Читать книгу Cartel Clash - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

Mack Bolan spotted the young woman as she came down the wooden stairs tacked on to the side of the cantina. The stairs led to the two-roomed apartment Don Manners had been using during his time in Texas. The location had come from the file Brognola had given Bolan when he’d accepted the assignment. The file had updated the Executioner on the local situation, and it made frustrating reading. Drug enforcement agencies, well versed in the illegal activities, were stifled because the Rojas Cartel and its Texas chapter, though they didn’t have right, they certainly had might on their side. It was an all too familiar story. The drug organizations were ultimately so powerful they defied any and all attempts at taking them down. The endless wealth they generated from their trade allowed them to buy legal help of the highest order. If any of their people were arrested, the ink was not even dry on the paperwork before lawyers were hammering on the police station doors. Witnesses were either bought off or wiped out. The indifference to law and order was staggering. The authorities understood the situation that forced them to stand off, watching in jurisdictional paralysis while the enemy went about its business with impunity. The busts they did manage to make stick were small victories and something the drug cartels could well afford.

The Manners murder was a direct slap in the face of the DEA task force. An open statement from the drug world.

We can do this because you can’t pin it on us. You have nothing on us. Send in your agents, and we will return them all in a similar way.

The file Brognola had given Bolan during their briefing on the upcoming mission had contained images of Manners—where he had been found and what had been done to him.

“Enough is enough,” Brognola had said. “The President has taken this on board because he’s had it with these sick bastards, Striker. The head of the most powerful nation on Earth and he’s helpless, because he can’t do a damn thing legally.”

Bolan had smiled at the last word—legally—and he understood exactly what was coming next.

“The President, me and you, Striker. We’re the only ones in the loop on this one. He’s asking for your help. The kind of help only you can provide. Nothing on the books. Nothing that connects this mission to him, or the U.S. administration. I’ll provide any logistical assistance you need through Stony Man. No questions asked as to how, or where, or when. He just wants Rojas and Dembrow gone. Their business wiped out. And this incoming special cargo, as well.”

Brognola had waited as Bolan scanned the file. The Executioner was as committed to doing whatever possible to inflict damage on the purveyors of illegal drug trafficking as anyone, and the fact the President was asking for his covert assistance alerted him to the gravity of the situation.

“Well?” Brognola asked after a decent interval.

“I get triple brownie points?” Bolan asked archly.

Brognola only hesitated for effect. “Hell of a request, but okay.”

BOLAN IMMEDIATELY MADE his way to the small Texas town close to the border to make his first contact.

The young woman, dark-haired, slim and pretty, from what Bolan could see, clutched a small cloth bundle, and her cautious manner told Bolan she should not have been in the apartment. His curiosity was aroused. The young woman was his first possible lead to Manners. At the moment he had no idea how important her relationship with the agent might have been, but he had to find out.

His rented Ford 4x4 was parked across the street from the cantina. Bolan watched as his lead walked quickly by the frontage. As Bolan leaned forward to fire up the engine, he saw two figures detach from the shadows of the alley beside the cantina and fall in behind the young woman. It looked as if others were interested in her, too.

Beyond the cantina were a couple of closed and shuttered stores, then an empty lot covered with weeds and refuse. Bolan eased open the truck’s door and stepped out. He crossed the street and trailed the pair following the woman. The men remained at a discreet distance until she turned to cross the empty lot, then they upped their pace. Bolan did the same, his long legs covering the distance with ease. As he rounded the end of the last store, he saw the duo closing in on their mark, heard her startled gasp as one of them reached out to catch hold of one of her arms and jerk her to a stop. One of the men spoke, his Spanish so rapid that Bolan only caught a few words. Understandable or not, the menace in the guy’s tone was unmistakable. The woman replied, her words defiant.

“Puta,” the man yelled, and slapped her across the face. The blow knocked the woman off her feet. “Puta madre.”

The second man leaned down to snatch at the bundle from her arms. She yelled at him, clinging to the package. The guy kicked at her side.

That was when Bolan reached the group. He went for the guy who had kicked the young woman, grabbed a handful of his thick black hair and yanked hard. The man yelled, trying to turn. Bolan slammed a hard fist into the goon’s exposed ribs. He put all of his strength into the blow and heard the faint crack of bone. The man groaned. The Executioner drove the toe of his boot into the back of one knee. The leg buckled, the man losing balance, and as his opponent fell backward the soldier snapped an arm around his lean neck and dragged him close. He stamped down on the man’s calf, breaking the limb. The man screamed as Bolan let go and swiveled to face the first guy, who had produced a knife from his belt. He lunged wildly at his adversary, and from the way he moved it was obvious he was no expert.

“Bastardo.”

The knife had a thick, heavy blade and it slowed the guy’s desperate slashes. Even so, Bolan kept his eye on the weaving length of steel. He was an experienced knife fighter, and even the clumsiest attacker only had to get lucky once.

Bolan avoided the first couple of uncoordinated thrusts, watching the blade as it completed its arc. In the moment it swung at him again, Bolan stepped in, caught the knife arm, turned his body into his opponent’s space and used his free arm to hammer the point of his elbow into the man’s face. The blow was delivered without hesitation and with crippling force. The knife man’s cry of pain was reduced to a choking gurgle as blood from his crushed nose and shattered teeth filled his mouth. When Bolan added pressure, the knife slipped from limp fingers. The soldier reached back and gripped a handful of the guy’s shirt. He yanked forward, bending so that his adversary was pulled over his shoulder. The man slammed onto the hard ground with a solid thud, with Bolan standing over him. He never saw the heavy swing of the Executioner’s boot. It connected with the back of his skull and slammed him into oblivion.

A warning yell from the dark-haired woman drew Bolan’s attention. He turned and saw the first guy reach for something tucked into his belt. He saw the dark outline of an autopistol rise. Stepping to the man’s blind side, Bolan delivered a brutal kick to his head. The hard impact drove him facedown on the dusty ground. Leaning over, the soldier picked up the pistol and jammed it beneath his own belt, under the black leather jacket he was wearing. He checked their pockets but found little except tight rolls of paper money. Bolan took them. Cash was sometimes a handy way of smoothing over complications.

Then he bent over the slim form of the woman, gently grasping a bare arm. She resisted, still dazed from the attack, but there was not a lot of fight left in her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bolan said. “Just want to get you away from here. ¿Entiendes?”

She looked up at him, brushing black hair away from her pale face. A thin line of blood seeped from the corner of her soft mouth.

“Yes, I understand English.”

“Good,” Bolan said, “because my Spanish isn’t always that clear.”

He helped her to her feet. She swayed a little, then steadied herself. She still clutched the bundle to her.

“Let’s go,” Bolan said.

She hesitated, her eyes wide and cautious.

“Go where?”

“Somewhere away from these people.”

She stared at him for long seconds, and Bolan sensed her mind was whirling with thoughts. He understood her suspicions.

“You were a friend of Don Manners?” A quick nod. “Then we’re on the same side. Now let’s get the hell out of here in case those two have backup.”

He took her slim hand in his and led her back toward the street, across to where his 4x4 was parked. Bolan saw her into the passenger seat, then climbed behind the wheel and fired up the engine. He eased along the street, heading for the center of town where there were more people, light and his motel.

The young woman had slumped back in the seat, her face turned away from view, hugging the bundle she carried. The way she held on to it was working on Bolan’s curiosity. He didn’t ask her about it. There was time for that once he had her off the street.

It was close to eleven p.m. The town’s main drag was crowded. The street was busy with traffic, so it took Bolan a while to reach the turn for the motel. He eased through the pedestrians, cleared the town. It was quieter here, the street almost deserted. The motel was a half mile along the strip of road. Bolan drove into the courtyard through the adobe arch, angling the truck to a stop outside his room. He cut the engine and stepped out, then circled the vehicle to open the passenger door.

“Best room in the house,” he said. “I promise.”

The woman climbed out. Bolan guided her to the door and unlocked it. He pushed the door open and stood back to let her go inside. She stood in the center of the room, staring at her surroundings. Bolan quietly closed and locked the door. He shuttered the window blind and put on the main light, leaving her alone while he went into the bathroom and ran warm water in the basin. He chose a small towel and soaked half of it in the water, squeezing out the excess. When he got back in the main room, the woman was sitting on the end of the bed.

“For your face,” Bolan said, holding out the towel.

She took it and held it against her mouth. Bolan noticed she had placed her mysterious package on the bed next to her. He ignored it, crossing to the armchair facing the bed. He sat, giving her time to tend to her injury. A bruise was forming on her lower cheek, discoloring her tawny complexion.

In the room light he could see she was attractive, her face dominated by large brown eyes and softly plump lips. Her shoulder-length black hair was thick and shiny. Beneath the soft cotton shirt and faded jeans, her figure was lithe and feminine.

“I’m Matt Cooper,” he said.

“You are a friend of Don?”

“We never met.”

“But you said…” Her eyes sought the door, her body tensing.

“I said I was on the same side. I came to find out what happened to him.”

“He was killed.”

“And why do you think that happened?”

“If you knew who he was, then you should know why Don was here.”

“He told you?”

“He told me many things.” Her face crumpled as she failed to hold in her feelings. “He was going to take me with him when he was finished here.”

“It was like that?”

She nodded, drew in a breath and regained control.

“We didn’t seek what happened. It just did….”

“Were you helping Don?”

“A little, sí.”

“Against Benito Rojas?”

“Sí. Against Rojas and Dembrow.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“Pilar Trujillo.”

“I told you I came here to find out how Don died. That’s only part of the reason. I’m also here to put a stop to Rojas’s business.” Bolan saw the sudden gleam in her eyes. “You understand that?”

“Yes. Rojas trades in drugs. And other things. But mainly in drugs. I know that is why Don was here. To gather information for the DEA. He had found out Rojas was waiting for an important cargo. Some new weapon he will use to fight the Americans. It was this information that got him killed. He made a slip, and it exposed who he was—an American DEA undercover agent.” Pilar fell silent. Her eyes mirrored the torment she was struggling to contain. She stared directly at Bolan. “Don was exposed and betrayed. That is why they did what they did to him. To show the Americans you cannot stand against the Rojas Cartel.”

“Pilar, do you know how it happened? Who betrayed Don?”

Pilar’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Sí, I know. It was one of Rojas’s lieutenants. His name is Tomas. Tomas Trujillo. He is my brother.”