Killing Trade

by Don Pendleton

  “Who’s on it?”

  “Oh, you’ll love it,” Burnett promised. He took the small, flat remote control and pressed a button. The DVD loaded and began to play.

  On the little screen, the picture at a strange angle thanks to the position of the hidden camera, nearly naked women could be seen gyrating on poles in the background. At a small, round table in the foreground, two men sat smoking cigarettes. A third was sitting on a reversed wooden chair, leaning on the backrest.

  Bolan recognized the men from his intelligence files. The smaller, fatter of the three was Pierre Taveras, the leader of El Cráneo. He was a sweaty, squat man, his face covered in stubble. He was wearing an ill-fitting black suit. The collar of his blue shirt was open at the throat. He had small, beady eyes, a round, fat face and a giant hook of a nose.

  To his right sat Julian “July” de la Rocha. De la Rocha was slim and good-looking, with a smile full of capped teeth, a chiseled jaw and perfectly styled black hair slicked into a small pompadour on his head. He, too, wore a tailored suit, but his fit properly. Gold medallions and chains decorated his neck and filled the gap at his chest where his shirt was open.

  The man sulking on the chair nearby was Jesus Molina. Molina was a big, almost hulking man, with a sleeveless shirt struggling to cover his massive chest. He had the thickset features and protruding brow of a Neanderthal, but there was a glint of cunning in his dark eyes that was visible even on the grainy video. Bolan knew, from the Farm’s report, that while de la Rocha was Taveras’s field lieutenant and right-hand man, Molina was the muscle on whom Taveras depended to enforce his will as law within El Cráneo. No guns were visible, but it was a sure bet every one of the Skulls present was armed and dangerous.

  A fourth man stood before the table. The top of his head was cut off in the picture, but his face was visible. He was of average height, with exaggerated posture and a long, waxed mustache framing a gaunt face. When he spoke, it was with the clipped and aristocratic tones of a refined, British accent.

  “This character,” Burnett said, pressing the Pause button and pointing to the British man, “is known to us. We’ve got a full workup on him. He’s been keeping to the shadows because he’s moderately famous. I knew I’d seen him somewhere, so I found the write-up. Turns out he gave an interview to a magazine a few years back, something I remembered reading when I bothered to keep up on all the gun rags and SWAT periodicals and such.”

  “Who is he?” Bolan asked.

  “That,” Burnett said proudly, “is one Percival Leister. He was a veteran of the counterinsurgency war in Zimbabwe—formerly Rhodesia. He was SAS in the Rhodesian armed forces. When things started to go bad for the mercs in Rhodesia, he even tried, unsuccessfully, to defect to the South African Defense Force with his unit and equipment.”

  “Let me guess,” Bolan said. “He’s involved with Blackjack Group.”

  “Rumor has it,” Burnett said, “that he heads the show. I’ve got a friend in the State Department who’s convinced of it, in fact. I’m willing to bet we haven’t seen him up to now because he knows his famous face would be recognized. I guess he figured he’d be fine, hiding under the same rock as a cockroach like Taveras. But now we have the link you were looking for. Although—”

  “This is another not-strictly-legal tap?” Bolan asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “It won’t matter,” Bolan replied. “Let me get a copy of this to my people. It may be enough to shake something loose, higher up.”

  “You can have this DVD,” Burnett told him. He pressed the play button and the video resumed, this time with dialogue.

  Taveras squinted at Leister. “Who are you,” he asked bluntly, “and what do you want here?”

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Taveras,” Leister said calmly, “but my employers know you.”

  “You tell me nothing,” Taveras said.

  “Fair enough,” Leister said. “I work for a security contractor. That contractor is in turn employed by a very large company with certain…interests. Among those interests is peace and prosperity.”

  “Peace,” Taveras said disdainfully, drawing deeply on the cigarette he held between his index finger and thumb. “What do I care for peace?”

  “Surely,” Leister said in his proper British accent, “it is more profitable to be at peace than to find oneself at war.”

  “You might think that,” Taveras said, nodding. “You would be wrong.”

  “I don’t follow you, old chap,” Leister said, confused.

  “Mr.—”

  “Leister,” the mercenary leader said, introducing himself. “Percival Leister.”

  “Mr. Leister.” Taveras nodded. “You are here to ask me for something. Why else would you come to me with your pretty words and your manners and your talk of peace? I do not ask for anything, Mr. Leister. I take what I want. El Cráneo knows no fear. We have no mercy. We ask no favors. We smash our enemies, and when our enemies are dead, we move in and we take. That is not peace. That is to conquer.”

  “I see.” Leister sniffed. “And this great strength of yours…it does not, perhaps, come from special weapons sold to you by mere men? Men who are far from conquistadores, but simple merchants?”

  Taveras’s eyes narrowed dangerously. At their boss’s obvious displeasure, Molina and de la Rocha shifted uncomfortably where they sat. Bolan watched as the giant Molina’s hands began to flex.

  “What do you know of this?” Taveras finally asked.

  Leister smiled. “I know that your organization’s recent victories in your ongoing war to crush your enemies, as you so colorfully put it, are due to the introduction of depleted uranium ammunition, which you are using to good effect in your street skirmishes.”

  “And?” Taveras demanded.

  “And,” Leister said, “I represent the business concern that is ultimately the source of that ammunition.”

  “Why did you not say so?” Taveras said. “We would have contacted—”

  “No,” Leister interrupted. “I do not represent Mr. Stevens.”

  “You do not?”

  “Mr. Taveras,” Leister said, “Donald Stevens previously worked for the concern that employs me. He is no longer affiliated with our conglomerate. He is, as you might say, a rogue element. He is dealing with you quite without our approval and without our support.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Leister said, “it will ultimately be the case that we find our wayward former employee and put an end to his unsanctioned business activities. That, as I understand it, might put a significant crimp in your own enterprises—at least insofar as you currently conduct them using the product misappropriated from us.”

  “So the bullets are stolen,” Taveras said.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Leister offered. “Let us say that the formula for them and the means through which they are produced are a matter of proprietary information. Stealing them is tantamount to industrial espionage.”

  “So what do you want?” Taveras demanded. He stubbed out his cigarette angrily in the glass ashtray on the table before him.

  “We would like to come to an understanding,” Leister said, gritting his teeth as he spoke. “I am prepared to offer you certain considerations if you cooperate.”

  “What would those be, exactly?”

  “It is only a matter of time,” Leister insisted, “before we find Donald Stevens and put an end to his sales to men such as yourself. My employers understand only too readily that you may be resentful of this development.”

  “I just might be, yes,” Taveras said coolly.

  “Quite.” Leister nodded. “We are, unfortunately, entirely inflexible on the point of the ammunition sales. That does not mean, however, that we are not open to extending to you certain other considerations.”

  “Make your offer, damn you,” Taveras said.

  “Indeed,” Leister said. “Cooperate with me. Tell me what you know of Donald Stevens, his associate, Jonathan West, and your busine
ss deals with these men. In return for this disclosure and your assistance, my employers can make available to you a variety of conventional weapons that will assist you in your business endeavors.”

  “But not the special bullets.”

  “Not those, no,” Leister said. “You must understand that these were not meant to see widespread market availability at this time. My employers would be deeply embarrassed to see their involvement with this sordid affair disclosed. We would ask for your continued silence on this matter. In return, we would make other weaponry available to you—weaponry not directly traceable to us that nonetheless will make your endeavors significantly easier.”

  “Automatic weapons?” Taveras asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Rockets? Missiles?”

  “Possibly.” Leister nodded. “We would need assurances as to your discretion.”

  “Of course,” Taveras said thoughtfully. “And what if I refuse? What if I do not cooperate? What if I tell you to go to hell and continue to conduct my business my way, because I am a man who does not ask and does not give favors?”

  “That would be unfortunate.” Leister shook his head.

  “And why would that be?”

  “Because we would then have to proceed with our plans regardless,” Leister said. “We would have to treat your organization as an obstacle to our goals. Should that happen, it would go badly for you.”

  Taveras blinked. He began to laugh, a low, mirthless chuckle rolling from his fat lips. “Badly for me? No, I think it would go badly for you. Look at you! You come here and make threats? You demand what you cannot afford to take by force? You insult me. What is more, you disgust me. You are weak. I am not impressed.”

  “That,” the British mercenary said, “is a foolish assumption.”

  Leister took a fast step forward. As Bolan watched the video, the British mercenary slammed a palm heel into Molina, knocking him over. At the same time, the older man shot a vicious front kick at an angle to the table, catching de la Rocha in the shin. When the El Cráneo man recoiled, Leister bounced his head off the table. He slumped in his seat, dazed. Taveras was clawing for a weapon when Leister’s hand came up with a Browning Hi-Power, the 9 mm weapon trained on the drug lord’s face.

  “I’d think again about that, old boy,” Leister said. The weapon was cocked and his finger was on the trigger. Molina had recovered quickly and stood poised to tackle the mercenary, but Leister apparently saw him in his peripheral vision. “I wouldn’t do it,” he told the big man. “You may take me down, but not before I put a few holes in your boss, here.”

  “Sit,” Taveras ordered Molina. His eyes never left Leister’s pistol.

  “Not so weak after all, eh?” Leister asked.

  “No,” Taveras admitted. “You do appear to have some balls, little man.”

  “Good,” Leister said. “I’m glad we have that settled. Now,” he announced as he began to back away from the table, “I am going to take my leave of you. I trust I’ve made a sufficient impression. My employers will be in touch regarding their offer. I’d like you to think about it. When you’re done thinking about it, I would urge you to negotiate in good faith. This can, as I’ve said, end very badly. It might also end well for both of us.”

  “I should kill you,” Taveras said.

  “Mr. Taveras,” Leister said, shaking his head slightly, his pistol never wavering, “I may have roughed up your guards, but I have been very careful to extend to you the respect and courtesy a man in your position deserves. I assure you, no insult is offered. Should you choose to accept my employers’ terms, you will lose no face. You are, in fact, taking action to better your own position. That is the type of forward-thinking vision held by a true leader, the sort of man destined to greatness.”

  Taveras perked up visibly at that. Bolan had to hand it to Leister; he was very good. He’d walked into Taveras’s lair and spit in the man’s eye, but he was giving the prideful drug lord a way out that would not look like giving in.

  “I will…consider your offer,” Taveras said finally. “Leave quickly before I change my mind.”

  “Of course,” Leister said. He backed out of the frame. Once he was gone, Taveras slapped de la Rocha awake and then began cursing at him in Spanish.

  Burnett switched off the DVD player. “You see?” he said. “It’s not an ironclad link to Leister’s employer, but it’s a positive ID on Leister himself. Whatever links he has can be followed from him back to whatever proof you need. At least, that’s what I was hoping.”

  “It may be enough.” Bolan nodded. “It doesn’t tell us much for certain, but it does tell us just how big this is. If NLI is willing to wheel and deal with someone like Taveras, there’s a lot at stake.”

  “They’ve already proved they’re willing to kill,” Burnett said.

  “And die,” Bolan added. “But to people like this, life is cheap. If they’re willing to trade, to deal, to come to some sort of agreement with an organization like El Cráneo, they’re willing to sell their souls for an alliance that could hurt them down the road. By sending Leister, they’re telling us that whatever’s going on is large enough that they’re willing to take that risk in order to cover their tracks in the short term.”

  Burnett nodded. “Do you think he’ll take the deal?”

  Bolan shook his head. “There’s no way to know. If he’s smart, greedy or both, he just might. There are certainly plenty of men in his position who’d care more about the money to be made, not to mention the long-term security of a pipeline to military-grade weapons, than they would about an insult to their honor. But I’ve met plenty of hard cases who’d only too gladly hurt themselves to get payback.”

  “So what do you think?” the detective asked.

  “You’re the expert on Taveras and his organization,” Bolan said. “Just how violent is he? Just how vindictive is El Cráneo?”

  “He doesn’t have Caqueta’s flair or his experience,” Burnett said, “but he’s certainly just as mean. He’s also got expensive tastes, including women, cars and—the rumors go—his own product. It could go either way.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Bolan said finally. “We’re going to see to it that he doesn’t get to decide.”

  “Ready to meet the man in person, then?” Burnett asked.

  Bolan drew the Desert Eagle from the holster on his thigh and checked the massive weapon.

  “Let’s,” he said.

  10

  The gaudy club bore a neon sign proclaiming its name “Busty’s.” Bolan grimaced as he and Burnett left the Crown Victoria illegally parked and closed on the front of the strip joint. The Executioner wore his duster and the full complement of his weapons, the pockets of his blacksuit full to capacity with lethal implements and emergency gear. Burnett held his shotgun low against his leg, doing his best to walk casually.

  “You sure you’re okay with that eye?” Bolan asked.

  “Absolutely,” Burnett said cheerfully. “What’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to go straight in,” Bolan told him. “You circle around back, through that alley.” The soldier gestured with a jut of his chin. “If I flush anything your way, make sure you stop them from getting out.”

  “Gotcha.” Burnett nodded. He hustled off, still holding the shotgun near his body so it wouldn’t be too obvious.

  Bolan paused, feeling the weight of the hardware concealed on his person. Taking a mental inventory of the weapons and supplies at his disposal, he walked with long strides straight through the crowd of voyeurs, hookers and street trash milling about in front of Busty’s. The doorman moved as if to stop him, took one look directly in Bolan’s eyes and thought better of it. The Executioner swept past him and stalked through the entryway, pausing inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior lighting. Compared to the streetlights outside, it was almost pitch-black in the club.

  The décor was familiar enough from Burnett’s surveillance video. From his position, the soldier
thought he could see the corner where Taveras’s reserved table would be hidden. The dim, red lighting did not conceal the gyrating displays of female flesh on the raised platforms spread almost randomly throughout the floor space, but it did obscure the faces of those watching the women. Bolan moved carefully, penetrating deeper into the club, moving with the taut determination of a panther. He’d made it across a third of the floor when the first of Taveras’s security people noticed him.

  The security guards—members of El Cráneo, without doubt—wore street clothes rather than uniforms, but there was no mistaking the bulges of firearms under their shirts and jackets. There were three of them, all Hispanic males, and the one in the lead was reaching under his leather blazer as he closed on Bolan. “You! I don’t know you,” he said as he approached.

  “I don’t know you, either,” Bolan said. When his hand came up from under his duster, the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle was clenched in his fist.

  The El Cráneo man had time to clear leather, barely, with the Glock he held. Bolan’s bullet chopped him down in his tracks, the shot plowing through his face and blowing a massive exit wound in the back of his skull. As the two guards behind the falling man took aim, Bolan brought his support hand up, bracing the Desert Eagle in a two-hand grip as he shot the first one, then the other of the men. They fell without returning a single shot, their blood splashed in gory streaks on the club floor behind them.

  The cannon fire of Bolan’s massive pistol sent the club goers and dancers into a frenzy. They were practically climbing over one another as they ran for the exits. Bolan ignored them, sweeping the crowd for new targets, alert to the threat of return fire from Taveras’s men. He reached the rear of the main club floor and found a door near Taveras’s table. It stood ajar.

  Bolan took a moment to swap magazines in the Desert Eagle, seating a fully loaded one, before holstering the massive pistol and bringing up the Ultimax. The light machine gun had a 100-round drum in place already. The soldier planted one combat boot on the half-open door and sent it crashing inward as he ducked to the side of the doorway.