Killing Kings

Dumb move, Grimaldi thought, as Bolan shot their killer in the face. Of course, the odds of that one living through the firefight had been minimal, at best.

They still needed someone to question, though, and Grimaldi hoped that they hadn’t overplayed their hand. Bolan seemed to have no concern on that score, as he palmed a fragmentation grenade, released its safety pin and pitched the bomb down the tunnel’s gaping throat. Somewhere below ground, the explosion thumped and rumbled, bringing down a portion of the tunnel’s roof.

“Is anybody left?” Grimaldi called to Bolan.

The big guy turned back to answer him, but didn’t have a chance to speak before a high-pitched voice cried out, somewhere behind the forward SUV.

“¡No me mates, por favor! Lo dejo!”

The best translation of those words, for Grimaldi, came when a pistol sailed over the vehicle’s hood and landed in the dirt, followed a moment later by its magazine.

* * *

Ignacio Azuela didn’t want to die. While death was inevitable for everyone, he preferred that event to occur at some distant time, rather than today.

He’d watched the other members of his team get cut down around him—some of them killed outright, while others were left twitching and gurgling through their death throes while the Texas sun beat down upon them mercilessly. Even the workers who had hauled the pallets of cocaine from Mexico, below ground, were now dead, some shot by Infante’s gunmen, who wouldn’t let them run away, others by the two Anglo riflemen who had ambushed their party.

Dead was dead, no matter who had pulled the trigger. Azuela had no idea whether the strike was some kind of hijacking by a rival drug cartel—perhaps reprisal by survivors of the raids his own cartel had staged in recent months—or if the killers were a pair of gringo vigilantes. Such things happened on the border, he’d been told, by private groups such as the Texas Minutemen and California Desert Hawks. According to reports, they shot first, rarely asking questions afterward, and might be prone to seizing drugs for later resale on their own—all in the name of Free America.

Azuela calculated that his life was definitely forfeit if he fought whoever had wiped out his comrades today. But if he surrendered, offered to tell everything he knew, then perhaps...

“Come out of there and show your hands,” one of the gringos ordered, trusting that Azuela understood enough English to do as he was told.

“¡Ya voy!” he answered, then added, “I’m coming now. Don’t shoot!”

Azuela’s legs were trembling as he rose and walked atound the RAV4, empty hands held high. Surrender might be shameful, but at least he hadn’t wet himself so far, in the process of self-abasement. He would willingly obey, and tell them all he knew, unless he saw an opportunity to shade the truth a bit and thereby gain some extra time.

What did they call it in the north? Fudging.

Both men covered him with matching rifles, while the shorter of the pair came forward, frisked him thoroughly and then told the man who seemed to be in charge, “He’s clean.”

“Okay,” the other Anglo said. “We’ve still got a few minutes. I just want to send a smoke signal.”

That said, the taller gunman took a can of what Azuela thought was lighter fluid from a pocket of his baggy desert camo pants and walked back to the pallets laden with kilos of cocaine wrapped in plastic. First he fired a short burst from his weapon into each pallet’s white cargo, spraying powder as the shrink wrap burst asunder. Then he doused each in turn with fluid till the can was empty. Then he tossed it underhand away from him.

Yes, it’s definitely lighter fluid, Azuela thought, as the sickly sweet aroma of it reached his nostrils.

Finally the taller man moved along the line of dripping pallets, striking matches, dropping one on each of them in turn and then stepping back as pale flames shimmered skyward, the late-morning heat immediately amplified.

So, not a hijacking—at least not as Azuela understood the term. Hijackers stole drugs, or whatever else a target shipment might consist of, and then sold it off themselves, or offered it for ransom to the owners they had robbed. Depending on the ever-fluctuating street price of cocaine in the United States, Azuela knew he must be watching $10 million to $12 million going up in smoke.

If the wind shifted, how high could he become, just breathing in those fumes? Would they kill him? And if so, would he even care?

“There goes your jefe’s product and his profit,” said the man who’d set it all ablaze. “Now, do you want to help us, or be added to the pyre?”

* * *

“Just ask me what you want to know,” their prisoner replied. He didn’t hang his head or snivel, didn’t try avoiding Bolan’s gaze, but seemed prepared to stand his ground and do what must be done to stay alive.

Assuming anything could save him at this point.

“First let me tell you what we know,” Bolan said. “You work for The Office, based in Envigado, but we may as well just call it Medellín. The founder, Don Berna, is rotting in a solitary cell at ADX Florence, where furnishings include a bed, a desk and a chair, all made from poured concrete. The sink has no tap, and the water in his toilet cuts off if he tries to jam it. There’s a timer on his shower to prevent flooding, and he has one light bulb the guards control remotely. If he’s lucky and he’s caused no trouble, he can leave his cage for one hour per day, five times a week, with three guards watching him. That’s where he’ll stay until he dies, unless he lives past eighty-one without losing his mind.”

“I never worked for Don Berna,” their captive said. He didn’t sound defiant; he was simply doling out a fact of life.

“Which brings me to my first question,” Bolan replied. “Who runs The Office now that he’s away forever?”

“You must understand—”

“He’s stalling,” Grimaldi said, playing bad cop for the moment. “Hell, I’d say he’s useless. Can I pop him now?”

“No, wait! I’ve never met him, you must understand. Some people talk. Of course, they claim to know things, but is any of it true? I don’t know.”

“All right. Let’s start with something that you do know,” Bolan answered. “What’s your name?”

“Ignacio Azuela,” the reply came back without a trace of hesitation.

“You’re Colombian?”

“Sí.”

“And the others here?” Bolan gestured across the body-littered field with his left hand.

“The men who came with me,” Azuela said. “And also the gunmen who traveled through the tunnel, I suppose. The workers who came with them would be mexicanos.”

“Working for The Office?”

“For anyone who pays them, I imagine, doing anything.”

“It looks like none of them are going home,” Grimaldi said, faking a hungry smile.

“But you still might,” Bolan chimed in. “Although I’d recommend a change of scene from the Antioquia Department, if you make it.”

“How can I go back now?” Azuela asked. “I’ve said too much already to survive inside Colombia.”

“That leaves a big world to get lost in,” Bolan said. “But first we need a name.”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know the boss of La Oficina.”

“But I’ll bet your life,” Bolan replied, “you know where this shipment was meant to go upon arrival, and the man who’d be receiving it.”

“Sí. This I know. But in return...”

“You take one of the SUVs, whatever cash your friends have in their pockets and get lost. Try double-crossing us, or if we ever see your face again—even by accident, across a busy street—and you’ll be history.”

“I understand,” their prisoner said. “Now, do you wish to write this down?”

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