Читать книгу Cartel Clash - Don Pendleton - Страница 7

Border Country, Texas

“It never ceases to amaze me,” Preacher said, “how ingenious folk can be when it comes to making things that do harm.”

He was fingering a strand of the razor wire that stretched across the tract of land where Texas met Mexico. It ran in an unbroken line east to west, a man-made barrier cutting across the invisible border.

Choirboy, his partner, nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze to the barely moving figure spread-eagled across the wire. The man’s earlier struggles had slowed imperceptibly until he was almost motionless. His initial twisting and turning had caused countless cuts and gashes in his naked flesh, and he was torn and bloody.

“No question it ain’t doin’ him any favors,” he said.

Preacher shaded his eyes as he glanced skyward. The sun was directly overhead. Hot and bright. The man on the wire was unprotected and unable to save himself from what was to come. Preacher didn’t figure on more than a couple of hours.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Something cool in a long glass is my choice.”

They turned and walked to the 4x4 parked close by. Choirboy drove, turning the vehicle in the direction of the dirt road roughly two miles away. From there a twenty-minute ride would bring them to the main highway.

Preacher took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He listened as the number rang out. When it was answered, he recognized the voice immediately.

“She’s done,” Preacher said.

“Fine. The rest of your fee will be transferred by morning.”

“Hell, I wasn’t calling about that. Just to let you know the problem has been resolved.”

“Okay.”

The call over, Preacher put away his phone and turned on the radio. The station was local, playing some country and western.

“Now that is nice,” Choirboy said.

“It is so, too,” Preacher said. “Push that pedal down, son, I’m getting real thirsty.”

THE MAN LEFT BEHIND on the razor wire took another hour to die. The savage beating he had received before being thrown on the barrier had weakened him already. He had two broken arms, broken ribs and a bad fracture in his left leg. The deep wounds inflicted by the steel razor barbs had accelerated his loss of blood, and the dehydrating and burning effect of the overhead sun hastened his death.

It was another full day before the body was discovered by a border patrol team. Hardened though they might have been by the things they had witnessed, the two-man team was shocked at the brutality of the violence that had led to the man’s death. A department chopper was called in, and after the body had been recovered it was flown to the closest medical center where an autopsy was carried out and the task of identifying the dead man was initiated.

It took only a couple of hours for fingerprint and dental ID to confirm who the man was: Don Manners, a six-year veteran of the DEA. During the six months preceding his murder, Manners had been operating undercover, working his way into the drug cartel headed by Benito Rojas and his American partner, Marshal Dembrow. Three days earlier Manners had managed to communicate with his superiors about an incoming arms shipment to the Rojas Cartel. Although he had not managed to pass on the finer details, Manners had reported that, along with conventional weapons, Rojas had negotiated the purchase of a couple of mobile, high-end missile units. There was nothing in Manners’s report that told when and where the consignment was due, but he spoke of a Russian supplier.

The DEA, despite this intel, was still helpless. If the ordnance was coming into Mexico, it was out of their jurisdiction, and they could do nothing except stand by and imagine Rojas taking great pleasure in his latest move against the U.S. authorities.

The report, in full, found its way to Washington, and eventually to the desk of the American President because he had asked to be kept in the loop with anything to do with the drug trade. It held great interest for the President. It was a cause, among many others, that stirred his emotions. Since coming into office, he had made the eradication of the drug tide a priority. Despite his efforts and the responses of the DEA, little headway had been made. The President was far from happy. His hands, though, were tied. The particular items that fueled his mood this time were the savage slaughter of Don Manners and the revelation that Rojas was importing missiles—missiles he’d undoubtedly use in his declared war against the Americans who had destroyed a great deal of his merchandise. Rojas’s response had been to increase the amount of drugs he shipped over the border, while also escalating his unremitting violence against anyone who defied him.

The President had read and reread the report, sitting alone in the Oval Office, his frustration over the situation growing with each passing minute. He hated the thought of more drugs coming into the country, the misery it would cause, and the cruel indifference of men like Rojas and Dembrow. They were defying the might of the U.S., killing at will, and ignoring every law and rule in the book. All the while becoming richer day by day.

It had to stop.

The President reached for the phone on his desk that would connect him with the one man who might be able to assist in resolving the situation.

The phone rang out and was quickly picked up.

“Mr. President.”

“We need to talk, Hal. ASAP. There’s something I need your help with.”