Exit Strategy

STONY MAN

The best military fighters and cyber techs in the world, the Stony Man teams are on the front lines of America’s war against terror. Operating under the President’s orders, these elite warriors put their lives on the line in the name of freedom.

NO ESCAPE

An investigation into government corruption turns deadly when two reporters are attacked by a Mexican black ops group. With one journalist killed and the second held captive in Mexico’s most dangerous prison, Phoenix Force will need to act fast before its rescue mission becomes a recovery operation. But while Phoenix Force is battling the country’s deadliest inmates in a high-tech fortress, Able Team learns the corruption has already infiltrated US law enforcement, threatening both sides of the border.

“STEP OUT OF THE VAN.”

Blancanales listened for signs of a possible hidden gunman. He had a prisoner, at least for the moment, but one mistake and his brains could be spilled on the street with the would-be killers he’d just dispatched.

The prisoner followed Pol’s instructions.

“Lie down on your stomach and lace your fingers behind your head,” Blancanales barked. The guy, obviously in a mood to survive this encounter, did as he was told. His breath came in rapid gulps, anxiety too real to be faked.

“Anyone else get away?”

“Yeah,” the man answered. “He ran...”

Toward the front of the van, the Able Team warrior concluded, as a shadow flickered in the windshield of the vehicle, disappearing around the corner. There were no abandoned weapons on the sidewalk, so there was a good chance the escaped ambusher was packing some serious firepower.

Blancanales dropped to a kneeling position at the sound of footfalls on the asphalt on the other side of the van. The gunman intended to flank him, but Blancanales was ready, front sight on the spot where a head would appear.

Exit Strategy

Don Pendleton

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Few things were ever truly worthwhile on these witness protection jobs, but Domingo Perez did find this family to be actually worth a damn. Sadly, Justice never really had much for “innocents” who were in the line of fire; their deals went to scumbags who had their hands painted red with blood up to their elbows. This case was different and Perez had known there was something of worth in this security detail when he’d gotten word that the operation involved blacksuits. Seeing Harold Brognola at the briefing for the mission had been the icing on the cake. The big Fed was known as someone who was well connected to even the highest-level covert ops.

The Castillos were a fine family. There was the father, formerly a crusading journalist in Mexico. Joaquin Castillo had stirred the hornet’s nest of government and law enforcement corruption plenty of times over the years, and Perez was fully aware that anyone the reporter had targeted was well and truly bent. His wife, Amanda, was herself in the journalism business; practically the other half of the investigative team that peeled back layers of grimy corruption by carving through the tumorous hide of the diseased beast that was south-of-the-border law enforcement.

Perez had worked with more than enough of them to realize that while the rank and file were good and honest, the higher in rank you rose, the more stink you had to roll around in, rutting in it like a pig in mud. Up high, you either had to be a saint with the reflexes of a cockroach or practically dance in the laps of the cartels.

Donald Burnett, the marshal in charge, had given Perez the three Castillo children to place in protection. The oldest was a fourteen-year-old boy, also named Domingo. Then there were his younger sisters, Pequita and Annette, born at two-year intervals after Domingo.

At fourteen, Domingo Castillo had already lived in two different countries and was as fluent in English as he was in Spanish to the point where he’d only have an accent if he wished to. His hair was a light brown, a “gift” from his grandfather by his mother, Amanda, strong currents of Spaniard blood coursing through that side of the family. His eyes were hazel and mercurial, flashing at times bright green or smoldering into a dark brown, which often reflected the young man’s moods.

Pequita, at twelve, was already growing into a young beauty. She had her father’s black hair and her mother’s cool blue eyes. Whenever Perez was in the room, Pequita seemed to never look away from him. He remembered when he was twelve and how girls his age had never showed the slightest interest in him, not when there were older boys or men around.

Perez was flattered at the attention, but at the same time he thought of all the poor twelve-year-old boys of the world who were just starting to form an interest in girls. Twenty years ago, Perez would definitely have been agog over Pequita, and at the same time be halted by crippling shyness that such a cute girl would have had on him.

Grin and bear it, Dom, he told himself.

Annette was just as tall as her older sister, but more round-faced and bespectacled. That pure Spaniard blood showed in how her cheeks freckled instead of tanning evenly, the glimmering yellow highlights in her hair and the flash of blue in her eyes.

The safe house in Arizona was one that was large and comfortable enough for the Castillo clan and the eight agents assigned to protection. The security wall around the estate was twelve feet in height and equipped with some of the best and latest sensors available. This, Perez thought, also likely thanks to the top people at Justice.

It was a good setup, at least in terms of technology. The members of the witness protection team themselves were equipped for a war if necessary. Except for Burnett, every member of the team was armed with a Glock 21 .45 ACP autoloading pistol. With fourteen rounds on tap and thirteen in subsequent reloads, Perez couldn’t have asked for more firepower that he could hide under an untucked shirt.

Perez, watching over the kids as they enjoyed a swim day in the roasting Arizona heat at a pond on the property, had a Mossberg 930 SPX not far away in the Jeep. Using the lessons learned from the earlier Mossberg Jungle Gun made for the United States Marine Corps in the nineties, Perez knew his semiautomatic 12-gauge shotgun was designed for combat. Nine rounds of 12-gauge were in that piece with more shells in a sidesaddle on the stock of the big blaster. He liked the interchanging of buckshot and slugs because there was no telling at what range he’d encounter an attacker.

There were M4 SOPMOD rifles and actual M16s back at the villa, as well, but Perez was a Chicago boy and in his heart and mind being a cop meant using a shotgun.

Domingo Castillo swung on a branch out over the glassy surface of the pond and let go. The boy’s slender limbs flailed for a moment as he hung in the air before splashing down. Pequita and Annette laughed at his “air dance” and Domingo burst up through the surface with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Did you see that?” Annette called out. The bespectacled youngest sister had been shy around all the strange new adults, even the female marshals, Lewis and Moore, but as Perez was their primary “sitter” the girl was comfortable with him.

Perez nodded and smiled. As he did so, he saw her cheeks redden and he realized that Pequita wasn’t the only one who had an interest in older men.

¡Dios! Perez prayed for strength. Ignore it and move on, Dom. And pray to hell this doesn’t cause any trouble for you in the future.

As if at the very thought of trouble, the rumble of distant helicopters wafted to Perez’s ears. Nothing appeared to be flying in this direction, but he lunged into the cab of the pickup to grab the set of binoculars he’d left on the dash.

There were three helicopters hovering over the compound. Dull black metal, not even reflecting sunlight off their skins, dark-tinted windows and strange tail booms told him that these were not normal aircraft. Their rotor-slap was only suddenly heard not because of their approach but because they no longer were operating under minimal noise profile. Perez loved helicopters and noticed that one had the little dolphin nose of a Bell Ranger but the same round, squat body of the AH-6 “Little Birds” of US Special Operations fame.

It took a moment for him to recognize one of the helicopters as the Bell MD-900 Explorer. The normal Explorer was a bird that could carry six passengers alongside its pilot and copilot and had a range of nearly three hundred miles on internal tanks. Through the zoom of his binoculars he saw drop tanks, as well, which could easily double its flight time, and he knew it could cruise at 154 miles an hour with its turbo Pratt & Whitney engines.

One stayed in the air, side door open, an odd strobe flickering off the side. Perez swept the binoculars down to the other Explorers that had landed and disgorged men. A dozen of them, dressed in black, with helmets, heavily laden vests and assault rifles rushed toward the compound

As soon as gunfire crackled in the distance, Perez let the binoculars drop into the seat well. He looked back at the children by the pond.

“Get in the truck,” Perez ordered. “Now!”

Domingo Castillo’s pupils were tight, his normally tanned cheeks flushed and damp with sweat as he guided his younger sisters toward the marshal’s service vehicle.

Perez heard the violent faraway roar of something big. Guns sounded a lot louder, much more dangerous than they did on television, but this wasn’t new information for him. Had he the time to contemplate, he’d show some regret at living so close to violence that he knew the true sounds of gunfire. His parents had tried to keep him and his sisters safe from the ravages and the corruption of everyday life in Mexico.

The girls, to their credit and to the shame that they had learned this so young in life, knew what was wrong, what was happening. Perez had the passenger-side door open for the kids, Glock .45 in his fist ready to go.

Violence seethed up at the villa and though his every instinct was to rush up there and assist his fellow marshals, he knew that bringing three preteens into the middle of a gunfight was the worst possible thing that he could do. In the choice between helping his friends and saving the lives of the Castillo children, his orders were to run like a scared little girl.

Cursing, he moved around to the driver’s side, got in and fired up the engine. If someone pursued, and so far he saw nothing in the rearview mirror, his job was to evade hostiles and to defend the kids if cornered. The fight he could put up with his shotgun and pistol would be long and loud. And, hopefully, be more than enough to keep this precious cargo secure.

Pedal to the metal, he put distance between the children and the conflict at the main house.

“Stay down, girls!” Perez shouted. “Stay down!”

Keep going faster and faster. Pull away before they hear—

The rear windshield cracked as something hit it. It wasn’t a pebble. Not with the force of the impact. But it was also not a bullet that retained enough energy to punch through safety glass.

Perez stomped on the gas harder, building up speed.

* * *

AMANDA CASTILLO’S LIFE was never considered to be one of caution and comfort. She was born into privilege in Mexico, with enough European Spanish blood in her to allow her natural blond highlights and the glimmer of blue eyes. Though the differences between her and other Mexicans weren’t that apparent, especially given the richness of her sunburned skin, her father’s wealth was something that had kept her in undeniable comfort. His kind of money meant that he didn’t have to worry about the legalities of protecting her from the “lower classes.”

What had started as rebellion as a teenager had turned into something much different. She’d hung with Joaquin, an idealistic, young wannabe revolutionary in the slums of Mexico City, and her youthful aimlessness had evolved into a crusade for justice. Joaquin Castillo had turned from Marxist idealist into someone who saw the truths of corruption, both right-and left-wing. Amanda Moran conveyed her good looks and connections into a place where she could strip bare the hypocrisy and corruption in an anchor’s chair.

They’d married, but Amanda Moran Castillo was part of a one-two punch. Joaquin dug deep into the secrets behind the camera and Amanda laid them raw and unfiltered on nationwide TV. It was dangerous, risky, and Amanda was reminded of that every day when she looked in the mirror at the scars on her hips and stomach. The end of her two-piece-bikini days was a small price to pay, however, for the cause of truth and justice.

Now, however, as she watched a US Marshal apply emergency first aid to Joaquin, she realized that some prices were just too high to pay.

“¡Mi corazon!” she breathed as Marshal Burnett put his arm across her chest, holding her back from the scene.

Amanda wanted to tear loose from the old lawman with his Southern drawl, but she became all too aware of the need for his restraint. The wooden floor between her and her wounded husband was shredded, splinters and sawdust erupting as a wave of heavy automatic fire rained down.

“Gettin’ yourself killed ain’t gonna help your man!” Burnett growled. He tugged her farther back from the damaged wall, keeping himself and his big silver handgun between Amanda and any incoming harm. Burnett, no stranger to Southern law enforcement given his twang, walked the line with a big old 10 mm STI Executive.

Amanda, who’d spent enough time around firearms thanks to her rich family, was impressed at the beast of a gun. Everything from its gleaming, mirror-polished slide and black polymer frame screamed “fear me.” The Executive was essentially what happened when a Texan decided that the Colt 45 just didn’t have enough punch or enough rounds in the magazine. The basic design of the 1911 had been preserved, but the polymer frame had a hole in the grip to handle a double-stack magazine. Burnett said he had twenty rounds in each of the fat magazines on his belt. The 10 mm round carried as much punch at 100 yards as the .45 ACP had at the muzzle, and Burnett wasn’t using the down-loaded FBI rounds that had eventually given birth to the .40 Short and Weak, as he called it.

The house had gone from silent to a maelstrom of thunder and disintegrating objects in the space of heartbeats. With Joaquin down, but seemingly miles away on the other side of a deadly firefight, Amanda’s thoughts quickly turned toward her children. They were out of the house...

Out in the open!

Burnett kept her still, edging them farther along the interior of the house, avoiding clear fields of view from the windows.

“The kids!” Amanda shouted.

“Out on the edge of the estate,” Burnett growled. There was a motion caught out of the corner of Amanda’s eye, and Burnett reacted, firing that big silver gun through the naked windowpane. The Executive roared loudly enough to make the crackle of gunfire outside disappear for a moment. Apparently, Burnett’s first shot didn’t have an effect. He shifted his aim and fired through the wall. Massive chunks blew out and in less than a moment the figure of a toppling man appeared for a brief instant in the window.

“We have ground attackers! Side three!” Burnett shouted over his hands-free mike. Whether any of the other lawmen around the compound could hear a thing was highly in doubt. But even as Burnett barked his observation, bigger guns cut loose from inside, blasting more chunks through walls, tearing into those laying siege to the house.

Amanda knew that, unfortunately, that vulgar display of firepower made them targets. Something turned the ceiling of the house to shredded remnants of terra cotta, tar paper and ceiling struts raining down in the wake of a blaze of automatic gunfire. The silhouettes of gunmen disappeared in the rain of burning lead.

The next thing she knew, her voice was raw from screaming over the loss of two of her defenders. Hell clattered all around her and Burnett forcibly pushed and pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, but Burnett’s hand never allowed her to trip. He was a steady guide, a protector.

Amanda glanced back and the room where she’d left Joaquin was obscured by collapsed ceiling and walls. Her stomach twisted. Joaquin’s injuries already horrific, he was now either buried in rubble or chewed to ribbons by the torrent of fire and death hurled by their assailants.

If death hadn’t already claimed her husband from his gunshot wounds, it was closing its grasp on his life tighter and tighter.

Her eyes stung, throat constricted.

“Make sure that Perez got away with the kids,” Amanda shouted over the din.

“He had his orders,” Burnett growled. “He’ll get them as far away as possible. Or die trying.”

Amanda’s eyes widened with horror at that thought.

“They’re hammering this house from all sides. I doubt they brought enough aircraft to do that and chase down Perez in his truck,” Burnett emphasized. “But those kids need their mother. That means we keep on the move!”

Thunder and lightning seemed to blast Amanda’s world to splinters, her vision and hearing fading out. She could feel the dull thud of the floor against her cheek and shoulder, and even through the wail of ringing in her ears, Burnett’s big bad gun cracked through the mayhem of her sensory deprivation.

Rough hands suddenly yanked her to her feet, pushed her along. This time her feet snarled against each other, her knees cracking against clutter. These were the hands of a thug hauling her around like a piece of meat, not the hands of a protector.

Time had little meaning, but she felt her feet bash and stumble against each other what felt like a thousand times. Just when she was tired of tripping on her own feet, her vision cleared enough to see that she was outside in the Arizona sun.

She only caught a brief glimpse of the blue sky before she toppled face-first into the dry grass of the yard. Spitting and coughing blades from between her lips, she heard the grumbles of two men talking. Explosions and gunfire left her ears too muddled to make out their conversation, but when one bound her wrists behind her back, it didn’t leave much doubt.

From witness in federal protection to widow and prisoner.

With the aircraft and sheer firepower on hand, Amanda quickly put together that this was one of the many enemies she had made. Undoubtedly this was a cartel, since few others could afford helicopter gunships and trained troops, and only the most insane of Mexican government agencies would dream of murdering US Marshals on American soil.

Then again, Accion Obrar was a branch of the federales known for its gleeful willingness to break the rules. Harold Brognola of the US Justice Department had brought the Castillos to Arizona to protect them from AO, and if these men were cartel, they were only once removed from the paramilitary, unsanctioned vigilante force that she and Joaquin had gathered so much dirt on.

And now they owned her. The nylon cable ties bit her wrists cruelly, and her shoulders burned in protest as a captor hauled her to her feet.

“On the chopper, puta” came the order. Amanda struggled to stay upright despite the force of the thug’s shove, and she did enter the helicopter, but only after banging her knees and thighs against the bottom of the opened side door. The bare metal flooring chilled her cheek, and more hands snagged her ankles and lower legs, levering her up and into the cabin. She wanted to turn over, but a forest of combat boots surrounded her. They penned her in; she couldn’t move. She wanted to spit and curse them all, but more than one of them planted a sole on her back. The weight of their feet immobilized her, informed her that she was only meat for them; a trophy deer brought back from a successful hunt.

She only lived at their whim. One mistake and they crushed her underfoot, without qualm, without mercy.

Though, if their intent was to keep her, then she knew there was only one destination ahead for her.

El Calabozo sin Piedad.

These were Los Lictors, a group of merciless yet utterly precise commandos whose skills relegated the similar Los Zetas to second best. Assault rifles, special operations tactics, brutal accuracy and violence of action made them the elite champions of the cartel wars.

El Calabozo sin Piedad.

The Dungeon without Pity.

In her decades of covering corruption among Mexican law enforcement, no other prison in the world harbored such a grim, soul-chilling reputation. Not even the Black Dolphin prison in the former Soviet Union had such a reputation for violence and level of security.

People went in there, and the only reason they came out again was that they’d only been put there for “a vacation.” Accion Obrar used it to keep their favorite gun thugs and smugglers out of the view of the law. It was a place where demons were allowed to indulge their tastes for mayhem and abuse against rival cartels and political dissidents.

Amanda Moran Castillo was such a political dissident in the eyes of Accion Obrar.

And in the space of a day’s travel, she would be handed over to the worst inmates at the darkest, deadliest asylum on the planet.

No, Amanda didn’t live at the whim of these kidnappers. They wanted her to live.

For she was on the fast track to hell, and death was a mercy she’d soon beg for.

CHAPTER TWO

The assembly of all the members of the Stony Man Farm’s teams—Able Team, Phoenix Force, as well as the cybernetic squad—was not a good portent. With all hands on deck, this either had to be a national emergency or a direct threat to the Sensitive Operations Group itself. Without the presence of the founder of Stony Man—the Executioner, Mack Bolan—the covert agency still thrived, undimmed by the privation of the legendary soldier. The lone warrior had his own missions out in the world; things that fell through the cracks that even a top secret government-sanctioned antiterrorism agency could not attend to.

Carl Lyons, brawny, blond and grim-faced, and his colleague in arms, David McCarter, bracketed Harold Brognola at the head of the table. In contrast to the square-jawed, all-American football hero Lyons, McCarter was lean and fox-faced. His build was no less defined than Lyons’s, but he was more panther than king of the jungle. They were the respective leaders of their teams; Lyons commanding the urban warriors known as Able Team and McCarter being the leader of Stony Man’s foreign ops unit named Phoenix Force.