Cartel Clash. Don Pendleton
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“Which is why we’re doing what we can to put them down.”
“What about Don Manners? Is the DEA going to put his death in a cold case file?”
“They won’t quit. But what have they got to go on? No witnesses. Manners was undercover, so all the feedback they have is his own. Dammit, Striker, it’s why you’re there.” Brognola’s last words were delivered with a hard edge, almost hinting that Bolan was the one with all the answers.
The Executioner let his friend’s frustration wash over him. He understood the big Fed’s mood. Like Bolan, Hal Brognola accepted every loss personally. He worked the edge all the time, aware of the way the game was played—hard investigations that often produced minimal results and were frequently closed due to the death of courageous men and women. Brognola was a man of courage himself, and he carried the burden on his broad shoulders.
The brief silence was broken when Brognola cleared his throat, his voice gruff as he said, “You didn’t deserve that, Striker.”
“I’ll try not to lose any sleep over it,” Bolan said lightly. “Did Manners point the finger at any local cops who might be on the Rojas payroll?”
“I’ve been going over the file reports the President delivered. Manners did talk about one in particular. A Deputy Chris Malloy. He works out of the narcotics squad for the county sheriff’s department, which is headquartered in a town called Cooter’s Crossing.”
“Having a man right on the inside could come in handy for the cartel.”
“Damn right it could. I had the cyberteam run a profile on the guy. They dug into Malloy’s personal computer files and uncovered a hidden folder. Malloy is computer smart, but there was no way he could stop Akira from breaking his encryptions. Malloy has a couple of bank accounts under a false name, and he gets regular deposits. Generous amounts, too. Akira followed the trail and traced the deposits back to a guy named Eugene Corey.” Akira Tokaido was the Farm’s top computer hacker. “And?”
“Corey’s main business is a very successful vehicle franchise in the area. Anything from autos to trucks to big rigs. He has sites all around the country. He buys, sells, rents and runs ads on TV. ‘If it’s on wheels—we do the deals.’ That’s his slogan. Rumor has it, from the DEA files, that Corey supplies transport to the Rojas Cartel as a subsidiary to his main business, and pulls in some big bucks. There’s no direct connection, but with the number of sites he has scattered around the county, it’s hard to keep track of all vehicle movements. From what Akira’s probing has brought to light, it looks like he’s also slipped in payola for the cartel as an extra.”
“It’s somewhere for me to start,” Bolan said.
“I’ll have the data downloaded to your phone,” Brognola said.
“Thanks for that.”
“Anything else you need?”
“Work up a file on Bondarchik. If Manners was correct on this weapons shipment to Rojas, it might be helpful if I know how it’s being done.”
“You’ll have it all shortly.”
BOLAN CRUISED the highway until he spotted a gas station. He turned in and filled the Ford’s big tank. While he was there, he checked water and tire pressure. Inside the convenience store he bought some bottles of water and a handful of health bars. He stored those in the cab, spun the wheel and drove across to the handy diner on the far side of the lot. Falling back on his military training, Bolan decided it was time to have a meal while he waited for Stony Man to send him the data he needed. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. The enemy wasn’t going to give you space if those needs came up at a bad time.
Stepping inside brought back the memory of Pilar Trujillo. Sitting in one of the empty booths, waiting for his food and coffee, Bolan ran through that scenario once again: the chatter as she ate; her brief repose shattered by the bullets that had hammered into her, reducing her from a vibrant young woman to a shattered and disfigured corpse on the floor of the diner.
“You okay?”
Bolan glanced up at the concerned face of the waitress. She slid his plate in front of him and stood with a mug of steaming coffee in her hand.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just working on a problem I have to solve.”
She put the mug on the table. “Don’t let it kill you, honey.”
“That’s what I’m working on.”
Bolan ate his meal. He was on his second mug of coffee when his phone rang. It was Price this time.
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