Salvador Strike
Bolan let his gaze rove over the remaining attendees, and he eventually spotted Smalley standing at the table and talking with people. The police chief had shown up dressed in full parade uniform, the gold stars that rode along his collar shimmering almost as if in rhythm with ornate braid on his sleeves and the brim of his cap. Bolan passed over the crowd after a second and marked the faces of several men in suits and sunglasses stationed along the perimeter of the gathering. FBI? BATF or maybe even Secret Service? They didn’t carry themselves like plainclothes detectives, although he wouldn’t have put it past Smalley to keep a loyal man or two on hand as a bit of insurance.
The conversation seemed a bit solemn and reserved, but the sheer number of voices maintained a steady buzz that seemed to grow in volume as Bolan took in the sights. The Executioner didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so he kept moving along the outskirts of the congregation, careful to maintain a casual demeanor. It wouldn’t do to draw anyone’s attention, particularly the security team, as long as he had no reason to do so. For now he would blend in and keep one ear open for any conversations that might give him insight into his mission objectives.
Bolan also kept one eye on the family, as the members of MS-13 might feel the job wouldn’t be completed until they managed to stamp out every member of Marciano’s family. He took special interest in the positions of each man in the security detail, looking for holes or possible weaknesses in their defense. They seemed to have the place pretty well isolated, and unless the gang planned to wade through the crowd and start shooting, it wouldn’t make sense for them to attempt the hit.
The most vulnerable part of the layout was the perimeter itself. Bolan had noticed only a couple of squads positioned on the road that circled the park during his drive. There were no other pedestrians—obviously they had sealed off the park for the services—so that removed any risk to bystanders. No, if the attack came it would have to be from the perimeter.
The flash of sunlight on metal caught Bolan’s eye, and he turned to see a vehicle approaching from the street where it had entered the rotary. It was big, like a Lincoln or Chrysler, painted dark blue and sporting tinted windows. A second vehicle followed it, an SUV that looked similar to the one described in the police reports Bolan had read from witness statements taken after the Marciano hit.
Both vehicles traveled down the road at a high rate of speed. The sedan stopped just short of the curb with a screech of tires and the SUV wound its way around it, increasing speed and jumping the curb to continue onto the grass. Bolan didn’t need any more than that to know he’d called it correctly. He whipped the Beretta from shoulder leather as he dashed from the cover of the tent and charged directly toward a heavy, metal waste container, the fifty-five-gallon drum type, cemented into the ground, with a plastic bag lining its interior.
The Executioner knelt, took up a firing position and prepared to meet his enemy.
Head-on!
2
As the SUV bore down on his position, Bolan moved the selector switch to burst mode, sighted down the slide and took a deep breath.
The vehicle continued on a clear but erratic path in the direction of the clustered canopies. Nobody in the crowd had even seemed to notice the danger yet, which left the Executioner no options. At the rate the truck was closing, it would be on that crowd within fifteen seconds. Bolan’s eyes flicked toward the sedan, from which several occupants had emptied, armed with what looked like machine pistols. He marked their positions and then returned his attention to the SUV, steadied his two-handed grip on the pistol and aimed for the driver’s side of windshield.
Bolan let out half the breath he’d taken and squeezed the trigger. The windshield spiderwebbed even as Bolan delivered another 3-round burst of 9 mm Parabellum rounds, and that second volley rewarded him with a crimson spray erupting in the interior—a clear sign he’d hit the target. The SUV continued on its straight path and then began to shimmy side-to-side as one of the passengers likely attempted to get control of the wheel.
They had reacted a moment too late, though, as the vehicle jumped a sandy play area and caromed off a heavy wooden merry-go-round. The SUV then jounced across a rough patch of play area, fishtailed through a sandbox and finally hit a triplet of fender-high wooden posts connected with a three-inch-thick rope. The makeshift barrier proved effective enough to bring the vehicle to a halt that rocked the occupants violently into one another.
The Executioner didn’t give them a chance to regroup as he burst from cover and charged the vehicle, firing at the SUV on the run. He was careful to remain directly in front of the vehicle, thereby staying clear of the line of fire. The windshield finally collapsed inward, giving Bolan a clear view of the remaining enemy. Bolan assessed the entire situation in a moment.
Driver was down for the count. Ditto for the man seated behind him. Front seat passenger and two remaining backseat occupants were all moving. Bolan slowed as he got near, dropped the pistol’s magazine for a new one and opened up with a fresh salvo. The men in the SUV could do only two things—panic and die—as the Executioner unleashed a fusillade of vengeance on them. Bolan triggered his weapon repeatedly, catching the front seat passenger first as he presented the most immediate threat in bringing his submachine gun to bear. Bolan’s 3-round burst split the gangster’s skull wide open and added to the bloodstained décor of the SUV interior. Another died with two rounds to the chest and a third to the throat.
The lone survivor managed to pull himself together enough to bail from the SUV, but he didn’t get far. As he leveled his SMG in Bolan’s direction, the Executioner got him with twin rounds through his right thigh. The gunner twisted away and his weapon flew from his grasp, arcing through the air and skittering across the wet grass on impact, well out of his grip. He began to writhe on the ground, holding his wounded leg, and Bolan knew he was no longer a threat. The locals could take him into custody for questioning.
Bolan heard the tap-tap-tap of the machine pistols and semiauto guns being fired at him, but from that distance the gunners from the sedan were unlikely to hit him. Bolan heard shouts and turned to see the security detail along with about a half-dozen uniforms reacting to the scene, several with pistols drawn and rushing toward him. It was time to take his leave. Bolan turned and sprinted toward the parking lot where he’d left his car. He had a slim chance of catching the gangsters in the sedan who were still plinking at him with only futile results.
Bolan had nearly reached his car when two plainclothes security officers attempted to stop him. He flashed the badge as he reached the vehicle, disengaged the door locks with the keyless remote and jumped behind the wheel. The two men slid to a halt and watched helplessly as Bolan cranked the engine, dropped into Reverse and backed out of the lot with a spew of dust and gravel from his tires. Bolan continued in reverse until his wheels found pavement and then executed a J-turn that swung the nose of Stony Man’s loaner vehicle in the direction he’d been backing.
The V8 engine of the Mustang GT roared beneath the hood as Bolan slammed the stick into Second gear and blasted out of the lot with a squeal of tires. The Mustang accelerated and Bolan smoothly shifted into Third gear, then Fourth, heading along the circular road that would connect him with the sedan crew. He had no doubt these were Guerra’s people. They didn’t operate like professional hitters. They had intended to do a drive-by on the mourners at the park, plain and simple. Bolan was thankful nobody else had been at the park, particularly children playing in the area of his conflagration with the men in the SUV.
Bolan looked toward the sedan just as it executed a tight turnaround and headed the way it had come. The Executioner increased his speed, determined not to let them get away. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the frantic scrambling of police toward their cars. There was no longer a threat at the park; the threat was now wherever Bolan allowed Guerra’s men to lead him. Surely they would know he was following them, and he couldn’t say he really minded. Inside the large, nylon bag on the seat next to him was an arsenal of assorted weapons for making war.
In addition to the Beretta, Bolan had brought along his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, the standard hand cannon for dispatching bad guys. It was especially handy when he needed decent firepower in a close-quarters situation where automatic weapons would be clumsy and awkward. He’d also procured an MP-5 K machine pistol, an FNC assault rifle by Fabrique Nationale and a dozen or so M-67 hand grenades. In the trunk he carried some additions to round out his rolling armory, which he would bring into use as the occasions arose.
Bolan tried to coax some more speed from the Mustang, slowing only enough to make the curve at the park exit without flipping the high-performance sports car. The sedan hadn’t gone very far and Bolan knew he wouldn’t have trouble catching up. He grit his teeth when flashing lights of several police squads suddenly rounded the corner of a street farther up and headed directly for the fleeing vehicle. Bolan wished he had a police radio so he could warn them the suspects were heavily armed, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. If the profile on Smalley was even remotely accurate, Herndon would put every available resource at law enforcement’s disposal to make sure there was no further bloodshed by MS-13, and Smalley’s men probably wouldn’t be too careful or discriminate about how they did that. Such a fact would only lead to more good men and women dying, this time men and women wearing badges.
Bolan watched helplessly as the sedan ground to a halt and flashes from muzzles protruding from the windows chopped the glass and metal of the squad cars to shreds. One of the squads was still far enough back to escape the onslaught, but the closest two didn’t fare well. While the police were trained to respond to such incidents, they were hardly equipped to go up against fanatic gangbangers armed with machine guns and assault rifles.
On the other hand, Bolan was.
The Executioner raced toward the carnage and slammed on his brakes at the last moment, swinging his vehicle around the outside of the sedan as he reached into the bag and withdrew the MP-5 K. None of the sedan’s occupants had even noticed him, as they were still focused on shooting up the police vehicles. Bolan put the weapon in battery, lowered his window and stuck his left arm out, machine gun in hand. He depressed the trigger and swept the vehicle. The front and rear windows of what the soldier could now see was a Lincoln MKZ shattered under the attack. The bodies of the gunners danced under the massive assault. He yanked an M-67 high explosive grenade and thumbed away the spoon as he raked the sedan. Amid the shouts and curses of those who survived his barrage, Bolan tossed the grenade casually into the interior and then put the Mustang into Reverse and backed away.
The superheated ball of gas filled the interior compartment a moment later, and flames belched from all four window frames. The blast produced enough effect to lift the car an inch or two off its wheels and settle it back to the pavement in a roaring crash. Bolan could feel the heat and shock wave of the explosion pass through the front window of the Mustang, setting his teeth on edge. He shielded his eyes in order not to be blinded by the flash effect of the PETN-fed blast.
“So much for a dull roar,” Bolan muttered to himself.
The Executioner pulled the Mustang to the curb a safe distance from the flaming wreckage of the sedan, burst from his car and rushed to see if he could render aid to any of the wounded officers. For now, he had evened the score between MS-13 and the Marcianos. That would teach Mario Guerra a lesson—make him realize he and his Hillbangers weren’t quite as invincible as they thought. And there was one other thing Guerra would learn very soon.
Bolan was just getting started.
“YOU WANT TO TELL ME just what the hell you thought you were doing, Cooper?” a red-faced Mike Smalley asked. “This is a Herndon police matter, and the Herndon Police will handle it!”
“No, that’s where you’re mistaken, Chief,” Bolan replied calmly. “This is a matter for everyone.”
“Is it now? Okay then—” Smalley leaned forward in his chair and snatched a sheet of paper off the edge of his desk, placing it in front of him “—let’s just see what we have here. I had the contents of that sports car out there inventoried. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I do,” Bolan replied coolly. “You have no right or jurisdiction to search my vehicle.”
Smalley looked at Bolan and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t? Well, that’s funny because I’m almost positive the search warrant I acquired from a D.C. judge just a little while ago said I did.” He turned his attention back to the paper. “So let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, here we go. One semiautomatic .44 Magnum handgun with no registration record, one 5.56 mm assault rifle of foreign make, one M-16 A-2 assault rifle with M-203 grenade launcher in the trunk, and about one hundred pounds of varied ordnance, military grade.”
Smalley locked eyes with Bolan. “Automatic weapons that aren’t government issued? Military explosives? Just who the hell are you exactly, Cooper—if that’s even your real name? Who do you work for? And don’t hand me any more bullshit about how you’re with the Justice Department. Those creds you’re carrying are a little too clean for my tastes.”
Bolan had been as polite as possible to this point, but Smalley had gone too far now, and the time for niceties was over. Beside, the cat was out of the bag, and he didn’t have any more time to be cheeky. Brognola had said Smalley was old school, which simply meant he was only willing to play hardball with those who were adept at giving back as good as they got. So it was time to change tact.
“All right, Chief,” Bolan said, feigning frustration. “You want the truth, the gloves come off. Quite simply, I’m operating with the full cooperation of the Oval Office. You understand? I don’t answer to you or frankly to anyone else. Gary Marciano’s family and witness were killed because MS-13 has become an epidemic in this country. One I’ve been sent to cure. They warned me you were hard-nosed and by-the-book, which I don’t have any problem with. But my mission is to eradicate this threat to the American public once and for all. Now you’re either into that and willing to cooperate or you’re not. Either way, I don’t really care because I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it. I could have you removed from that chair with one phone call. I’m not interested in doing that, so you’d better decide now if you stand a better chance of focusing on protecting the people of Herndon or standing in my way, all for the sake of protecting your ego.”
Smalley’s face reddened, and the veins bulged from his neck and forehead. His apoplexy at Bolan’s words was obvious, but the soldier also knew Smalley realized he was telling the truth. Herndon was its own municipal entity, to be certain, but it fell under the direct influence of Washington, D.C.—just as all the rest of the capital’s neighboring communities. Smalley served at the pleasure of the mayoral appointment, and the mayor wouldn’t dare refuse a presidential “suggestion” if it came down to it. Still, Bolan liked Smalley for the very reasons Brognola had cautioned him about the police chief, and preferred to have the guy’s cooperation.
Smalley finally calmed down and nodded. “All right, Cooper. You’ve been straight with me, and I guess that’s the best I can ask of any man. And I suppose we owe you a debt, since you saved the lives of a number of cops. Hell, we ought to give you the key to the city for that. But this is still my hometown, understand that. I took an oath to uphold the laws here, and I don’t need some Delta Force cowboy or whatever you are running around this city shooting and blowing up everything in sight.”
“You’ll find I’m a cautious man, Smalley,” Bolan replied easily. “I don’t hit until I’m confident the innocents are well out of the line of fire.”
Smalley shrugged and threw up his hands. “And?”
“And that’s where you come in,” Bolan said. “This is your town, just as you say. So I believe you have a pretty good idea where MS-13 conducts its operations, and the best way to find this Mario Guerra.”
Smalley snorted with a scowl. “Guerra. Yes, he’s a real piece of work that guy. I know he’s personally responsible for at least a dozen crimes, including rape, robbery and murder. I just can’t prove it.”
“You won’t have to prove it,” Bolan said. “The best thing you and your men can do for me is to round up as many of his posse as you can find and keep them on ice. Twenty-four hours, that’s all I’m asking for.”
“Okay…fine, sure, I can do that. But I don’t see how that’s going to help you capture Guerra, or build a case against him that will stick.”
“Building a case against him isn’t my mission objective,” Bolan said.
“Then what do you plan to do?”
The Executioner remained silent, but the cock of his head and steely gaze served as an adequate answer to Smalley’s question.
“I see,” Smalley said.
“Sometimes we can’t play by the rules with a group like MS-13. They’ve terrorized this country long enough, Chief. It’s time for real action, permanent action.”
Smalley nodded slowly with a faraway expression, not even meeting Bolan’s gaze. He could tell the policeman was warring with the idea just presented to him. In the most technical sense, Bolan’s tactics were nothing short of military operations conducted in the civilian sector, a clear violation of a dozen or so federal laws, including one constitutional amendment. Unfortunately, the breaking of such laws was sometimes the only way to combat those who chose to operate outside them. Still, for a guy like Chief Michael Vernon Smalley, it was a damned anachronism to the end purposes of law enforcement and contradictory to everything he knew.
“Though I don’t necessarily agree with your approach,” Smalley said, “I promise you’ll have my support during your efforts.”
“That’s all I would ever ask of you or anyone,” Bolan replied.
“Okay, so how do we do this?”
“First, I need some idea of the core operations area for MS-13.”
Smalley nodded, rose and went to a map of the city hanging on the wall to his right. He pointed to a small area on the south side of the city where it bordered a major road. Smalley traced his finger along that road and said, “This is the Dulles Toll Road, which also marks the border between the city and unincorporated areas of Herndon and Reston. Most of the gang activity has been confined to this region. One of the problems we’ve faced in recent times is the influx of illegal immigrants to this area. We don’t really know why that’s the case, but we do know it’s taxed many of our resources. When we first started to have problems with MS-13 and related gang activity, the Justice Department formed the Northern Virginia Gang Task Force—then NVGTF. There are sixteen communities and law-enforcement agencies now directly involved with the organization, and since 2003 we’ve accomplished much in the cleanup.”
“And then recently you were flooded with a resurgence of activity?” Bolan asked.
Smalley nodded and dropped back into his chair. “Right. We think it’s directly related to the fact we’ve been dealing with this illegal immigration problem. There’s no way for us to combat both problems, and the task force has been suffering from monetary cutbacks since we thought we had the problem licked.”
“Okay. It sounds like the south’s the place for me to start. One other question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you know anything about the case Gary Marciano was building against MS-13 or this witness he had stashed away?”
Smalley shook his head. “I knew Gary Marciano pretty well. Naturally, he was a prominent member of this community. You see, the Town of Herndon numbers about twenty-two thousand people, but we’ve always tried to maintain that sense of a small community. I considered Gary a personal friend, but I didn’t know he was working on a major case. If I had, I might have offered him some protection or assistance. Lord knows, he helped out this department on many occasions. He’ll be missed, though, and you can bet your ass that his family will receive all the resources at my disposal for the future. Whatever they need, they’ll get. I put my personal stamp of guarantee all over that one.”
Bolan nodded as he rose and stuck out his hand. “I’m sure you will. I appreciate the help, Chief.”
Smalley shook the Executioner’s hand and said, “You’ll stay in touch?”
“Count on it.”
As Bolan turned to leave the chief’s office, Smalley called after him. “Hey, Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“You really think you can fix this problem of ours?”
“I can’t make any promises,” the warrior replied. “But in twenty-four hours when the smoke clears and you see who’s left standing, you’ll have your answer.”
3
“Who is this pinche, homeboys, eh?” Mario Guerra splayed out on the sofa with a forty-ounce bottle of beer in his left hand, banged his right fist against his chest and flashed the younger men surrounding him with a sign of solidarity. “Who is this pinche cabrón you allow to kill our homeboys and dis the one-three?”
“We don’t know who he is, Mario,” replied Louie Maragos, one of Guerra’s lieutenants.
Guerra sneered. “Well, then, you better find out, homeboys. You know what I’m saying? This dude, he kills like what…nine boys?”
“Ten,” another soldier corrected.
“Shut the fuck up!” Guerra said, tossing his half-full beer bottle at the man. “I want to know who he is and how he knew we were going to show up.”
“We can find all that out, jefe,” Maragos replied. “But how do we find out how he knew about our plans to hit the park?”
“What, you some kind of clown or something?” Guerra asked. “Obviously, we still got a snitch on the inside somewhere. We got someone who likes to run their mouth—” he flapped his thumb against his fingers “—the minute that they see a cop. It means that somebody probably had to be helping Ysidro. Maybe it’s even one of you homeboys.”
Maragos bristled at the suggestion. “Hey, listen, homeboy, I know you’re in charge and all, but there ain’t no way I’m going to let you accuse me of something without some proof.” Maragos dropped his hand to where he could easily reach the piece he kept at the small of his back. “Ain’t no way, jefe. Sí?”
“Okay, okay,” Guerra said. He sat back down and shook his head. “I ain’t going to accuse you of nothing. I wasn’t going to do that, homeboy.”
Maragos nodded and relaxed his hand. There were rules in the organization; it was a necessity for the kind of place it was. Every moment a homeboy had to be looking over his shoulder, watching not only for trouble from outsiders but from within the organization. Every member had to prove himself in a grueling initiation that included not only a thirteen second beat down by other members, but also by doing something to prove his loyalty. For the females it might be just taking a beat down, or maybe having sex with a number of the ranking vatos. In other cases it might be doing a strong-arm robbery, selling drugs or even participating in a hit with other members.
Whatever the case, the motto of the gang was simple: Being in MS-13 Will Land You in the Cemetery, the Hospital or Prison. The rules were designed to enhance solidarity and prevent a breakdown in the structure of the gang. This code of conduct included rules for how to deal with defectors and dissidents, rules like “you rat, you die” and “everything belongs to the gang,” and the context of those rules made it just as serious an infraction to accuse someone of being unfaithful to MS-13 without proof, simply because the penalties for betrayal were so severe. It was their code, their creed, and nobody—not even a shot-caller—was above the rules.