Killing Trade

by Don Pendleton

  “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing that would be of much help, I’m afraid,” Leister admitted. “At least, nothing more that I’m willing to tell you.”

  “I could make you talk.”

  “Not likely,” Leister said. “Unless you’re good with short deadlines. My bribes won’t hold the constabulary at bay forever. But then, I don’t have much more time, anyway.” He stared at his bloody palm. “Stupid, thinking I could run down an armed man in that little cracker box.”

  Leister leaned back, resting his head against the motel wall. The he opened his eyes again, staring into the barrel of Bolan’s machine pistol as if looking far past it. “Oh, damn,” he said.

  Percival Leister’s eyes turned glassy. The Executioner watched the light fade from them. He holstered the Beretta 93-R and placed his fingers against Leister’s neck, checking for a pulse. He found none.

  Bolan nodded once at the dead man and turned away. There was much more work to be done.

  The Crown Victoria rolled up. Bolan spotted Burnett behind the wheel and walked up to meet the vehicle.

  “It’s about time,” he said mildly. “What happened to you?”

  Then he saw the look on Burnett’s face.

  The detective looked stricken. Bolan had just enough time to put his hand on the butt of his Desert Eagle when the barbs of the Taser shot out and speared his chest. As he convulsed under the voltage that coursed through the wires, he had a hazy picture of July de la Rocha crouched in the backseat of the vehicle, a gun pointed at Burnett’s back behind the seat.

  Struggling through the pain and muscle spasms, Bolan managed to draw the Desert Eagle and trigger a .44 Magnum round through the chest of the man crouched next to de la Rocha. The El Cráneo thug’s blood splattered across de la Rocha’s face, but Taveras’s lieutenant was already moving. He leaped over the dead man. Bolan triggered another round, but it went wide as he fought the Taser’s effects. De la Rocha lashed out with a collapsible baton, catching the Executioner across the wrist hard enough to make him drop the big pistol. Then de la Rocha was on top of him, striking repeatedly with the baton.

  Bolan managed to grab the handle of his knife and slash out with it, once. He felt resistance and warm blood as de la Rocha screamed but kept beating him. The blows about his head and neck hammered him down into darkness.

  His last thought was that Percival Leister would have company that night, wherever he was going.

  14

  The relentless pounding inside Bolan’s skull woke him sometime in the night.

  He avoided making any sudden movements. If he was truly injured, there was risk involved in pushing too hard, too soon. If he wasn’t, he didn’t want to telegraph to any waiting enemy that he was awake and fit for action. With his eyes closed, he slowly took stock of his condition, quietly flexing and testing his limbs while mentally noting his aches and pains.

  Satisfied, he finally opened his eyes, squinting against the light from the bare bulb in the socket above him.

  Bolan looked around cautiously. He was seated in a wooden chair, his arms tied behind his back and secured to the chair, his legs similarly tied to the front chair legs. His blacksuit had been cut away above the waist. His prison was a damp basement room with a rough concrete floor, perhaps twenty by twenty feet. A metal pole a few feet from him supported the ceiling overhead, which consisted of wooden rafters and molding yellow insulation. Except for his chair and a light metal folding chair a few feet from him, the room was empty. Water pooled in a corner from a crack in the foundation. A small window set high on the wall behind him contained a single pane of glass, too small to crawl through, spray-painted black. A sturdy and very old-looking wooden door was set in the wall in front of him. It had a rusted metal knob. He could not see any light beneath it from whatever was beyond.

  His belt had been taken from him, as had his boots. The pockets of the blacksuit pants he wore were empty. He was barefoot, shirtless, bound, alone.

  Despite the throbbing in his head and the bruises on his face and chest, Bolan was pleased.

  The enemy had made a fatal mistake. They hadn’t killed him.

  Held in this way, it was likely his captors had interrogation in mind. That didn’t worry him. While Taveras and El Cráneo had a reputation for brutality, it would take more than the threat of a Colombian necktie or a long chat with a car battery and some jumper cables to make him worry about what would come next.

  In Bolan’s experience, most of the would-be interrogators on the criminal scene were amateurs. They were long on talk and short on guts, relatively weak sadists who had no stomach for getting truly bloody when working over their victims. The true professionals, the master torturers, were in a class of their own and generally quite easy to spot. Bolan had seen all too many people reduced to what the Italian Mob had called “turkeys” by the skilled hands and keen blades of the Mafia’s professional interrogators. Neither Taveras, nor anyone he employed, was likely to rival such monsters.

  Granted, they could kill him. A relative amateur like de la Rocha was likely to do just that unintentionally. All it would take would be someone a little too eager to beat on him or disfigure him, someone who didn’t know well enough the fine line between pain and death. If that happened, there was little the soldier could do about it. He was not inclined to consider the possibility, either, given just how often he’d found himself in similar situations.

  The fact was, where a man like Bolan was concerned, the only realistic choices were to kill him immediately, or do to him such devastating damage that he would be unable to move, barely able to speak, until his captors were finished with him. They hadn’t done either of those things. Bolan would show them just how foolish a choice that was.

  He tested the ropes. They were simple clothesline. That, too, was an amateur mistake, one Bolan wouldn’t have thought Taveras or his people would make. He began working against the line, pulling and stretching, to give himself enough slack to work his way free.

  The heavy door rattled as someone from the outside turned a key in its rusted metal lock. The door creaked open to reveal July de la Rocha. He wore a silk shirt and a pair of slacks that might once have been part of a designer suit. The sleeve of his left arm was rolled back, revealing a white bandage around his forearm. De la Rocha carried Bolan’s own knife, the serrated blade unsheathed and gleaming dully in the unfiltered light from above. Jutting from his front left pocket was the nozzle of a portable butane torch.

  “I did not think you would be out for long,” de la Rocha said. “I have this—” he gestured with the knife “—and you, to thank for my arm. Very soon, my own pain will be as nothing, while you will be begging me to kill you.”

  “Is that so?”

  De la Rocha paused and looked at Bolan suspiciously. “Will you be so brave when I cut out your eyes and feed them to you?” he said. “Perhaps when I do the same with your fingers? And with your own knife. I wonder just how strong you are.”

  “Stronger than you,” Bolan said, holding de la Rocha’s glare.

  De la Rocha, confident that his prisoner was helpless, smiled and pulled the metal chair to him. He reversed it and sat astride it, leaning on the backrest with Bolan’s knife still in one hand. He toyed with the blade idly, moving it slowly back and forth in the air as he spoke.

  “You killed the Brit.”

  Bolan was silent.

  “You do not seem to understand what you are meddling in,” de la Rocha said, his eyes narrowing. “The Brit was ours. The right to kill him belonged to El Cráneo. You have insulted us, as he insulted us. Just as he was to die for that, you will die for it. But not right away. Not quickly. Not without great pain.”

  “He’s dead,” Bolan said. “You wanted him dead. What does it matter who killed him?”

  “Do you have no understanding of honor?” De la Rocha sounded indignant. “He dared to speak to us as children. He expected El Cráneo to bow and scrape for him, to take what he allowed us r
ather than taking what we wanted. We taught his people a lesson—and then he dared to strike at us on our own territory! He was marked for death from that moment.”

  “Like I said—” Bolan shook his head “—he’s dead.”

  “He is dead because you killed him, not because justice was done!” de la Rocha shouted. “And you. You are a mystery. El Cráneo will avenge its honor on you. But not before I learn who you are and why you are here.”

  “I’d say El Cráneo won’t be doing much avenging of anything,” Bolan said. “Where are we right now? My guess is a safe house somewhere. You’re hiding. Leister and his men did you real damage. The war with Caqueta took its toll, as well. I’m willing to bet you don’t have much left in the way of resources.”

  “Lies!” de la Rocha said. He leaned closer to Bolan. “We have more power than you can imagine.”

  “And what will you do with all that power?”

  “We will do what we are destined to do,” de la Rocha said proudly. “We will rule the streets of New York.”

  “That’s right,” Bolan said. “Taveras is destined to be lord and master of a criminal empire, is that it?”

  “Who better?” de la Rocha said. “Pierre is a strong leader. He will do what others could not. He will unify New York under El Cráneo. You cops will be helpless against us.”

  Bolan let that go. He was no cop, but de la Rocha didn’t need to know that. “You’re kidding yourself. It’s never going to happen that way. Better men than you, with organizations larger and more powerful than El Cráneo, have tried.”

  “What would you know of it?”

  “Stevens and his ammunition won’t last forever,” the soldier ventured. “Your manpower isn’t inexhaustible, either. The National Guard’s on the streets of New York. I don’t care how dangerous your weapons might be—are there enough of you to take on a whole army? That’s what you’ll be up against if you show your faces in Manhattan anytime soon.”

  De la Rocha growled low in his throat. “Why are you here? Why did you kill the Brit? Who are you?”

  “I’m the man who took down your men in Times Square,” Bolan said. “Didn’t you get a good look at me while you were busy running for your life?”

  De la Rocha’s eyes widened. “You? You are him?”

  “I am.” Bolan nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot. I also killed Molina.” It was not strictly true—Leister had dealt the coup de grâce—but it had the desired effect.

  “You murdered Jesus? Not the Brit?”

  “I wouldn’t call it murder,” Bolan said. “It was more like a mercy killing.”

  Roaring, de la Rocha lunged for Bolan. The Executioner yanked his hands free of the stretched clothesline and got his arms up in front of him, deflecting de la Rocha’s knife arm as he drove the edge of his hand up under the man’s jaw into his neck. The El Cráneo killer fell backward as Bolan’s charge took him onto his bound feet, toppling chair and all over de la Rocha. The soldier heard his opponent gasp for air as Bolan’s full weight dropped on his chest. Pinning de la Rocha’s knife arm with one hand, Bolan dropped a savage hammer fist onto de la Rocha’s face.

  The smaller man stopped moving.

  Bolan grabbed the knife and, sliding himself awkwardly off de la Rocha’s chest, slit the man’s throat with the serrated blade. He used the bloody blade to cut the rope from his legs, stepping free and flattening himself against the wall next to the door. He waited, the numbers ticking by, until he was sure no one had heard the scuffle and was coming to investigate.

  When he was certain, Bolan allowed himself a deep breath.

  He bent to search the body. De la Rocha was carrying a stainless-steel Taurus PT-92. It was loaded with conventional 9 mm ammo. Sticking the weapon in his waistband, Bolan searched further but found only a small packet of white powder that was probably de la Rocha’s personal stash of cocaine. There was nothing else of use.

  Bolan gripped the knife in his left hand and drew the Taurus with his right. The door was unlocked. De la Rocha had been so overconfident that he hadn’t felt it necessary to secure the room while inside with his prisoner. Bolan eased the door open as slowly as possible, minimizing the squeaking of its rusted hinges. It made some noise, but not a great deal. He was hopeful no one would notice it. It was possible any noise would be dismissed as de la Rocha returning from whatever was beyond the basement door, but Bolan couldn’t count on that. There was no way to know what arrangements the El Cráneo lieutenant might have made, or how much backup he might have. If de la Rocha’s attitude was any gauge, however, he wouldn’t have done much. In the dead man’s mind, the future had already been written and the prisoner was already dead.

  He crept up the rickety wooden stairs beyond the door, the Taurus low against his flank in a retention position. There was another door at the top of the steps. Bolan used his knife hand to turn the knob, awkwardly juggling the knife, easing the door open as quietly as he could.

  He emerged in a Spartan kitchen. There was a table with a pair of folding chairs, a small refrigerator humming in one corner and a broken oven with its front door hanging by a single hinge. White paint was peeling from the cupboards. A short, bald Hispanic man with soft features was seated at the table eating a bowl of cereal. When he saw Bolan, he fumbled for his sidearm.

  Bolan shot first.

  The bullet went slightly low, into the man’s open mouth and out the back of his head. Even at close range it was clear the fixed sights on the Taurus weren’t adjusted quite right. Bolan noted it mentally. He crouched and covered the door leading from the kitchen.

  Two El Cráneo hardmen came running at the sound of the shot, one on top of the other. Both were dressed in sloppy sweats and carrying handguns. Bolan met them with gunfire, taking them both down. The Taurus was not fully loaded and locked open as he did so. With no spare magazines to load, the Executioner tossed aside the useless pistol and scooped up the nearest weapon. He press-checked the Glock 17, double-checking the magazine, as well. Then he continued on.

  The empty dining room of the safehouse emptied into a living room containing a couple of couches and a battered television. Pizza boxes and beer cans were strewed about the room. The television was on and tuned to a Spanish-language variety show. The front door of the house, at the opposite end of the living room, finished its arc as it swung inward.

  Bolan shoved the Glock into his belt and ran.

  A fourth El Cráneo man was running for his life from the house. Bolan absently registered the residential neighborhood beneath a moonless night sky, sidewalks illuminated in fits and starts by yellow-white streetlights above. It would have been an easy shot, but he didn’t want to risk it. There was a chance the gunfire from within the house would go unnoticed, but shots on the street would bring police and he wasn’t ready for their intervention yet. Instead, he ran after the gang member, his legs pumping, his feet stinging on the pavement of the quiet street. Despite the pain of his recent injuries and bruises, he caught the winded man easily, diving and tackling him. The smell of cigarette smoke clung to the man’s baggy clothes.

  “Get off me, pendejo,” the man whined. “Get off!”

  Bolan fired a right hook into the man’s jaw. His head snapped back and he started groaning, holding his face. The soldier grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him to his feet, hooking the knife around his neck. The gang member froze at the sight of the blade and stopped resisting, effectively cowed. He let the soldier drag him back into the safehouse, past the dead men and into the kitchen. There Bolan pushed him into the one of the chairs.

  “Now,” Bolan said, jamming the knife blade-first into the wooden table to make a point, “I’m going to ask the questions and you’re going to respond truthfully. Cooperate and you might live long enough to see the inside of a prison. Refuse and I’ll just kill you where you stand.”

  The sullen gang member looked up at him from his seat. “You will not kill me. You are a cop.”

  Bolan yanked the Glock from h
is waistband and pointed it at the man’s head, his arm at full extension. “I’m not a cop,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of time, either. Tell me what I want to know or I’m getting out of here. Don’t think I’m leaving you behind alive, either. Now. What’s your name?”

  “Javier.”

  “Fine, Javier,” Bolan said. “I don’t have your late boss’s flair for the dramatic, so let’s cut to the chase.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Where’s the cop who was with me? The big man. Your boss was driving his car when I last saw him.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Bolan gestured with the Glock. “This weapon has a fairly light trigger pull. I’m taking up the slack now.”

  “No, wait!” Javier grew frantic. “I really do not know! There was no other man. July brought you and just you! If there was another man, he is not here. I don’t know where he might be! Please!”

  Bolan considered that. It was possible that Burnett had escaped, or even that he was released. It was equally possible that he’d been killed.

  “Where can I find Taveras?”

  “He is not here. He did not come with July. We came by ourselves. July said he had business to conduct. He said he would join us later, if he could.”

  “So you’re in hiding.”

  “We are. We are very few. July was talking about recruiting, about purchasing more arms. I do not think there are many of us left, just a few with the boss. El Cráneo is finished, I think.”

  “Let’s hope,” Bolan said.

  “You said you would take me to the authorities,” Javier said. “You may do so now. I will be out on bail soon enough. We still have lawyers. I will make no trouble—”

  Even as he spoke, the man lunged, producing a small one-handed folding knife from somewhere inside his waistband.

  Bolan checked the killer’s knife arm with his free hand and shot Javier in the head. The thug fell like a sack of potatoes and was still. The knife clattered on the floor.