Devil's Playground
“But…” Anibella began, but the Executioner had no time to waste in debating with her. He took off in a long, loping run, keeping to the concealment of a row of planter-based hedges. The concrete would provide him with cover and he found a good position where he’d have protected fields of fire to control the rear entrance of the mansion.
A shape crouched beside him and from the smell of Anibella’s perfume, he didn’t even have to look to identify her.
“Not going to yell at me?” the woman asked, finding a notch in the concrete planter she kneeled against.
“It’s too late now, and I’d give away my position,” Bolan returned, containing the urge to growl at her. “It’s your funeral.”
Her wide lips curved upward in a smirk. “I don’t think you’ll allow that—”
“Incoming,” Bolan cut her off. He took careful aim with the Desert Eagle, the front sight cutting across the forehead of a gunman. He was mildly surprised at the Slavic features of the hitter, as well as the Uzi submachine gun in his hands. However, that didn’t slow his pull of the trigger, nor the screaming 240-grain jacketed hollow-point round he punched through the Russian’s skull at more than 1300 feet per second. The dome of bone and scalp that had been the top of the assassin’s head flipped back on strips of stretchy flesh.
Other mafiya goons dived wildly for cover as the Executioner tracked a second Uzi-armed killer and popped another .44 Magnum slug through his rib cage. Eight hundred foot-pounds of energy tore the Russian’s heart in two, killing him instantly. Anibella’s Glock .40 barked off to Bolan’s right, taking down a third gunman with a double-tap to the upper chest.
Three down so far, but a half dozen SMGs ripped out a sheet of return fire that drove them both back behind the protection of concrete garden decorations.
“You wouldn’t happen to have anything heavier…or maybe some grenades, would you?” First Lady Brujillo asked.
“Not right now,” Bolan replied, shifting his position to the end of a long marble bench. Swinging around the side, he tapped off four quick shots that took two of the hit men off guard from their flank. Cut down by the Magnum heartstoppers, he drew the attention of the remaining four shooters. Bolan was letting the marble absorb the fire lancing in his direction, allowing the gunmen to burn up their reserves of ammunition on bulletproof stone. Suddenly, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision.
Anibella’s Glock ripped off several quick shots toward a knot of Russians who were trying to slip up on Bolan’s blind side. The Executioner’s left hand ripped his Beretta from its shoulder holster as he emptied his Desert Eagle toward the mobsters, helping to keep them down. One of the shooters jerked violently, his neck geysering out a fountain of arterial blood as a .44 Magnum round ripped through it. Finally the 93-R machine pistol snapped out at full extension on his left arm. On semiauto, the six-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Beretta spun a 9 mm shot through the face of a second of the newcomers. The 93-R’s extra barrel length gave him enough accuracy to make lethal shots at forty yards, while the 9 mm bullet still had enough velocity to cause major damage.
There was more gunfire in the distance, automatic weapons chattering on an exchange of fire that gave the Executioner pause. From his memorization of the mansion’s layout, none of the other security on the scene would have been in a position to engage in combat with the invaders. Someone else had entered this conflict, and Bolan wasn’t certain exactly who.
“Fall back to the house,” Bolan ordered, capping off a pair of Parabellum rounds into the face of a Russian hitter. A gory splash churned up the assassin’s features, whipping him to the ground like a sack of garbage.
“Why?” Anibella Brujillo asked. Her Glock roared twice more, fat bullets tearing through the shoulder of a second Uzi-packing killer. She bore down and finished off the wounded man with three more shots into his center of mass, 180-grain bullets churning internal organs into pureed slush.
“Do it!” the Executioner growled. He popped the empty magazine from his Desert Eagle, stuffed it into his waistband, slapped in a fresh stick and brought the weapon to bear with one hand, all while punching out two more accurate shots from his Beretta. “I’ll cover you. Go!”
The first lady took off. Bolan rose, both handguns blazing. He was firing to draw the assassins’ attention, but even as he sidestepped along the planters, Beretta and Desert Eagle barking almost in unison, he managed to tag two more of the mafiya gunmen, dropping their corpses to the lawn, leaking from multiple wounds.
The full-auto gunfight around the corner was growing closer, and Bolan didn’t want to have to deal with a mysterious newcomer and the governor’s decisively lethal wife at the same time.
Anibella Brujillo reached the back entrance to the mansion, security team members in the doorway with machine pistols barking. Uzis chattered angrily and one of the Mexican bodyguards let out a gargled cry of pain, collapsing to his knees. Brujillo whirled and hooked the injured Mexican under his arm and pulled him to cover as Bolan ripped out 9 mm and .44 Magnum retribution against the knot of gunmen opening fire on the first lady.
“Hurry up!” Anibella shouted.
“Get him to cover!” Bolan snapped. He stuffed the Desert Eagle into his waistband and dropped behind the concrete planter. His index finger stabbed the release on the Beretta, and the 20-round magazine slid freely to the ground. A spare stick snapped into place, and he released the slide to get the machine pistol into battery. The whole move took a second and a half, and he was up and shooting, 9 mm slugs punching into the heart of a bold Russian gunman rushing his position.
The Executioner swung from the dropped assassin and struck another mafiya thug in the throat. Vertebrae exploded from the back of the gunman’s neck.
He turned and saw an auburn-haired woman step into view at the corner of the mansion. She had an Uzi in her hands, exchanging fire with one of the armed raiders. She stitched him from crotch to throat, dropping the Russian like a sack of laundry. She whirled and was feeding her partially spent machine pistol a fresh magazine, when she saw the Executioner. There was a moment of hesitation on her face.
Bolan recognized the woman instantly. He knew the face of the dead bodyguard from the resort assault, Rosa Asado. But, having read the dead woman’s file, he also knew she was one of a pair of identical twins. This had to be Blanca Asado. He remembered, from his briefing with Hal Brognola, that Blanca was wanted for questioning about her sister’s alleged activities as the mastermind behind the first kill-attempt against the governor’s wife.
If the Asado family wanted the first lady dead, then why in hell was Asado here, shooting it out with Russian hired guns when they could have exacted revenge for the murdered twin?
Brognola had surmised, during the briefing, that the Russians and the murdered Asado had been at cross purposes, both seeking the death of Mrs. Brujillo.
All this flashed in a single moment of recognition, and Bolan left the questions to be asked later when he spotted another mafiya gunman sneaking up on Asado’s blind side. Bolan pulled his Desert Eagle from his waistband and punched out a single 240-grain slug that took the Russian at the V of his collarbone. Windpipe, aorta and spine torn out by the heavyweight bulldozer of lead and copper, the gunman flopped to the ground in a bloody mess.
Asado exchanged a quick, wordless glance with the Executioner before her eyes scanned for other opposition.
“Gracias,” she called.
Bolan scrambled, cutting the distance between the two of them, staying alert for any of the mafiya goons who might have retreated to regroup for another attack. He took advantage of the pause to feed the hungry Desert Eagle again, returning it to his hip holster before transferring the 93-R to his right hand. “Blanca?”
“You have the advantage over me, sir,” Asado returned.
“You out for vengeance for your sister?” Bolan pressed.
“I’d like to know who I’m talking to,” Asado answered, her eyes scanning the grounds.
“Agent Matt Cooper,” Bolan introduced. “You here for blood?”
“I’m here for answers,” Asado stated. She had the Uzi pointed between Bolan’s feet, a gesture not lost on the warrior. She didn’t trust him.
“So am I,” Bolan replied. “The one answer I want is, are you looking for payback for your sister?”
Asado’s eyes narrowed, lightning sparking behind them at the accusation. “Someone framed my sister, and now she’s dead, and the police want to ‘question’ me. And you know how they ask questions in a Mexican jail.”
Bolan’s lips drew into a tight line. “So do you want to stick around and find out the truth?”
Asado glanced toward the mansion. “You think you can pull the fangs on Anibella Brujillo?”
Bolan looked over his shoulder, then back to Asado. He fished a business card out of his pocket and flipped it to her. “Contact me if you can. Use the voice-mail line. It’s secure.”
“You sure about that?” Asado asked.
“It’s ironclad,” Bolan told her. “Get out of here.”
Asado let the Uzi drop to the ground between them. “I’m trusting you for now.”
She took off around the corner, heading for the front gate. Sirens wailed in the distance. Asado was going to have to hoof it to disappear before the law showed up, but with the strides she was taking, she’d have enough time to reach whatever wheels she had stashed away. He’d noticed a vehicle parked not far from the mansion’s entrance, and with her appearance, he realized the occupant of the unknown car. Strewed corpses were testimony to the odds that she’d helped to cut down.
The Executioner was glad for the assistance, but Asado’s presence was worrying. She was on the run, and she was convinced her sister had been set up. That she was willing to hang back and trust Bolan to keep her in the loop was an advantage he possessed now. He looked back to the mansion and saw Anibella Brujillo, packing an MP-5 from the injured bodyguard. Her eyes locked on him with smoldering suspicion, but Bolan knew how to play it cool and close to the vest.
The first lady wanted in on his hunt for the people out to kill her, at least on the surface, but she was getting a little too cozy for Bolan’s tastes. Having someone out from under Anibella Brujillo’s thumb would allow him some wiggle room.
It was going to be tricky, but when he’d been recruited by Brognola for this, he was expecting a maze of deception. For now, he had a string to lead him back out if he wandered in too deeply.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thirty-six hours earlier
“I’m glad you could take this meeting, Striker,” Hal Brognola said as Bolan sat at the end of the polished oak conference table. Monitors displaying satellite-and computer-generated maps flickered, bathing the dimly lit room in a blue glow that conflicted with the low-powered amber bulbs built into the smooth railings around the sides of the conference room, the woodgrain and luster of the rail matching that of the finely made table that Bolan sat at. The two friends were in the operations center beneath Camp David.
“I had a little downtime after my last mission,” the Executioner replied.
“You get damned little enough R and R,” Brognola stated.
Bolan simply shrugged. “I’m no good at relaxing.”
“That’s because you need more practice,” Brognola grumbled. “Unfortunately, this has the makings of a major crisis, and the Mexican president asked for help from ‘Striker.’”
Bolan’s brow furrowed at the memories of what had been dubbed by the press as the Border Fire crisis. It had flavored the more recent dissent against the illegal immigration problem that followed. Bolan had worked almost side by side with the Mexican president, fending off several factions attempting to overthrow him and bring Mexico into open conflict with the United States. Only the combined forces of Stony Man Farm had brought the crisis to an end, battling wildly disparate forces.
The lights built into the oaken rail flared brighter and lines built into the ceiling added to the illumination, dispersing shadow and heralding the approach of the President of the United States and his guest, the Mexican president.
“Striker,” the Man greeted Bolan. “I believe you know my guest.”
“Good to see you in good health, sir,” Bolan greeted the Mexican president.
“I wish that we could have been reunited under more cordial circumstances, my friend,” the Mexican leader replied. “But I am glad to see you are still healthy, as well.”
“I know you’re not one for small talk, so we’ll get down to the basics, Striker,” the President said. “There’s a cartel war going on in the Acapulco area, Guerrero State.”
“And it’s struck uncomfortably close to home with your friend, Governor Brujillo?” Bolan asked.
“You must have your finger on the pulse of my nation,” the Mexican president stated.
“It helps to know where trouble occurs,” Bolan explained. “I put the Acapulco situation in the forefront of my mind.”
“Because of the American singer who was murdered?” the Hispanic official asked.
“Because it appeared that an army unit was involved in trying to murder a government official in a blatant terrorist attack,” Bolan corrected. “First Lady Brujillo is the governor’s face on the war on drugs in the Acapulco area.”
“With Americans going down there for vacations, it’s one of the hotspots that cartels are competing for control of,” the U.S. President noted. “And unfortunately, there’s nothing constitutional that we can do to limit that sort of demand.”
“I’m more interested in containing the violence that the cartels inflict upon people,” Bolan stated. “Unfortunately, between street level control of neighborhood dealers to attempted assassinations of government leaders, that kind of violence can smother nations and continents. Believe me, for all the heads I’ve killed, the body still manages to live on and grow a new one.”
“Sounds like you get discouraged,” the Mexican leader commented.
“It takes more than me burning a cartel to the ground to end your problems,” Bolan returned, no bitterness in his voice. “Treat the disease and forget about picking at the bandage I applied.”
The man bristled noticeably, but he held his tongue at reprimanding the Executioner. Bolan had a point about what was really needed. The lone warrior had assailed the leaders of drug cartels for years, doing fantastic amounts of damage, and instead of seizing upon the momentary advantage he supplied, laboriously moving government agencies stumbled, hemmed and hawed, allowing new batches of thugs to swarm in to replace the severed head.
“Governor Brujillo is a good man, and he is trying to implement more than a slash-and-burn approach to fighting drugs in his state,” the Mexican president replied. “He deserves all the help we can get.”
“He’ll get it, then,” Bolan replied. He tapped the overstuffed file folder in front of him. “I’ve got all the intel I need, and I have an appointment on the border tonight.”
“The border?” the Mexican leader asked.
“I have word of a military unit making a heroin run tonight,” Bolan explained. “They might not have been the ones behind Anibella Brujillo’s assassination attempt, but maybe they’ll give me a link to someone who would know.”
“You’ll be acting against my country’s military, Striker.”
“I’ll be acting against traitors. Nowhere in their oath of duty does it say they have to assist in peddling poison to other nations,” Bolan countered. “That doesn’t contribute to protecting Mexico. It only breaks the laws of your nation and mine. And you know firsthand how I deal with those kinds of men. Their sentence has been dictated by their own actions.”
The Executioner stood, took the file and left the two national leaders behind in the conference room to mull over his words. He had a flight to catch and drug smugglers to kill.
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for the fingerprints of the fallen Russian mafiya assassins to get back to Bolan. The Executioner had conducted an immediate inspection of the corpses, and using a digital camera, blood and a white sheet of paper, he was able to get the prints of a half dozen of the would-be killers before the federales arrived.
“Four of the six you nailed were former Spetznaz,” Aaron Kurtzman informed Bolan. “The other two were combat swimmers. All of them have records with Russian Intelligence linking them to organized crime as muscle. They dropped off the radar two years ago.”
“They moved to Acapulco to shore up mafiya ties with the Mexican cartels,” the Executioner surmised.
“A reasonable assumption, considering their bloody fingerprints are all over a sheet of paper you photographed for us,” Kurtzman replied.
“Any information on the Asado twins?” Bolan asked.
“Except for the sudden, recent accusations of Rosa being the head of a major drug gang while working out of Anibella Brujillo’s security detail, they’re clean, hardworking and exemplary lawmen, er, women,” Kurtzman stated. “Frankly, if they had been in U.S. law enforcement, we’d have had both of them through the blacksuit program. It’s just a shame that Mexico’s law-enforcement community is an old-boy network. They’d have gone even further.”
“One won’t,” Bolan mentioned. “And the other is on the run now.”
“Nobody ever accused the federales of being white knights,” Kurtzman mused. “There are plenty who are good and honest, but there’s enough who will buy into any story to protect their careers with the heat on.”
Bolan sighed. “It’s amazing that Mexican law enforcement gets as much done as it can.”
“The channels are tangled down there. I deal mostly in Internet, but this is Acapulco law enforcement. Word of mouth is still the most reliable means of these people getting in touch with each other, and if they’re putting anything in writing, it’s paper and ink, not digital,” Kurtzman said.
“That’s okay. I’ll shake answers loose the old-fashioned way,” Bolan replied. “Twist an arm, and listen to the music.”
Kurtzman made a sound of disgust. “Damn it. I forgot.”
“Something I said?” Bolan asked.
“Narcocorridos,” Kurtzman stated. “What you said about listening to the music.”
“Right. The tradition of putting the stories of crimes into song. Murderers and drug dealers keep their legends alive that way,” Bolan said. “If there was anything, we’d hear it in music.”
“I’ll see about what’s on the hit list,” Kurtzman offered. “Some of the songs make it onto the Internet.”
“Instead of pirated music, music about pirates,” Bolan mused sardonically.
“Bingo. I can also see if we have anyone who has their ears open on that particular community,” Kurtzman stated.
“It’ll be a needle in a haystack,” Bolan replied. “Murder is the flavor of choice for those songs. Drug dealers, while admittedly pretty sexy in that field, don’t get noticed for their brand-new street corner deal, just for putting the hit on someone in their way.”
“And anyone out to make Rosa Asado look bad will keep things mum about framing and murdering her,” Kurtzman concluded.
“Keep working that angle,” Bolan requested. “It’s an alternate form of intelligence.”
“What about the Santa Muerte angle that popped up?” Kurtzman asked.
“Digging into that is even further off the Internet grid,” Bolan said. “And for now, I’m on my own.”
“Wish we could get Rafael or Rosario to hit the streets for you down there,” Kurtzman said, “but Able and Phoenix are busy.”
“I have my own sources down here, Aaron,” Bolan replied.
“The running Asado twin?” Kurtzman asked.
Bolan looked around the office that Anibella Brujillo had provided for him in the governor’s mansion. He’d performed a thorough sweep of the room, and had found three active bugs so far. A small white-noise generator next to the laptop he was talking into would mask any sound he made as he used a headphone and jawbone-contact microphone unit plugged into the computer to communicate directly with Stony Man Farm. The contact mike, taped to his jaw, wouldn’t be affected by the white noise generator, since it picked up the vibrations of Bolan’s voice directly through his body, not the air. The cyberlink between the laptop and Kurtzman’s system was protected by powerful encryption software, so hacking the information flow would be difficult. Still, the Executioner wasn’t willing to discuss his contact with Blanca Asado even over an encrypted line, protected by a cocoon of bug-disorienting noise.
“I have my means. And suspicions,” Bolan returned. “Thanks for the background on the hitters. Any word on where they’ve been staying recently would help immensely.”
“I’ll track that, too,” Kurtzman promised. “Good luck, Striker.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said, signing off.
He turned off the laptop and disconnected from his headphone and contact mike. Anibella Brujillo would want an update, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.
BLANCA ASADO LOOKED at the business card that Agent Matt Cooper had flipped her in their brief encounter. Armando Diceverde took a sip of warm beer as he sat in the corner of the hotel room. The handsome little journalist had his laptop out and was hooked to the Internet via a satellite-capable modem.
“I’ve got nothing on Agent Matt Cooper of any agency,” Diceverde announced. “All results on his Justice files come up as access denied. Whatever he does is shoved into a deep hole that I can’t pull up.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” Asado returned. “But he has a voice mail and an e-mail contact.”
“Probably a secure drop he can tap when he needs to,” Diceverde mused. “Nothing we could actually use to check up on him.”
“Your implication?” Asado asked.
Diceverde took a deep breath. “He’s a spook.”
“Oh,” Asado answered, rolling her eyes. “That’s news to me.”
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere,” Diceverde mumbled. He took another sip.
“Beer and painkillers don’t go well together,” Asado warned for the third time.
“Says you,” Diceverde answered. “I’m feeling a nice buzz here.”
Asado looked at the arm that hung in the sling around the reporter’s neck. If the bullet had struck any closer to the joint, he’d have needed a serious hospital stay, and amputation would have been an option. The little journalist had been lucky, and she couldn’t begrudge him his minor alcohol-and-painkiller-induced high.
“Want one?” Diceverde asked, motioning the base of his bottle toward the remnants of a six-pack she’d brought him.
“I’m good,” Asado answered. “E-mail him.”
“Cooper’s people would be able to track us easily in that case,” Diceverde warned.
“He could have put a bullet in my head instead of giving me his calling card,” Asado countered. “I’ll trust him. For now.”
“You type, then,” Diceverde said. “I’m good at using a search engine typing one-handed, but doing anything more is testing my limits.”
Asado patted him on his good shoulder. “Take a rest from typing. I’ll send the e-mail.”
Diceverde sucked down a long pull of his beer before getting up and plopping on the bed, letting the woman take his place at the desk.
“Establishing contact,” she typed into the header and body of the e-mail. She sat back and waited for a response. Considering Cooper’s mysterious air, he obviously had a large organization behind him. They’d be watching for any e-mails to his contact address.
She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang after a minute. Plucking it off the cradle, she put it to her ear.
“Blanca Asado?” a woman asked on the other end.
“Speaking,” she answered.
“You made an attempt to contact Agent Matt Cooper by e-mail.”
“You’re his secretary?” Blanca inquired dryly.
From the sound of Barbara Price clearing her throat, Asado knew that she’d struck a nerve. “I’m a liaison.”