Dark Alliance
“I’ll see what I can do. What have you done about him?”
“At the moment, I am keeping him under surveillance. I want to see what he does.”
“Don’t let him run on a long leash. If he gets lucky your troubles might get bigger.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered that,” Costa muttered as he disconnected the call.
THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.
Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.
“Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”
“I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”
“Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”
Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”
As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.
“I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”
Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.
Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.
“Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.
“Now you have me worried.”
They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.
“Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.
“Is she okay?”
“That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.
“I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted me, Maggie…well, she sounded stressed. I’ve known her a long time and she isn’t easily rattled.”
“Did she tell you what was getting to her?”
“Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”
“Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”
Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.
“This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”
Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.
“I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.
“I’ll know when I read them.”
“No, you won’t,” someone said.
The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.
“Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.
Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.
Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.
Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.
As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him a second time. The man stepped back, trying to avoid the blow. He moved too far and stepped over the edge of the top step. He tumbled down the steps, turning over a couple of times before hitting the bottom where he lay motionless.
Bolan returned to Sebring’s office. He found the photographer slumped on the floor beside his desk, a bloody hand clutched to his shoulder. The receptionist was on the phone, calling for assistance. When she saw the gun in Bolan’s hand her eyes widened in alarm.
He put the gun away. “Take it easy,” he said. “I’m on your side.”
He crossed to check the gunman. The man was still clutching his face, moaning softly. Then he went back to Sebring. The photographer, pale-faced and sweating, glanced up at the Executioner.
“You always bring guests to the party?” he asked.
“Never invited ones,” Bolan said grimly.
“Next time, Cooper, just bring a bottle.”
The receptionist put the phone down. “Police and ambulance are on their way.”
Bolan turned to her. “Got any towels we can use to stop the bleeding?”
The young woman nodded and left the office.
“This has to do with Maggie?” Sebring asked.
Bolan took the items from the envelope and dropped them into his pocket. He glanced at Sebring. The photographer sensed what Bolan was silently asking and gave a brief nod.
The receptionist came back with some towels. She helped Bolan get Sebring into his chair. The Executioner wadded one of the towels and placed it over the wound.
“Hold that in place, miss.”
She nodded and said, “The name’s Carrie.”
“Just keep good pressure on that towel, Carrie.”
Bolan crossed to the door, taking out his phone. He punched in his contact number for Brognola. When the big Fed answered Bolan calmly explained what had happened.
“I can’t walk out until Miami P.D. arrive. There’s one perp on the floor and another outside the building. I won’t leave and put these people in the way of further harm.”
“When they arrive let me speak to the head honcho. I’ll square things,” Brognola said.
“Thanks.”
“Any good going to come out of this?” Brognola asked.
“I don’t know yet but tell Bear to get ready because I’m going to send him some information.”
“Okay. Get back to me for your get-out-of-jail-free card.”
Ten minutes later the office was a busy place. Police and paramedics vied for space. Sebring was given treatment prior to hospital transport to have the bullet removed from his shoulder. The gunman Bolan had put down was cuffed before his own ride for treatment. He’d said nothing, mostly due to the fact that his jaw was shattered and his nose badly crushed. The second attacker had vanished by the time the cops arrived. He had left blood behind on the concrete at the bottom of the steps but he’d disappeared. Carrie sat on a chair in one corner of the office, absently rubbing at the bloodstains on her dress but physically unharmed.
The Executioner stood to one side, waiting while the cop in charge had his conversation with Brognola. The cop ended the call and returned Bolan’s phone to him.
“Looks like you’re off the hook, Agent Cooper,” he said amiably.
Lieutenant Gary Loomis was a lean, tanned cop in his thirties. His boyish face belied the things he had seen during his tenure with the Miami-Dade force. Despite the heat he wore a suit and tie. He stood in front of Bolan, hands on his hips, studying the big man.
“So what brought you to Sebring’s office again?” the cop asked.
“Just following up on information received,” Bolan recited. “An ongoing investigation. Sebring was pegged to answer a couple of questions. He isn’t a suspect.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Loomis said. “Need to know and all that crap.”
“Sorry, Loomis. If I could tell you more I would.”
Loomis grinned. “Hell, don’t sweat it. I got enough local crime to keep me busy. Last thing I need is another pile of paperwork to wade through. That yahoo you gave us is going to use up a whole tree’s worth of forms by the time we get him processed.”
“Any idea who he is?”
Loomis shook his head. “Maybe when we run his prints we’ll get lucky.”
“I’d appreciate hearing about anything you turn up.”
Loomis handed Bolan a card. “Call me.”
“Thanks.”
“Anything for the Feds, Agent Cooper.”
“SO WHERE TO NOW?” Brognola asked.
Bolan was behind the wheel again, heading out of the city. His only lead was the origin of the package Maggie Connor had mailed to Sebring.
“Riba Bay. Have Bear check the place out. See if there’s anything Maggie might have been interested in. And tell him I’m going to download the contents of the memory card and flash drive as soon as I can.”
Bolan ended the call.
He saw a shopping mall and eased off the highway, taking a parking spot close to the entrance. He made his way through the mall until he saw a computer store. Inside he asked for the manager. When the man arrived, looking all of sixteen years old, Bolan showed his Justice identification and explained what he wanted. Minutes later he was seated at a work station in the manager’s office, downloading the memory card and flash drive to send to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, the communications expert for Stony Man Farm. An acknowledgment e-mail came through saying the material had been received. Bolan erased it. He found the store manager, thanked him for his cooperation and returned to his SUV.
He had been driving for just under thirty minutes when he spotted the car tailing him….
3
The Executioner was at least an hour from Riba Bay. All he had to go on was the postmark on the package Maggie Connor had sent to Sebring. It was hardly much in itself, but it wasn’t the first time Bolan had started out with almost nothing. But now he had company.
He spotted the tail car again in his review mirror, watched it as it narrowed the gap and kept edging closer.
Too close.
He checked the road ahead. For the past few miles he hadn’t seen another vehicle. The road was clear in both directions. Bolan checked that his seat belt was secure, then hit the gas pedal and sent the big SUV surging forward. The force pushed Bolan back in his seat. He saw the tail car recede.
That wouldn’t be the end of it, Bolan knew.
He was on a straight road, with no discernable turnoffs. There was no way out of this, except to keep driving and wait for something ahead to change things.
That something did show up a few miles along the road. But not in the way Bolan had hoped. He saw a distant configuration spanning the blacktop. At the speed he was traveling it only took a short time before he was able to identify it.
A full-size fuel tanker was stopped across the width of the road, blocking it completely. The road on either side dropped away into drainage ditches, offering no avenue of escape.
The tail car was coming up behind him, relentless in its pursuit.
Bolan realized someone was panicking enough to set up the roadblock. They were desperate enough to step out in public in order to stop him.
What, he wondered, had Maggie Connor uncovered?
He eased off the gas, stepped on the brake and steadied the SUV as the tanker loomed larger. Armed figures stepped into view. There were three. One opened up with a submachine gun. Slugs scored the asphalt in front of the SUV. A second gunman started firing. Bolan saw sparks as bullets skidded off his hood. One hit the windshield, leaving a spiderweb crack. Bolan worked the wheel, the SUV rolling back and forth across the width of the road, tires squealing. A glance in the mirror showed the tail car maintaining a discreet distance now that the shooting had started. A small bonus.
The firing got heavier. One of the door mirrors exploded in a shower of plastic and glass.
Bolan stood on the brake, turning the wheel to bring the SUV around in a hard slide, broadside to the tanker. He thought for a moment that the vehicle might flip over. He switched off the ignition, cutting the power, pulled out his Beretta and, as the SUV came to a jarring stop, he slid across the seat and opened the passenger door. He rolled out and dropped to the road, crouching, before moving around the front of the vehicle.
Footsteps sounded nearby. Bolan picked up the first shooter as he moved into sight. The Beretta 93-R punched out a triburst that hit the man chest high and put him straight down. Maintaining his aggressive stance Bolan moved again, half rising as he cleared the front of the SUV and met the two remaining shooters head-on. His cool appearance, seemingly oblivious to the threat of the pair of armed figures, gave him a psychological advantage, and though it was only for a brief moment it was enough. Bolan triggered three-round bursts in a continuous volley, hitting both shooters before they acquired their target. They tumbled to the ground in agony, riddled by the 9 mm bursts.
The Executioner ran forward and snatched up one of the fallen weapons—an H&K MP-5. He checked the action and moved behind the SUV as the tail car fishtailed to a stop. An armed figure was leaning out the passenger door. Bolan raised the MP-5 and laid down a long, damaging burst that raked the front of the vehicle and blew the windshield out. The Executioner maintained his deadly fire, emptying the remainder of the magazine into the cab of the vehicle. When the MP-5 locked on an empty chamber he dropped it and returned to pick up one of the other discarded weapons.
There was no movement inside the tail car. As Bolan carefully checked it out he saw two bloody forms sprawled across the front seat. He turned back and crouched beside the other dead shooters. He removed the weapons he found. All five men were Hispanic. The only useful evidence he found was a cell phone on one of them. He dropped it in his pocket.
Bolan slid a fresh magazine into the Beretta, walked to the front of the tanker and climbed up to check the cab. He found a lone figure slumped behind the wheel. The rig’s driver. Someone had put a couple of bullets in his body but he was still breathing. Bolan used the truck’s radio to call for help. He located the first-aid box and did what he could to help the wounded trucker. Once he had the man settled as comfortably as he could Bolan used his own phone to call Hal Brognola.
“Sounds as if you’ve stirred somebody into action,” the big Fed said.
“Panic more likely. Setting up an ambush in broad daylight on a public road says overreaction.”
Brognola sighed. “What did Maggie stumble on to?”
“They didn’t want me to get to Riba Bay. Maybe that’s where I’ll get some answers.”
“Striker, I just got feedback from Bear. He has some results from the data you sent him. Riba Bay is your target.” He read out an address. “Belongs to Raul Manolo, a suspected Colombian gunrunner. We’re still analyzing the rest.”
“Enough for me to go on,” the Executioner said.
The wail of approaching sirens cut the air. Bolan saw vehicles in the distance.
“That the cavalry arriving?” Brognola asked.
“Yeah. I’ll get back to you when I can.”
As Bolan finished the call he saw a couple of Florida State Trooper cruisers rolling to a stop. Behind them was an ambulance. He stepped forward to meet the armed officers, showing his badge. A paramedic ran up behind the troopers.
“There’s a man in the truck who needs medical attention,” Bolan said. “He’s been shot.”
The medic nodded and waved his partner in. They went directly to the rig. One of the troopers took a look around. He stared at the sprawled bodies.
“Damn,” he said. “We’ll be filling in forms for a week on this one. You want to tell me what the hell has been going on here, Agent Cooper?”
4
Colombia
The Executioner wasted no time. He couldn’t be sure how far the sound of the shots might carry.
He turned to Ricco and unlaced the combat boots he was wearing. Then he loosened the belt holding the man’s olive-green fatigues in place. Bolan stripped them off and pulled them over his own legs. He notched the belt tight around his waist. He sat down and pulled on the combat boots. They were near enough to his own size. He took his time with the laces, making sure the boots were secure before dragging the bloodied shirt from the body and pulling it on.
Crouching over Noriamo he freed the Uzi from around the dead man’s neck, looping the cord over his right shoulder. He checked the body for extra ammunition and found a single clip in the man’s back pocket. Stepping to where Santiago lay Bolan flipped open the blood-drenched linen jacket and saw the man had been carrying a 9 mm Beretta in a hip holster. The holster was held in place on Santiago’s belt. Bolan freed the belt and slid the gun and holster off. He transferred it to his own belt. He took the Beretta out and checked the magazine. Full. He cocked the weapon and returned it to the holster.
He stood beside the cell door, breathing deeply as he looked at Maggie Connor.
He would not forget her.
And the men who had ordered her cruel death would not be forgotten.
Bolan opened the cell door and eased it back just enough to check the passage. It was deserted. At the far end a partially open door let bright sunlight pierce the gloom. That was his objective—reach the exit, then make another assessment. He slipped through the door, the Uzi ready in his hands. He broke from his stance and traversed the passage quickly. Flattened against the inner wall he peered out the open door.
He saw a rough-hewn compound, three crude huts. A stream ran across one side of the clearing. Dense green jungle pressed in on all sides. Bolan saw a flicker of movement to his right. An armed man in fatigues came into sight from behind one of the huts. He crossed the compound, lighting a thin cigar as he walked. An AK-74 dangled from a shoulder strap. The man looked relaxed. He was making his way in the direction of the cell block.
Bolan cleared the door, the Uzi up and spitting 9 mm slugs. He caught the approaching man before he had a chance to react. The guy twisted under the impact of the burst, dropping to his knees, then facedown. Bolan ran up close, snatching the AK from the guard’s shoulder and looping the sling strap around his neck.
Bolan heard men calling out in Spanish. He pinpointed the location, bringing the Uzi back online so the armed figures piling out of one of the buildings at the sound of his first shots ran directly into the blazing volleys. Two figures tumbled to the ground, never really seeing the face of the man who had delivered them to quick death.
The others pulled back into the cover of the building they had just burst out of. Whatever they might have expected, the sight of the Executioner, in full killing mode, overwhelmed them. These gunmen were used to their victims being tied up and helpless without any will or skill to stand up to Raul Manolo’s power.
By the time they pushed back outside, determined not to allow their prisoner to defy them, Bolan was out of their sights, his moving figure already fragmented and shadowy as he forged ahead into the surrounding jungle thicket.
Bolan’s entry into the dense foliage was accompanied by the chatter of automatic weapons behind him. He heard the snap and whip of slugs penetrating the greenery, shredding leaves and thin branches. The moment he was swallowed and hidden temporarily from view he angled his line of travel. In the distance a number of voices called to one another, and more shots rattled from weapons.
The Executioner kept moving. The ground underfoot was soft and spongy, a layer of detritus from trees and bushes that had formed into a sound-deadening carpet over many years. The air was heavy and close, producing a cloying, sullen heat. Sweat began to form on Bolan’s face and arms. He pushed on, maintaining as much speed as he could. He wanted to gain distance from his former captors. There was no way he was going back as a prisoner. If they were that desperate for his company they would pay a high price for it and for what they had already done.
As willing as his spirit was, Bolan’s body began to reveal its weakened state after a few miles. Three days of brutal pounding had taken its toll. Mack Bolan was capable of strong actions but he was not invincible. Flesh and bone could absorb only so much before it began to rebel. He could feel his limbs growing heavier, his bruised ribs pulsing with pain. Keeping on the move was not the answer. Bolan knew he had to stand and fight, rather than lead his pursuers on a run that would drive him into the ground. He would have to make an educated guess as to the number of his enemies and deal with them on that basis.
He splashed over a stream, turned and crouched on his knees at the edge of the water. Behind him he could hear the distant sound of his pursuers. He knew they would pick up his trail eventually, so he worked quickly. He dropped his Uzi and reached down to scoop up soft mud from the edge of the stream. He smeared it liberally over his face and neck, ignoring the tender flesh. He coated arms and hands, then picked up the Uzi and retreated from the stream, turning to home in on the sounds made by the men following him.
He dropped back to wait, hidden among the dense foliage, blending in with his surroundings, waiting until he had a specific target. He would let his chosen man move well into range before he raised his weapon of choice.
The Beretta was set for single shots.
He could hear the guards working their way toward his general area, voices raised. They made no attempt to silence their approach as they made their way through the undergrowth. Bolan knew he wasn’t dealing with seasoned jungle fighters. Urban streets were their normal haunts.
Okay, he thought, their loss, my gain.
The first target appeared, AK-74 cradled in the crook of one arm while he chattered on a com-set. Bolan watched him push through the greenery, his image flickering as he moved from one patch of light to another. The Executioner tracked him closely, waiting for his opportunity. He stroked the Beretta’s trigger. The 9 mm slug hit the guard just above his left ear. He went down without a sound and before he hit the ground Bolan had pulled back, lost in the shadows again, his mud camouflage helping him to merge with his surroundings.