The Cartel Hit. Don Pendleton
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HATTON STOOD ON the wide porch fronting the big house, speaking into his cell.
“I want you to drop everything, Candy. This is important. Wouldn’t offer it to anyone else. You sort this out for Seb and it’ll be the best payday you ever had.”
“He got himself in a bind?” Candy asked. His voice was low and slow, a homegrown Texas roll.
“Sort of. Candy, this needs clearing real fast. No mistakes.”
“Kind that needs a shovel to finish it?”
“That kind. Dead, buried, forgotten.”
“My specialty.”
“The Meat Wagon in an hour. Okay?”
“Fine,” Candy said, and hung up.
The Meat Wagon was a diner on the west side of Broken Tree that had been there for more than twenty-five years. The aluminum siding had weathered, the metal dull and pitted, but the painted sign had been refurbished recently. The original owner, Hoyt Dembrow, had died a few years back and the diner was managed by his son, Hoyt Dembrow Jr. Junior was over fifty and looked it, so the youthful title didn’t do him any favors. The man liked the food he served in the diner, sampled it every day. His ample size showed that.
As Hatton stepped inside an hour later, the familiar smells of coffee and fried food hit him. He liked that. The Meat Wagon was a piece of stability in a rapidly changing world. It had no offshoot truck franchise, no menu with fancy food catering to dietary needs. It served American food, period, and that was the way Hatton liked it.
He spotted Candy at the back end of the diner, facing him over a raised mug of coffee. At this time of day there were only a few other customers, and Candy had picked the table farthest away, leaving an empty stretch between him and the other eaters. Hatton’s boot heels clicked on the metal floor as he made his way over, stopping to speak to the owner en route.
“Hello, Junior. Coffee?”
“Sure enough, Cole.”
Hatton took the offered cup and joined Candy, dropping his cowboy hat on the table beside him. Candy watched, not saying anything, as he pulled a thick envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table. Candy picked it up and lifted the flap, flipped through the thick wad of bills inside and nodded briefly.
“Down payment,” Hatton said. “Usual terms.”
“You paying for the food, as well?” he asked.
“Don’t I always?”
Candy’s lean, weathered face showed a thin smile. He was a six-foot-three whip of a man who dressed like an out-of-work line rider. He raised his hand and summoned the waitress, ordering a big steak with all the trimmings. Hatton went for his weakness: a stack of pancakes with syrup, bacon and a couple eggs on top. While they waited, Hatton pulled out some photos and showed them to Candy.
“Hermano Escobedo. Son of a bitch is ready to drop the hammer on Jessup. He has evidence that could see Jessup locked up for the rest of his life. Or worse.”
“And Seb, naturally, don’t sit comfortable with that.”
Hatton handed over a folded sheet of paper. “Everything we have on the guy,” he said. “Ain’t much. He came over the border a few years back. He’s legal. Set himself up doing all kinds of hands-on work. We took him on account of he’s got a green thumb and does a tidy job. You know how Seb likes his place looking homey.”
Candy drained his coffee and signaled for a refill. “Jessup want his body delivered—or just vanished?”
Hatton let the question hang for a few seconds.
“Hell, Candy, what would we do with a body messing up the place?”
“Just needed to clarify the situation.”
“Well, it ain’t hard. Find him. Put him out of his misery. Bury him in the desert and keep the shovel for a souvenir.”
Candy smiled. “Hey, why’d you not say it was easy as that?”
Hatton made no comment. He knew the way Candy operated. He might make light of the deal in conversation, but in reality he was a professional who made people disappear. He gave off the impression of being a good old country boy, when he was, in fact, one of the most coldhearted men Hatton had ever come across. Candy took pride in his line of work, employed the very best and never, ever walked away without completing a contract.
They fell into light conversation until their food arrived. Eating became the most important consideration after that, neither man saying very much until they were done.
“When you catch this son of a bitch you need to look for his cell phone. He filmed Jessup. If the law lays its hands on it…”
“I get it,” Candy said. “Don’t you fret. It’s as good as done.”
“You know how to contact me if you need to,” Hatton said. He finished his third coffee, pushed his plate aside and stood up. “While we were deciding how to deal with this, I set a couple of our boys on the job.”
“That’s fine,” Candy said. “Give me the word if they find anything.”
The call reached Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, at Stony Man Farm. He was off mission, had been for a few days, and was beginning to wonder if the world had shut down. He knew that was a forlorn hope. Somewhere, something was happening, or about to, and he was outside the zone.
Then his phone buzzed. He picked up and heard Brognola’s voice.
“Can you meet me in the War Room in five?”
There it was, then. Back to work.
Brognola nodded as Bolan entered the room. “So what do you have for me?” he asked the Big Fed.
Brognola handed over a thin file from his desk, and Bolan studied the head-and-shoulders image of a good-looking man in his early thirties, thick black hair across his forehead. There was intelligence in his dark eyes.
“Hermano Escobedo,” Brognola said. “Good guy. Trying to make his way. He entered the country from Mexico legally, sponsored by a friend. The photo is a couple years old. Escobedo lives and works in Broken Tree, West Texas.”
Brognola slid another photo across his desk.
A hard face stared back at Bolan, defiance in the man’s expression. Almost immediately, the soldier sensed something off-kilter.
“Seb Jessup. Texas native. Hard-ass, but smart. A spell in the army dropped him into the thick of combat in the Middle East. Army trained him to kill, and it looks like he picked up other bad habits. When he came home, he set himself up in business in Broken Tree. Built a reputation. Surrounded himself with a hard crew. Into all kinds of rackets. Soon had the money and the clout to rise to the top and stay there. Hires the best legal backing available. We know Jessup is into hard crime, but nothing’s been proven. He’s the bad guy in this little drama.”
“What’s the connection?”
“Escobedo has the goods on Jessup. Called us willing to help. Said he had hard evidence that would put Jessup behind bars, that he would hand over what he had if we could keep him alive and safe. He’s no fool, Striker. Just an honest man willing to go that extra mile.”
“So what happened?” Bolan asked, knowing he wouldn’t have been called in if this was a simple matter of witness protection.
“Escobedo