Книга - Dark Alliance

Dark Alliance
Don Pendleton


From the lazy heat of Miami to the steamy Colombian jungles, Mack Bolan is on the trail of a missing American journalist. The woman was close to exposing the key players in a dangerous drug cartel, and Bolan figures they snatched her to protect their illicit empire.Each step pulls him further into an unforgiving world of guns and violence until he himself is captured.The vicious drug czar responsible for Bolan's plight reveals a carefully planned conspiracy that could topple a government…and an entire nation. Tortured and beaten, Bolan is only seconds away from escape…or death. His only advantage: the enemy isn't banking on the unrelenting force known as The Executioner.









“If you do not cooperate, this will be the day you die!”


Santiago gestured to his men. They moved to stand one on either side of Bolan, gripping his arms and moving him across the cell to stand in front of a closed door on the far side. Santiago himself reached to free the bolts that held the door shut. He grasped the handle, ready to open it.

“In Miami you caused us a great deal of trouble. A number of our people died because you refused to back away. You made it clear you would refuse to stop searching for Maggie Connor. Congratulations, you have found her.”

Santiago pushed the door, then stepped aside so the Executioner could be shoved toward the opening.

It was another cell. A cold and hostile place.

Bolan was staring at Maggie Connor. Or what was left of her.





Dark Alliance


The Executioner







Don Pendleton







www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.


Where there is no vision, the people perish.

—Proverbs 29:18

When leaders are motivated by personal gain their vision becomes clouded and the people they are meant to protect instead suffer. I will make those men see the error of their ways.

—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


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24




1


Colombia

Mack Bolan heard them coming for him again. The same two men had taken him from his cell for the past two days, always at dawn. He recognized the familiar scrape of boots on the worn stone slabs.

He lay on his hard cot, counting the steps until they reached the cell door. Then came the grating of rusty bolts and the dry squeal of hinges as the door was pulled open. Pale light from the exterior passage lit the windowless cell. Each time they returned him to the room and closed the door he was plunged back into darkness.

Bolan swung his legs off the cot and stood, working the stiffness from his bruised limbs. He moved around as much as possible during the empty hours, resisting the urge to simply be still. He knew if he did that his battered body would seize up. Moving was no less painful, but he persisted, always thinking ahead to the moment when he would be offered his chance. He would be ready.

The first man to enter the cell was the one named Ricco. He was a big man, Bolan’s height, but with a poor physique. Overweight and out of condition, he wore a permanent scowl on his unshaven dark face. A mass of thick, untidy black hair hung to his rounded, soft shoulders.

“Come on, yanqui,” he ordered. His English was slow and heavily accented. “Your friend is waiting for you. Today is special, too.”

He pushed the Executioner out of the cell ahead of him.

Ricco’s partner, Noriamo, stood outside the cell. Noriamo was lean, his bony face scarred with knife marks. He wore a heavy mustache that hid his mouth. As Bolan passed him Noriamo watched with small, glittering eyes. His amusement at Bolan’s nakedness was evident as he looked the captive over. As always, Noriamo was armed with a 9 mm Uzi that dangled from his skinny neck by a braided leather sling. He was constantly touching the weapon, as if to convince himself it was still there. Noriamo displayed a heightened degree of nervousness.

They walked the length of the passage, reaching another door. Noriamo slid past Bolan and pushed the door open. Bolan knew what to expect in the interrogation room—stone walls and rough concrete floor. The room was marked with dark, dried bloodstains that announced it had been used many times. Some of that blood was his own. He expected the same treatment as the day before, and the day before that. Brutal, but not life threatening. Punches and blows delivered by experts who knew how to inflict pain without killing the recipient. Beatings that went on for long periods until his numb face and body didn’t register pain any longer. When that happened they stopped and let him rest before starting again.

And then the questions. Again and again. The same questions every time….

Who are you?

Who do you work for?

What do you know about us?

Bolan had no answers for them. They wanted confirmation of their suspicions about Maggie Connor. The detail Bolan had learned in Miami would stay with him until he was able to use it against them.

His chief tormentor, the man known as Santiago, was waiting for him.

The cell door closed with a solid thud.

“I admire your resilience,” Santiago said quietly. “But as I have already said many times, you are simply wasting your life and my time. We can end the unpleasantness now. Give me what I want and it will be over very quickly. There’s no point in letting this go on. In the end, you are going to die. Why prolong your suffering? Tell me what I need to know and when I tell Manolo he will order your death.”

Bolan raised his head, matching Santiago’s stare, defying the man’s attempt at intimidation.

“I wouldn’t tell you what day it is even if I knew.”

Santiago’s face darkened. He failed to conceal his anger at the American’s open defiance in front of his men. This was how it had been since the man he knew as Matt Cooper had been brought here. If Santiago had been allowed to exhibit any compassion for him he might have because the big American had proved his will was strong enough to see him through this ordeal. But Santiago was under pressure to get the man to talk and his superiors were impatient.

“Cooper, you will give me what I want today. If you do not cooperate this will be the day you die. I want to show you something that will convince you I am serious.”

Santiago gestured to his men. Each moved to either side of Bolan, gripping his arms and pulling him across the cell to stand in front of a closed door on the far side. Santiago himself reached to free the bolts that held the door shut. He grasped the handle, ready to open it.

“In Miami you caused us a great deal of trouble. A number of our people died because you refused to back away. You made it clear you would refuse to stop searching for Maggie Connor. Congratulations, Cooper, you have found her.”

Santiago pushed the door, then stepped aside so the Executioner could be shoved toward the opening.

It was another cell. A cold and hostile place.

Bolan was staring at Maggie Connor. Or what was left of her.

Bolan saw, wanted to deny the evidence, but let it soak into his mind.

“You want to join her? That can be easily arranged if you refuse to speak to me. I will hang you on a hook next to her while you still live.”

Santiago’s soft words penetrated the white hot buzz that was rising inside Bolan. He knew he had to act within seconds.

“Bring him over here,” Santiago snapped. “If he refuses to talk we will have to persuade him to change his mind.”

Bolan felt Noriamo and Ricco grip his arms tightly as they moved him away from the open door. He offered no resistance, feigning weakness, head sagging. They turned him around. Santiago stood in the center of the cell, flexing hands that were encased in leather gloves. Slowly he reached beneath his coat and drew out a knife. It had a slim blade. Santiago stood waiting, savoring a cigar, until Bolan was dragged close enough for him to use his blade.

Turning his head slightly, Bolan saw the Uzi hanging from Noriamo’s skinny neck.

He planted both bare feet down hard, hauling himself to a dead stop. His action caught the handlers off guard and allowed him to break from their already loose grips. He half turned to his right and head butted Ricco full in the face.

The guard’s crushed and broken nose suddenly gushed blood. As he stepped away from Bolan he failed to see the American’s hard swerve to the left and behind the dazed Noriamo.

Bolan’s arms encircled the man’s lean torso and gripped the dangling Uzi. He brought the weapon up to put Santiago in his line of fire and triggered it. Brass shell casings chinked as they hit the floor.

Santiago spun, his chest erupting in a mess of blood and shredded clothing. He screamed as he tumbled to the floor. The sound stopped when a second burst ended his life. The Executioner dropped the Uzi and gripped Noriamo’s head with his powerful arms. Noriamo had no time to protest before Bolan snapped his neck. Bolan turned back to the stunned Ricco, who was still reeling from the savage blow that had smashed his nose. He grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him around. He looped his arm across Ricco’s neck and hauled him off balance. As Ricco fell back, Bolan dropped, bracing himself on one knee. He slammed Ricco across his rigid thigh. The force was enough to snap his neck and Bolan pushed him to the floor.

It had taken no more than a few intense seconds. But it was enough to end the lives of three men so that the Executioner could continue the mission that had started with Maggie Connor. He thought about what he’d learned.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“MAGGIE CONNOR HAS FED me information more than once,” Hal Brognola said. “She’s a damn fine investigative journalist. She’s also one of the most generous people I know. Okay, she wants her story but if she comes across information that might help stall an injustice she passes it along. Her tips have always pointed us in the right direction.”

“A journalist with a conscience,” Bolan said.

“I can’t knock that, Striker. She’s helped Justice break a couple of hot investigations.”

“What’s the difference this time?”

“Maggie has been working an in-depth probe into the illegal supply of weapons to one of the cartels operating in and around Valledupar.”

“That’s cowboy territory,” Bolan said.

The border territory between Colombia and Venezuela was a haven for smuggling of all kinds, from automobiles to electrical goods to drugs. Valledupar was the pivotal spot, where deals were done and the local gangs operated with impunity.

“Maggie told me she’d stumbled across details of a nasty operation. She gave me the bare bones because it was all she had at the time. Seems her Colombian subjects were having meetings with a couple of Cubans. Maggie was sure these guys were in government. She had managed to get some photographic evidence. She was being tight with what she told me. I think she was frightened, and that wasn’t like her. Maggie is tough. She doesn’t scare easily and she isn’t reckless,” the big Fed said.

“You guessed there was more to it?”

“Yes. But all she mentioned were the Colombians and the Cubans.”

“How did you leave it?”

“Maggie said she was on her way back home. She said she’d contact me after she followed up a couple of leads here.”

“Did she?”

“Once to say she was back and to wait for her to call again.”

“But she didn’t?”

Brognola shook his head. “I gave it a couple of days, then called her. Nothing. Maggie is never away from her cell phone. I had Bear run a trace on it. He finally locked on to the signal. It was weak but still active. I had Miami-Dade P.D. check it out. They located her car at the Miami airport, parked in one of the passenger lots. Maggie’s cell was in the glove box.”

Brognola handed a file to Bolan. “The cops ran more checks across the state. They came up empty. When they went to her Miami home her housekeeper said she was on an assignment. She hadn’t been in touch but that was normal. Cops said they’d keep Maggie on file but there wasn’t much more they could do.”

“She’s disappeared and you’re thinking the worst,” the Executioner said grimly.

“Striker, you and I know how these perps work. They’ll go to any lengths to protect themselves and their territory. We’ve both seen what they do to anyone who poses a threat. If Maggie crossed the line and they picked up on it she would become a target.”

“Hal, she could already be dead,” Bolan said.

“I know. But if she has some information about these people they might have snatched her to force it out of her.” Brognola hit the table with his fist.

“If that’s the case she’d be better off dead.”

“I know that,” Brognola admitted. “But she could still be alive. I can’t ask for official help because I’ve protected Maggie’s identity. It was a one-to-one arrangement. I want it to stay that way until I’m satisfied no one had a trace on her.”

“You think there’s a leak?”

Brognola was in a delicate position. He suspected there was a break in department security that might have compromised Maggie Connor’s safety. Bolan saw the look in his old friend’s eyes. Brognola was caught in the middle. Wanting to protect his source. Determined to expose any covert activity within the Justice Department. Bolan understood the big Fed’s dilemma.

“You don’t need to ask, Hal. Let me read the file. I’m on board.”



MAGGIE CONNOR’S HOME was in a quiet residential district that lay east of Miami’s historic Biscayne Boulevard.

The reporter’s home, smaller than some, was still spacious. Bolan swung his rented SUV off the road and came to a stop at the closed gates. He checked the grounds. Pristine. Empty. There was no movement. That wasn’t unusual in itself. The occupants, if they were home, could be inside the house, or in the backyard.

Bolan’s knowledge that Maggie Connor was missing gave him reason to think otherwise. He checked the gates. They weren’t locked. He pushed them open and drove through. Once inside he returned to close the gates behind him, then drove up to the house.

He stood beside the SUV, his hand sliding inside his jacket to loosen the Beretta 93-R. His presence did not seem to have alerted anyone. At the front door he tested the handle. He wasn’t surprised when the door opened, moving on smooth, balanced hinges. Bolan toed it fully open, drawing the 93-R. The entrance hall was bright from the sunlight streaming through numerous windows.

The Executioner stepped inside, his Beretta sweeping back and forth as he checked the area. He closed the door behind him, pausing to turn the lock. It was a reflex action to prevent anyone entering behind him.

Standing in the center of the hall Bolan strained to pick up any sound. Nothing.

He moved across the hall, up a couple of steps that led into a spacious living room. It was airy and filled with light from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Now he heard a soft, constant buzz of faint sound. As he turned to check the room the buzzing heightened. Sunlight picked up every detail in the room.

Papers and books were scattered across the floor. The drawers of a desk were empty, either lying on the rug or hanging crookedly from their runners.

Bolan saw the sprawled body, half stripped of clothing, exposed flesh showing where a knife had been used to cut and slash. Blood had run and pooled around the body. It had soaked into the carpet and partially dried. As Bolan stepped closer he picked up the smell of putrefying flesh and saw the black flies on the body. This had happened some time ago. Even from where he stood Bolan knew the dead woman was not Maggie Connor. Her file had given her height as five foot ten. The dead woman was much shorter. And she had blond hair, matted with blood. Maggie Connor had jet-black hair.

Bolan scanned the room thoroughly. The perpetrators had been looking for Maggie, or whatever they thought she knew. The woman on the floor had clearly been tortured for that information. If she had given her tormentors any information they could well be one step ahead in the search for the missing journalist. Or already have her in their hands.

As the Executioner turned away he spotted an object on the carpeted floor. He crouched to inspect it. It was the crushed remains of a thick cigar. He picked it up and sniffed the shredded leaves. He studied the rich, sweet aroma. He was certain he would recognize it again if he came across it.

He moved quickly and ran a full inspection of the house. All the other rooms had been subjected to thorough and destructive searches.

In the master bedroom he found the second and third bodies. One male, one female. Both had been tortured in the same fashion as the woman downstairs. The bodies showed signs of savage beatings and severe knife wounds. The off-white carpet beneath the bodies was caked with dried blood. More was spattered around the area. As before, the cloying smell of death hung in the warm air, and flies rose and settled as Bolan approached.

They were young and Hispanic. Bolan guessed they were probably Maggie Connor’s house staff.

Back on the landing Bolan took out his phone and called Hal Brognola on a secured line.

“Not looking good,” Bolan said. He told Brognola exactly what he had found. “They were looking for something. No way of knowing if they got it. The house staff were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Bolan heard the big Fed’s sharp intake of breath. “No sign of Maggie?”

“Nothing.”

“Either she’s on the move, or they’ve already picked her up.”

“That’s the way I see it. Hal, if she was on the run I would have expected her to contact you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Brognola said. “Are you still at the house?”

“I’m leaving now. Give me time to get out of the area, then call it in. Let the Miami P.D. do their thing and look after the victims.”

“Will do. Striker, what the hell are these people after?”

“I’ll tell you as soon as I find out.”

Bolan recalled some information he had found when reading Maggie’s file back at Stony Man Farm. Paul Sebring had worked with Maggie years back as her photographer. They had operated out of Central America, covering revolutions and military operations, bringing back hot reports and images. Then Sebring stepped away from the war zones and opened a photography studio in Miami. According to her file, Maggie and Sebring were still close and she sometimes used him to look after material she sent in from foreign assignments.

Bolan left Maggie’s house and headed back in the direction of the city.




2


Luis Costa swirled the rich, dark rum around the glass, the telephone cradled against his ear. He took a swallow, letting the aromatic flavor of the liquor fill his mouth.

“Did he call the police?” he asked his lieutenant.

“I don’t think so. He was inside for some time, so he must have found the bodies. When he left he closed the gates behind him. Like he didn’t want to show he had been there.”

“Did you recognize him?” Costa asked.

“Never seen him before. Big hombre. Looks like he could handle himself. Maybe an associate of the Connor bitch. Another journalist, maybe?”

“What are you doing about him?”

“I had people follow him back into the city. We took the details of his SUV. Cabrerro is running a check as we speak.”

“Good. Watch him. See where he goes.”

“What do you think?”

“I think we need to deal with him. But first we have to find out if Connor gave him any of the information she has been gathering. Use whoever you need to learn what you can. Remember, we have to contain this. If information leaks the whole operation could fall apart.”

Costa dropped the phone back on its cradle, swiveling his chair around to stare out the window of his Miami office. He looked across the placid blue water of the bay, watching power boats race back and forth, leaving white trails behind them.

The man who had visited the Connor house intrigued him. It was the calm way he had exited the house and driven off. Calling in the police and waiting for them to arrive would have been the normal way to handle the situation, but for unknown reasons this man had withdrawn quietly, leaving the house as he had found it.

What did that mean?

Costa was determined to find out. As Raul Manolo’s right-hand man, he had to inform his boss of this latest development.

His call was answered immediately.

“We have had an unknown visitor at the Connor house. I am having him checked out. Once we establish who he is we can decide what to do about him.”

“A cop? Federal agent?” Manolo asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to establish.”

“Could he have been given Connor’s findings?”

“Possibly. We won’t know until we establish his identity.”

“Just kill him,” Manolo said.

“Shouldn’t we first find out if he knows anything? In case he has passed any information along.”

“This is fucking ridiculous. How many people do we have to deal with until we’re sure we have things contained?”

“Let me deal with this. After all, it is what you are paying me for,” Costa soothed.

“Keep me in the loop. But make your own decisions. I have other things to deal with.” Manolo slammed down the phone.

Costa’s lieutenant called half an hour later.

“Cabrerro ran down the SUV through the rental agency. He tried a background check on the company that rented it. Nothing. He ran into serious encoding. No way can we find out who this hombre works for.”

“What about him?”

“Same. No background details. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere.”

“Keep checking.” Costa considered what he had just heard. “Tomás, be ready to pull this guy off the street. We can’t afford to have him poking around too much.”

“Just give the word and he’s ours.”

“We need him alive, Tomás. He can’t tell us anything if he’s dead.”

Costa opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cell phone. He dialed one of three special numbers. The man on the other end of the phone was an American.

“We have encountered an unexpected visitor. He was seen entering and leaving the Connor house. Didn’t wait around.” Costa recited the license plate number of the SUV his people had seen. “We can’t find anything about him, or who rented the vehicle. He could be a nuisance. Use your police contact to identify him.”

“I’ll see what I can do. What have you done about him?”

“At the moment, I am keeping him under surveillance. I want to see what he does.”

“Don’t let him run on a long leash. If he gets lucky your troubles might get bigger.”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Costa muttered as he disconnected the call.



THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.

Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”

“I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

“Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”

Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”

As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.

“I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”

Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.

Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.

“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.

“Now you have me worried.”

They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.

“Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.

“Is she okay?”

“That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.

“I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted me, Maggie…well, she sounded stressed. I’ve known her a long time and she isn’t easily rattled.”

“Did she tell you what was getting to her?”

“Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”

“Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”

Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.

“This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”

Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.

“I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.

“I’ll know when I read them.”

“No, you won’t,” someone said.

The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.

“Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.

Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.

Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.

Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.

As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him a second time. The man stepped back, trying to avoid the blow. He moved too far and stepped over the edge of the top step. He tumbled down the steps, turning over a couple of times before hitting the bottom where he lay motionless.

Bolan returned to Sebring’s office. He found the photographer slumped on the floor beside his desk, a bloody hand clutched to his shoulder. The receptionist was on the phone, calling for assistance. When she saw the gun in Bolan’s hand her eyes widened in alarm.

He put the gun away. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m on your side.”

He crossed to check the gunman. The man was still clutching his face, moaning softly. Then he went back to Sebring. The photographer, pale-faced and sweating, glanced up at the Executioner.

“You always bring guests to the party?” he asked.

“Never invited ones,” Bolan said grimly.

“Next time, Cooper, just bring a bottle.”

The receptionist put the phone down. “Police and ambulance are on their way.”

Bolan turned to her. “Got any towels we can use to stop the bleeding?”

The young woman nodded and left the office.

“This has to do with Maggie?” Sebring asked.

Bolan took the items from the envelope and dropped them into his pocket. He glanced at Sebring. The photographer sensed what Bolan was silently asking and gave a brief nod.

The receptionist came back with some towels. She helped Bolan get Sebring into his chair. The Executioner wadded one of the towels and placed it over the wound.

“Hold that in place, miss.”

She nodded and said, “The name’s Carrie.”

“Just keep good pressure on that towel, Carrie.”

Bolan crossed to the door, taking out his phone. He punched in his contact number for Brognola. When the big Fed answered Bolan calmly explained what had happened.

“I can’t walk out until Miami P.D. arrive. There’s one perp on the floor and another outside the building. I won’t leave and put these people in the way of further harm.”

“When they arrive let me speak to the head honcho. I’ll square things,” Brognola said.

“Thanks.”

“Any good going to come out of this?” Brognola asked.

“I don’t know yet but tell Bear to get ready because I’m going to send him some information.”

“Okay. Get back to me for your get-out-of-jail-free card.”

Ten minutes later the office was a busy place. Police and paramedics vied for space. Sebring was given treatment prior to hospital transport to have the bullet removed from his shoulder. The gunman Bolan had put down was cuffed before his own ride for treatment. He’d said nothing, mostly due to the fact that his jaw was shattered and his nose badly crushed. The second attacker had vanished by the time the cops arrived. He had left blood behind on the concrete at the bottom of the steps but he’d disappeared. Carrie sat on a chair in one corner of the office, absently rubbing at the bloodstains on her dress but physically unharmed.

The Executioner stood to one side, waiting while the cop in charge had his conversation with Brognola. The cop ended the call and returned Bolan’s phone to him.

“Looks like you’re off the hook, Agent Cooper,” he said amiably.

Lieutenant Gary Loomis was a lean, tanned cop in his thirties. His boyish face belied the things he had seen during his tenure with the Miami-Dade force. Despite the heat he wore a suit and tie. He stood in front of Bolan, hands on his hips, studying the big man.

“So what brought you to Sebring’s office again?” the cop asked.

“Just following up on information received,” Bolan recited. “An ongoing investigation. Sebring was pegged to answer a couple of questions. He isn’t a suspect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Loomis said. “Need to know and all that crap.”

“Sorry, Loomis. If I could tell you more I would.”

Loomis grinned. “Hell, don’t sweat it. I got enough local crime to keep me busy. Last thing I need is another pile of paperwork to wade through. That yahoo you gave us is going to use up a whole tree’s worth of forms by the time we get him processed.”

“Any idea who he is?”

Loomis shook his head. “Maybe when we run his prints we’ll get lucky.”

“I’d appreciate hearing about anything you turn up.”

Loomis handed Bolan a card. “Call me.”

“Thanks.”

“Anything for the Feds, Agent Cooper.”



“SO WHERE TO NOW?” Brognola asked.

Bolan was behind the wheel again, heading out of the city. His only lead was the origin of the package Maggie Connor had mailed to Sebring.

“Riba Bay. Have Bear check the place out. See if there’s anything Maggie might have been interested in. And tell him I’m going to download the contents of the memory card and flash drive as soon as I can.”

Bolan ended the call.

He saw a shopping mall and eased off the highway, taking a parking spot close to the entrance. He made his way through the mall until he saw a computer store. Inside he asked for the manager. When the man arrived, looking all of sixteen years old, Bolan showed his Justice identification and explained what he wanted. Minutes later he was seated at a work station in the manager’s office, downloading the memory card and flash drive to send to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, the communications expert for Stony Man Farm. An acknowledgment e-mail came through saying the material had been received. Bolan erased it. He found the store manager, thanked him for his cooperation and returned to his SUV.

He had been driving for just under thirty minutes when he spotted the car tailing him….




3


The Executioner was at least an hour from Riba Bay. All he had to go on was the postmark on the package Maggie Connor had sent to Sebring. It was hardly much in itself, but it wasn’t the first time Bolan had started out with almost nothing. But now he had company.

He spotted the tail car again in his review mirror, watched it as it narrowed the gap and kept edging closer.

Too close.

He checked the road ahead. For the past few miles he hadn’t seen another vehicle. The road was clear in both directions. Bolan checked that his seat belt was secure, then hit the gas pedal and sent the big SUV surging forward. The force pushed Bolan back in his seat. He saw the tail car recede.

That wouldn’t be the end of it, Bolan knew.

He was on a straight road, with no discernable turnoffs. There was no way out of this, except to keep driving and wait for something ahead to change things.

That something did show up a few miles along the road. But not in the way Bolan had hoped. He saw a distant configuration spanning the blacktop. At the speed he was traveling it only took a short time before he was able to identify it.

A full-size fuel tanker was stopped across the width of the road, blocking it completely. The road on either side dropped away into drainage ditches, offering no avenue of escape.

The tail car was coming up behind him, relentless in its pursuit.

Bolan realized someone was panicking enough to set up the roadblock. They were desperate enough to step out in public in order to stop him.

What, he wondered, had Maggie Connor uncovered?

He eased off the gas, stepped on the brake and steadied the SUV as the tanker loomed larger. Armed figures stepped into view. There were three. One opened up with a submachine gun. Slugs scored the asphalt in front of the SUV. A second gunman started firing. Bolan saw sparks as bullets skidded off his hood. One hit the windshield, leaving a spiderweb crack. Bolan worked the wheel, the SUV rolling back and forth across the width of the road, tires squealing. A glance in the mirror showed the tail car maintaining a discreet distance now that the shooting had started. A small bonus.

The firing got heavier. One of the door mirrors exploded in a shower of plastic and glass.

Bolan stood on the brake, turning the wheel to bring the SUV around in a hard slide, broadside to the tanker. He thought for a moment that the vehicle might flip over. He switched off the ignition, cutting the power, pulled out his Beretta and, as the SUV came to a jarring stop, he slid across the seat and opened the passenger door. He rolled out and dropped to the road, crouching, before moving around the front of the vehicle.

Footsteps sounded nearby. Bolan picked up the first shooter as he moved into sight. The Beretta 93-R punched out a triburst that hit the man chest high and put him straight down. Maintaining his aggressive stance Bolan moved again, half rising as he cleared the front of the SUV and met the two remaining shooters head-on. His cool appearance, seemingly oblivious to the threat of the pair of armed figures, gave him a psychological advantage, and though it was only for a brief moment it was enough. Bolan triggered three-round bursts in a continuous volley, hitting both shooters before they acquired their target. They tumbled to the ground in agony, riddled by the 9 mm bursts.

The Executioner ran forward and snatched up one of the fallen weapons—an H&K MP-5. He checked the action and moved behind the SUV as the tail car fishtailed to a stop. An armed figure was leaning out the passenger door. Bolan raised the MP-5 and laid down a long, damaging burst that raked the front of the vehicle and blew the windshield out. The Executioner maintained his deadly fire, emptying the remainder of the magazine into the cab of the vehicle. When the MP-5 locked on an empty chamber he dropped it and returned to pick up one of the other discarded weapons.

There was no movement inside the tail car. As Bolan carefully checked it out he saw two bloody forms sprawled across the front seat. He turned back and crouched beside the other dead shooters. He removed the weapons he found. All five men were Hispanic. The only useful evidence he found was a cell phone on one of them. He dropped it in his pocket.

Bolan slid a fresh magazine into the Beretta, walked to the front of the tanker and climbed up to check the cab. He found a lone figure slumped behind the wheel. The rig’s driver. Someone had put a couple of bullets in his body but he was still breathing. Bolan used the truck’s radio to call for help. He located the first-aid box and did what he could to help the wounded trucker. Once he had the man settled as comfortably as he could Bolan used his own phone to call Hal Brognola.

“Sounds as if you’ve stirred somebody into action,” the big Fed said.

“Panic more likely. Setting up an ambush in broad daylight on a public road says overreaction.”

Brognola sighed. “What did Maggie stumble on to?”

“They didn’t want me to get to Riba Bay. Maybe that’s where I’ll get some answers.”

“Striker, I just got feedback from Bear. He has some results from the data you sent him. Riba Bay is your target.” He read out an address. “Belongs to Raul Manolo, a suspected Colombian gunrunner. We’re still analyzing the rest.”

“Enough for me to go on,” the Executioner said.

The wail of approaching sirens cut the air. Bolan saw vehicles in the distance.

“That the cavalry arriving?” Brognola asked.

“Yeah. I’ll get back to you when I can.”

As Bolan finished the call he saw a couple of Florida State Trooper cruisers rolling to a stop. Behind them was an ambulance. He stepped forward to meet the armed officers, showing his badge. A paramedic ran up behind the troopers.

“There’s a man in the truck who needs medical attention,” Bolan said. “He’s been shot.”

The medic nodded and waved his partner in. They went directly to the rig. One of the troopers took a look around. He stared at the sprawled bodies.

“Damn,” he said. “We’ll be filling in forms for a week on this one. You want to tell me what the hell has been going on here, Agent Cooper?”




4


Colombia

The Executioner wasted no time. He couldn’t be sure how far the sound of the shots might carry.

He turned to Ricco and unlaced the combat boots he was wearing. Then he loosened the belt holding the man’s olive-green fatigues in place. Bolan stripped them off and pulled them over his own legs. He notched the belt tight around his waist. He sat down and pulled on the combat boots. They were near enough to his own size. He took his time with the laces, making sure the boots were secure before dragging the bloodied shirt from the body and pulling it on.

Crouching over Noriamo he freed the Uzi from around the dead man’s neck, looping the cord over his right shoulder. He checked the body for extra ammunition and found a single clip in the man’s back pocket. Stepping to where Santiago lay Bolan flipped open the blood-drenched linen jacket and saw the man had been carrying a 9 mm Beretta in a hip holster. The holster was held in place on Santiago’s belt. Bolan freed the belt and slid the gun and holster off. He transferred it to his own belt. He took the Beretta out and checked the magazine. Full. He cocked the weapon and returned it to the holster.

He stood beside the cell door, breathing deeply as he looked at Maggie Connor.

He would not forget her.

And the men who had ordered her cruel death would not be forgotten.

Bolan opened the cell door and eased it back just enough to check the passage. It was deserted. At the far end a partially open door let bright sunlight pierce the gloom. That was his objective—reach the exit, then make another assessment. He slipped through the door, the Uzi ready in his hands. He broke from his stance and traversed the passage quickly. Flattened against the inner wall he peered out the open door.

He saw a rough-hewn compound, three crude huts. A stream ran across one side of the clearing. Dense green jungle pressed in on all sides. Bolan saw a flicker of movement to his right. An armed man in fatigues came into sight from behind one of the huts. He crossed the compound, lighting a thin cigar as he walked. An AK-74 dangled from a shoulder strap. The man looked relaxed. He was making his way in the direction of the cell block.

Bolan cleared the door, the Uzi up and spitting 9 mm slugs. He caught the approaching man before he had a chance to react. The guy twisted under the impact of the burst, dropping to his knees, then facedown. Bolan ran up close, snatching the AK from the guard’s shoulder and looping the sling strap around his neck.

Bolan heard men calling out in Spanish. He pinpointed the location, bringing the Uzi back online so the armed figures piling out of one of the buildings at the sound of his first shots ran directly into the blazing volleys. Two figures tumbled to the ground, never really seeing the face of the man who had delivered them to quick death.

The others pulled back into the cover of the building they had just burst out of. Whatever they might have expected, the sight of the Executioner, in full killing mode, overwhelmed them. These gunmen were used to their victims being tied up and helpless without any will or skill to stand up to Raul Manolo’s power.

By the time they pushed back outside, determined not to allow their prisoner to defy them, Bolan was out of their sights, his moving figure already fragmented and shadowy as he forged ahead into the surrounding jungle thicket.

Bolan’s entry into the dense foliage was accompanied by the chatter of automatic weapons behind him. He heard the snap and whip of slugs penetrating the greenery, shredding leaves and thin branches. The moment he was swallowed and hidden temporarily from view he angled his line of travel. In the distance a number of voices called to one another, and more shots rattled from weapons.

The Executioner kept moving. The ground underfoot was soft and spongy, a layer of detritus from trees and bushes that had formed into a sound-deadening carpet over many years. The air was heavy and close, producing a cloying, sullen heat. Sweat began to form on Bolan’s face and arms. He pushed on, maintaining as much speed as he could. He wanted to gain distance from his former captors. There was no way he was going back as a prisoner. If they were that desperate for his company they would pay a high price for it and for what they had already done.

As willing as his spirit was, Bolan’s body began to reveal its weakened state after a few miles. Three days of brutal pounding had taken its toll. Mack Bolan was capable of strong actions but he was not invincible. Flesh and bone could absorb only so much before it began to rebel. He could feel his limbs growing heavier, his bruised ribs pulsing with pain. Keeping on the move was not the answer. Bolan knew he had to stand and fight, rather than lead his pursuers on a run that would drive him into the ground. He would have to make an educated guess as to the number of his enemies and deal with them on that basis.

He splashed over a stream, turned and crouched on his knees at the edge of the water. Behind him he could hear the distant sound of his pursuers. He knew they would pick up his trail eventually, so he worked quickly. He dropped his Uzi and reached down to scoop up soft mud from the edge of the stream. He smeared it liberally over his face and neck, ignoring the tender flesh. He coated arms and hands, then picked up the Uzi and retreated from the stream, turning to home in on the sounds made by the men following him.

He dropped back to wait, hidden among the dense foliage, blending in with his surroundings, waiting until he had a specific target. He would let his chosen man move well into range before he raised his weapon of choice.

The Beretta was set for single shots.

He could hear the guards working their way toward his general area, voices raised. They made no attempt to silence their approach as they made their way through the undergrowth. Bolan knew he wasn’t dealing with seasoned jungle fighters. Urban streets were their normal haunts.

Okay, he thought, their loss, my gain.

The first target appeared, AK-74 cradled in the crook of one arm while he chattered on a com-set. Bolan watched him push through the greenery, his image flickering as he moved from one patch of light to another. The Executioner tracked him closely, waiting for his opportunity. He stroked the Beretta’s trigger. The 9 mm slug hit the guard just above his left ear. He went down without a sound and before he hit the ground Bolan had pulled back, lost in the shadows again, his mud camouflage helping him to merge with his surroundings.

The sharp snap of the shot alerted the others. They froze, staring about them. Seeing nothing. Hearing nothing. The forest around them held shadows and light, and somewhere the man they were hunting. Com-sets buzzed with talk.

Bolan circled, picking out more wary figures. His enemies had no idea where he was now he had stopped running.

Target two was ahead of him. Less talkative than the others, he stood and listened to the jungle. His AK was up and ready as he sought his target. This guy was sharp. Alert. But it did him little good because the man he was looking for already had him in his sights.

Bolan fired a single fatal shot and the man went down.

He backed away from the killing ground and left the enemy unsure, searching and finding nothing but the dense forest.

He had counted three more, had observed their relative positions and allowed them to decide what they should do. Bolan was not in a forgiving mood. The people he had encountered since taking up his search for Maggie Connor were unrelenting in their savagery.

Not for the first time the thought entered his head that they were desperate to conceal something far bigger than illegal weapons. Ordnance, like drugs, was everyday trade to these people. The way they had responded to Maggie Connor’s investigation supported the theory that it was on a higher level than narcotics and guns.

But what?

He had to extract himself from his current situation. While he was caught in this jungle, with a trio of unfriendly locals out for blood, he could do nothing at all.

Bolan picked up the tread of a boot to his immediate right. He curled his prone body and homed in on the slow-moving bulk of an armed man. Then he detected movement beyond the man in his line of sight. This one was twenty feet to the right. They were moving in tandem, covering a strip of the forest. They knew Bolan had gone to the offensive and were tracking with more care.

The second man stepped into a clearing. He was waiting for his partner to close in. Bolan braced himself. He saw the man turn, facing his way, presenting a wider target.

He held the image, eased back on the trigger, took his shot.

As the gunman went down Bolan swiveled and tracked his partner. He had reacted to the shot, aware it had come from only a short distance away from his own position. He swung his weapon around and began to pump shots into the foliage. Bolan felt the bullets chew at the greenery close by.

A slug skinned his right arm.

The Executioner held his position, watching the dark bulk of the shooter as he twisted to get a better look at his potential target.

It was a question of who would hit their target first.

Bolan’s refusal to alter his own position allowed him that extra time to settle his aim and fire. He triggered a trio of shots, the Beretta hammering out its heavy sound in the closeness of the forest. The target flinched as the slugs hit him sidelong, angling up through his ribs to puncture lungs. He stumbled back with a heavy exhalation of breath before crashing solidly to the ground.

The Executioner picked up the merest flicker of sound behind him. Someone was really close.

The last man.

He caught a sliver of shadow on fronds to his left. The sliver expanded. Loomed over him. Instinct took over. Bolan rolled. He saw a dark shape towering over him, right arm already powering down, the intent to bury a machete deep into his skull. Bolan caught the blur of the blade as it slashed downward. Heard the soft whoosh as it cleaved the air. The blade pierced the ground as the Beretta fired. Bolan’s attacker grunted as he caught the bullets in his torso. The man toppled and the machete remained buried in the soil, inches away from Bolan.

He pushed himself into a crouch and spent the next few minutes observing the forest around him. Apart from the constant bird chatter, he picked up no other sound. He spotted no further movement. Bolan stretched his wait for another ten minutes. He felt reasonably satisfied he was alone. For the moment. Sooner or later someone would contact the base. When they received no reply men would be dispatched to find out what was happening.

Bolan realized he was far from being in the clear.




5


The first drops of rain against his face woke the Executioner. He sat up, the Uzi on track until he realized what had alerted him. He could hear the heavy patter as the rain increased and became a downpour. Even with the cover of the forest he was soaked as he climbed to his feet. The water washed the camouflage mud from his face and arms. It had served its purpose.

Bolan took stock. Which way to go? Heading deeper into the jungle could be unwise. He might find himself in isolated territory. Miles from anywhere. He was poorly equipped. He had nothing to sustain himself. All he had were the weapons he was carrying. No food or water. No protective clothing. He wasn’t even sure where he had been held.

Colombia?

Venezuela?

The background to Maggie Connor’s investigation had mentioned both countries. Had he been brought to the border district by the subjects of Maggie’s probing? His business in Florida had uncovered facts that pointed in that direction.

Bolan knew he wasn’t going to find answers by standing around in the rain. He came to a decision. His only point of reference was the base he had escaped from. Back there he might find answers. He might also find transport out of the jungle. His captors had to have had some transport to get him to the place. A truck? Jeep? Or had they flown him in by helicopter? The thought registered and Bolan figured it the most likely. If so, the chopper would eventually return. He wanted to be there when it did.

He took his time retracing his steps. The steady pace kept his battered body from stiffening up while exercising his muscles. The rain stayed with him, hammering down with the ferocity only found in tropical climes. The already-soft jungle floor became waterlogged. The downpour soaked through to his skin. Despite the rain the temperature stayed warm, and once the downpour ended, the sullen heat would return with a vengeance. The enclosed atmosphere would trap the warmth in a steamy cocoon.

Bolan came to the edge of the jungle. He stared across the clearing at the silent base. There was no movement or sound. Just the bodies of the gunmen he had taken down on his exit from the cell block. He spent the next thirty minutes circling the area, viewing it from all angles and confirming his thoughts. The place was deserted and he saw no means of transport. On the farthest side of the clearing he spotted a flat patch that bore the imprint of a helicopter’s landing gear. There were dark patches from oil seepage, as well.

He moved back to the cluster of buildings, still cautious.

There were three empty stone huts. One had an open frontage and served as a crude kitchen. There were sleeping quarters, with rough wooden pallets holding blankets. The final hut would have been the HQ and storage area. When Bolan went in he saw a radio transceiver against one wall. Equipment was strewn around the place. He spotted a case of bottled water. He opened one and took a long drink.

Crossing to the radio Bolan flicked on the power switch. The set remained dead. He followed a power cord and saw it disappear through the stone wall. He stepped outside and walked behind the building where a lean-to protected a portable generator unit. He checked out the small motor that drove the generator. About to fire it up he saw that someone had removed the lead that connected to the spark plug in the cylinder head. No spark, no ignition. No power to the radio. Someone had been thinking on his feet. The missing lead was probably in the pocket of one of the dead men back in the jungle.

The Executioner went to the makeshift kitchen and searched for food. In a metal locker he found some cans of corned beef. He broke the ring pull seal and opened a can. The smell of the meat made his empty stomach growl. He used his fingers to gouge out a portion and ate sparingly. He ignored the demands of his appetite. Overeating would be dangerous. He took the can with him as he returned to the HQ hut, and ate a little more corned beef, washing it down with some water. He moved one of the crude wooden chairs closer to the door to see the landing site. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the thick stubble that had grown during his captivity. He waited patiently, allowing his body to recharge.



THE DISTANT SOUND CAUGHT his attention. It rose and faded, broken up by the drumming of the rain on the roof. But it was a sound Bolan recognized instantly. Rotors beating the air.

The helicopter was getting closer. The sound was building. Then he saw it. A red, silver and blue Bell 206B3 JetRanger III. It came into sight above the tree line, angling down as it swooped over the base. Bolan watched it circle a number of times before the pilot settled it onto the landing site. The rotors began to slow as the power was cut. No one climbed out, even after the rotors ceased moving. They were being cautious. The guards had not shown themselves and radio silence remained.

The Executioner knew he would have reacted the same way given the circumstances.

Eventually, hatches opened and the pilot and his passenger climbed out. Both men were armed. Huddled together at the front of the chopper they discussed how to handle the situation. There was no doubt they had spotted the dead men.

Bolan ran a double check of his weapons. The reloaded Uzi was set to one side. He set an AK-74 for full auto mode. He knew the men were not there to ask after his welfare. He saw them move, AK assault rifles in their hands as they double-timed in the direction of the camp. They were aiming directly for the hut where Bolan was waiting.

He watched the two men as they closed in.

The lead man opened fire as he approached the hut. Bolan saw the wink of flame from the black muzzle.

He snapped up his own weapon, returning fire that ripped splinters from the door frame, then continued on to puncture the gunner’s torso in a bloody spray. The man stumbled back, face contorted, mouth open in a warning shout. Bolan hit him with a second burst that rolled him along the side of the hut and dropped him facedown on the sodden ground.

A blur of movement showed in the open doorway. The second man ignored his partner’s warning and ran directly into Bolan’s line of fire. The Executioner held his finger on the trigger and cleared the magazine, blowing his target to shreds.

Crouching, he fed in a fresh magazine and cocked the assault rifle before he did anything else. He climbed to his feet, feeling the overwhelming fatigue returning, and knew if he didn’t get some rest he was going to fall flat on his own face. He had to find out why he’d ended up at the camp and what Raul Manolo was planning. But first he had to make his final escape.




6


Florida

It was late by the time Bolan arrived in Riba Bay. He pulled in at the first motel he saw, took a room and slept through to morning. A long shower helped to clear his head. After a shave he dressed in fresh clothing, hung the shoulder rig under his jacket and walked to the diner across the road. He sat down and realized how hungry he was. The previous day had been too busy to allow him to eat. He ordered a solid breakfast and coffee.

While he waited he called Hal Brognola. The big Fed didn’t sound too happy and grouched his way through the preliminaries.

“That set-to on the highway is going to take some time to settle. I didn’t expect a small war to break out when I asked you to look for Maggie.”

“Same goes for me.” Bolan paused as the waitress brought his coffee. “Has Bear picked up anything else from her intel?”

“A couple of Cubans. Chico Delgado. Turns out he’s a wheeler-dealer. And there’s a government minister. Santos Perez.”

“Mixed up with Colombians?”

“Struck me as curious.”

“Anything on the crew who pulled the roadblock?”

“Bear pulled the rap sheets of the perps from the Florida State Trooper’s database. Fingerprints identified three of them. They were all hard cases with records going back years. All had done time. One of them was linked with Raul Manolo a couple of years back.”

“It’s starting to look like Manolo doesn’t want me treading on his toes.”

“Striker, watch out for Manolo. His sheet reads like he’s a career psycho. He’s literally got away with murder on a number of occasions. It’s like he’s untouchable.”

“Candidate for a visit, then,” the Executioner said.

“Maggie made some mention of weapons trading. She hadn’t pinned it down when her notes ran out.”

“Colombian drug dealers. Cubans. Now guns. This is getting heavy.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. I’m going to pass you over to Bear. He wants to download some images to your cell.”





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