Читать книгу Recovery Force - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Mack Bolan lowered the binoculars and frowned. Too quiet.

He sat in his vehicle parked a half block from the residence where he believed members of the Sinaloa drug cartel were holding a teenage girl and her boyfriend. The sun beat through the windshield, threatening to roast him out. All windows were down and the sunroof open to facilitate air movement, but there didn’t seem to be much of it today in southwest Phoenix. So Bolan sat practically motionless and ignored the heavy sweat that soaked his face, neck and areas where his clothing fit snugly.

The warrior looked a bit out of place.

Although he’d dressed like a native in khaki-style shorts and a loose-fitting polo, it still looked idiotic for him to be sitting in his car in the midmorning heat. Fortunately, activity in the neighborhood had seemed minimal, most everyone already having gone to work or run the day’s errands. Bolan had been sitting there since about 0730 hours and it was nearing eleven.

There hadn’t been so much as a stirring around or in the target house. The shades were pulled and only a dusty, early-model SUV sat in the drive. Bolan scanned the place one more time through the binoculars, then studied the black-and-white print made from a yearbook photo of the missing girl, and a similar one taken around the same time of her boyfriend.

The Executioner’s intelligence had been sketchy, but he knew the information provided by Stony Man would be much more solid than anything the Phoenix police could give him. Trouble had come to the Sun City and it seemed nobody could do anything about it. Half the country believed the press when they touted the war between the Sinaloa and Gulf drug cartels out of Mexico as the primary reason for the rise in kidnappings. The other half chalked it up to nothing more than media hype. The naysayers were convinced the kidnappings were mostly related to the higher likelihood ransoms would be paid due to the fact Arizona had long attracted the rich and elite.

Bolan thought both sides of the issue had merit. But with the numbers at an all-time high, the Executioner realized the time had come to put an end to it. And while he couldn’t completely eliminate it, the problem was large enough that it could branch out. The best way to stop it was here and now—terminate the enemy’s plan of action before it reached that point.

And Bolan planned to start with two innocent teenagers.

Bolan put the photos away, secured the binoculars and then checked the action on his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The pistol had served him well on many past missions, and recently he’d upgraded to the newer Mark XIX model with a brushed chrome finish. The Beretta 93-R that he normally wore in shoulder leather rode in a hip holster concealed by the loose-fit polo. His best offense would be surprise, in this instance, since the place wasn’t likely to be heavily fortified or guarded. Additionally, the Sinaloa cartel had probably been using it as a stash house for a while, which means any of its occupants would be relaxed and not too alert. That made it a perfect target for someone with the Executioner’s special talents.

Bolan laid the Desert Eagle on the passenger seat, started the rental car and coasted down the street until he came within a few yards. He then swung the nose into the driveway at an angle as he picked up speed and drove across the pavement onto the lawn of half-dead grass. When he got within a few feet of the front door he gave the horn a blast before snatching up the pistol and going EVA.

Less than a minute elapsed before the door opened and a stocky, bare-chested Mexican with a shaved head and tattoos covering half his body emerged from the house. He looked angry as he gave the sedan a once-over, but then his eyes tracked to the right. But he was too late and Bolan was on him before the hood could react in time to bring up the pistol he’d been holding behind his baggy jeans. Bolan caught him with a kick that broke several ribs and drove the cartel gangster into the unyielding metal of the foreign-make rental. As the guy’s body bounced off of it, Bolan followed with a backhand that drove the butt of his pistol into a point behind his opponent’s ear. The guy dropped to the pavement like a stone.

Bolan pushed through the front door in time to see another hood emerge from a hallway off the main living area. The man raised a pistol, holding it gangster style with the ejector port pointed up. Bolan snap-aimed the Desert Eagle and squeezed the trigger twice. Happenstance favored Bolan because that first round struck the gunman’s hand that held the pistol and sent it flying. The second round landed dead-center in the chest, fracturing the breastbone before coring through tissue to the spine and driving the hood into the wall behind him. He collapsed on the carpet in a heap.

Another gunner jumped into view, framed by an entryway into the kitchen, a shotgun in his hand. Bolan dove in time to avoid the first blast of buckshot that winged over his body and blew a massive hole in the drywall. The warrior rolled and that saved him from a second blast into the carpet that sent dust, dirt and chunks of crushed carpet fibers in every direction. Bolan followed through the roll and into a firing posture on one knee. He acquired his target in milliseconds and triggered a round before the man could get off a third shot. The 280-gram slug busted through the hood’s left side, perforating his heart as it traveled upward at an angle and exited out his right armpit. The impact spun the enemy and he slammed against the wall. The shotgun clattered to the linoleum followed by the corpse a heartbeat later.

Bolan swept the muzzle of the Desert Eagle across his immediate field of fire, eyes and ears attuned to any further threats. Eventually, he relaxed and got to his feet, although he didn’t let down his guard. He held the .44 Magnum at a ready state while he scoured the rest of the house. Eventually, he found a door concealing a stairwell that emerged onto a semifinished basement.

The sight of a breathing, conscious girl tied to an old table sent a ripple of satisfaction through Bolan’s tired body, but he also noticed the lump of bruised, beaten flesh on the ground. He rushed to the boy’s motionless form and checked the pulse at the neck. Nothing. Bolan pressed his lips together in a hard mask as he rose and approached the girl.

“It’s okay,” he said as quietly and evenly as he could manage. “You’re going to be all right, now. I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”

She nodded, blinking those red-streaked crystal-blue eyes hard—she’d obviously been crying.

Bolan disposed of the gag that had left red welts across her cheeks and then cut away her bonds with a pocketknife version of the Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife. She choked and wheezed at first, and he watched her with concern. The moment proved short-lived and only Bolan’s reflexes saved his tennis shoes from being covered by the significant amount of vomit she projected over the side of the table.

When it seemed she was finished and left only with dry heaves, Bolan said, “You don’t look much like your yearbook photo.”

She eyed him with a queer expression as he helped her sit up.

Bolan continued with a smile, “You’re much prettier in person. I assume you’re Ann-Elise?”

She nodded and wiped the side of her mouth. Her voice cracked when she said, “Dino? Is Dino okay?”

The warrior wished she would have asked him anything but that, although he knew it wasn’t as if he could put off the subject indefinitely. Despite the trauma through which she’d gone, the young girl deserved to know the truth no matter how painful it might be. Until she could come to terms with his death, the healing could not begin.

“I’m sorry,” Bolan whispered. “He didn’t make it.”

Ann-Elise looked at Bolan a moment and then let out a blood-curdling scream and threw her arms around him. He decided it was time for them to get the hell out of there, and he hauled her off the table and up the stairs without another look at Montera’s corpse.

Once they were outside, Bolan seat-belted Ann-Elise into the passenger seat of the sedan and then ran around and climbed behind the wheel. He cranked the engine, backed off the lawn and onto the road, then proceeded at a conservative pace down the quiet street. He could have just as easily left in a display of screeching, smoking tires but he figured there was little point in drawing attention. The street still looked relatively deserted and he didn’t detect the approach of police sirens.

That meant the commotion inside had probably gone unnoticed.

Good, he needed to buy some time. It wouldn’t help his mission to risk unplanned contact with the police so early in the game. He had to get on the other side of the blue wall, sure, but on his terms. Anything less would only create more problems for him, more things to worry about.

Bolan had chosen to take this one on his own. At Stony Man Farm, Hal Brognola and Barbara Price were preoccupied with larger matters. Bolan had it on good authority from pilot Jack Grimaldi, that both the Phoenix Force and Able Team units were on assignments of a grave nature. So what else was new? Bolan thought about the battle-hardened veterans of Stony Man taking it to the enemy—he wished them well.

So yeah, he would go it alone this time.

Ann-Elise simply sobbed and curled her arms around herself. Bolan had rolled up the windows so the winds wouldn’t buffet her as he pulled onto the highway. She didn’t say anything to him and he didn’t press it. He’d saved her from what would certainly have been a long and brutal captivity. That’s what he did best, and he’d leave the social work and other similar services to those better qualified to render it.

In under thirty minutes, Bolan had arrived at the large home in a peaceful, residential section on the west side of Scottsdale, close to where it bordered Phoenix.

Bolan got out of the car, opened the door and unbuckled the seat belt. He offered a hand, but the girl chose to exit without assistance. She started to walk up the sidewalk to the door and then looked back at Bolan, who stood there with arms folded as he watched her.

“Go on, Ann-Elise. Go home, your family’s waiting for you.”

“You’re—” She bit off the reply and seemed to chew uncertainly at her lip. When she took a deep breath she appeared to have mustered whatever courage it seemed to take to speak to him. “You’re not coming?”

Bolan shook his head. “There would be questions. Too many for me to answer at this moment. Do you understand?”

“Funny,” the girl replied with a slightly wistful smile. “But I guess I do.”

Bolan nodded, winked and then got in the sedan and drove away.

AFTER DROPPING OFF Ann-Elise McCormack, Bolan returned to his hotel to clean up a bit.

He showered, changed into lightweight cotton slacks and a black muscle shirt. He then transferred the Beretta 93-R to shoulder leather before donning a buttoned maroon shirt to conceal it. After cleaning the Desert Eagle and stowing it in his equipment bag, Bolan sifted through the yellow pages of the phone book until he found the address of a pharmacy on Phoenix’s southwest side. He memorized the address and then stuffed the equipment bag under the bed, leaving the privacy tag on the outside of the door to wave off maid service.

The Executioner considered his options as he drove across town. He’d approach this part of his mission with a soft probe, at first. Bolan had intel the pharmacy was a Sinaloa cartel front for laundering drug money. A narco-military unit known as Los Negros provided protection and enforcement for Sinaloa cartel ops according to Bolan’s DEA connection, Vince Gagliardi. Officially, Gagliardi was breaking every rule in the book by revealing anything he learned to Bolan. He’d been working deep undercover within the local drug distribution network as a low-ranking mule. Gagliardi had been building a case against Los Negros for some time by infiltrating Los Zetas, chief enforcement and operations for the competing Gulf cartel.

At their secret rendezvous in a Flagstaff coffee shop three days earlier, Gagliardi told Bolan, “Phoenix P.D. hadn’t been able to gather enough evidence to hit the place until now.”

“And why’s that?” Bolan asked.

“Los Negros is an extremely efficient organization,” Gagliardi said. “They’re well-equipped and highly mobile. You see, after the Mexican army brought down Osiel Cárdonas in 2003, the Sinaloa cartel saw their opportunity to move into the Nuevo Laredo region. You familiar with that?”

Bolan nodded. Nuevo Laredo had always been the hotbed of activity in the war between the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels. The region had become an extremely important drug corridor. Nearly half of all drug exports from Mexico were smuggled through the area connected on the south side of the Rio Grande with Laredo, Texas. It seemed almost ironic the area had been nicknamed la puerta a Mexico, or the door to Mexico. If anything, Nuevo Laredo had definitely become that for the drug runners.

“Okay, so everybody inside knows that Edgar Valdez Villareal runs Los Negros, but the guy who’s pulling the strings behind the move into Phoenix is a dude by the name of Hector Casco.” Gagliardi surreptitiously slid a folder across the table and then lit a cigarette while Bolan glanced through various documents. “That contains a copy of his dossier and all the shit I could dredge up on him inside our computer files. Some of it was a little tough to come by because he’s actively under investigation and there are things for which I don’t have clearance.”

“I appreciate it,” Bolan said with a nod.

Indeed he did because despite the fact Bolan had saved Gagliardi from certain death once, the DEA man was once again putting his career and his life on the line. If anyone inside the Gulf cartel suspected betrayal and put a tail on him, Gagliardi wouldn’t last twelve hours after leaving that coffee shop, never mind the heat he’d take if his handler found out he’d broken protocol to help out a friend and outsider. And the Executioner fit both those descriptors.

“What’s Casco’s angle?”

Gagliardi shrugged. “I can’t be sure yet, but I think he’s vying for the favorite-son position in this part of the border states. Maybe looking to become independent, as it were.”

“That would make sense. If Casco can gain sole control of the pipeline from Nogales to Phoenix, he’d have an operation equal to or even exceeding the one out of Nuevo Laredo.”

“Right,” Gagliardi said. “But now the Home Invasion and Kidnapping Enforcement squad within the Phoenix P.D. has obtained information about this pharmacy. Word has it that a major meet is scheduled there three days from today. And according to everything I can gather this HIKE squad plans to be there for it. There’s even talk Casco’s going to make a personal appearance.”

“Yeah. But for what reason?” Bolan said. “If your intelligence is good, they wouldn’t risk such a meeting without some purpose.”

“That I can’t tell you,” Gagliardi said. “But I can tell you my intel comes from pretty high up. I’d be very surprised if this wasn’t the real thing.”

Bolan had nodded in understanding. He couldn’t bring himself to doubt the information because Gagliardi had risked a lot to get it to him. It also made some sense in that it appeared Hector Casco was out to make a name for himself; Casco obviously wanted a larger cut of the action if nothing else. Those two facts alone made it important enough to check out. Bolan’s only choice, then, would be to do a soft probe of the place and see what turned up.

With Ann-Elise McCormack out of danger, Bolan felt the time had come to explore this a bit further. By this point, the police would be at the cartel residence on the other side of town in force, not to mention swarming the McCormack and Montera homes. That left the field wide open and bought Bolan a little more time to check out Gagliardi’s intelligence.

Bolan pulled his vehicle into the back parking lot of a diner positioned directly across from the corner pharmacy. He stepped into the cool interior, sat down and ordered a sandwich. As he waited, the warrior studied the facade. The place looked plain, unremarkable really, save for the striped awnings that jutted from above the pair of large plate-glass windows—one each facing the cross streets. That old-fashioned look seemed out of place in this kind of “upscale” neighborhood and yet Bolan saw some wisdom in that. It made it seem like another friendly, neighborhood drugstore, maybe something out of Norman Rockwell.

Then the glint of light catching on metal from the rooftop of the three-story building across the street caught Bolan’s eye. He watched with interest, never taking his eyes from the building save for a brief acknowledgement of the waitress, who set the plate on the table with a clank.

“Can I get you anything else, honey?” she asked, tossing her blond hair as she cracked her gum.

By the time Bolan answered her, he’d spotted a second rooftop enemy position and three more at street level. “There a pay phone around here?”

She nodded. “Out back.”

Bolan held up a ten as he slid out of the booth and said, “Keep the change.”

“Wow, a whole dollar-twenty-five,” the waitress said with mock admiration. “Thanks, sir. Hey! What about your sandwich?”

But Bolan was already out the door and walking casually along the side of the building. He could have called from his cell phone but he didn’t want any of the diner occupants to overhear him. Beside the fact, the pay phone would be at least a bit more secure for Gagliardi. If anyone traced the call to the undercover agent’s own mobile phone, at least they wouldn’t be able to tie it to anything solid.

Gagliardi answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Bolan replied. “Can you talk?”

“At the moment. What’s up?”

“You said the other day that rumor control had it Casco was going to be at this meet.”

“Right.”

“Any idea what time it was planned for?”

“Not a clue. I only know it was supposed to go down today.”

“You know how to reach this guy who’s heading up the HIKE squad?”

“Nope, but I got a name.”

“What is it?”

“Captain Joseph Hall. Why?”

“Because I think he and his team are about to walk into a trap,” Bolan replied.