Книга - Killpath

Killpath
Don Pendleton


URBAN RETRIBUTIONA powerful Colombian cartel goes too far when they torture and kill a DEA agent. Tasked with dismantling their operation and taking out their leader, Mack Bolan heads to Cali with an unlikely ally–a convicted murderer known as the Witch. The former cocaine dealer has an axe to grind with the cartel's kingpin, and she's willing to go along with Bolan's plan as long as they avenge her sons' deaths in the process.But sending the woman in as bait works too well. Outnumbered and outgunned, the two will need more than their combat skills to dodge the bullets. If they're going to survive this Colombian street war, they'll have to trust each other and work as a team, even when it seems the end is near. The cartel may fear the Witch's revenge, but the Executioner will make them dread justice.







URBAN RETRIBUTION

A powerful Colombian cartel goes too far when they torture and kill a DEA agent. Tasked with dismantling their operation and taking out their leader, Mack Bolan heads to Cali with an unlikely ally–a convicted murderer known as the Witch. The former cocaine dealer has an ax to grind with the cartel’s kingpin, and she’s willing to go along with Bolan’s plan as long as they avenge her sons’ deaths in the process.

But sending the woman in as bait works too well. Outnumbered and outgunned, the two will need more than their combat skills to dodge the bullets. If they’re going to survive this Colombian street war, they’ll have to trust each other and work as a team, even when it seems the end is near. The cartel may fear the Witch’s revenge, but the Executioner will make them dread justice.


Bolan charged down the hall with a snarl of bullets

Some of his opponents wore body armor, but the M4’s deadly sputter struck with enough force to slow them down, allowing Bolan to adjust aim and send rounds into their exposed heads and throats.

Between Rojas’s sniping, Bolan’s blitz and the gunmen’s agitated state, the Soldados de Cali Nuevos didn’t stand a chance in this tenement.

It took all of a minute and two thirty-round magazines to completely clear the first story. The second story was alive with breaking glass and screaming. Rojas wasn’t allowing the Soldados a moment of respite.

By the time Bolan reached the second-floor corridor, only a few men remained within sight. The Executioner shouldered his rifle and drilled one of them through the side of his head with a single round. The other Soldado let out a scream and waved his machine pistol wildly. In the dark hallway, Bolan was a wraith among the shadows.

“On two,” Bolan told Rojas. “Don’t shoot me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied. “I’m saving all my ammo and hatred for the enemy.”


Killpath

Don Pendleton







Wild animals never kill for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.

—James Anthony Froude,

1818–1894

I take no pleasure in ending a life, but I will not hesitate to deliver the ultimate punishment in the name of justice. Those who willfully inflict suffering on others must pay the price.

—Mack Bolan


THE

MACK BOLAN

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.


Contents

Cover (#u5cbf19a8-8a74-592c-b988-1e9601dbd7b1)

Back Cover Text (#u5871509f-4e02-508f-80ad-5c463c178be1)

Introduction (#uc87aaf2b-9fcc-54cb-816d-81b3fbd392fe)

Title Page (#ued64b2b9-8756-506e-98f6-3e0a097dc130)

Quote (#u6ded03b6-0150-51af-bb86-2862a82a9e67)

The Mack Bolan Legend (#u63b4968f-bc8a-50c2-92d1-57923b7542f8)

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1


Mack Bolan, the Executioner, slipped into the shadows, gliding slowly through the night, scarcely disturbing the surrounding foliage.

He was armed for a soft probe tonight. A Drug Enforcement Agency operative had gone missing, and he was searching for her on this small Texas estate. While more conventional law enforcement would take at least a couple of days to seek out the agent, Hal Brognola knew that the Executioner’s touch was exactly what was needed to dig her out of the fire.

Bolan moved with the stealth of a black panther, despite the forty pounds of gear stashed in his combat harness and the pockets of his blacksuit.

He did not merely blend in with the shadows; he was one, flowing across the property with fluid grace and silence until he was only a few feet from a guard. Behind the man, Bolan was in a good position to take stock of the rest of the estate’s security. From his approach, and from viewing the area with a night vision monocle, he could tell the place was mobbed up to the gills. The guard in front of him wore night vision goggles and was packing serious firepower, an M4 carbine equipped with various optics and grips. It was an impressive setup, but it was an obvious case of the guard putting everything he thought was cool onto his personal rifle. Even now, the guy was fidgeting with the unnecessary weight.

Bolan wished he could have given this tyro a chance to learn from his mistakes, but the sentry was armed, and he was currently pulling guard duty on an estate where a kidnapped federal agent was held captive. This man was willing to kill, even if he was too heavily burdened to do it efficiently. With a swift movement, Bolan brought a loop of inelastic polymer wire down over the guard’s head and yanked on the handles. The wire sliced through skin as if it were butter, crushing down on the tough, fibrous tube of the man’s windpipe. The garrote would take a little more effort to cut into his trachea, but for now, the guard was unable to speak, which was a fine start in silently removing him from his post.

Bolan dragged him back into the trees at the edge of the property. The man grasped at the wire and his hands came away covered in crimson liquid. The polymer dug deeper and was now embedded at least an inch into the guard’s throat. Bolan was not someone to let a man suffer, so he pulled down hard, breaking the mobster’s neck on the point of his Kevlar polymer knee guard.

Fast. Silent. Relatively merciful. The warrior tucked the body beneath a patch of bushes, leaving the wire garrote around the dead man’s neck. There was no way he could untangle the weapon without spattering himself with blood, and the scent of gore was something that carried and could compromise this operation.

Speed and stealth were the Executioner’s priorities tonight. Overwhelming firepower from the start would only endanger the captive agent and draw the law into this. Bolan hoped that this wouldn’t become a recovery instead of a rescue. Still, he was well-equipped for any situation that might arise. Aside from various means of silent death in the form of impact weapons, garrotes and knives, he packed his traditional sidearm, the Beretta 93R machine pistol.

For backup and long-range engagements when stealth might no longer be a factor, he wore his Desert Eagle .44 Magnum on his hip in a fast-draw holster. This would be his last resort. Bolan decided to leave the dead guard’s rifle behind, though he swiftly removed the magazine and the bolt, rendering it useless.

Along with his blacksuit, Bolan wore crepe-soled boots, which would make little sound as he crept along. He’d smeared his hands and face with black greasepaint, completing his transformation from soldier to shadowy wraith. This was as much for the intimidation factor as for blending in with the darkness.

More than once, the Executioner’s jet-black mien had been sufficient to freeze a group of opponents in shock and horror long enough for him to outgun them. If he were going for pure camouflage, he would have donned multiple shades of gray, which would help him merge even more seamlessly with the shadows. But midnight-black would have a much stronger psychological impact on anyone crossing his path. So far, he hadn’t been detected. If someone did see him, Bolan would have a short window of opportunity in which his foe would be struggling to recover from the shock of the shadow man’s apparition.

The disappearance of DEA operative Teresa Blanca would not have normally drawn the Executioner down to this part of the country within a day of her first failure to report in, but she had been undercover in an effort to break Los Soldados Nuevos de Cali, a rising force not only in Colombia, but also with tentacles stretching out across Central America and latching on to the soft underbelly of the United States. The New Soldiers of Cali had been little more than a blip on the radar five years before, but in the intervening time, they had proven themselves to be ruthless and powerful fighters.

The details on SNC were sketchy at best, but as far as the Executioner could tell, the organization was using a combination of military planning, technology and unconventional warfare to enrich themselves and maintain an ironclad control over their territory and the products they trafficked.

Blanca had found her way into the SNC and had been sending back some good intel before she popped up in Brownsville, Texas. That was a bad thing since she was supposed to be operating in Cali, Colombia, thousands of miles south. She’d sent off one message, and then nothing.

That was ten hours ago. Her panicked support in Cali confirmed that she’d gone to America on a private flight. Border Control hadn’t seen any hint of her arrival on US soil.

Bolan, already on the Texas Gulf Coast doing some pre-mission observation of a Zetas operation, had picked up a rumor that the Mexican cartel was working with the SNC. It made sense for the two paramilitary units to form an alliance rather than engage in warfare with each other. Granted, both parties would be looking out for themselves, but for now, there was cooperation.

Cooperation, including the captivity of a woman trying to uphold the law.

Keeping both hands free and moving in a low and easy crouch, the Executioner crept along in the darkness. He was confident he could avoid most of the opposition without a hint of trouble, now that he’d removed the sole sentry who would have noticed his chosen approach to the mansion. Still, shifts could be changing, and there was always the risk of a wandering eye picking up his movements. So far, his instincts had been solid, but he paused to double-check his surroundings.

The Zetas security force still moved according to the pattern Bolan had observed earlier. Satisfied, Bolan continued his advance, and within a moment, he was at the small enclosure surrounding the garbage bins. Using the structure for cover, he did a quick eyeball of the camera trained on the kitchen entrance. He pulled out a small device, aimed and sent an electromagnetic pulse toward the surveillance equipment, turning the electronics inside of the camera housing into so much useless scrap. With the back of the house no longer under a live eye, Bolan took off for the kitchen door. Along the way, he traded the camera-killer for a SWAT-style pry-knife.

With one hand, Bolan tried the door handle. If it was unlocked, no problem. If it was locked, the chisel-like blade would punch out the latch in a second. The handle caught, so Bolan jammed the pry-knife between the door and the frame until he had sufficient leverage to burst the latch.

There was a loud crack, and then the door swung open. Bolan stepped inside the mansion. The sound was likely to draw attention, but no one would have mistaken it for a gunshot. There would be no sudden, armed response.

This conflict was still contained.

Bolan slid into the shadows of a large pantry as a man entered the kitchen, his eyes on the fridge. The lights were off, and the refrigerator’s glow cast the man in silhouette. This wasn’t a casual homeowner. Not too many homeowners, even in Texas, went to get a midnight snack with a semiautomatic shotgun on a three point sling with a full bandolier of shells.

Bolan moved quickly, clamping a blackened hand over the man’s nose and mouth, causing him to stiffen reflexively. He tried to grab Bolan’s forearm and wrist as the Executioner plunged the flat edge of the pry-knife into the base of the man’s skull. Flesh, tendon and cartilage parted under the force of his stab. Any attempt at struggle on the part of the guard was instantly over.

Bolan lowered the body to the floor, pulling it behind the central counter island. For the moment, the lifeless hardman would be out of sight and out of mind.

Bolan inched toward the kitchen doorway that led to the rest of the house, using a pocket mirror to check the hall in both directions before passing through it. He unholstered the suppressed Beretta and made for the closest staircase. Before he reached it, he heard the sounds of a soccer game and excited but hushed voices wafting from a television nearby.

“Eh, Chuy! Donde estan los cervezas?” a man said in a stage whisper just before a figure filled the TV room doorway.

The man asking for the beer froze, eyes wide at the sight of the Executioner, ebony from head to toe, bristling with weapons on his battle harness, and a handgun pointed right at him. At once frightened and confused, the man was paralyzed, buying the warrior a precious second.

Bolan stabbed the Beretta and its suppressor between the man’s lips, then grabbed the back of his neck and whisked him away from the TV room and into the empty hallway.

“The girl,” Bolan said softly, his voice full of grim threat.

The Zeta swiveled his eyes and shook his head in the direction of the stairs.

Bolan delivered a powerful knuckle punch just under the Zeta’s ear. Pulling the trigger would have alerted the men watching futbol to the death of their friend, and stabbing the guy could lead to a struggle that would also draw his companions into the hall. A knockout punch, however, would be both silent and disabling. The man’s knees turned to rubber, and Bolan dragged him over to an empty closet at the foot of the stairs, tucking him inside. So far, so good.

Bolan continued to the second floor, feet quiet on the steps and Beretta drawn. It was do-or-die time, and if he needed to pull the trigger, he’d have the high ground in case anyone heard the thump of a silenced 9mm slug erupting from the machine pistol. He’d do whatever it took to defend Blanca.

Or avenge her.

As much as Bolan wanted to dismiss that possibility, Blanca had been a prisoner of the Zetas, as well as the Soldados. These cartels weren’t known for their mercy. They might have tortured and executed her already, but there was a shred of hope. The guard he’d just knocked out hadn’t hesitated when Bolan had asked after the “girl.” Hopefully that meant Blanca was somewhere upstairs. Alive. Unless there was another girl in this house…

A man wearing no shirt but with a gun holstered at his hip emerged from a bedroom and stepped smugly into Bolan’s path. Catching sight of the Executioner, the guy’s smirk faltered, but his reflexes were better than his colleague’s and his hand went to his pistol.

Bolan was faster, though, and the Beretta chugged three times. The slugs penetrated the man’s bare chest, and he crashed into the door, knocking it open as he slithered lifelessly to the ground.

Bolan heard a confused yelp from inside the bedroom and saw a shadow move across the floor.

“Quién es—”

Bolan charged across the threshold, lunging over the body. The man inside was also half-dressed, but he’d managed to snatch his weapon off the floor and aim it at the intruder. The Executioner sent the man off to his final damnation with a heart-coring second burst. He crumpled against a small desk.

There was a woman curled up on the bed, her shoulders shuddering as she sobbed. Whatever had happened in here before Bolan arrived, she obviously hadn’t been a willing participant.

At least those two sickos couldn’t do her any more harm, Bolan thought grimly.

But this was not Agent Blanca.

Bolan heard movement on the first floor, heading in his direction. He’d given away his presence, and his mission was far from complete. And now he had to figure out how to keep this woman out of the line of fire.

All before his enemies reached the top of the stairs.











2


With a strong hand, Bolan pulled the crying woman to her feet. Her eyes were red, and her movements were dull and confused, but after an initial squeak of panic, she seemed to realize that Bolan wasn’t going to hurt her.

He pushed her toward the closet.

“Stay in there and tuck yourself into the corner,” Bolan said. She slid inside, then quickly pulled the door closed.

It was time to go loud. Bolan plucked a flash-bang grenade from his combat harness, hurling it into the hallway so it bounced down the steps after a skillful rebound. The canister detonated amidst the group rushing toward him.

After the explosion had subsided, Bolan scooped up a Kalashnikov and a bandolier from the man he’d taken out in the bedroom and darted into the hall to assess the situation. Four men stood on the landing below, each clutching their eyes or ears. At such close range, the blast would have been strong enough to rupture eardrums. Bolan scanned past the staggering guards. Not much movement down there, so he returned his attention to the landing.

The sentries had guns, and soon they’d recover their wits and eyesight enough to open fire.

Bolan shouldered the stock of the Kalashnikov and pumped hot lead at the group, the sharp crack of the rifle informing him that this was a 5.45 mm caliber AK, not the 7.62. Even so, at this range, the high-velocity projectiles slashed through human flesh and shattered bone as they struck.

It was brutal, but these men would overwhelm him with handgun and machine pistol fire in seconds if he let them. And now Bolan wasn’t just looking out for himself. The girl who’d tucked herself into the closet only had drywall for protection, and drywall was poor cover against high-velocity bullets.

With half of the magazine from the AK used, Bolan slapped out the spent box, picking up another from a bandolier that the dead man in the doorway wore. Once the firearm was fully loaded, then the Executioner spent a moment tugging the belt of spare mags off of the corpse. Bolan paused to reload. By his estimation, the guard force outside the house would have heard the gunfire, and it would take them about half a minute to enter the building, if that. The most aggressive men would be bursting through the doors now, but cooler heads would not want to rush into a building with an unknown enemy inside.

That meant he could expect two waves, one full of hot-blooded young bucks, the second a more cautious and experienced group. Bolan kept his ears open for the initial approach, which would be anything but quiet. Now, he had precious seconds to look through the other rooms along this corridor before returning to the bottleneck at the top of the stairs.

Bolan swept into each bedroom, scanning for any sign of Teresa Blanca. He got to the end of the hallway without finding her, then the sound of men climbing the stairs forced him to direct his attention back to the enemy. The warrior took cover behind a doorjamb, making himself as small a target as possible. He had a clear line of fire against his opposition, as long as they poked their heads over the top of the stairs.

The first of the gunmen rose up, and Bolan let him go for a few moments. Another guy popped up behind him and covered his partner. The Executioner cut them both down, short tri-bursts punching their bodies sideways.

Screams resounded from behind and below them as their corpses toppled on to others. Bolan continued shooting, raking the air just over the top step. High-velocity slugs smashed through the faces that popped into view.

Curses filled the air, and, as if on cue, a wave of gunfire whipped down the hall toward Bolan. Bullets tore into the ceiling and walls, but none came close to touching him. Still, he wasn’t about to sit back and watch the proceedings. Bolan threw a flash-bang grenade off the far wall, and it rebounded down the corridor in a well-planned trajectory.

Instants later, the distraction device detonated with the force of a thunderbolt. Bolan exploded into the hall, keeping low and covering distance quickly with long strides. He’d reloaded the AK with a fresh magazine, and now he hammered a swath of death and destruction into the Zetas on the stairs.

Bodies writhed as 5.45 mm rounds cartwheeled through flesh. The hapless gunmen fell backward on to the landing in a gory heap. When there were no men left standing and fighting, Bolan slung his rifle and mounted the rail. Swinging his legs over, he slid down past the landing, then hopped back on to the staircase below the pile of thugs.

“Es peligroso aquí!” Bolan shouted loud enough for the woman in the closet to hear. “No se mueva!”

“Si!” she responded.

She’d survived in her hideout, and she’d stay put long enough. Satisfied, Bolan continued through the house. If Agent Blanca wasn’t on the first or second floors, then she’d be in the basement.

He reloaded as he walked, discarding the spent magazine in the AK, but he returned it to its sling over his shoulder. If he cut loose with the automatic rifle in the close quarters of a basement, he’d end up deafening himself. He switched to the suppressed Beretta instead.

He found the entry to the basement and descended the stairs quickly, but with caution. He didn’t want to get caught by a spray of bullets from below, but he wasn’t about to wait around for the next wave of guards to show.

The basement was well-lit, but the uneasy silence of the subterranean layout set his instincts on edge. If there was a prisoner, there would be guards. And if there were guards, then his appearance should have elicited a response.

Maybe they were part of the crew that he’d just taken out, but something told him that any hope of rescuing Teresa Blanca was gone. He spotted a hanging sheet of translucent plastic and moved toward it.

No, Blanca no longer required gunmen at the doorway to keep her prisoner. He pushed aside the rubbery drape and stepped into the slaughterhouse.

Blanca’s forehead sported a still-smoking bullet hole, and the rest of her body showed signs of recent and brutal torture.

There was a muffled sound in the corner of the room. Bolan turned and saw a couple of disposal bins. As he walked closer, a muzzle rose shakily from behind one of them. The barrel of a pistol came into view, but Bolan had sidestepped from in front of the gun. He reached over the top of the gun’s slide and clamped down, twisting the weapon loose from the hand holding it with the snap of finger bones. A man cried out, recoiling and kicking one of the canisters aside.

A man in a white coat held his hand gingerly, his trigger finger broken by the Executioner’s disarm.

“Was that Teresa Blanca?” Bolan asked.

The man was in his late forties, his wet hair matted across a receding hairline near the top of his skull. He was drenched with sweat. His big, trembling lips sputtered for a few moments. “Yes. It was her.”

“And you shot her?” Bolan asked.

The man gave a jerky nod. “Yes. I heard the gunfire upstairs…”

“What about the torture?” Bolan pressed. “Were you part of that, too?”

“Please. I stopped her suffering. Don’t hurt me.” He swallowed hard. “I was just following orders.”

Bolan pressed a small handgun, a .22 auto-back, into the man’s hand, squeezing his fingers around the weapon. “I won’t hurt you.”

The torturer blinked.

“Take off the lab coat,” Bolan barked.

“W-why…”

“Because you’ll be too easy to spot,” Bolan said. “You don’t want to get shot, do you?”

The man quickly began peeling off his coat. “You think there will still be shooting?”

Bolan heard footsteps on the stairs he’d just come down. The second wave was here, and part of the group had been dispatched to the basement.

“Over there!” Bolan shouted. He brought up his big Desert Eagle from its hip holster. As if spurred on, the torturer raised his own tiny pistol, shooting through the plastic tarp hanging in the doorway before the Executioner could even pull the trigger.

Bolan cut loose with the .44 Magnum to make certain that the Zetas gunmen had something to focus on. The room filled with flying lead, bullets cutting through the walls and plastic alike. Bolan threw himself to the ground. The lab coat guy, however, was not so fast to react.

Rifle slugs chopped into his chest, throwing him back over the bins he’d been hiding behind earlier. He reached toward Bolan, fingers stretching and clawing for mercy.

“Physician, heal thyself,” the Executioner said.

He brought up the Beretta 93R and cut loose, the silencer smothering any telltale flicker from the sleek machine pistol. He focused on one of the enemy muzzle flashes, and suppressed slugs hit one of the gunmen in the head. The other opponent continued blasting away, but he was on the move, trying not to make himself an easy target.

Bolan blew out the guy’s knee with another tri-burst, and he fell to the ground. The rifle clattered across the floor. The man scrambled to remove his sidearm from its holster, but Bolan stopped him in the act, sending a trio of bullets into the sentry’s skull.

The gunfire had drawn more guards to the basement, and they sent two grenades down the steps ahead of them. Bolan supported Teresa Blanca’s body with one arm and flipped the steel table with the other. He crouched behind the shrapnel-proof barrier as sheets of shell fragments and notched wire clanged off its surface.

Bolan lowered Blanca to the floor gently. He sent a quiet prayer to the universe to watch over her spirit, and reloaded the Beretta.

Bolan kept the machine pistol handy as he grabbed his last banger from his harness and pulled the pin, counting down as the fuse burned. When the time was right, he dropped the grenade into the middle of the group of guards who’d followed their own bombs down the stairs. Bolan released a loud bellow, equalizing the internal and external pressure on his ears to protect himself from the sound of the explosion.

Bolan rose from behind the steel table and stepped through the shredded plastic sheet. Blinded and deafened foes staggered helplessly around the room. The Executioner lived up to his name, putting bullets into the brains of the trio of Zetas guards directly in front of him. He holstered the machine pistol and pulled out the AK.

A sentry to the right of him was leaning against a wall, pressing his forearm against his eyes in an effort to restore his burned-out vision. Bolan sliced him in half with a burst from the AK, then turned and spotted another man, blinking and raising his rifle one-handed to gun him down. Bolan sidestepped, aimed the AK with both hands, and tore open the gunman from crotch to throat.

Bolan headed toward the staircase, doing the math on the diminished guard force. There would be two men left at most, plus the guy he’d left unconscious in the hall closet.

His AK was low on ammo, so he drew his Desert Eagle from his hip holster. The door at the top of the stairs was closed—the perfect spot for a gunman to wait him out. Bolan dumped the current magazine in the .44 Magnum and slid in a stick of copper-solid hunting bullets. Pure homogenous copper from nose to tail, these slugs were meant to penetrate the heaviest hides in nature. For the Executioner’s purpose, they would tear through walls easily, while causing massive destruction to human flesh.

He loaded the magazine, racked the slide and put the first heavyweight round into the barrel. He paused to scoop up the conventional hollow point and pocket it, not wanting to waste his ammunition. Then he fired two shots through the drywall on either side of the door. The high speed slugs struck and plowed through the plaster, their mass and velocity preventing any deflection. Bolan heard a scream as a man on the other side was hit.

A second guy kicked the door open, and Bolan put a round right into his opponent’s rifle. The gun shattered in the man’s grasp, saving his life, for the moment. Bolan continued up the stairs as another figure staggered into view. It was the man he’d clobbered before, and he’d rearmed himself.

Another stroke of the Desert Eagle’s trigger, and the Executioner all but beheaded him, the copper slug destroying the man’s jaw and blasting out the bottom of his skull. By the time the soldier reached the top of the steps, the man who’d lost his rifle had raced out of the kitchen, leaving the back door bouncing on its frame.

The first man, who’d screamed as Magnum slugs tore through the wall and then into his body, lay on the ground, curled up and gasping, blood spurting from his neck. Bolan shot a single copper slug into his brain to end his suffering.

With all of the estate’s guards down for the count, Bolan paused to reload his mostly spent weapons, then pulled out his combat PDA. It was time to call Brognola, to let him know the fate of the missing agent. A corpse wagon—several—would be needed for the bodies left sprawled around the property. They would also need an ambulance to recover and treat the woman upstairs. Without Blanca to rescue, only retrieve, the other woman took top priority.

And once she was cared for, the brutal thugs who sent Teresa Blanca to die by the inch were going to dominate the Executioner’s attention until every last one of them was dead.











3


Brunhilde Rojas’s feet slapped the wet tiles in the prison shower. She admired her taut muscles as she ran the hard, coarse bar of soap over them. Though she was closing in on her fifties, seven years in prison had given her time to maintain a lean and firm body.

Not that Rojas had worked in the prison weight yard for her looks. She kept her body strong for the sake of survival and the hope that maybe, in ten to fifteen years, when she was released, she’d have a chance to get revenge against the bastards who’d killed her boys.

It was a long shot, Rojas admitted to herself as the hot water splashed down on her, matting her inch-long black tresses to her scalp. The spatter of droplets on her skin and on the tile almost drowned out the sound of footsteps behind her.

“Don’t drop the soap, Hilda!” came a husky, slurred voice. Chuckles accompanying the speaker’s own simplistic tittering confirmed to Rojas that she was outnumbered.

She didn’t stop the shower as she turned to face the trio. The speaker, the leader of this group of women, was two inches taller than Rojas, an even six feet. However, this woman was as wide as two of her. The others were slightly smaller than their leader.

Despite Rojas’s strength, these women had at least seventy-five pounds on her—each. They were dressed in their orange coveralls, rubber-soled canvas sneakers giving them some traction on the slippery shower floor. Their calloused fists were mute testimony to their experience bludgeoning people.

Rojas didn’t say anything, and Pequita Morales cracked her knuckles, smirking at each of her minions in turn.

“Don’t worry, Hilda,” Morales taunted. “We’ll leave your face alone so you can have an open casket funeral.”

That was all Rojas needed to hear. She squirted the water she’d trapped in her mouth, hitting Morales in the eyes. Rojas slipped off her shower sandals to get more traction from her bare feet, but she needed to get to the high ground. As Morales brought her hands to her face to protect her splashed eyes, Rojas grabbed on to one of the woman’s big, muscular forearms and swung her knee up into the pillowy gut of the hired bruiser. The sudden blow made Morales step backward, pushing her two partners aside and dragging Rojas with her. The naked woman kicked out to her right, the sole of her foot slapping hard into the cheek and jaw of one of the other brawlers. A screech escaped the woman’s lips as she staggered back.

Rojas pivoted on her heel and delivered a kick to Morales’s sternum. With the speed and lithe power of a leopard, she then brought her elbow into the side of the second minion’s neck. Pudgy but powerful arms wrapped around Rojas’s shoulders, squeezing her tight and propelling her toward the second bruiser, who was now baring her teeth. Rojas tucked her chin against her chest at the last second. She winced as her opponent’s incisors sliced her scalp before they snapped off against her skull.

The grappler let go of Rojas, and the naked woman dropped back to her feet. Her most recent opponent was pouring blood from mashed lips and gums. Morales lunged forward again, having recovered quickly from the blow to her chest. Rojas brought up her elbow in a swift scythe, meeting Morales’s face with a crunch. Rojas was knocked off balance as the big woman threw her hands up to her own face. She lost her footing on the slippery floor and hit the tiles. Within seconds, the rubber sole of a sneaker smashed into her ribs.

It was the woman she’d swatted in the face with her bare foot, giving Rojas what she’d paid.

Rojas lashed out and snagged the witch’s ankle before she could pull her foot away.

“Puta!” the attacker spat, hopping and windmilling her arms in an effort to stay on her feet. Eventually, Rojas’s leverage and gravity won out, and the woman slammed to the ground.

Using every ounce of control in her strong limbs, Rojas rolled on to all fours despite the slickness of the tiles. Two hands clamped on to her neck, hauling her up. Rojas let herself be lifted, feigning weakness as she prepared for her next move. Suddenly, the fingers around her neck let go, and she fell face-first to the floor. She grunted, stunned by the drop.

Morales stomped hard on Rojas’s shoulder, and she wanted to cry out in pain. She tried to push up off of the floor when something crashed heavily on to her arm and shoulder. Again her face struck the tiles, blurring her vision and jarring her jaw.

Morales’s bulging forearm pushed across her face, and Rojas kept her chin pinned to her clavicle. If that hunk of muscle and power got across her windpipe, everything would be over. Jagged nails stabbed at her forehead, raking back in an effort to wrench her head up.

“Don’t struggle so much, Hilda,” Morales sneered. “It won’t hurt for—”

Rojas lunged up with her good arm, blindly digging her fingers into Morales’s meaty face. She jabbed her eye with a thumbnail, and Morales let out a howl. “Enough!”

Heavy boots stomped across the wet tiles. Rojas felt rough hands grip her own trying to make her release Morales’s face. Rojas grit her teeth, resisting the guard’s efforts. Morales had come after her, taunted her, given her the desire to kill.

She wanted to ensure Morales would never forget her failure to end the life of Brunhilde Rojas. The memory would be scrawled across her face in the unmistakable signature of Rojas’s claw marks.

A punch connected with Rojas’s jaw, and the world went black.

It had been a good run, but her sons would go unavenged, she thought as she descended into oblivion.

* * *

WHEN ROJAS OPENED her eyes, she was dressed. She was in a pair of coveralls, though one of her arms was hanging in a sling under the open front of the prison jumpsuit. She was in an office with a window that showed the open sky outside. She spotted the guard tower nearby. So, she was still on prison property. The desk was clean—no papers, but more importantly, no pens or letter openers that she could grab and turn into a weapon.

A burly man sat in the chair behind the desk, and a tall, dark stranger stood, arms folded, against the wall. Rojas blinked, lingering on the man’s cool blue eyes. He was observing her, his features impassive. His presence in the room was a weight, a magnet for her.

“Brunhilde Rojas, aka La Brujah,” the seated man read from a file. “Born in Argentina, daughter of a Colombian father and a German mother, hence the name Brunhilde. Naturalized citizen of the United States at age four.”

Rojas glanced at the man behind the desk. He was a broad, serious fellow who showed a road map of years on his face. “So you know who I am…”

“You followed in the footsteps of the Cocaine Godmother and the Queen of the Pacific, right down to having your teenaged sons follow you into the business,” the man continued.

“And who are you?” Rojas asked, anger spiking in her voice. Her teenaged sons. Mis hijos.

“My name is Harold Brognola, Justice Department,” he offered. “And my associate, here, is Matt Cooper.”

Rojas’s lip twitched. “You mention my sons again…”

“Not even your last remaining son?” Brognola asked.

“Pepito?” Suddenly the iron that was holding her straight in her chair buckled under the weight of her youngest boy’s mention. “What have you done with him?”

“We haven’t done anything with him other than put him into protective custody,” Cooper told her. “But we have found out that your cartel is looking for Pepito.”

Rojas grit her teeth. “So you come to prison to mock me with this? I’ve been in a cell for seven years! I don’t know anything new.”

“Apparently you know enough,” Cooper told her. “They sent someone to kill you.”

“That didn’t work too well for them,” Rojas answered.

“You’re not an angel,” Cooper said. “Not with the dozens of kills you allegedly had a hand in. But you are a mother, and Pedro Rojas is innocent.”

She leveled her gaze on the blue-eyed, deep-voiced man. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and she could see the powerful swell of muscles, as well as the crisscross of old scars which wove its own tale of a long and brutal life. “So I talk, and then what? You make some arrests, a few men get taken off the streets in New York or in Austin or—”

“Cali.” Cooper cut her off.

“You want me to give you information about Cali?” Rojas asked. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been there. Says so right in that file.”

“I want more than information,” Cooper said. “And I don’t want information for arrests. Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos could care less if a few of their guys go to jail. Arrests won’t give them a reason to spare Pepito. We need to make them know that even looking at an American citizen again will bring down all the fires of heaven and hell.”

Rojas sat back. “No arrests?”

“You still know how to use a gun,” Cooper told her. “And while that shoulder is healing up, I’ll refresh your skills.”

“How bad is my arm?” Rojas asked, looking down at the poor limb in its sling. Her ribs hurt, too, but at least she could breathe, meaning that they hadn’t been broken. “X-rays are still being developed, but it’s probably just a dislocated shoulder,” Brognola said.

Rojas glanced sideways at Cooper. “And you’re going to give me a pistol?”

“Pistols. Rifles. Shotguns. Sub guns. Whatever we need,” Cooper answered. “And we’re not going to give them to you in here.”

Rojas flexed her hand, then gingerly tried to move her arm under the jumpsuit. No, nothing was broken, and Cooper was right; it wouldn’t take long for her to get back into fighting condition.

“Why would you help me in protecting my son from the New Soldiers?” Rojas asked. “What do you get out of this?”

“What’s in it for us is the same as what’s in this for you. Payback,” Cooper said. “They killed your sons. They also tortured and killed a DEA agent.”

Rojas frowned.

“I’m not asking you to give a damn about Agent Blanca,” Cooper continued. “But I do want you to get me close enough to teach the survivors a lesson.”

“Survivors,” Rojas repeated. She locked eyes with Brognola. “I thought you said you were Justice Department.”

“I said I was,” Brognola answered. “He didn’t.”

Rojas pushed herself up from her chair. “And what if I don’t want to go?”

Cooper tapped the file in front of Brognola. “The federal government couldn’t convict you on the sixty to seventy murders of rivals and fellow gang members you either did yourself or farmed out to hit men. You outsmarted them on that front, so they nailed you on possession and sale of narcotics. But you’ve got bodies piled up behind you. A lot of bodies.”

“You’re not appealing to my angels?” Rojas asked.

Cooper narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to her. Their faces were inches apart, and this close, his gaze bored into her. “I’m asking for you to let your devils out to play. So, does the Witch, La Brujah, ride again?”

“If we succeed, what else happens?” Rojas asked.

“Pepito will be safe. And we can fake your death. No one will ever see you again, unless it’s on a telenovella,” Cooper promised.

“I’ll be with Pepito?”

Cooper nodded. “I will do everything in my power to make sure you and he are together.”

Rojas didn’t flinch from his steely gaze. Some voice at the back of her mind brought up the possibility that her Pepito was already dead, and once this was done, this man would put a bullet in the back of her skull.

But these men didn’t seem duplicitous. She sensed honesty and strength in Cooper, that made her want to jump at this chance. He didn’t seem like a fanatic so much as a crusader, a too-good-to-be-true idealist out to make the world a better place, despite the lethal intentions of going to Cali, armed to the teeth.

“This isn’t a trick?” Rojas asked.

“You’ll find I’m pretty devious when I’m on the hunt,” Cooper said. “But when it comes to making a deal—making an ally—I’m honest. I’m solid. I will go to bat for you.”

“Will you take a bullet for me?” Rojas asked.

Cooper took a deep breath. “If you prove yourself as an ally, sure. But I’m not expecting a miracle.”

“Because I’m a woman? Because I’m Colombian?”

“Because you’ve got over sixty dead bodies to your name,” he answered.

“How many do you have to yours, Cooper?” The tall, dark man smirked.

“How many?” Rojas pressed.

The way Cooper avoided the question made the hairs on the back of Rojas’s neck stand on end.











4


Rojas and Cooper were sitting in business class together, bound for Cali. The only things in their luggage were the standard clothing and toiletries, and they each had a smartphone in a hard case. Lack of guns, even a hidden boot knife, made Rojas feel very bare, like a raw, exposed nerve ready to be plucked. Cooper didn’t seem as anxious; he simply sat back, studying files on the phone.

Within a day of meeting Cooper and Brognola, Rojas had gotten rid of the accursed sling. Sure, she was chewing ibuprofen tablets as if they were breath mints, but she’d regained full range of motion a day after that, and the kick of an Uzi’s steel folding stock against her shoulder while on full auto was now completely tolerable.

During their training sessions, Cooper had watched over her, his gaze wary but not hostile. That didn’t mean he had many smiles for her. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t here to make friends.

The truth hung over the two of them. Rojas had never been a gentle soul, and while she was still enraged at the deaths of her sons, she’d killed their fathers, killed rivals, killed the wives and children of others who dared oppose her as she ran New York City. Cooper had lowballed the number of dead to her name that day in the office, whether by ignorance or by choice.

Even so, he was obviously aware of her past as a ruthless killer. Not that he seemed afraid of her. He was cautious, alert, but Rojas had the impression that one ounce of antagonism toward him would end with her neck snapped.

In the days that had followed their initial meeting, Cooper had re-familiarized her with shooting skills, but he had also taught her the hand signals they would need to work side by side in the field. If he intended to take her life, he would not be such a completist when it came to going into action.

He had made no bones about their plan.

Hilde Rojas was to be the bait. Once she appeared on the scene in Colombia, the SNC would pick up her scent and come after her.

Los Soldados were from a different group than her, another faction of the splintered Colombian drug scene. The old Cali and Medellin cartels were not friends, and much blood had been spilled at the height of their rivalry. When their boss died in a hail of gunfire from a military and police strike, Medellin collapsed into its own mayhem. Nobody there would consider Rojas anything more than a relic of the past.

That she was out of jail after serving only seven of her twenty years would surprise those bosses in Medellin struggling to build a new power base, but she wouldn’t draw their attention.

Only the SNC would be interested in La Brujah.

“You also have barely touched your drink,” Rojas commented, too restless now to stay silent. “I’ve got you figured out, you know. You’re a professional, and you believe in being in control.”

“In control of my thoughts and body,” Cooper replied. “I prefer to be aware and at the top of my game. True control of events around you is an illusion.”

Rojas thought of her own downfall. For over a decade, she’d smashed all opposition or dissent to her rule with ruthless efficiency. Back then, she’d thought she’d been in total control. The truth was that, eventually, her own people turned against her, flipping on her before she could flip on them. Her wildest caballeros had realized that she’d orchestrated so many deaths for the smallest slights or offenses that they themselves could become her next targets.

That was how the DEA had caught her. Someone in her ranks had snitched, but not wanting to implicate themselves in any killings, they’d fed the DEA information about her drug stashes.

Two years of pretrial maneuverings and her conviction meant that she’d missed out on seven of her youngest son’s twelve years. Her last living son, and she hadn’t been present for more than half of his life.

All because she thought she had more control than she truly did.

“You all right?” Cooper asked.

Rojas nodded. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You wandered off for a moment.”

“Si,” Rojas returned. “I’m fine.”

Cooper frowned. “Just don’t let your attention wander when we get to Colombia.”

Rojas narrowed her eyes. “I was holding my own, naked and unarmed, against three bruiser girls just before you met me. I don’t let my mind wander. I won’t let my mind wander.”

“You’re no good to me dead, so keep on your toes,” Cooper said. He returned to the intel on his smartphone.

She grimaced. Rojas didn’t like being told what to do. One of the reasons why she’d become so powerful was that she lived by her own rules. Yet she realized that part of her craved this man’s approval.

Cooper was a powerful presence, able to convey praise or condemnation with a simple glance. No man had ever made her feel even a flicker of this kind of…what?

Dependence? No. He actually made her want to step up her game, to prove herself.

Awe? Not quite. Nothing he did seemed magical to her, not when she saw the truth behind his tactics and his training.

Rojas downed the last of her bourbon, feeling it burn her throat, then closed her eyes, hoping to drift off to less conflicted thoughts.

When the nightmares of blood and mourning came, however, she wasn’t disappointed.

* * *

RAMON CARRILLO STRUCK a match off the back of his friend Fernando’s head. Fernando wasn’t his real name; it had been bestowed upon him for his thick neck and broad, bull-like physique. Carrillo didn’t even know his real name. Still, it was better than calling him “Toro.”

Fernando didn’t seem to mind that his scalp was being used to light a match. In fact, Carrillo’s gesture made him chuckle.

“How much longer do we have to wait for ’em?” Fernando asked.

Carrillo looked at his watch. “We’ve got another twenty minutes before the passengers disembark from the plane.”

Thanks to bribes, Carrillo, Fernando and a half dozen of their closest friends had managed to avoid metal detectors and security checkpoints at Alfonso Bonilla Aragón International Airport, where Hilde Rojas was supposed to arrive.

Both Carrillo and Fernando, dressed in roomy linen suits, were armed with Brazilian-built knockoffs of Micro Tavor bullpup rifles, 23 inches from nose to butt stock. Thanks to a single point sling, the guns were well-concealed under their loose jackets. When it was time to pull them out, the 5.56 mm NATO rounds would pummel their targets at a rate of seven-hundred to nine-hundred shots per minute.

Hilde Rojas’s presence in Cali was either the stupidest idea the United States government had ever had, or it was an intentional sacrifice of a pain in the ass. Sending her back to Medellin might have given her a better chance at survival, but Rojas’s enemies were numerous in this city.

The woman had been responsible for the deaths of dozens of Carrillo’s friends.

The announcement of her return to Colombia had been practically broadcast over a loudspeaker. She was chum in the water, and Carrillo could see dozens of fellow tiburons patrolling the airport, predatory eyes scanning the gates as they waited for their target to show up.

Carrillo and Fernando walked along, anxious and ready for some action. It looked as if three or four different factions were part of this welcoming committee.

Across the room, Carrillo could make out the unmistakable figure of Miguel Villanueva. He was tall and slender, a battered brown Stetson on his head. He carried a small gym bag, which didn’t seem out of place.

So, one of the top cops in Colombia was also waiting for Rojas to show up. Maybe more than one.

That would make things stickier. Carrillo and his brethren would have been more than sufficient for a rival gang or airport security, and they would have no problem taking down a lone federal marshal accompanying the former prisoner.

But if Villanueva was here, he might have brought a contingent of Colombian National Police, a platoon or a whole company, even. Sure, Carrillo and his allies were armed as well as any cop would be, but they could easily be outnumbered.

That was when Carrillo spotted them. Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos.

Fernando’s grimace informed Carrillo that he’d noticed the group, as well.

“Everyone’s come out to greet La Brujah,” the big bull of a man grumbled. “Should we stick around?”

Carrillo got out his phone as casually as he could. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that others were also conferring with their higher-ups.

The Soldados moved in as a vanguard, unmistakable with their military precision and solid formation. Angry eyes regarded each of the other gangs as they swept into the terminal in a flying V, marching apace, not bothering to hide that they were armed.

“Boss,” Carrillo said into the phone. “The SNC showed up.”

“How many?”

“A dozen,” Carrillo responded. “And no one else seems to know what to do.”

“Just get out of there,” his boss responded. “We do not need to get into a shooting war with the Soldiers.”

Carrillo assented, then ended the call. All that money spent on obtaining and smuggling the rifles in here, on getting past security. All of it for nothing. He was disappointed that he wouldn’t have a chance to shoot down a legend, but considering that even looking the wrong way at a Soldado could inspire a retaliatory massacre, staying wasn’t worth the risk.

As they turned and walked away, Carrillo saw people filing off the plane. He paused, scanning those exiting the aircraft.

He was not going to leave without a glimpse of the person they had come here to kill.

Carrillo had photos of Rojas on his phone, which he’d studied extensively, not in small part because of her lean, leggy figure and sultry expression.

But no woman matching Rojas’s five-foot-eleven-inch description came through the gate, nor did anyone who appeared to be a federal marshal.

Carrillo watched two men step into the airport. The taller of the two had a gut around him that looked as if he’d seen more time at an all-you-can-eat buffet rather than a gym. His companion was scrawny, his jaw dark with shadow from a day without shaving.

The big man looked right at Carrillo, giving him a once-over.

“Que es esto, gordo?” Carrillo challenged.

The fat guy held up both hands. “No speak-o the Span-o, man!”

“You see something you like?” Carrillo asked him.

Fernando glanced at the big man. “Leave him alone, Ramon,” he said tersely.

The fat man winced. “Sorry. Sorry.”

Carrillo curled his lip in response to the guy’s weakness. The younger man gave his hand a tug, pulling him away.

Carrillo snorted at the tourist and continued following Fernando. His bull-like compatriot steered them toward the washroom, and Carrillo paused just outside.





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