Killing Kings

by Don Pendleton

“And what about the other one who died?” Cabrera asked.

  “He coughed up what prosecutors call a dying declaration,” Bolan told her. “An admission against interest, in the legalese. He couldn’t swear to it, but he told us where he believed Esguerra might be going, if he made it out of Medellín.”

  “Which is...?”

  “He’s got a forest camp or compound west of town, somewhere around Anzá,” Bolan replied.

  “Somewhere around?” The lady shook her head.

  “He didn’t know coordinates from Chinese checkers,” Grimaldi said, “but he gave a fair description of the place and how to find it. With a topographic map, which we already have, smart money says that we can find it.”

  “Ah. Well, then, as soon as I change clothes—”

  “Forget it,” Bolan said. “We’ve been all over that, and nothing’s changed in the short time we were away. You’re too beatup and stressed to be of any value on a raid, much less at night, on hilly, wooded ground you’ve never seen before.”

  “Neither have you!”

  “You’re right. But this is what we do, and neither of us had a rogue gorilla pounding on us earlier today.”

  “You don’t believe a woman can do ‘man’s work,’ eh? Not even after you saw me dispose of that gorilla, as you call him.”

  “Wrong,” Bolan said. “I’ve been on the firing line with women who I trusted with my life. They never let me down. In any other circumstances, I’d say you were one of them.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s not despite seeing you gut the guy who tortured you,” Bolan replied. “It’s because of that.”

  “Explain.”

  “Some wet work leaves a deeper mark, especially when it’s up close and personal, something you’re not accustomed to. There’s a shock factor, even if you can’t see it from your side of the line.”

  “The line? What line?”

  “The one between a calculating warrior and a kamikaze,” Bolan said. “Rushing back into harm’s way, just to prove you’re capable of anything and everything, isn’t the smart move. It could get you killed.”

  “And what if I accept that risk?”

  “Then one or both of us could die protecting you,” he said. “And we’ve got better things to do right now. So you have to stay put.”

  He turned to his partner. “Jack, we need to get a move on.”

  * * *

  When they had left her, Cabrera started planning how to join the action on her own. She’d watched Cooper and Gaynor spread their topographic map, take measurements and use a pen to mark the probable location of their goal, south of Anzá. She had memorized the map as best she could, without appearing to pay close attention, then had seen the two men off with just enough bad grace—she hoped—to make them think she had accepted their decree.

  In fact nothing could have been further from the truth.

  She’d come away from her near miss with death, dressed in a man’s clothes and carrying the handbag Omar Roldán, a corpse now, had brought with him from Horizon Enterprises to the strip mall where Rodrigo Sarmiento planned to see her butchered in the guise of an interrogation. Her belongings were intact: her cell phone; her wallet, holding credit cards and some two thousand Colombian pesos, a pittance when converted into US dollars; and her Bersa Thunder Plus .380 pistol. After they’d booked into the motel, Gaynor had gone off with a list of Cabrera’s sizes and returned with women’s casual clothing, as well as undergarments.

  She was prepared to leave and seek Esguerra’s hideout on her own, but she still required two things: a vehicle and backup for the raid she had in mind.

  The first part wasn’t difficult. San Felix had a rental office, open when she called, and close enough for her to walk from the motel. She chose a Honda Civic, happy with the rate of $17 per day, and signed for the insurance coverage. Once she was on the road, that left the harder part.

  She had decided that her bosses at the DEA had to be involved, if she could manage it. It was her duty, after all, and while she didn’t want to see Cooper or Gaynor arrested, Cabrera thought whatever controversy might arise could be ironed out between her agency and theirs, whatever that might be. The bottom line: it was her case, it had spun off from her undercover work and, while she wasn’t rabid in pursuit of praise from her superiors, she’d also learned that self-effacement was the kiss of death to a career in law enforcement.

  Then the rub: the DEA’s headquarters was in Bogotá, 675 kilometers southeast of Medellín, and while resident agents plied their trade in Antioquia’s capital, decisions of the sort she would request demanded full attention from the US Embassy, perhaps with input sought from Washington, DC.

  That meant delays, perhaps decisions by committee—which were often no decisions—and even a clash of egos between rival agencies as word spread of the thrust against The Office, complicated by a clash of egos in the upper echelons.

  Distance alone would be a problem, transporting a strike team from the nation’s capital to Medellín, most likely via helicopter, while attempting to coordinate the operation with the National Police. The last thing her superiors would countenance was touching off a feud between the DEA and national authorities in Bogotá. To keep the peace, she guessed that ultimate approval for the plan she had in mind would have to filter down from Washington.

  And by the time that happened...

  Never mind. She’d call the embassy and leave a message for the DEA’s agent in charge, hoping she wasn’t in when Cabrera called, and leave the broad details of what was happening. That done, she’d switch her phone off to avoid any orders that might come back at her, demanding that she keep hands off and wait for further word.

  She’d been through too much as it was, to take a back seat now and let the boys take over, fighting for some agency they wouldn’t even name.

  Bypassing headquarters—even the branch office in Medellín—meant Cabrera couldn’t draw more weapons from the DEA’s stockpile, but she would cope with that deficiency in due time, maybe by borrowing whatever hardware that Esguerra’s guards were carrying when she arrived.

  Why not? There was no honor among thieves, and while their lawyers might complain of dirty tricks later, that argument would be dependent on specific clients showing up for trial. If they resisted her...

  And if it all went wrong somehow, if Cabrera died in the attempt, so be it. No one else would have to take the heat for her unauthorized activity, or make excuses as to why they hadn’t reined her in before the storm broke over Antioquia.

  This is all on me, she thought, humming along the highway in her rented Honda Civic, toward an outcome she couldn’t predict. It was her choice, her risk, and as a popular expression said, let the Devil follow on behind.

  And was that his breath that Cabrera felt upon her neck?

  Guanteros, Envigado

  Rodrigo Sarmiento stared at his cell phone, trying to figure out who’d call him on his burner here, at his safehouse on Carrera 42, a block from Envigado Recreational Park. The LED display read PRIVATE CALL, which told him less than nothing.

  Sarmiento knew he should ignore the caller, who wouldn’t identify himself, but his curiosity demanded an answer. He pressed the talk button and said in Spanish, “Who is this?”

  “No ‘hello’?” the Anglo-sounding voice came back at him. “And here I thought we’d grown so close.”

  Sarmiento told himself the man who’d tried to kill him in the vacant shop couldn’t possibly know where he was. Feeling a little more secure, he asked in English, “What do you want, gringo? Another shot at me?”

  “Don’t be so cynical,” his caller said. “I’m doing you a favor.”

  “From the goodness of your heart, no doubt. What is this so-called ‘favor’?”

  “The location of your number-one opponent. You know, Pablo’s ghost?”

  For a sp
lit second, Sarmiento couldn’t speak, then he replied, “And why should I believe you?”

  “Don’t,” the stranger said. “No skin off me. I’ll give you his location free of charge. What you do with it...well, that’s up to you.”

  He should hang up, Sarmiento knew, and yet he said, “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “These are coordinates,” the caller cautioned him, “in case you need to get a pen and write them down.”

  “My memory is excellent. Never fear.”

  “I guess it ought to be. Here goes, then. Check out 6°18′0″ North, 75°51′0″ West.”

  “That’s Anzá,” Sarmiento said.

  “So, color me impressed. Your boy isn’t in town, though. Travel two-point-five miles south of Anzá and start looking for a westbound access road without a name or number. If you find the right one, it’ll lead you to a compound in the forest. He should be there, waiting for you, with enough defenders to make life...interesting.”

  “And you will be there as well, I take it, with your friend?”

  “You won’t know unless you follow up, Rodrigo. Take a chance, or live in doubt. Just to be clear, ‘Pablo’ is Diego Esguerra, back from the dead.”

  A click, and then the line went dead. Sarmiento checked to see if he could get a callback number, but his cell didn’t cooperate. He dropped it on a nearby tabletop and shouted, “José! I need you, quickly!”

  Thirty seconds later, José Pombo—recently appointed to succeed Omar Roldán—stood in his presence. “Yes, sir. What do you need?”

  “I may have a location for Pablo’s impostor, Diego Esguerra!”

  “May have?”

  Sarmiento sketched the circumstances of the call, the information he’d received, and waited for his lieutenant to list the reasons why he should ignore it. Pombo took him by surprise, asking, “So, are we going?”

  “Yes. I may be foolish, but I can’t resist the opportunity. How many soldiers can we organize immediately?”

  Pombo thought about it and replied, “Thirty, I believe, sir.”

  Sarmiento would have liked to take double that number, but short notice and the scattered disposition of his troops prevented it. To gather any more would cost him time that he might not be able to afford.

  “Call them,” he ordered.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Bring all weapons that are readily available,” Sarmiento said, “but waste no time about it.”

  “What if it’s a trap?”

  “I have anticipated that, José. Place no more than four soldiers in a single vehicle, so that an ambush may not claim too many at a single stroke.”

  “And if the DEA or the police should seek to interfere?”

  “Monitor their traffic on the radio, as usual. Alert all our informers with the National Police, the US Embassy in Bogotá and their branch office here in Medellín.”

  “It shall be done,” Pombo assured him. But...if we discover they are turning out against us?”

  Sarmiento smiled. “The choice is theirs. If they butt in, we shall remind them that they’re only human after all, not bulletproof.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pombo appeared to be troubled. “May I ask you one more thing?”

  “Be quick about it,” Sarmiento said.

  “If we do find Esguerra, is it your wish to deal with him yourself?”

  “Ideally, yes,” Sarmineto said, “but I’m a realist. Whoever kills him, I don’t mind, but I want proof beyond a doubt.”

  “I’ll pass the word.”

  “In fact,” Sarmiento said, “give instructions that the soldier who puts Esguerra down must bring me his head. This time there will absolutely be no coming back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  South of Anzá, Antioquia

  The last two miles by car, in Bolan’s estimation, were the worst of the whole drive. Passing through Anzá, with its 1,260 full-time residents, there was a decent chance Esguerra—aka “Pablo”—would have spotters on duty, watching out for strangers passing through and focusing on gringos in a vehicle most locals never could afford. Bolan saw no one on the street who stood out as a cartel spy, but what would be a lookout’s worth if he or she were obvious about it?

  Bolan and Grimaldi also kept a sharp eye out for National Police throughout their trip from Medellín. Some officers were full-time regulars, while others were Auxiliary Police Bachelors, the latter being military conscripts serving an obligatory year in uniform as cops, versus a stretch of eighteen months with the army, navy or air force. Within the wider service, officers might be assigned to any one of eight “Special Groups,” most trained for paramilitary action during riots or against cartels and kidnappers. The relatively “tame” exception—and the one that worried Bolan most—was “POLCA,” the highway police.

  And then there was the same problem encountered with police of any nation, all around the world. In Spanish it was called suborno, bribery, or la mordida once you traveled farther north to Mexico, translated as “the bite.” Corruption was pervasive in all countries where drug trafficking occurred—how else could it go on?—and crooked cops might serve criminal masters as informers or, in more extreme cases, as executioners.

  “I’m guessing this is it,” Grimaldi said, slowing the Mustang as they neared an access road branching off to the west from Highway 258, unlit and lost to sight among the trees.

  “Looks right,” Bolan agreed. “But Esguerra’s men are bound to have it covered, going in.”

  “Granted,” the pilot stated. “And we can’t leave the Mustang parked along the highway, either, where the first police or peasants passing by will be suspicious.”

  “There should be other side roads,” Bolan said. “Keeping an eye on the odometer, it shouldn’t be that hard to chart a hike back from the car.”

  “Mad compass skills.”

  “Was I supposed to bring one?” Bolan joked.

  “Or we could use dead reckoning, but I don’t like the sound of that.”

  They drove another mile or so, southbound, before they found another, smaller access road leading westward. Grimaldi turned in there, switched off the Mustang’s headlights and proceeded with the LED fog lights alone. They cast long leaping shadows in the forest, making it seem alive with ghosts.

  “About two miles, according to Sanchez?” Grimaldi asked, double-checking.

  “As near as he could say.”

  “I hate it when a pigeon singing for his life can’t get the details straight,” Grimaldi commented.

  “He’d only heard about the place, but never saw it.”

  “Right. Unless the whole thing was a crock.”

  “We’ll find out pretty soon,” Bolan replied.

  “Okay,” Grimaldi said at last. “That’s two miles on the clock.”

  “Pull over here, the best you can.”

  It wasn’t quite a parking place; it was more of a wide spot in the relatively narrow road, but Bolan knew they could drive on all night without finding a better spot to leave the car. Standing outside in eerie darkness, both men stripped, changed into forest camouflage fatigues and combat boots, then started strapping on their battle gear: one Steyr AUG apiece; Grimaldi’s holstered Glock 22, against Bolan’s .44 Desert Eagle; frag grenades for both of them, plus half a dozen 22 mm HE rifle grenades. Add on the GI Tanto fighting knives, and they were good to go.

  Using a compass Bolan did in fact carry, they began the long slog northward toward Esguerra’s camp. Along the way both men listened and watched out for nocturnal predators that might include native wildcats—cougars, jaguars and smaller jaguarundis. Snake-wise, Colombia harbored no less than twenty-nine subspecies of coral snakes and twenty-two subspecies of pit vipers, all of which could kill a person without prompt medical intervention. Largest and most deadly of the vipers were the bushmaster, the fer-de-lance and the cascab
el, a South American rattlesnake that steered clear of mountain forests.

  Add scorpions, tarantulas, lethal wandering spiders and nine-inch centipedes, and Bolan still knew that the predators most likely to eliminate him were those of his own species, hell-bent on protecting their criminal turf. No other species on the planet killed as frequently and wantonly as humankind—perhaps a snafu on the part of Mother Nature, or maybe just a twist of fate.

  The first lights of Esguerra’s forest compound came in sight some forty minutes after Bolan and Grimaldi started hiking northward from their car. Both warriors stopped immediately, taking stock of their surroundings, autorifles ready at the first hint of a threat.

  Grimaldi said the obvious. “We’ll never spot censors or CCTV cameras, whatever Esguerra may have set around the camp’s perimeter. Same thing with traps, if he’s got any skill at hiding them.”

  “We’ll have to slow down,” Bolan agreed, and checked the watch on his left wrist. “I make it 9:16.”

  “And daylight’s what, again?” Grimaldi asked. “Around 5:50, give or take.”

  “Sounds right. Plenty of darkness still ahead.”

  “Until we light it up,” the pilot added.

  “Easy,” Bolan counseled. “One step at a time.”

  They moved on slowly toward the lights, aware that each new step they took might be their last.

  Highway 62, Antioquia

  Rodrigo Sarmiento rode in the lead car of a procession that included eight vehicles, four of his soldiers apiece riding in seven, two manning a GMC Savana cargo van containing extra weapons, ammunition, and explosives. More than just a hunting party, this was Sarmiento’s strike force in a war he meant to end in a triumphal victory for him.

  To hell with Pablo Escobar, he thought. By any name, no matter who’d fashioned his face to fool the public, Sarmiento meant to see him die tonight, once and for all.

  The convoy rolling northward to the village of Terpel El Paso, with its gas station and little else, would cross the Río Porce there, turn south onto Highway 258 and carry on from there until they reached Diego Esguerra’s sequestered hideaway. It might turn out to be a trap, as José Pombo had warned, but the truth was that Sarmiento didn’t care.