Rogue Force

by Don Pendleton

  But first things first. He must assume his adversary would be armed and dangerous. The man exuded violence, radiating menace like an unexploded bomb. Ruiz would have to take him by surprise if he was to succeed without endangering himself. It would accomplish nothing for the movement if he died without eliminating the intruder, leaving Briones to fabricate some story and deceive the others with his lies. Ruiz would have one chance and one chance only. If he failed, there would be no escape.

  The tequila had begun to numb his face, as if a dentist had injected novocaine between his eyes. It was enough. He pushed the bottle back and left a crumpled handful of lempiras on the tabletop. His legs felt disconnected as he stood up and headed for the door.

  He needed sleep, a chance to clear his head. There would be enough time tomorrow to prepare his strike against Briones. Anastasio decided that he might stop by the office, after all, and question Esperanza — subtly, of course, about her schedule for tomorrow night. He had no doubt that she would spend the evening with Briones, possibly in bed.

  So much the better. Anger would prevent his hand from shaking when he pulled the trigger. It would give him the resolve to face his enemy and do what must be done. Or, if he found a chance to shoot Briones in the back, it would be all the same to Anastasio Ruiz. The Contra second-in-command was proud of being flexible.

  He flagged a taxi, gave the driver his address and settled back into an alcoholic haze. Until tomorrow, when the traitor would be his.

  20

  "It is a sin to feel this way. I know it."

  Bundled up in sheets and blankets, Esperanza stretched languorously, snuggling back against Pol Blancanales when she finished. He was giddy with the fragrance of her and the recent frenzy of their coupling.

  "It may be sinful," he replied, "but I prefer the way I feel right now to pious suffering."

  She giggled. "So do I. That's what makes it sinful."

  She was teasing him. He knew enough about the woman now to realize that she didn't adhere to any organized religion. Childhood faith had been seared out of her by her experience in the reeducation camps, and Esperanza had no use for plaster saints or the trappings of devotion. She was a believer in the rights of man, in human dignity at any cost. She had already paid her dues, and still the lady was prepared to keep on paying, with her life if necessary, for the final liberation of her homeland.

  Pol respected her for her determination and ideals. He hated using her, without her knowledge, as a pipeline to Luis Machado's inner sanctum, but his mission was the foremost problem on his mind. Slowly he had begun to pick her brain, eliciting such basic information as she cared to part with on their short acquaintance. Now that he had talked her into bed, he thought the take might turn to something more substantial.

  There was nothing yet to link Machado's operation with the plans of General McNerney, but a nagging apprehension wouldn't let Politician rest. The local Contra band had too much cash, too many weapons for their size. In other districts larger cadres were reduced to begging aid from Washington, but hard times hadn't laid a finger on Machado's people. Clearly they had found themselves a covert source of money and material, one that hadn't been available to others of their kind. It was Politician's job to trace that source, identify it, and — if it turned out to be McNerney or his covert allies — shut the pipeline down.

  "I need a shower," he informed her, feeling guilty. "Join me?"

  "In a moment."

  Sliding out of bed, he started picking up his scattered clothing from the carpet, making sure the .45 was tucked inside his folded shirt before he headed toward the bathroom. It was force of habit, but a savvy warrior stayed alive by taking care of details. As a warrior in her own right, Esperanza wouldn't begrudge him the precaution — if in fact she noticed it at all.

  Inside the bathroom Blancanales piled his rumpled clothing atop the toilet tank, within easy arm's reach of the shower. Turning up the water temperature as hot as he could stand it, taking it as therapy and as a form of punishment for his betrayal of the woman in the other room, he stepped beneath the spray and closed the sliding door. As steam began to infiltrate his sinuses, he threw his head back, closed his eyes and willed his knotted muscles to unwind.

  Their sex had been fantastic, physically exhausting, but it had left him somehow unfulfilled. Beneath the weariness of bone and muscle, nagging guilt had kept his nerves on edge. If only there was some way to reveal himself, to put his trust in Esperanza, tell her of his mission…

  Blancanales turned around and let the water pound his shoulders, sluicing down his spine in steaming sheets. There was no way at all, he realized, to justify enlightening the woman. If Machado was connected to McNerney's rogues, the strong odds had her privy to the deal. If she was ignorant of an existing link, the revelation of his double role or Machado's lack of trust in her might spark an unpredictable reaction. He couldn't spare any time to soothe a woman scorned, nor could he risk the possibility that she might blow his cover.

  She didn't love him yet, he could be thankful for that much. When he was forced to reveal himself, there would be pain, resentment, but he wouldn't break her heart. She would find strength within her anger, her devotion to the Contra cause… provided he could let her live that long.

  Politician was prepared for every possible scenario, and in the worst of them he would be forced to take the lady out along with her associates. He didn't relish the idea, but there was more at stake this time than any single life. Pol knew he was expendable, and so was Esperanza, in the larger scheme of things. If she was part of the McNerney operation, if she tried to stop him when he had to pull the plug, then Blancanales would react accordingly.

  But he would hate it.

  In other circumstances he might cheerfully have stood beside the Contras, joined their fight to liberate a captive homeland, but the cards hadn't been dealt that way. His mission interdicted theirs, and while he understood their motives perfectly, he wouldn't subjugate his logic to misguided sympathy. The Contra movement had its rotten apples, just as they were found in every other group composed of human beings. Some were brutal, others avaricious, and a few would sell their brothers down the river for a song. If it could happen to the Phoenix team at Stony Man, he knew damned well that it could happen to anyone. And when power-hungry rogues took control and cast all honor to the winds, the cause no longer mattered. No one cared today if early members of the Ku Klux Klan had really meant to serve as honest vigilantes, curbing violent crime, before extremists took control and steered the outfit into racial terrorism as a way of life. It didn't matter in the least if Lenin and his Bolsheviks had cherished bright ideals in 1917, before the bloody purges changed Utopia into the gulag's stark reality.

  The only true reality was here and now. Motives mattered only when you had the luxury of sitting down to put the pieces in their place for a debriefing. Everything fit perfectly in retrospect, provided you lived long enough to see it.

  Between the steam and morbid thoughts, he had almost forgotten where he was. When Esperanza came to join him, sliding back the shower door, his first reaction was to hit a combat crouch and lunge for his weapon, hidden in the rumpled pile of clothing. Secondary recognition hit him like a fist between the eyes, and he could feel the color rising in his face, his cheeks on fire, as she flinched back from him.

  "I'm sorry." It was all that he could think of, and he added lamely, "You surprised me."

  "It is I who should apologize. I know the risks of startling a warrior." She slid in beside him then closed the sliding door to trap the steam inside.

  "It's a good thing that I wasn't armed," he muttered, feeling foolish.

  "Ah, you underestimate yourself." She found him with her hand, and he responded instantly, as if on cue.

  "You may be right," he growled, and pulled her close to him beneath the shower's spray. He let his doubts evaporate in the surrounding steam. For the moment, the reality of Esperanza in his arms was truth enough.

  * * *


  Alone in the elevator, Anastasio Ruiz withdrew the Llama .45 caliber automatic from his belt and double-checked the load, confirming a live round in the firing chamber. He was nervous, and he cursed the trembling hands that made it difficult for him to tuck the pistol back inside his belt. God knows that he couldn't have tagged a moving target over any kind of distance. If Ruiz intended to survive this night, he must rely on point-blank range and the automatic's rapid rate of fire.

  Throughout the morning and afternoon he had pursued Rosario Briones. Always one step ahead of him, his nemesis had given Anastasio the slip… until tonight. There was no doubt that he would be with Esperanza, and although Ruiz was loath to spill the traitor's blood in her apartment, even though he didn't wish to see the two of them together, he would have to seize the opportunity or watch it slip away.

  The elevator shuddered to a halt at Esperanza's floor, the double doors hissed open, and he lurched into the corridor, unsteady on his trembling legs. His body was betraying him, his stomach rolling sluggishly, but Anastasio was pledged to see his mission through. No childish queasiness would stop him now.

  He must be strong. For Esperanza. For the movement, which depended on his expertise, his knowledge of the enemy. Machado might be furious at first, enraged by his deliberate circumvention of the normal circuits of command, but when Ruiz explained himself, Luis would understand. They all would understand, including Esperanza. She would finally forgive him when she realized Briones was a traitor to the cause, a Judas who had used her mind and body to betray the sacred homeland.

  It would all be so ridiculously easy to explain, as soon as the intruder had been permanently silenced. When he thought of all the information that Briones might have leaked to hostile ears, Ruiz was livid, and the anger made him stronger. Thankfully the traitor had known nothing of the vital mission scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

  He froze outside Esperanza's door, and now his hands were trembling again. Unless, of course, Briones had been briefed by Esperanza, burrowing into her confidence as he had wormed his way into her bed. She was a woman, and never mind the warrior trappings she affected. Anastasio was well acquainted with the weakness of the female. In a man's world women were for pleasure and for procreation; it was a mistake to trust a woman with the secrets of a military cadre. If he hadn't been in love with Esperanza, he would have protested vehemently when Luis had included her among his top lieutenants. As it was, Ruiz had been content to see her on a daily basis, basking in her beauty and forgetting for the moment his opinion of the weaker sex.

  It was her sex, her weakness, that had made her vulnerable to Rosario Briones. There could be no doubt that he had played upon her vanity, deceived her with his lies and flattery to make her fall into bed with him. It was ironic. Anastasio had loved her from a distance, worshipped her as if she were a frail Madonna, all without the slightest sign of recognition on her part. Then came a ruffian from God knows where, all jagged edges, peasant dirt beneath his fingernails, and she had fallen for him like a schoolgirl on her first romance. It was enough to make Ruiz despair of ever understanding womankind… but there were more important tasks at hand.

  The most important mission of a lifetime rested on his shoulders now, dependent on Ruiz alone to guarantee security. He had to plug the single glaring leak before it was too late. When Esperanza had composed herself, she would agree that he had done his duty for the movement. For the cause.

  Immersed in thought, he almost passed her door before he caught himself. He glanced up and down the hallway, then eased the Llama from his belt, taking care to switch the safety off. He thumbed the hammer back and cringed as if the other tenants might somehow have heard it locking into place. He smiled self-consciously. If that hadn't woken them, perhaps the fireworks he had in mind would rouse them from their apathy.

  He hesitated, then finally pressed his ear against the door, but could detect no sound. They would be in the bedroom, almost certainly, and he could take them by surprise if he was swift and silent enough. Fishing in his pocket, he withdrew the key he had duplicated when Esperanza had let him use her car on Contra business. It had been a childish thing to do, of course; he had never meant to use the key, but he drew pleasure from its presence in his pocket, feeling smug as if they shared a precious secret. Tonight, ironically, the key would serve him well… but on an errand of destruction rather than a rendezvous with love.

  Ruiz had never tried the key, and momentary panic gripped him as it refused to turn. He tried again, deliberately relaxing, rewarded by the soft metallic sound of tumblers falling into place.

  A latch chain barred the door, treating Anastasio to a narrow view of half the living room. He froze, expecting angry voices, but the room beyond was empty. Cautiously he slipped one hand inside, his fingers groping for the latch. If they were watching him, it would be the perfect time to strike. A shoulder block against the door would snap his wrist like kindling, pinning him in the doorway while Briones found a weapon and came to finish him. He gripped the Llama tighter in his left hand, ready to squeeze off directly through the door. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, trickling between his eyes.

  He found the latch, released it and pushed the door wide open, panning the empty living room with his pistol. Beyond an open doorway, he could hear the shower running, muffling the sound of voices. The woman's heady scent assailed his nostrils, his senses, and he had to shake it off before proceeding toward the bedroom to find the source of mocking laughter.

  He hesitated in the bedroom doorway, giddy with the unmistakable odor of their union. Rumpled sheets, still damp with perspiration. Scattered clothing on the floor, draped over chairs. A shoulder holster crumpled on the floor beside a nightstand. Empty.

  Would Briones take his weapon to the bathroom with him? It was possible, or it might be concealed beneath a pillow, close at hand while he enjoyed the miracle of Esperanza's flesh. Unwilling to accept the risk, Ruiz crossed to the bed and threw back the sheets and blankets, scanning for a pistol, wrenching bleary eyes away from evidence of their illicit lust. He ran a trembling hand beneath the pillows, then finally hurled them to the floor. He found nothing.

  Deafened by the pulse that hammered in his ears, he almost missed the sound of naked feet on tile behind him, hesitating in the doorway leading to the bathroom. They had found him, made a mockery of his surprise, and he could only act on instinct now, put conscious thought on hold.

  He spun to face the enemy, raising the Llama, squeezing off before he had the muzzle locked on target, blinded by the angry tears that filled his eyes. A blur of naked flesh appeared above the gunsights, and the .45's report battered his eardrums, roaring like artillery inside the confines of the tiny bedroom. Anastasio was roaring with it, bellowing his rage, aware of Esperanza screaming in the middle distance as he pumped another bullet through the figure driven back through the bathroom entrance.

  * * *

  The first report of gunfire startled Blancanales. It brought him lurching from the shower stall as Esperanza screamed. A moment earlier she had been in his arms, retreating with a playful smile that told him he would find her waiting in the bedroom. In the intervening seconds, something had gone terribly wrong, irrevocably wrong, and Blancanales felt his stomach rolling as he fished beneath his rumpled clothing and found the automatic pistol hidden there.

  Another burst of rapid semiautomatic fire followed the first, and Esperanza's body vaulted backward through the open bathroom doorway, toppling a laundry hamper on her way to touchdown, sudden scarlet speckling the tile. Instinctively, Blancanales knew she was beyond his help as he flattened against the wall, his primed autoloader angled toward the doorway. He might be able to defend his tenuous position briefly, but Politician had no time. Already neighbors would be answering the sound of gunshots, calling the authorities or moving in to check it out, perhaps with weapons of their own.

  The Able warrior snared his crumpled clothing from the toilet tank, edged closer to the doorway and pitched i
t underhand. The unseen gunner fired instinctively, popping Blancanales's chinos with projectile impact. At that moment Politician made his move, before his adversary could discover the mistake. Going long and low beneath the line of fire, he slid naked on a slick of Esperanza's blood, erupting through the doorway with his pistol braced in both hands, searching for a target.

  There was a heartbeat left in which to recognize his enemy before Pol started squeezing off in rapid-fire. Ruiz danced and jerked with the impact of the parabellum shockers ripping through his rib cage as he reeled backward toward the bed. The Contra gunner's nose burst when a killing shot exploded in his face, and his body was lifted completely off its feet and draped across the mattress.

  Pol rose on rubber legs and stood above his fallen adversary, side arm leveled at the sunken ruin of the gunner's face. The guy was dead as hell, but Blancanales hadn't reached his present age by taking chances. Stooping to retrieve the dead man's .45, its slide locked open on an empty chamber, he stepped back and tossed the piece across the room.

  Backtracking to the bathroom, Pol knelt down beside the lady, feeling for a pulse and finding none. On hands and knees, he pressed an ear against her breast, heard nothing, felt no rise and fall of respiration. She was still warm, but it wouldn't be long before her body temperature began its final plunge.

  Rising, Blancanales realized that he was smeared with blood from cheek to ankles. There was no time for another turn beneath the shower, but he hooked a towel off the rack and moved to stand before the full-length mirror, brusquely scrubbing Esperanza's essence from his skin. The towel was clotted with it when he finished. He let it drop and went in search of his discarded clothing. Tugging on the chinos, he was conscious of a draft and poked his fingers through a bullet hole beside the fly. He ran the zipper up, pulled his shirt on and stepped into his loafers without socks.