Devil's Playground

Bolan had to deal with the two hundred kilograms of heroin on the pallet, without resorting to a fire that would alert the remaining smugglers or Munoz in his office.

It took only a short time to locate a janitor’s closet, and bring back several cartons of cleaning supplies. He sliced open the necks of the bottled bleach, then punched air holes in their bottoms and upended them onto the packets of heroin. The air holes would allow the bleach to drain into the heroin more quickly to soak it into a useless morass of chemical paste. The perfectly squared blocks of black tar heroin deformed and swelled under the bleach’s assault. It wouldn’t take long for most of the remaining heroin to be ruined. And with the loss of the drugs near the border, the cartels that Munoz did business with would be enraged.

Though Munoz wouldn’t live to see the morning, the thought of losing a million dollars in heroin to the incompetence of the Mexican army would slow the cartels in doing further business with them. It was a small pause, a tiny impediment. But in the long run, it would give the DEA and the Border Patrol time to shore up their defenses against this particular batch of smugglers.

In the meantime, Bolan had a visit to pay and information to get.

BLANCA ASADO HATED to admit it, gripping the handle of the AK-47, but she was back in her element. Dealing with the emotional crush of her sister’s murder had kicked her around until she couldn’t think straight. In a way, she wanted to thank the faceless marauders who were swarming Armando Diceverde’s small motel room. She thrived on conflict, and because of that she was able to spend years struggling, alongside her sister, rising through the ranks of Mexican law enforcement before she quit and became a private security contractor.

Dread and sorrow were things she couldn’t control, but gunmen coming after her was something she did know how to handle. It would put the agony of losing her sister on hold for a while.

The sight of another masked gunman focused her and she ripped off a short burst from the AK, a row of bullet wounds blossoming from his belt to his throat as she zipped him up the center with the assault rifle. With the stock welded to her shoulder, the recoil was controllable. No ammunition wasted, and through her peripheral vision over the top of the sights, she was able to see other targets popping into view.

Unfortunately, an explosion threw her off as a grenade detonated just outside the door. Diceverde toppled backward, taking the brunt of the concussion, and Asado had to take a couple of steps to regain her balance. Her ears rang, and she cursed herself for not equalizing the pressure in her skull with a loud shout.

Another pair of gunmen appeared in the doorway, expecting their stun grenade to have flattened all opposition within. They were cocky, and their weapons were held low, fingers off the trigger, staring at the flattened photojournalist as he struggled to recover his senses.

“Easy pickings,” one man said.

“So you think,” Asado growled, pulling the trigger on the AK-47 and letting the weapon buck and kick against her shoulder. She held on tight, though, fighting against the muzzle’s rise just enough to keep from emptying rounds into the ceiling, slicing the cocky gunman up through his torso with a stream of 7.62 mm leaden scythes. The shooter slammed into his partner, giving Asado a moment to release the trigger, shift her aim and then tap it again. A trio of bullets spit into the face of the staggered second assassin, his hair and scalp flying back as though someone had thrown open a trapdoor.

Asado reached under Diceverde’s arm. “Come on, Armando.”

Diceverde got to his feet. He hadn’t lost control of his Colt, but he wisely kept it pointed at the ground. His senses were scrambled by the concussion grenade, and if the bomb had gone off inside the apartment, instead of in the doorway, the compression wave would have left them both far more than merely stunned. Asado helped pull Diceverde onto the balcony, and by the time he reached for the railing, he no longer needed assistance.

There were no more signs of enemy activity, but that could have been a lull in the action, Asado thought.

“My car is down there. Follow me,” Asado stated.

“Lead the way,” Diceverde replied. He picked up speed as they reached the stairs.

Asado jumped when she was five steps from the bottom, landing on the sidewalk in a crouch, using her forward momentum to throw her against the fender of her sedan. Gunfire sparked, and Diceverde’s Colt cracked into the darkness. The journalist ducked, having drawn the attention of the hit men, and Asado spotted the muzzle-flash, pinpointing the enemy gunners. She fired another burst, giving Diceverde a break to join her at the car.

Asado threw open the door and ripped off the last of the AK’s load to cover for Diceverde as he crawled into the passenger seat. She let the empty rifle clatter to the ground and slid in behind the wheel. A twist of the key and the engine roared to life. Throwing the car into Reverse, she peeled straight toward the assassins as they rushed her. Diceverde lurched up after reloading his pistol, but Asado stomped on the gas and the Chevy Impala’s rear bumper struck one of the gunmen. The Chevy shook, and Diceverde’s shot missed the charging gunmen as the car rolled over one and quickly past the other.

The other gunman had thrown himself out of the way and Asado stood on the brake, momentum whipping the nose of the Impala around as she ground the gearshift into drive. With a tromp on the gas, she was off, shooting into the street as gunfire banged against the car.

Diceverde shouted in pain, his gun falling into the seatwell.

“Armando?”

“Took one in shoulder,” he rasped.

“Just hang on,” Asado told him. “I’ll get you to some help.”

“Feels like my arm is broken, but there’s not much bleeding,” Diceverde said, pained.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Asado replied, swinging around a corner. She wanted to make certain no one followed her.

Once she was sure that they had no tail, she pulled off onto the side of the road and reached under her seat for the first-aid kit. She packed the gunshot wound with gauze and taped it in place to control the bleeding. Diceverde was right; there wasn’t much blood. She taped his forearm against his stomach to hold it in place, then worked up an improvised sling from seat belt straps in the backseat, always keeping an eye out for enemies who would try to finish the job.

Blanca Asado couldn’t believe she’d lost both her sister and her trust in her country in the same night.

COLONEL JAVIER MUNOZ put down the phone and massaged his brow. His mind reeled from the threats his Juarez connection had growled at him. He looked at the big chrome Desert Eagle on the desk next to him. If he didn’t recover the lost heroin, they’d thread his tongue out his throat and staple his genitals to it, before giving him the sweet release of death.

He rested his hand on the pebbled rubber grips of the massive handgun. One pull of the trigger and he’d hammer out a .50-caliber slug. He’d never shot anyone with it before this day, and Sosa’s death was illuminating. The man’s head had been cored violently, brains squirting out the back in a fountain of human destruction. But even the power of the Desert Eagle might not be enough against the gunmen of the Juarez Cartel. Maybe if he put the muzzle between his lips and squeezed, he wouldn’t feel it.

Something scraped behind him, a movement just outside the cone of yellowed light from his desk lamp. Munoz’s fingers clawed the big handgun closer when another Desert Eagle chopped down like an ax, crushing his carpal bones between two slabs of heavy steel. A hand clamped over the colonel’s mouth before he could let out a cry of pain over his shattered limb, bones floating freely in pulped meat. Munoz’s eyes bulged in their sockets and he was stretched hard backward out of the chair, neck bones creaking against each other.

“Nice pistol,” came a dry, grim voice. “Trouble is, I can lift mine.”

Munoz’s throat burned as his muffled howl of agony tried to force its way past his lips.

His attacker’s Desert Eagle disappeared with the ruffle of steel sheathing itself in leather.

Bolan reached out and picked up the massive .50-caliber weapon, thumbing back the hammer, then sliding on the safety. “In your next lifetime, if Desert Eagles are still around, this is how you should carry it.”

Munoz swallowed as the huge weapon’s muzzle pressed to his cheek. He wanted to struggle, but with Bolan’s knee shoved into the back of his chair, and hundreds of pounds of leverage hauling on his chin and stressing his spine, the colonel was left helpless and paralyzed with pain. His good hand clawed at the hand over his mouth as he struggled to speak past Bolan’s restraining fingers.

“You’ve got something to tell me?” Bolan asked, loosening his grip. “Just remember, you call for help, I put one in your stomach, so it’ll take you a long time to die.”

“Yes, sir,” Munoz whispered, making sure his voice didn’t rise. His windpipe still felt choked off, but this time from fear not physical force. Tears burned down the colonel’s cheeks.

“I listened to your phone call. Your bosses don’t think very much of your performance tonight,” Bolan taunted softly. “After all, losing nearly a dozen men to one enemy combatant?”

“You didn’t fight fair…” Munoz protested, his voice a harsh, ragged exhalation.

“And you did, opening fire on two American lawmen forbidden to return fire against you?” Bolan asked. Munoz’s neck twisted until he was looking at a pair of cold, merciless blue eyes. At first he was going to cry out in pain, but the icy gaze froze his soul.

“Skip the ‘poor me’ whining, Munoz,” Bolan informed him. “All I want to know is who am I sparing the trouble of mutilating you by putting a bullet in your head?”

“Roderigo Montoya-Juarez,” Munoz replied.

“Right,” Bolan returned. “As if Montoya-Juarez would get any of your foul fluids on his fingers. Tell me another joke.”

“I swear. I swear!” Munoz replied, his voice rising.

Bolan ground the steel of the barrel hard against Munoz’s cheek, the ridge of the bone crunching against the unyielding metal. His hand clamped tighter over the colonel’s mouth. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that you were trying to make some noise in order to call for help.”

“I’m not,” Munoz whispered. “I’m not…I just don’t want to die.”

“You’ve done everything you can to convince me otherwise,” the Executioner informed him. “You know how light the trigger is on these pistols, right?”

Munoz heard the metallic clink of the safety catch snapping off. His pants grew hot and wet as his bladder cut loose. “Please…”

“You’re not giving me anything to make me want to spare your life,” Bolan said. “But, considering I just emptied twelve gallons of bleach into what was left of your heroin, I could just spare myself some hearing damage and let Montoya-Juarez have you.”

Munoz’s dark eyes bulged, irises narrowing to pinpricks in sheer horror.

Bolan released the colonel and flicked on the Desert Eagle’s safety.

“Wait…”

“For what?” Bolan asked.

“Juarez has competition,” Munoz replied.

“I know the layout,” Bolan told him. “There are six other cartels sweating Montoya-Juarez right now.”

“A new player who only popped up recently,” Munoz stated. “I gave Juarez a hookup to make a move the other day.”

“With who?” Bolan pressed.

“Army officer by the name of Salvada,” Munoz confessed. “Salvada called in some ex-soldiers to make the hit, but equipped them.”

The Executioner regarded him coldly as Munoz ran the numbers in his head. Nearly one hundred pints of bleach would completely ruin one hundred pounds of heroin instantly. That was a quarter of the two hundred kilograms he had left. Together with the 150 lost at the border, and even more seepage, Munoz could kiss any chance of making it up to the cartel.

Bolan dropped the magazine and racked the slide, then lobbed the empty Desert Eagle onto the desk. “All yours, Colonel. I suggest you run like hell. You’ve got a few hours before Montoya-Juarez stops waiting for you.”

Munoz nodded, looking at the gun.

“Who knows, maybe you can find mercy with the government and military you betrayed. Or you could trust that the Border Patrol won’t kill you on sight,” Bolan suggested. He lobbed one of the fat .50-caliber bullets to Munoz. “Or, you could find your own way out.”

The Executioner turned and left the office. He’d gotten halfway down the hall when he heard the solitary roar of the Mexican’s pistol, followed by the thud of a limp body striking the floor.

He was working his way up the Juarez Cartel, but now he heard about another player in this game.

One that might have been the reason why the governor of Guerrero State wanted the Executioner to join the conflict.

He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

CHAPTER THREE

Anibella Brujillo looked over the railing of the patio at the tall American who was walking up the marble stone path. Over six feet tall, he had deeply tanned skin and a lean, powerful frame. His denim jacket was tight at the shoulders, but hung loosely enough at the waist to inform her that he had to have concealed at least one large handgun in its folds. Clear, ice-blue eyes looked her over and she smiled softly, her wide, lush lips curving as her eyes narrowed invitingly. Emilio Brujillo didn’t even notice the man walking up the path until she gently cleared her throat.

“The American is here, darling,” Anibella said, resting her hand on his thigh, delicate fingers giving his linen-sheathed leg a tender scratch.

Brujillo looked up from his newspaper, nodding absently. “Thank you, darling.”

Brujillo was about twenty years older than Anibella, but even for being only in his midfifties, he was gray and wrinkled, a worn-down man. His run for the governorship of Guerrero had been long and hard, and his work since being in office had been relentless. It was as if the beautiful Mexican singer had married a withered old grandfather, instead of a vibrant, crusading politician. Physically, he looked a wreck, but he still managed to speak in a strong, forceful timbre. Some of her high-society friends seemed scandalized by her public displays of affection with the shrivelled politician, despite knowing about her dalliances on the side.

Emilio Brujillo walked toward the man his friend in the U.S. Justice Department had called Agent Matt Cooper. Anibella assumed it wasn’t his real name, more likely a cover for someone who had a far more sinister history. She looked him over, seeing signs of faint scar tissue on the man’s callused hands and the bit of forearm visible under the light, summer-weight denim jacket. He looked at her, and though his face carried an ageless quality, the glance carried the weight of a man who had been through more than one lifetime.

Brujillo shook Bolan’s hand, and despite the wear and tear on the Mexican governor’s features, his grip was strong, but not challenging. “Welcome to Acapulco, Señor Cooper.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bolan replied, nodding.

“This is my wife, Anibella,” Brujillo introduced. “Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of her. She is a part of my government, and is one of my most trusted confidants.”

Bolan looked at Anibella again, studying her. She reined in her charming, playful nature, instead presenting a curious and innocent facade. The Executioner tensed, watching the change wash over her, and Anibella realized that he was observant, noting the sudden shift in her outward nature. Anibella dropped the charade and simply smiled.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Bolan said, burying his suspicion out of her sight. He was as facile in controlling his emotions as she had been, which set her on edge.

“A pleasure to meet such a man who has earned our president’s trust as an ally,” Anibella replied.

Bolan nodded, looking to Brujillo. “I generally operate off the grid, and alone. Perhaps if you had a trusted operative…”

“I was thinking of having you work with my wife,” Brujillo began.

Bolan raised an eyebrow, glancing to her. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”

Anibella could sense his distrust, and her control over him slipping away.

That was when the Saint of Death tipped her hand, granting the high priestess her advantage back.

BLANCA ASADO RUBBED HER EYES and sighed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep after making certain that Armando Diceverde was patched up and hidden in a safe place. She didn’t want her friend to end up as a statistic or a victim of an overzealous assassin. Asado knew that the men who had struck the night before weren’t federales. Even though she’d engaged in a few “black” SWAT-style operations with the police, they would have had the hotel more tightly sewn up, and wouldn’t have even bothered with grenades through the window. They’d have simply opened up with some powerful rifles, not the relatively weak AK-47s, and just hosed through the walls for thirty seconds, then gone in and policed the corpses. The AKs would have penetrated the hotel walls, but these were gangsters, not working with the best knowledge of what a powerful weapon could do.

Asado’s home was being watched by the police. She recognized the unmarked cars and the stakeout teams, not because she knew the men personally, but because she knew their style. That was all right. Blanca had fresh clothing and some tools in the trunk of her Impala. She’d showered and changed at a public beach. While she had a Remington 12-gauge shotgun and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine pistol in her trunk, taking the place of her spare tire, she’d left them alone.

Instead, she’d reloaded her stubby little Ruger and pocketed two speedloaders for it. The pocket-size .357 Magnum revolver was a good gun, but she needed something easier to reload and shoot quickly and accurately. For that, she went with Armando’s Colt .38 Super. It was fast and powerful, but much more manageable in the recoil department. She would be able to conceal the flat pistol, as well. Considering that the .38 Super 1911 was one of the most popular handguns in Mexico, due to laws keeping citizens from owning military calibers like .45 auto or 9 mm, it would be easy to get spare ammunition and magazines.

Asado watched the gates of the governor’s mansion, noting the arrival of a man in a rental car. As he waited for the gate to open, he scanned around. Taking a look through a pair of compact binoculars, she caught his face. The blue eyes betrayed him as a North American. He caught sight of her and made eye contact for several moments.

Her hand dropped to the chrome pistol on the seat next to her, lips drawn tightly.

Could Anibella Brujillo have hired an American assassin to clean up her affairs?

No. She saw the badge and Justice Department ID card that he’d flashed. He was here in an official capacity. Of course, that wouldn’t exclude his presence as a CIA assassin sent to silence a potential threat to the first lady. But try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile her paranoia with her instincts and experience.

The rental car went through the gates unhindered, and Asado relaxed. She had a knot of tension balled up between her shoulder blades that sent a spike of pain spearing out through her forehead. She wondered, idly, if it was anything approaching the pain her sister felt when she’d been shot. Blanca had been the skeptic of the pair, doubting Rosa’s so-called psychic flashes. The phantom pain was still there, and Asado couldn’t unkink her shoulders though she had already swallowed half a dozen painkillers.

After several minutes of discomfort, Asado tilted and stretched her neck and as she did so, the pain between her shoulders disappeared with a click. Out of her peripheral vision, she spotted movement and she instantly slouched in her seat.

It was a pair of black vans, quickly rolling up the street. Since this particular road led nowhere, there was no need for speeding. In a heartbeat, her hand flashed to the grips of the chrome Colt resting on the seat, the safety snapped off with a click that echoed the release of her tightened tendons in her neck. If it was a psychic message sent through her pain centers, she wished that she’d been able to tell Rosa about it. Maybe, though, it was her dead twin, warning her from beyond.

The lead van accelerated past her Impala, gunfire flashing out the passenger window. The guard at the gate jerked violently as he was torn crotch to throat by a line of automatic fire. He slammed back into the ground and the front grille of the van connected with wrought-iron bars. Peeled from their frame and their runners, the metal sliding gates hurled out of the path of the speeding vehicle. It jolted and rolled to a halt just beyond. The second van swerved around it as men disgorged from the rear of the stalled lead vehicle.

Asado fired up the ignition, but just before the engine turned over, she heard a shout in what sounded like Russian. Her stomach twisted as she realized that the Juarez Cartel had to have brought in outside muscle, namely the mafiya. The Russian organized crime Families were deadly men, culling the ranks of the Soviet military and intelligence to get their most ruthless soldiers and assassins.

As much as this seemed like an opportunity for the first lady to pay for framing her sister as a drug smuggler, Asado couldn’t ignore the fact that innocent bystanders would be caught and killed in the cross fire.

And then there was that blue-eyed American. He was a mystery in this equation, as was Anibella Brujillo. Joining the conflict would give her a vantage point on the questions popping up in her mind.

She gunned the Impala and aimed for one of the men who had rushed to watch the gate. The man was pasty and blond, an obvious Russian, but the Uzi in his hands spoke its message understandable in any language. A volley of 9 mm bullets deflected off the streamlined hood and windshield of the Chevy before the gunner could compensate his angle of fire. Asado put the pedal to the metal and felt the jarring impact of her front fender against the mafiya thug, bones shattering on impact as he launched into her windshield and smeared torn flesh and gore across the cracked safety glass.

Asado regretted losing the Impala, but lives were at stake. She dived out of the driver’s seat after popping the rear trunk. The MP-5 and a bag of magazines came immediately to hand, and she threw the satchel over her shoulder like a lethal purse.

Only one of the Russians had stayed behind to watch the gate, meaning that the killers had a plan to be in and out before a prolonged firefight could break out.

Thunder crashed in the distance, the deep and throaty bark of a .44 Magnum pistol cracking loudly as a counterpoint to the softer chatter of machine pistols.

The American had come, and he was prepared for a fight.

MACK BOLAN’S CURIOSITY about Anibella Brujillo was put on hold with the distinct rattle of an automatic weapon in the distance. In a heartbeat he had the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle out of its quick-draw leather, safety off, finger resting in register against the trigger guard. It took only a moment of hesitation to call out in Spanish to Governor Emilio Brujillo’s bodyguards to get him to safety immediately.

Anibella pulled a Glock from underneath the breakfast table. She didn’t rack the slide, and her finger was off the trigger, muzzle aimed at the ground.

“That means you, too, ma’am,” Bolan snapped.

Her hazel eyes flashed brightly with indignity. “They are attacking my home, Mr. Cooper, and I have been trained by the best commandos Mexico has.”

“They’re also heavily armed,” Bolan countered. He knew that the first lady hadn’t run at the previous assassination attempt. Indeed, she’d picked up a handgun belonging to one of her fallen bodyguards and proceeded to fight back with savage proficiency. “If you want to help, protect your husband and fall back along with his security detail.”