The Cartel Hit. Don Pendleton
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working in his gardens. He witnessed a pair of Mexicans, young man and woman, being beaten in one of the stables. Jessup himself was leading the attack, using a baseball bat. He was going wild. Yelling about them screwing up a deal. He swore he was going to make them an example. Escobedo told us Jessup didn’t stop until the two were dead. And he said he caught it all on his phone.”
“Bad place to be for Escobedo,” Bolan said. “But you have to give him credit. That takes courage.”
Brognola nodded. “Anyway, word came to me after the two US Marshals sent to pick him up were gunned down. Something must have leaked after Escobedo made the call. When backup finally got there, he was gone. No one knows where he went. Striker, we need you to find him. He stepped up to help and now he’s out in the cold. He’s not going to trust anyone with a shield. And he knows Jessup’s people will be out looking for him.”
All Bolan had to go on was the photograph, plus the few facts Brognola had provided. But they told the soldier all he needed to know about Escobedo. He was an honest man who had become a target because he had stood up to be counted. His courage made him a threat to Seb Jessup, and men like Jessup reacted to threats by eliminating them. Two people had already died.
Jessup had defined the rules, so Bolan would play by them.
It was a simple procedure. Jessup, by his actions, had shown himself to be beyond the law. He worked his criminal enterprises with no concern over who got hurt. He was arrogant in his refusal to walk the line. Bolan knew his type. He fought them every day. The takers. The destroyers. Those who held nothing but contempt for ordinary people. It was those ordinary people Mack Bolan stood up for. They were unable to fight back against the lawbreakers, so the Executioner did what he could to redress the balance. It was a long-term campaign, but one he accepted willingly.
Now his priority was to protect Hermano Escobedo. It was too early to assess the magnitude of the opposition. Bolan simply knew Jessup would throw a sizable force into the field. As many bodies and as much money as it would take.
Bolan was one man. That itself might work to his advantage. He had the technical resources of Stony Man as backup, but Mack Bolan was well used to his lone wolf status. It was the way he worked best. One man could move quickly, and he didn’t need to wait for others to respond. He didn’t have to hold back while others hesitated. Bolan went in at his own speed, making his decisions on the go, and there were no rules of engagement to consider. If something needed doing he simply went ahead and did it.
“Hal, bring Jack in. I’m going to need a ride to Texas.”
Ascensión, Chihuahua, Mexico
* * *
DRY AND DUSTY wind blew in from the open land beyond town. Hermano Escobedo felt the gritty detritus patter against his clothing as he walked the quiet street and ducked his head against the persistent dust. It was the time of day when sensible people stayed indoors to wait out the heat of the afternoon and take a siesta. Escobedo allowed a faint smile to curl his mouth at the thought.
Sensible people.
People with no worries except what to make for dinner and the price of gas.
But he was not like them. The days of normality were far behind him. Now he was a man alone, forced to turn his back on his few friends for fear of drawing trouble to them—or finding out they weren’t such trustworthy friends, after all. Escobedo knew what could happen if one of Jessup’s men found out someone knew too much. So he spoke to no one and made his plans to leave the area. He did this carefully, but he understood the way his enemy worked. Jessup had secretive ways of sniffing people out, using his money and the men who worked for him. If they located Escobedo, his life would not be worth very much.
The US Department of Justice had promised him protection. That he would be safe under their watchful eye. He had believed them, trusted in their competence to do what they’d promised. And at first it seemed to have been working. But then everything changed.
His protectors had failed him. Not only that, but they had forfeited their lives.
He’d escaped with his own, but now he was an open target. He had made the fatal mistake of threatening to expose Seb Jessup.
Escobedo knew enough about his former employer to understand he had so much influence and money, so many people in his pocket, that even thinking about going up against him was like peeing on an oil rig fire. It was a gesture. Nothing more. The man would hound him. Push him around and stall any effort to make his accusations stick. Already Escobedo had been thrown to the wolves. His contact with the law had been severed. Two men were dead and he was isolated.
So he walked away. From his friends. From his home. From everything that could be connected to him.
He had taken a crowded bus into Mexico. An old vehicle with tired suspension, it had bounced over every rough spot in the road. He’d endured the dusty, noisy ride in silence. When the coach reached its destination, Escobedo grabbed his backpack and climbed out, then bought a ticket that would take him deeper into the country. The coach he boarded this time was even older. There was no glass in the windows and as soon as the vehicle chugged onto the potholed local road, dust drifted inside. The seat under him was poorly padded and oily fumes from the engine filtered up through the rusty floor.
Escobedo opened one of the plastic bottles of water he had bought, and took a mouthful. He sat back, channeling out the noise, and tried, unsuccessfully, to relax.
He did not fool himself into believing that once he’d crossed that border he would be completely safe. But he believed he’d have some advantage on home turf. He’d be better able to lose himself in a country he knew intimately than he would in the US. Here he could melt into the background.
That was his hope, though already he was considering the validity of the moves he was making.
He stared out the bus window, seeing only the dry landscape.
Escobedo checked carefully each time the bus stopped to let off passengers or take on new ones. He scanned the other riders for anyone who stood out, but saw only the expected locals. Still, he couldn’t relax fully. He couldn’t rid himself of the suspicion Jessup might already have his people in place.
The village appeared out of the haze. Escobedo knew it well. In the years he had been gone, very little had changed. The tired buildings, the uneven road. At one time he’d called this place home.
It was Ascensión.
The town he had left to go to America. And like many pilgrims who walked away, he was now returning, because in his time of trouble he could think of nowhere else to go.
The village square still housed the stone fountain surrounded by skinny trees. There were no new buildings, just the familiar, whitewashed ones he remembered. As Escobedo stepped off the bus, memories came flooding back. He settled his backpack and walked across the square to the church as the bus disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Escobedo stopped at the base of the worn stone steps that led inside.
How long since he had been inside a church?
Too long.
Now he hesitated outside the house of God and wondered exactly what he was doing there.
He paused for a second too long. About to walk away, he was disturbed by the deep voice that spoke to him from the shadows just inside the open door.
“Hermano Escobedo? Yes, it is you.”
Father Xavier stepped into the sunlight, arms extended. His creased brown face held an expression of delight as he looked down at Escobedo. He must be in his seventies now, but to Escobedo the priest had changed little over the years. He wore the brown robe and sandals he always had. He was a man of medium height, lean and agile, a man who reveled in his chosen calling and was imbued with an inexhaustible energy.
He reached out to Escobedo and embraced him, holding him close for a while.
“You