had no definitive answer so didn’t say anything.

  “Then be careful,” Escobedo said.

  “If I was careful I’d be working in an office.”

  Bolan chose his spot and started to climb. He made his moves carefully, testing each grip and foothold before he added his full weight.

  He knew he might be exposing himself to hostile fire when he reached the open ground. Right now he had few alternatives. If he could get to the top and deal with whoever waited there, he and Escobedo might have a better chance of escaping with their lives.

  The climb took a little longer than Bolan had expected. A couple times he came across areas where sections of wall had broken off, leaving a smooth, crumbly surface that threatened to collapse beneath his weight. When he hit those spots he was forced to ease to one side and search out firmer terrain.

  He heard occasional gunfire as Escobedo squeezed off rounds in the ravine below. He was warning the A La Muerte soldiers not to make any sudden moves, that someone had them in their sights. The standoff was not going to last forever. Eventually some enterprising cartel member was going to go ahead and attempt to earn brownie points by working his way closer. If that happened, Escobedo would have to up the cost by taking a killing shot. Bolan didn’t doubt he would do his best.

  Bolan kept going, edging his way up the gorge. His muscles strained and his body was slick with sweat. When he looked up he could see the rim of the rock wall and above it the blue, cloud-streaked sky.

  He picked up voices above and to his right. Two of them, speaking in Spanish. He strained to make out the conversation, but wasn’t close enough yet.

  He heard more shots from Escobedo. Some return fire.

  Keep them busy, Hermano, Bolan thought.

  He hit a stretch of solid rock, dug his toes into the footholds and raised himself a few more feet. The rim was close now. He caught a glimpse of the upper curve of a vehicle roof. The voices were louder. Still off to his right.

  “Why don’t they rush him? Get it over with.”

  “Easy for you to say, Lupe. Maybe they don’t want to walk into a bullet. We can’t see him from up here. So maybe they can’t, either. Who wants to take that kind of risk?”

  Bolan flattened himself against the rock. Peered over the lip of the ravine.

  A large black Mercedes SUV was ten feet to his right.

  Two Mexicans stood by, rifles slung across their shoulders and autopistols on their hips.

  Bolan slid the knife from its sheath. He gauged his position, bracing his feet against the slope. His left hand crept over the edge and found a solid grip.

  “Madre, those chickens down there will die of old age if they don’t get something done.”

  “Don’t let the jefe hear you call him chicken.”

  A burst of laughter followed.

  That was the distraction Bolan needed. He bunched his muscles and pushed, clearing the rim. He let himself fall forward, tucking and rolling, coming to his feet fast and lunging forward.

  The A La Muerte soldiers reacted as quickly as they could, but their responses were seconds behind and Bolan was on them before their coordination kicked in.

  He swept up with his right hand and slashed the keen edge of the knife across the exposed throat of the closest guy, cutting him deeply. The Mexican stumbled away, clutching his ruptured skin, vainly trying to stop the surge of blood.

  Bolan ignored him as he closed in on the second man.

  The guy had offered a swifter response, snatching his AK-74 from his shoulder in the brief moment when Bolan was handling the first man. He swung the rifle like a club and knocked the knife from Bolan’s fingers. The Executioner simply kept moving forward, twisting his upper body and ramming his right shoulder into the man’s middle. Bolan put all his strength behind the strike and the impact slammed his opponent backward. He hit the side of the truck, breath exploding from his lips. Bolan allowed him no respite. He whipped his right forearm around in a powerful blow that crunched against the guy’s cheek. Something snapped. The Mexican’s head jerked to one side. Bolan kept up the momentum, delivering a hard kick to his right knee. The force was enough to shatter bone, and the guy slumped forward as his leg gave way. Bolan rushed forward, snaking an arm around his neck and kneeing him in the base of the spine. Dazed as he was, the man was aware of his vulnerable position and tried to fight back. Bolan gave him no chance. The desperate cartel member let go of his rifle and threw up his hands to grip Bolan’s muscled arm. Bolan hauled back, putting pressure on his neck. The man struggled, but his exertions only accelerated his demise. Bolan felt his resistance weaken, then cease, the guy becoming a heavy weight in his arms. Bolan lowered him to the ground and picked up the gun the man had dropped.

  The Executioner turned his attention to the big Mercedes 4x4. It could be a means of escape for him and Escobedo, but there were still cartel shooters in the vicinity.

  And Escobedo was at the bottom of the ravine.

  Bolan needed the man back at his side so they could use the vehicle. But the Mexican was in no state to climb out of the gorge solo.

  The crack of Escobedo’s AK came again. Moments later, Bolan heard return shots. He needed something to hold the enemy back while he got Escobedo out of the ravine.

  Bolan retrieved his Tanto and sheathed it. He opened the tailgate. The space behind the rear seat held additional ordnance—backup autoweapons, assault rifles, handguns, ammunition.

  A soft canvas tote yielded half a dozen fragmentation grenades. Bolan snatched up the bag and walked along the rim until he was well clear of Escobedo’s position. He studied the floor of the ravine and picked up some movement.

  A La Muerte.

  He heard answering shots to Escobedo’s fire.

  Bolan took out a grenade and held the lever down as he pulled the pin. Then he launched it, watched its downward curve. Heard the sound as it detonated and saw the brief explosive flash. He followed with a second grenade.

  He had already returned to the 4x4 when the second grenade exploded. Even if it failed to inflict casualties, the explosions—and the implied threat of more to come—would hold back the advance for a short time.

  Bolan checked out the Mercedes. At the rear was a built-in cable winch powered by the vehicle’s battery. He activated the unit and freed the cable, pulling out the thin steel coils. He threw the line over the edge of the ravine, allowing it to snake down to Escobedo’s position.

  “Hermano! Use the cable,” he yelled, and Escobedo’s voice floated up from the ravine in acknowledgment. “Loop it round yourself and fasten the eyebolt. Leave the AK.”

  When Escobedo signaled that he was ready, Bolan went to the 4x4 and set the winch working, slowly retracting the cable.

  He kept a lookout as the device hauled Escobedo up the side of the ravine. The two men Bolan had taken out up here would not have been alone. He could expect other cartel soldiers to appear at any moment, and he was ready to face them when they did. He stayed close to the side of the vehicle, watching for any movement that might indicate company.

  The cable scraped across the rocky rim, and now Bolan could hear Escobedo’s labored breathing as he neared the top. As soon as his head and shoulders appeared, Bolan reached out to stop the winch, waiting until Escobedo was on level ground before cutting the power.

  The Mexican str
uggled to his knees. He had Bolan’s equipment and weapons over his good shoulder, and the Executioner moved quickly to take them, then helped him to his feet.

  “Not something I would like to do again,” Escobedo said.

  Bolan loosened the cable, then let the winch retract fully.

  “Get in,” he said, gesturing toward the 4x4.

  The man didn’t hesitate. He made his way around the vehicle, leaning against it for support. Bolan had already seen the fresh bloodstain from his wound showing through his shirt.

  Bolan opened the rear door and dropped his gear onto the seat.

  As he turned to reach for the driver’s door, he heard a distant shout, and when he spun around, saw a pair of armed figures moving toward them along the lip of the ravine.

  Luck was taking a vacation.

  The two were close enough for Bolan to see their raised weapons. He eased his way to the rear of the Mercedes and brought the AK-74 into play, tracking in on the moving figures. One was gesturing with his free hand to his partner as they negotiated the uneven ground.

  Bolan hit them with short bursts. His first shots caught one of them in the chest. The guy ran on for a few yards before dropping facedown on the ground. The second man fired at Bolan. Slugs chewed at the rear door of the 4x4. Bolan sank into a crouch, lowering the AK’s muzzle, and shot the Mexican’s legs out from under him. He saw the bullets tear open bloody wounds. The guy screamed hoarsely, tumbling to the ground. His weapon flew from his hands.

  Bolan made for the driver’s door, slid inside and thrust the AK into Escobedo’s hands. When he fired up the engine the Mercedes burst into life. He stepped on the gas and the vehicle lurched forward, rolling across the rough ground and bouncing both of them on their seats.

  “Hey!” Escobedo said loudly, as a figure appeared ahead of them.

  Bolan slammed his foot down on the pedal and the heavy vehicle surged forward. The man’s expression changed from determination to fear as he realized his vulnerable position. He had no time to react to the change in circumstance. The Mercedes’s wide grille hit him full on, lifting him off his feet. The man was thrown across the hood and up against the windshield, where he hung for a few seconds before rolling to one side and vanishing from sight. A smear of blood remained on the glass.