Cartel Clash. Don Pendleton
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Bolan kicked the door, bursting into the open, and immediately engaged the other shooters. His MP-5 stuttered in a harsh rattle, his shots catching the pair before they could react in any substantial way. Bolan put them down with cold efficiency. He coolly changed magazines as the first clicked empty, then raked the bloody pair on the pavement again before turning the SMG on the SUV. The soldier hit the vehicle with the rest of the magazine, shredding tires, shattering windows and puncturing the gleaming bodywork.
When all the gunners had been silenced, he stood for a moment, the SMG’s muzzle pointed at the ground, then he turned and went back inside the diner. He paused briefly beside Pilar’s still form, checking her pulse and finding none, as he had expected.
“I let you down, Pilar Trujillo. Forgive me for that. But I’ll see this through, and that’s a promise.”
He walked behind the counter, through the kitchen and out the rear door. Bolan kept to the shadows, working his way back to the motel, breaking down the SMG as he went, throwing parts in all directions until he had discarded the weapon. His prints weren’t on file—thanks to the cybercrew at the Farm, so he wasn’t worried about that. He picked up the distant wail of sirens, so he stayed on the back lots, finally slipping inside the motel grounds and easing through the shadows to reach the path that led to the rooms. By the time he let himself back into his room, his anger had subsided to a controllable level.
But the sensation of loss hadn’t.
Pilar’s death would be with him for a while. Once again an innocent had died because she had become involved in the soulless determination of Evil to protect itself against exposure. Siding with Manners had drawn the young woman into the line of fire. Her enemies had tracked her, taking her life as casually as flicking off a light switch. Only this time they had not taken into account the response of the man with her. Bolan had already been involved in the matter, but his resolve had been strengthened by her death, a needless, unnecessary, cruel death. A vibrant young woman had been destroyed through greed and the hunger for power.
For Bolan, her death would offer yet another ghost to join the others. Though he had long ago accepted the dreams that sometimes visited him in the long dark nights, each new visitation simply affirmed the commitment he had made when he embarked on his War Everlasting.
The Executioner seldom dreamed about the enemies he had killed. Usually it was those who had been caught up in the violence through no fault of their own. He called them his friendly ghosts.
Bolan checked the motel courtyard through the window shutters. People were emerging from rooms, moving toward the street. He dropped the pistol into his carry-all, then he unbuttoned his shirt and ruffled his hair, opened his door and stepped outside, merging with the curious motel guests.
“What’s going on?” he asked, feigning a sleepy voice.
The young couple he had spoken to shrugged.
“Sounded like shooting,” the man said.
Bolan drifted along with the curious until they were stopped by uniformed police officers.
Standing in the crowd, Bolan cast a keen eye on the scene outside the diner. A number of police cruisers were parked on the street, their lights flashing. More sirens could be heard approaching the area. An ambulance, then a second, rolled in. A couple of minutes later a local TV station mobile unit showed up, and the event turned into a public spectacle. Bolan made sure he remained in the background in case any probing camera was turned in his direction.
Someone demanded to know what was going on.
“All we know, ma’am, is there’s been some shooting,” the lanky cop drawled. “Can’t tell you more ’cause we don’t know anything else.”
A couple of unmarked police cars showed up, plainclothes detectives moving in to take charge. More uniforms arrived, reinforcements to help hold back the crowd that was increasing. Bolan saw the crime scene investigation van roll up. Nothing would happen now until the CSI team had tagged and bagged the scene, outside and inside the diner.
The young couple Bolan had seen from the motel appeared at his side. The woman held herself close to the man.
“Did you see those bodies?” she said. “It looked just awful. We only stopped for overnight, and we’ll be glad to leave in the morning.”
“I heard somebody saying it was most likely something to do with drugs,” the man said. “You reckon it could be so?”
“Maybe,” Bolan said.
He turned away and walked back in the direction of the motel. As he crossed the courtyard the manager stepped out of his office.
“You see what happened?”
“Looks like some shooting at the diner.”
“Oh.”
Bolan made his way to his room and let himself back inside. He quickly packed, conscious of how the situation in town had changed. His closeness to Pilar’s death might easily compromise his presence. If anyone connected him to her, his anonymity might end. He couldn’t afford to come under police scrutiny.
He ran back over his activity since he and Pilar had arrived at the motel. It had already been dark and he had parked in close to the room, letting Pilar slip into the shadows as she left the vehicle. As far as he could recall, no one had been around when they had walked across the courtyard and onto the street. The only individual who might have seen them was the motel manager as they passed his office window. Their short walk to the diner had been along a deserted street due to the lateness of the hour. Bolan remembered the waitress in the diner. She had seen them together, and she might be able to provide the local LEOs with a description. Bolan knew he was going to need to move on, but he was not going to be able to do that so easily. Not with the local law camped just outside along the street.
A sudden thought came to him. Bolan crossed the room and turned on the TV. He used the remote to find the local station and found himself looking at the very scene he had just left. He upped the volume and heard a voice-over describing the scene.
“…have here are multiple killings. Three bodies outside the diner. Inside, the shocking discovery of three more. Two men and a young Latina all shot to death. The diner’s owner and waitress were found locked inside the cold room. I managed a few words with Homicide Detective Clarke Whittington, and he told me that at this moment the police cannot say what lies behind this tragedy. It is too early in the investigation to offer a reason…”
Bolan clicked off the TV, took out his cell phone and called Stony Man Farm. Brognola answered, admitting he had been watching the incident unfold on TV.
“Looks like you got trouble down there, Striker. Yeah, we’ve been monitoring the local TV station seeing that you were in the area. I have to admit they’re sometimes faster at reporting events than our sources.”
Bolan gave a short review of the night’s occurrences.
“I’m not off the hook yet,” he added. “Especially if anyone recalls seeing me in Pilar’s company. I’m going to have to relocate, but I can’t do much about it until morning. The diner’s a short walk from my motel, and the place is overrun by the local cops at the moment.”
“We’ll do what we can to scupper any potential threat,” Brognola said. “Aaron’s team will monitor all police frequencies, and the genius himself is trying to access the local computer system even as we speak.” The big Fed was referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm.
“Any result from that intel I queried earlier?”
“Yeah,” Brognola growled. “And you’re going to love this. It’s a Moscow telephone number. The Bear couldn’t get much joy apart from the location, so he made a call to your OCD pal, Valentine Seminov. It seems the number belongs to someone Seminov has been chasing for some time. A guy called Vash Bondarchik. He’s a big-time arms dealer, who’s well connected. Russian Mafia. He has clients worldwide. Seminov asked if he could