Silent Running

by Don Pendleton

  He caught her arm as she came by and kept her balanced on her feet. “Good jump,” he said softly. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “You’re limping,” she said as they started off.

  “I was never good at track and field. I hit wrong when I jumped, but I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I’m a doctor, remember?”

  Taking her hand, Spellman led her across the pier into the cover of darkness.

  WHEN BOLAN ENTERED the built-up area of restaurants and shops it was like being on an elaborate, full-size movie set after all of the actors and crew had gone home for the night. No one was on the streets, and none of the establishments was open for business. Again, a few dim lights glowed behind curtained windows, but that was all. Most of the streetlights had been turned off, as well, but that suited him just fine. Shadows were a scout’s best ally.

  A couple hundred yards farther on, he saw that one of the plazas along the main boulevard was brightly lit. Taking that as his cue, he decided to find out what was so important that it needed to be lit up. Coming from the side, he noted a handful of black-clad gunmen lounging around the entrance of a sizable building facing the square. The machine gun mounted on top of the SUV parked beside them told Bolan that the contents of the building had to be of interest.

  When he got close enough to see the bars on the windows, he realized that this had to be the town lock-up. He had no way of knowing if Brognola was actually being held prisoner in there. But it was a jail and it was being guarded by the intruders, so before he moved on, he would take a look.

  Slinging his H&K, he drew his Beretta 93-R and threaded the sound suppressor onto its muzzle.

  He was working his way around the plaza when the gunmen made it easy for him. The guy behind the machine gun stepped down and said something to the others who laughed as he walked into the jail. That left him with only three targets to take down, and they all had their weapons casually slung.

  Their confidence was admirable and showed that they had the entire resort peninsula under their control and weren’t expecting trouble.

  It was time to start changing that.

  Bolan stepped unnoticed into the lighted plaza in front of the jail, the Beretta machine pistol held low against his leg.

  “¡Hola!” he called.

  The three gunmen turned and hesitated for a moment. This stranger was dressed in black, too, but by the time it registered on them that he wasn’t one of them, he had the 93-R up and was firing.

  Bolan’s first 3-round burst took the man farthest from him, stitching a tight triangle over his heart. Retargeting smoothly, he put down the second man with another trio of 9 mm slugs before the first gunner hit the pavement.

  The last guard had his AK halfway into position when a final short burst took him down, as well.

  The only sounds of the hit had been the tinkle of empty brass on the pavement, the clatter of the AK hitting the steps of the jail and the soft thud of the bodies. So, before the machine gunner came back out, Bolan took the steps himself. He paused at the door, but the voices he heard inside didn’t sound alarmed.

  Swinging his H&K around on its sling, he switched his 93-R to his left hand and gripped the assault rifle with his right.

  Show time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Slipping through the door of the Mexican jail, Bolan rushed the room firing as soon as he had clear lines of sight to his new targets. Three of the black-clad men in the room had their backs turned to him, so the guy behind the desk with the surprised look on his face was targeted.

  The man still looked surprised when he took a 3-round burst in the chest from the Beretta and pitched backward in his chair.

  The others were turning to face their unexpected guest when a sustained burst from the H&K swept across the room at chest level.

  That served for two of them, but the third man was faster than his comrades and dropped out of the line of fire as he fumbled for his piece.

  Bolan tracked him with the Beretta and touched off another silenced trio that dropped the gunman flat. The soldier stepped past the bodies and hurried behind the desk. A quick search of the guy who’d been sitting there produced a key ring with a plastic lock card, as well as several large numbered keys. The biggest key unlocked the sliding, barred door leading into the holding area.

  The doors on the cells had regular locks, as well as electronic. In fact, when the power was cut, the mechanical locks worked as a fail-safe.

  Hal Brognola was in the second cell Bolan checked out. The security light inside was dim, but there was no mistaking that huddled, sleeping form. The soft snoring told him that he was alive.

  Bolan keyed the lock and opened the door. “You ready to go home, Hal?”

  Brognola opened one eye. “’Bout goddamned time you showed up here, Striker,” he growled.

  The big Fed didn’t look too much the worse for wear for his short imprisonment. He was rumpled, bleeding from one eyebrow, had a few bruises and badly needed a shower followed by a shave. But, at first glance, he didn’t look to have sustained any major physical damage.

  Bolan grinned broadly. “I got hung up going through airport security. I had to strip down to my shorts, ’cause I kept setting off the metal detector. You okay?”

  “I’m fine now.” Brognola sat up and reached for his jacket. “How bad is it?”

  Bolan didn’t have to ask him what “it” was. For a man who lived and breathed taking care of the nation’s troubles, he could only mean one thing. “Have you been able to get any information down here at all?” he asked.

  “The asshole in charge showed me some video clips of a Mexican mob storming the border crossing at Tijuana and some kind of small boat assault on a beach somewhere in Florida, but that’s about it.”

  “That’s pretty typical of what happened the first two days,” Bolan confirmed. “There were also border town assaults in Texas, Arizona and New Mexico and they turned nasty real quick. We’ve got hundreds of police and firefighter casualties and the looting and arson damage in places like El Paso and Phoenix is extensive.”

  “How’s the Man handling this?” Brognola asked.

  “He’s got everyone in uniform he can get on it,” Bolan reported, “and they’re starting to contain the intrusions. The damage to the border towns and southern Florida is running in the millions, but it’s not spreading as fast as it was. For one thing, the citizens are taking this as a foreign invasion and armed home defense is a real popular topic right now. Neighborhood militia units are being sworn in to back up the police forces.

  “If you’re ready to go,” Bolan went on, “let’s do it. It’s going to take a couple of hours for us to work our way back out to the PZ.”

  “Hold on, Striker,” Brognola growled. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

  Bolan had pretty much expected this response from his old friend and comrade-in-arms. Brognola had never been one to run from a fight no matter the odds. However, he had specific orders from the President of the United States. Brognola’s input was sorely needed in this current crisis, and his orders were to get him back to Stony Man Farm ASAP.

  “Hal, the Man told me in no uncertain terms that he wants you back at the Farm immediately to help him with this.”

  “The President’s a good man,” Brognola said, grinning, “and I know that he only has my best interests at heart, but the hell with him. I’ve got work to do here. That bastard Garcia’s going down big-time.”

  Bolan shook his head. “Hal, I’ve got a Marine Harrier on call, and the back seat of that bird is waiting to evacuate your ass.”

  “That plane can just keep waiting until I’m done here,” Brognola said firmly. “And you can consider your mission here to have been accomplished. I’m out of enemy custody and in no danger of being interrogated, so the country’s secrets are safe.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed because you’ve been locked up, Hal,” Bolan replied, “we�
��re kind of light on the ground here to be trying to rescue several hundred American hostages. The Man is putting together a Marine landing force right now to come down and take care of that chore.”

  “I don’t care as much about the tourists,” Brognola said honestly, “as I do about the men who were at the conference with me. They’re the top cops in their respective countries, and I’ve got a feeling that they’re needed back home right about now. If this thing’s spread as far as you say it has, Mexico’s not the only place around here that’s in trouble.”

  Bolan had to admit that there was a certain logic to Brognola’s line of thought. While his briefings had been focused on the events that were taking place in Mexico and the United States, he knew that several other Latin American nations had also been hit by unexpected uprisings. In particular, Mexico’s neighbors of Panama and Guatemala were also having major problems.

  “And,” Brognola added after a significant pause, “when I’m done taking care of that, there’s a woman I want to make sure is okay.”

  Bolan was a little surprised to hear his old friend say that. Even on vacation Brognola wasn’t known to go too far off the reservation. “And who’s that?”

  “Elena Martinez. I was having dinner with her when this thing went down, and she was taken captive.”

  “What do you know about her?”

  “She runs some kind of social services center for the government working with the Indians down here in the Yucatán,” he said. “She was only snatched up because she was having dinner with me. Garcia’s thugs aren’t treating the women they took that night very well.”

  Now that Bolan knew what was behind Brognola’s request, he wasn’t surprised. Hal was never one who liked to see women mistreated.

  “If we find her on the way out,” he said, “we can sure add her to the extraction collection. She can sit on your lap in the Harrier.”

  “Not good enough.” Brognola locked eyes with his old friend and battle comrade. “I’m going after her when I go for Garcia. And if it’ll make the Man happy, I’ll tender my resignation from government service effective immediately. I have a current National Security Act form on file and, since we’re not at war yet, I’m still my own man. I’ll just exercise my right as an American citizen to opt out of working for the government.”

  Bolan paused before speaking. “Are you sure about that, Hal?”

  “Damned straight.” Brognola nodded. “I’ve never been surer of anything in my life, Mack. I’ve been doing this shit for years now, and I’ve suddenly come down with an urgent need to take some personal mental health time at a tropical resort. Call it a midlife crisis if you want.”

  He grinned. “After all, I did meet a Latin beauty and if that’s not a midlife crisis thing for a guy like me, I don’t know what is.”

  Bolan knew where this was going, but tried one last time to pull off a save. “Are you sure you want me to call it in to the Man that way?”

  “It’d probably cause both of us a hell of a lot less grief if you didn’t,” Brognola admitted. “But I’m going to do what I have to do, so I guess you have to do the same.”

  Bolan knew when he was beaten. There was no way that he was going to walk away and leave Brognola in Cancun on his own.

  “I’d better break the radio then,” he said. “I don’t want to have to tell the President of the United States that his number-one boy is playing hooky like a teenager. It might not look good on my report card.”

  “If you don’t break that damned thing, Striker, I will,” Brognola threatened.

  “I’ll just take the battery out,” Bolan replied. “We might need it later, but as long as it’s powered up, they can locate us.”

  “Do it then and let’s get going.”

  WHEN THEY STEPPED OUT into the corridor, a voice called softly from the cell across the way. “Hal, it’s Hector. How about letting me out?”

  “Give me the key,” Brognola told Bolan.

  Bolan unobtrusively covered the cell as the door opened and a well-dressed but somewhat battered Latino stepped out. He kept his hands in the open as he nodded to Bolan. “Forgive me for overhearing,” he said. “But it sounds like you two aren’t leaving.”

  “Not right as yet,” Brognola replied. “There’s a couple of things I want to take care of here first.”

  De Lorenzo paused for a second. He’d had a hunch for a long time that Brognola was more than just another career Justice Department official assigned to advise the sitting American President on law-enforcement issues. Exactly what he really did to earn his federal paycheck wasn’t clear, but seeing that a commando had been sent to rescue him spoke volumes.

  That Brognola had chosen to stick around when he had a way to get out safely said even more about him.

  “Need some company?” de Lorenzo asked.

  Brognola turned to Bolan. “He’s a good man, Striker. I don’t know how well he can shoot, but I know that he’s steady and reliable.”

  The Mexican realized that while Brognola was a high-ranking officer, it made sense that the commando was more or less in charge of the rescue operation and would have the final say. “If it matters,” he broke in, “I was the best shot on the National Police pistol team for three years running.”

  Bolan extended his hand. “Jeff Cooper,” he said.

  “Hector de Lorenzo, current A.G. for the Mexican government by way of the National Police.”

  Bolan assessed the man. “Aren’t they missing you up in Mexico City right about now?”

  “Could be,” de Lorenzo replied. “But, to be honest, I don’t have any idea what’s going on up there recently. I’ve kind of been out of touch.”

  “We don’t know exactly who’s doing what,” Bolan said, “but the word is that the presidential palace has been captured and the government has been deposed. All communication facilities have been taken over so the only news that’s getting out is over cell phones, and even that is spotty.”

  “What a time to be away from the office,” de Lorenzo said softly.

  “I don’t think you could’ve done any good if you’d been there,” Bolan said. “The coup was apparently well planned. Even the armed forces have been taken over.”

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “I’m going to try to find Señorita Martinez,” Brognola growled, “and then I’m going after the bastard who’s behind this.”

  “The one who calls himself Diego Garcia?” de Lorenzo asked.

  “Yeah,” Brognola replied. “You know anything about him?”

  “Only that he’s a Cuban as are most of the rest of those bastards.”

  “You’re kidding!” Brognola exploded.

  “Nope.” De Lorenzo smiled grimly. “He speaks good Mexican Spanish, but his mother tongue is Cuban Spanish and he still has a bit of an accent. The last I saw of him, he was still at the hotel,” de Lorenzo added. “And it looked like he was planning to stay, as he was setting up a command post.”

  “What in the hell does he think he’s going to do with a couple thousand North American tourists?”

  “Other than hold them hostage?” De Lorenzo shrugged. “I don’t know. But with all of us from the conference in custody, he’s crippled the justice systems and police forces of most of Latin America. If he’s planing some kind of widespread revolution in the region, with us out of the way, he’s got a damned good start on pulling it off.”

  “That was my first thought,” Brognola said. “And I figured that I’d try to see if we could slow him down.”

  “If we’re going to take on these people,” Bolan broke in, “we need to help ourselves to a little more ordnance. And we need to do it quickly before someone notices the bodies outside.”

  “Since this is a police station,” de Lorenzo said, “there should be an armory around here somewhere.”

  It was right around the corner from the holding cells, and another key on the ring opened the door. The offerings were a little better than Bolan had expected. Brognol
a found himself a Remington 12-gauge pumpgun and a bag of at least a hundred rounds of double-O buckshot. He also spotted a 1911 .45 in a Western-style holster and belted it on. A couple boxes of ammunition went into his jacket pockets until he could find something better.

  De Lorenzo took an M-16 from the rifle rack and found an assault vest with loaded 30-round magazines, which he put on over a borrowed olive drab police field jacket. A pistol belt with a holstered 9 mm Smith & Wesson and a sheathed Ka-bar fighting knife went around his waist.

  Bolan was well heeled as it was, but he added half a dozen old World War II pineapple-style fragmentation grenades to his load. He had no idea what they were doing in a cop shop, but they might come in handy. He had a double basic load of 9 mm for the MP-5, but he helped himself to another two hundred rounds in boxes.

  “How about the rest of these men?” De Lorenzo pointed back to the cells where half a dozen men were being held. “Most of them are from our group.”

  Bolan and Brognola exchanged glances. “They might present a problem for us if we let them loose, Hector,” Brognola said carefully.

  “You don’t want their help?”

  “I’m afraid that they’ll just get in our way,” Bolan explained. “We’ll have a better chance of doing what we’re going to do if we do it alone. We don’t want the opposition to get alarmed.”

  “They’re Latino men,” de Lorenzo stated, pointing out the obvious, “and they’re really going to be pissed if they can’t get into the fight, too.”

  The last thing Bolan needed was a bunch of angry senior police and justice officials stumbling around alerting the opposition to what was going down.

  “The only reason that you’re coming with us,” Bolan said, “is that Hal recommended you. I’ll free them, but if they want to get themselves killed, they’ll have to do it somewhere far away from us. If this thing’s going to work, we’ve only got a small window to do what we’re going to do. We don’t have time to be baby-sitting people who shouldn’t be in the line of fire in the first place.”