Читать книгу Diplomacy Directive - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Guadalupe La Costa knew of only one person in all Guayama who would answer to Veda, and subsequently have the kind of information that Stone would seek.

La Costa knew him only as Frederico, a drunken and tattooed fool living in Las Mareas who would do anything for a quick buck. And usually did. Not that a little cash didn’t go a long way in Puerto Rico—certainly way more than it did in the States. And if there was anything La Costa had it was cash. Actually, the AP compensated her pretty well. In addition to providing her travel expenses while she worked, they had also arranged for very affordable housing through coop apartment homes and condos. La Costa shared a two-bedroom apartment with another reporter who handled the night beat. This way, she was able to sock away a lot more than if she had a place on her own.

They found Frederico in his usual place, doing his usual drinking and scratching his rear and avoiding anything resembling hard labor, seated on the front porch of the run-down motel owned by his aged mother. Frederico didn’t look terribly happy to see her, and he seemed even less enthused when setting eyes on Julio Parmahel. La Costa would never have admitted it but she figured Frederico had somewhat of a crush on her, and he probably viewed Parmahel’s presence as an infringement on his territory.

“Hello, Frederico,” she said.

“What do you want?” He was slurring his words, and even in the dim porch light she could see his eyes were bloodshot.

She nodded toward the whiskey bottle on the small table next to his chair. “I see your tastes have moved up in the world. You must have come into some money recently, because you’re not drinking that rotgut you normally do. And Canadian whiskey no less. Fancy, fancy. I don’t suppose that money happened to come from a tall American who asks too many questions, did it?”

“What kind of a businessman would I be if I talk too much about my clients?” He belched.

“Frederico, you are disgusting,” La Costa replied. “But unfortunately, we don’t have time to go into proper etiquette and manners around a lady.”

Frederico squinted. “Yeah, man, especially since I no see a lady here.”

“I think I’ll just let that one go by, since I know it’s a bunch of false bravado anyway. What I need to know from you is real simple. What did he ask you and where did you send him?”

“Why should I tell you? Huh? What you do for me?”

“First, I won’t ask any of my friends on the Guayama police to kick your head in the next time they catch you downtown.” She produced a roll of money. “Second, I have here what I’d bet is at least twice what he offered you.”

Frederico grinned broadly as greed filled his eyes. “What was the question again?”

MACK BOLAN DROVE SLOWLY past the address he’d been provided and scoped out the area.

The address happened to be a club of some kind nestled in what he quickly surmised to be Guayama’s red-light district. Pedestrians of every ethnicity hung out on the sidewalks, a good number of them obviously out to do nothing more than take in the sights. However, that left plenty who clearly had another purpose in mind. Some wore the clothing and colors and stances of gang members; some were out to sell flesh; some were simply out to peddle their wares, be it drugs, guns or knockoffs.

The soldier knew this scene all too well, but he wished he could have said otherwise. The vices of this area were no different than they would have been in any mid- to large-size city in America. Those who had spent their lives in unemployment and squalor—usually without equal access to opportunities in jobs and education—typified the majority of the denizens in this part of the world. Bolan knew it wasn’t all bad. Puerto Rico boasted many beautiful and prosperous areas.

This just didn’t happen to be one of them.

As they rolled past the club, Bolan pointed toward two big men who weren’t standing close enough to the door to be bouncers. No, these men had been waiting, and to Bolan’s trained eye had been waiting for some time. The fact they wore sunglasses and had rather long black hair, coupled with their custom-tailored suits, marked them as out of place as a pair of hippos in a petting zoo. Neither Bolan nor Grimaldi could tell if the pair of watchers had taken more than a casual interest in their car.

Bolan continued along the thoroughfare without changing speed and proceeded another two blocks. He turned right onto a side street, drove one block and made another right. Along this part of the north side commercial area all the businesses were dark. Bolan pulled to the curb and stopped. He killed the engine before going EVA and opening the trunk. From the weapons bag he retrieved his Beretta 93-R nestled in the shoulder holster. He donned the leather rig and fastened it down, then procured an MP-5 K machine pistol.

By the time Grimaldi had joined him, Bolan had also withdrawn a Benelli M-1014 combat shotgun. Adopted by the Marine Corps in 2001, the weapon had proved itself as a reliable and powerful ally against the war on terror. And in the hands of Grimaldi, it would do so once again.

“I take it this means you have a plan in mind?” Grimaldi asked, arching an eyebrow.

“I’m thinking soft probe,” Bolan said. “But I want to be ready if it goes hard.”

“What’s my role?”

“You’re going to take the wheel, give me fifteen minutes and then drive past the front of the club. Have the window down and be ready in case I have to come out swinging.”

“What’s the shotgun for?” Grimaldi asked, as he took the Benelli from Bolan.

The soldier smiled. “A hasty exit.”

Bolan turned and crossed the street, heading for the back of the club. He wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but he couldn’t think of a better way to get answers. If the information he’d bought didn’t pan out, it would mean a dead end. Still, he knew only one of two possibilities lay in wait beyond the walls of that club—there were terrorists operating in Puerto Rico or Miguel Veda had managed to dupe him into a trap. Something about this setup told Bolan he was walking into a trap anyway. It didn’t bother him—he’d walked into them before.

The waist-high cinder-block wall didn’t pose any obstacle to him any more than the ten-foot wrought-iron gates beyond it. Within a minute, Bolan reached the rear entrance of the club. The door was locked, so the soldier went to work on jimmying the catch using his boot knife. It didn’t take long before he gained access; the door didn’t even have a dead bolt. Apparently, the proprietor didn’t worry about break-ins. That told Bolan whoever owned the club relied more on human security.

The rear door opened onto a dimly lit, narrow hallway with a red carpet, red walls and overhead blue lightbulbs. A number of doors, all of them closed, lined both sides of the hallway. Before Bolan could investigate further, he spotted two behemoths heading toward him.

As the first guy got close, he reached inside his jacket and Bolan reacted with an offensive posture. Knife still in hand, the soldier rammed the razor-sharp blade straight through the breast pocket of the man’s coat and subsequently through his hand. The guy let out a bloodcurdling scream as the weapon penetrated cartilage and nerves, and continued with a three-inch intrusion of his chest wall. Bolan followed with a kick to the groin that doubled the man over and exposed his partner to the MP-5 K Bolan swung into target acquisition. As the first man fell and his weight drove the knife deeper into his heart, the Executioner squeezed the trigger and delivered a short burst to the second man’s chest at nearly point-blank range. The 9 mm Parabellum rounds made neat, red holes in the target’s breastbone and lungs before the impact lifted him off his feet and dumped him flat on his back.

Bolan pressed his back to the wall and held the MP-5 K in ready position, muzzle leveled at the door on the far side of the hallway. No further threats presented themselves. Bolan heard the heavy, steady beat of what sounded like rave music emanate from beyond the door. He waited a full minute before trying the handle on the door nearest to him. To his surprise it turned without resistance. Bolan opened the door onto a small, cramped room containing only a bed and a sink. He went to work immediately—dragging the two bodies into the room—but since there wasn’t enough space to hold them both side by side he had to stack them. Oh, well, it wasn’t as if neatness counted.

Bolan locked the door before closing it behind him. If this back hall served the purpose he thought it did, it would be some time before anybody got curious and made forced entry into the room. By that time he planned to be long gone. He proceeded along the hallway until he reached the far door. He’d consider checking the other rooms just to make sure he covered his flank, but quickly dismissed the idea as too time-consuming. While they might not come looking for their colleagues immediately, Bolan knew he still didn’t have a lot of time and especially not if he was forced to deal with other enemies inside the club proper.

The soldier opened the door, keeping the MP-5 K held low against his leg, muzzle down. Near blackness accompanied the deafening music, and people took scant notice of him. The place was wall to wall with bodies and Bolan figured many of those faces—what he could see of them anyway—were dazed by too much loud music, noise and chemical stimulation to be focused on him. This kind of crowd actually proved fortunate, allowing the soldier to move through the club with relative anonymity.

Bolan passed beyond the crowds until he found another door set in a wall just beyond where the curved bar ended. The two bar attendants were so busy filling orders that neither even noticed him as he approached the door. They also didn’t notice him raise the MP-5 K and stick it into the gut of the lone monster in the silk suit standing guard. The guy started to look in their direction, but a nudge of the weapon and shake of the head proved adequate in squashing any designs he entertained to warn them. Bolan inclined his head toward the door, and the man seemed all too happy to comply.

Not that he had a choice.

The soldier followed the man into the room, which actually turned out to be a very large office, and closed the door behind them. Against a far wall, a man sat busily typing at a computer keyboard, his lithe body wedged between the massive desk and credenza. The guy barely looked up from whatever held his attention on the computer screen and mumbled something about leaving whatever it was he’d been expecting on his desk.

Bolan cleared his throat and the man looked in their direction, an expression of surprise melting the stony sculpture of his features.

“Leave your hands where I can see them,” Bolan ordered. He followed the command with the jab of the muzzle into the guard’s back, prodding him in the direction of the sofa. He returned his attention to the guy behind the desk. “You running this operation?”

At first the guy didn’t make a response and Bolan began to wonder if he spoke English. Finally, he replied, “Yes.”

The Executioner thought he detected a slight Southern accent in the man’s voice, but other than that this one didn’t possess any striking features. Something about him didn’t seem quite right, but Bolan couldn’t exactly put his finger on what it was. Maybe the way he held himself or the look in his eyes or just a simple calm with which he carried himself. Whatever the case, it seemed plainly obvious that barring his initial surprise, he didn’t seem overly concerned. Bolan detected the unusual way in which the man sized them up.

“It would seem,” the man said as he was careful to keep his hands in view, “that you are under the mistaken impression you have us at a disadvantage.”

“You mean I don’t?” Bolan quipped. He waved the MP-5 K. “Seems to me this gives me the advantage.”

“Don’t believe for a moment that brandishing a weapon necessarily puts you in a position of authority, neither does it grant you automatic consideration. In fact, I’ve had a weapon pointed at me many times before…and yet here I am, still alive.”

“I’m not really interested in killing you,” Bolan replied. “If that were the case you’d be dead already. The only thing I’m here for is information, and if you give it to me, then I’ll leave here and nobody else needs to die.”

“You’re saying you’ve already taken the life of one of my men?”

“Two men. And only because they left me no choice.”

“That is unfortunate,” the man replied.

“And why’s that?”

“Because you will not leave here alive.”

“Who are you exactly and why are you here?”

“You don’t think after admitting to killing two of my men that I’m going to answer any of your questions. If you do, you are crazier than I anticipated.”

Bolan considered the statement a moment before replying. “It sounds like you were expecting me.”

The man inclined his head slightly. “Very perceptive.”

“An educated guess,” Bolan said with a smile that lacked any warmth. “But the joke’s on you, since I had already considered the possibility this was nothing more than a trap. You see, I came prepared for a fight.”

As if on cue, the door burst open and a fresh torrent of gunmen—about a half dozen all told—fanned out and trained an assortment of machine pistols on the Executioner’s position.