Читать книгу Devil's Playground - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Thirty-six hours earlier

“I’m glad you could take this meeting, Striker,” Hal Brognola said as Bolan sat at the end of the polished oak conference table. Monitors displaying satellite-and computer-generated maps flickered, bathing the dimly lit room in a blue glow that conflicted with the low-powered amber bulbs built into the smooth railings around the sides of the conference room, the woodgrain and luster of the rail matching that of the finely made table that Bolan sat at. The two friends were in the operations center beneath Camp David.

“I had a little downtime after my last mission,” the Executioner replied.

“You get damned little enough R and R,” Brognola stated.

Bolan simply shrugged. “I’m no good at relaxing.”

“That’s because you need more practice,” Brognola grumbled. “Unfortunately, this has the makings of a major crisis, and the Mexican president asked for help from ‘Striker.’”

Bolan’s brow furrowed at the memories of what had been dubbed by the press as the Border Fire crisis. It had flavored the more recent dissent against the illegal immigration problem that followed. Bolan had worked almost side by side with the Mexican president, fending off several factions attempting to overthrow him and bring Mexico into open conflict with the United States. Only the combined forces of Stony Man Farm had brought the crisis to an end, battling wildly disparate forces.

The lights built into the oaken rail flared brighter and lines built into the ceiling added to the illumination, dispersing shadow and heralding the approach of the President of the United States and his guest, the Mexican president.

“Striker,” the Man greeted Bolan. “I believe you know my guest.”

“Good to see you in good health, sir,” Bolan greeted the Mexican president.

“I wish that we could have been reunited under more cordial circumstances, my friend,” the Mexican leader replied. “But I am glad to see you are still healthy, as well.”

“I know you’re not one for small talk, so we’ll get down to the basics, Striker,” the President said. “There’s a cartel war going on in the Acapulco area, Guerrero State.”

“And it’s struck uncomfortably close to home with your friend, Governor Brujillo?” Bolan asked.

“You must have your finger on the pulse of my nation,” the Mexican president stated.

“It helps to know where trouble occurs,” Bolan explained. “I put the Acapulco situation in the forefront of my mind.”

“Because of the American singer who was murdered?” the Hispanic official asked.

“Because it appeared that an army unit was involved in trying to murder a government official in a blatant terrorist attack,” Bolan corrected. “First Lady Brujillo is the governor’s face on the war on drugs in the Acapulco area.”

“With Americans going down there for vacations, it’s one of the hotspots that cartels are competing for control of,” the U.S. President noted. “And unfortunately, there’s nothing constitutional that we can do to limit that sort of demand.”

“I’m more interested in containing the violence that the cartels inflict upon people,” Bolan stated. “Unfortunately, between street level control of neighborhood dealers to attempted assassinations of government leaders, that kind of violence can smother nations and continents. Believe me, for all the heads I’ve killed, the body still manages to live on and grow a new one.”

“Sounds like you get discouraged,” the Mexican leader commented.

“It takes more than me burning a cartel to the ground to end your problems,” Bolan returned, no bitterness in his voice. “Treat the disease and forget about picking at the bandage I applied.”

The man bristled noticeably, but he held his tongue at reprimanding the Executioner. Bolan had a point about what was really needed. The lone warrior had assailed the leaders of drug cartels for years, doing fantastic amounts of damage, and instead of seizing upon the momentary advantage he supplied, laboriously moving government agencies stumbled, hemmed and hawed, allowing new batches of thugs to swarm in to replace the severed head.

“Governor Brujillo is a good man, and he is trying to implement more than a slash-and-burn approach to fighting drugs in his state,” the Mexican president replied. “He deserves all the help we can get.”

“He’ll get it, then,” Bolan replied. He tapped the overstuffed file folder in front of him. “I’ve got all the intel I need, and I have an appointment on the border tonight.”

“The border?” the Mexican leader asked.

“I have word of a military unit making a heroin run tonight,” Bolan explained. “They might not have been the ones behind Anibella Brujillo’s assassination attempt, but maybe they’ll give me a link to someone who would know.”

“You’ll be acting against my country’s military, Striker.”

“I’ll be acting against traitors. Nowhere in their oath of duty does it say they have to assist in peddling poison to other nations,” Bolan countered. “That doesn’t contribute to protecting Mexico. It only breaks the laws of your nation and mine. And you know firsthand how I deal with those kinds of men. Their sentence has been dictated by their own actions.”

The Executioner stood, took the file and left the two national leaders behind in the conference room to mull over his words. He had a flight to catch and drug smugglers to kill.

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for the fingerprints of the fallen Russian mafiya assassins to get back to Bolan. The Executioner had conducted an immediate inspection of the corpses, and using a digital camera, blood and a white sheet of paper, he was able to get the prints of a half dozen of the would-be killers before the federales arrived.

“Four of the six you nailed were former Spetznaz,” Aaron Kurtzman informed Bolan. “The other two were combat swimmers. All of them have records with Russian Intelligence linking them to organized crime as muscle. They dropped off the radar two years ago.”

“They moved to Acapulco to shore up mafiya ties with the Mexican cartels,” the Executioner surmised.

“A reasonable assumption, considering their bloody fingerprints are all over a sheet of paper you photographed for us,” Kurtzman replied.

“Any information on the Asado twins?” Bolan asked.

“Except for the sudden, recent accusations of Rosa being the head of a major drug gang while working out of Anibella Brujillo’s security detail, they’re clean, hardworking and exemplary lawmen, er, women,” Kurtzman stated. “Frankly, if they had been in U.S. law enforcement, we’d have had both of them through the blacksuit program. It’s just a shame that Mexico’s law-enforcement community is an old-boy network. They’d have gone even further.”

“One won’t,” Bolan mentioned. “And the other is on the run now.”

“Nobody ever accused the federales of being white knights,” Kurtzman mused. “There are plenty who are good and honest, but there’s enough who will buy into any story to protect their careers with the heat on.”

Bolan sighed. “It’s amazing that Mexican law enforcement gets as much done as it can.”

“The channels are tangled down there. I deal mostly in Internet, but this is Acapulco law enforcement. Word of mouth is still the most reliable means of these people getting in touch with each other, and if they’re putting anything in writing, it’s paper and ink, not digital,” Kurtzman said.

“That’s okay. I’ll shake answers loose the old-fashioned way,” Bolan replied. “Twist an arm, and listen to the music.”

Kurtzman made a sound of disgust. “Damn it. I forgot.”

“Something I said?” Bolan asked.

“Narcocorridos,” Kurtzman stated. “What you said about listening to the music.”

“Right. The tradition of putting the stories of crimes into song. Murderers and drug dealers keep their legends alive that way,” Bolan said. “If there was anything, we’d hear it in music.”

“I’ll see about what’s on the hit list,” Kurtzman offered. “Some of the songs make it onto the Internet.”

“Instead of pirated music, music about pirates,” Bolan mused sardonically.

“Bingo. I can also see if we have anyone who has their ears open on that particular community,” Kurtzman stated.

“It’ll be a needle in a haystack,” Bolan replied. “Murder is the flavor of choice for those songs. Drug dealers, while admittedly pretty sexy in that field, don’t get noticed for their brand-new street corner deal, just for putting the hit on someone in their way.”

“And anyone out to make Rosa Asado look bad will keep things mum about framing and murdering her,” Kurtzman concluded.

“Keep working that angle,” Bolan requested. “It’s an alternate form of intelligence.”

“What about the Santa Muerte angle that popped up?” Kurtzman asked.

“Digging into that is even further off the Internet grid,” Bolan said. “And for now, I’m on my own.”

“Wish we could get Rafael or Rosario to hit the streets for you down there,” Kurtzman said, “but Able and Phoenix are busy.”

“I have my own sources down here, Aaron,” Bolan replied.

“The running Asado twin?” Kurtzman asked.

Bolan looked around the office that Anibella Brujillo had provided for him in the governor’s mansion. He’d performed a thorough sweep of the room, and had found three active bugs so far. A small white-noise generator next to the laptop he was talking into would mask any sound he made as he used a headphone and jawbone-contact microphone unit plugged into the computer to communicate directly with Stony Man Farm. The contact mike, taped to his jaw, wouldn’t be affected by the white noise generator, since it picked up the vibrations of Bolan’s voice directly through his body, not the air. The cyberlink between the laptop and Kurtzman’s system was protected by powerful encryption software, so hacking the information flow would be difficult. Still, the Executioner wasn’t willing to discuss his contact with Blanca Asado even over an encrypted line, protected by a cocoon of bug-disorienting noise.

“I have my means. And suspicions,” Bolan returned. “Thanks for the background on the hitters. Any word on where they’ve been staying recently would help immensely.”

“I’ll track that, too,” Kurtzman promised. “Good luck, Striker.”

“Thanks,” Bolan said, signing off.

He turned off the laptop and disconnected from his headphone and contact mike. Anibella Brujillo would want an update, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

BLANCA ASADO LOOKED at the business card that Agent Matt Cooper had flipped her in their brief encounter. Armando Diceverde took a sip of warm beer as he sat in the corner of the hotel room. The handsome little journalist had his laptop out and was hooked to the Internet via a satellite-capable modem.

“I’ve got nothing on Agent Matt Cooper of any agency,” Diceverde announced. “All results on his Justice files come up as access denied. Whatever he does is shoved into a deep hole that I can’t pull up.”

“There’s no doubt of that,” Asado returned. “But he has a voice mail and an e-mail contact.”

“Probably a secure drop he can tap when he needs to,” Diceverde mused. “Nothing we could actually use to check up on him.”

“Your implication?” Asado asked.

Diceverde took a deep breath. “He’s a spook.”

“Oh,” Asado answered, rolling her eyes. “That’s news to me.”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere,” Diceverde mumbled. He took another sip.

“Beer and painkillers don’t go well together,” Asado warned for the third time.

“Says you,” Diceverde answered. “I’m feeling a nice buzz here.”

Asado looked at the arm that hung in the sling around the reporter’s neck. If the bullet had struck any closer to the joint, he’d have needed a serious hospital stay, and amputation would have been an option. The little journalist had been lucky, and she couldn’t begrudge him his minor alcohol-and-painkiller-induced high.

“Want one?” Diceverde asked, motioning the base of his bottle toward the remnants of a six-pack she’d brought him.

“I’m good,” Asado answered. “E-mail him.”

“Cooper’s people would be able to track us easily in that case,” Diceverde warned.

“He could have put a bullet in my head instead of giving me his calling card,” Asado countered. “I’ll trust him. For now.”

“You type, then,” Diceverde said. “I’m good at using a search engine typing one-handed, but doing anything more is testing my limits.”

Asado patted him on his good shoulder. “Take a rest from typing. I’ll send the e-mail.”

Diceverde sucked down a long pull of his beer before getting up and plopping on the bed, letting the woman take his place at the desk.

“Establishing contact,” she typed into the header and body of the e-mail. She sat back and waited for a response. Considering Cooper’s mysterious air, he obviously had a large organization behind him. They’d be watching for any e-mails to his contact address.

She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang after a minute. Plucking it off the cradle, she put it to her ear.

“Blanca Asado?” a woman asked on the other end.

“Speaking,” she answered.

“You made an attempt to contact Agent Matt Cooper by e-mail.”

“You’re his secretary?” Blanca inquired dryly.

From the sound of Barbara Price clearing her throat, Asado knew that she’d struck a nerve. “I’m a liaison.”

“I figured he’s busy elsewhere,” Asado continued. “Perhaps you can arrange a meeting for us, if you’re not going to drop a team of federales into my lap.”

“You’re a Fed yourself, Blanca,” Price countered. “And we’re talking a Mexican Fed to boot. We’ve got, what, a fifty-fifty chance that you’re crooked?”

“If that’s the case, then why didn’t I just take out the governor and his wife with the rest of those Commie soldiers?” Asado asked.

“A different faction,” Price mused. “You’re an unknown quantity to us.”

“You’ve done a lot to earn my trust so far,” Asado said, not bothering to keep the sneer out of her voice.

“If your sister was anything like you, no wonder she ended up dead,” Price answered. “Don’t trust authority, free-thinking, looking for what’s right. It’d be a real wrench in the works of anyone trying to run something crooked.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Asado retorted. “So how are we going to arrange contact with Cooper?”

“Do you have a cell phone?” Price asked. “Using the hotel’s landline is secure, but it’ll limit your mobility.”

“I tossed mine last night,” Asado explained. “Too easy to track.”

“The airport’s only a couple of miles away. Locker 171J will have something we can establish secure communications with.”

“You have a key?” Asado asked.

“It’s locked, but the key is in a secure area. Section D of the parking lot, space 44,” Price answered. “We have the key lodged in a disguised box in the concrete pylon. The patch of concrete over it is marked with a rather large smear of bird crap.”

“That’s one way to keep someone from feeling around on it,” Asado returned. “This would have been Cooper’s ‘backup’?”

“There is a cell phone and a few survival tools in a handbag,” Price explained. “We have secure communications with you.”

“And a GPS tracker presumably,” Asado added.

“Actually, it’s deactivated. The GPS signal could possibly give his position away on a stealth insertion,” Price told her. “The tools are clean, as well. We’ll contact you when you recover what you need.”

“Very generous with someone else’s equipment,” Asado stated.

“This was a redundant supply drop,” Price said. “He has other means of reequipping. Call us on Autodial 1 when you retrieve the phone.”

Price hung up and Blanca Asado set down the receiver.

“Well, they got the e-mail,” Diceverde said. “You going to take them up on their offer?”

“What choice do I have?” Asado asked. “You’re hurt, so if we get into trouble, you won’t be able to effectively protect yourself.”

“Rosa was my friend, too,” Diceverde protested.

“Kicking ass isn’t your specialty, though. Finding things out, that’s where you’re strongest. I need to follow this conspiracy smearing my sister, and you can cut through that mess far better than I could,” Asado explained. “I need a source of information that isn’t tied to Cooper.”

“You don’t trust him?” Diceverde asked.

“I don’t trust the people on the other end of that phone,” Asado told him. “But I met Cooper face-to-face, and he seems like a good man. I’m going to get the stuff.”

She handed him her revolver. “It’s stuffed with .38s, so you can control it with your dumb hand.”

“Thanks,” Diceverde replied.

“I just hope you don’t have to use it,” Asado added, heading out to the car.

“IF WE’RE GOING TO BE WORKING together,” Anibella Brujillo began, putting two cigarettes between her luscious lips and lighting them both, “we’re going to need to be open and honest with each other.”

She took one cigarette out and turned it over to Bolan. He accepted it and could taste her. Bolan shrugged. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

“Your birth name isn’t Matt Cooper,” Anibella cooed.

“It’s the name I go by,” Bolan returned, keeping irritation out of his voice.

Anibella took a deep breath, then sighed. “And who was outside helping us?”

“I exchanged fire with someone in the treeline. I couldn’t get a good look, but whoever it was was interested in taking out the Russians, too.”

“Ah…that’s the thing. Russians,” Anibella replied.

Bolan handed her a printout. “My people pulled the records on a few I got fingerprints on.”

The first lady nodded in approval as she looked at the file. “Your people work quickly.”

“Kind of a necessity in my line of work,” Bolan said. “Quick intelligence can mean the difference between success and death.”

“You seem to have both in droves, Agent Cooper. Quickness and intelligence.”

Bolan nodded, keeping his mind off of the smoldering, seductive stare that the woman burned into him. “I’d rather work independently. Being shackled to a bureaucracy will only limit my ability to hunt down those responsible for your assassination attempts.”

“You think this was round two?” the woman asked.

“Round two of what we know so far. There might have been more attacks foiled by law enforcement that didn’t filter up through your grapevine. These efforts seemed like acts of desperation,” Bolan replied.

Anibella nodded, licking her upper lip. “I am the one who is the figurehead of the antidrug campaign here in Acapulco, Matt.”

Bolan shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

“I have a sizable dossier on local organizations, including drug processing and distribution centers, which we do not have enough evidence on to constitutionally take action,” Anibella told him, her eyes glimmering. The glimmer sparked an even hotter fire as Bolan realized that his facial expression changed ever so slightly. She’d read him, the flicker of anticipation. She’d been trying, all conversation, to find a chink in his emotional armor to pull him in to her grasp.

A guide to good hunting, just outside of the law, had been the chink she was looking for. Her obvious sensuality hadn’t been enough to bend him toward her, but now that she had the Executioner’s measure, she thought she was in control.

He’d allow her to believe that. A less perceptive man would have been oblivious to her attempts at manipulation.

“I’ll get to work on this. Maybe I’ll shake something loose,” Bolan answered.

Anibella Brujillo smiled, and despite her efforts to make it warm and friendly, Bolan felt a creeping cold sinking into his heart.