Cartel Clash. Don Pendleton
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Calderon. He works for Benito Rojas, handling technical matters. Weapons and such. Our friends at the DEA have a nice fat file on him, and the Bear somehow managed some cyber sleight-of-hand and downloaded it. Could be the guy to work these missiles for Rojas. Calderon is a little careless with his cell phone calls. Bear got into his call list and it appears he’s made a few to Bondarchik over the past few weeks. Also to the cell phone used by one Tibor Danko. Danko is Bondarchik’s SIC. Seminov knows the guy and says he’s a smart piece of work, which was the closest translation he could offer without resorting to really bad language.”
“Hell of a mix there,” Bolan said. “Something I can work on. Listen, I’ll move in the morning and make some distance from here. Monitor the situation and update me.”
“Yeah. Striker. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry about the young woman.”
“Not as sorry as the bastards who put out the hit are going to be,” Bolan said.
6
Marshal Dembrow was in top form, his powerful voice at full pitch as he berated the members of his local crew. Physically he was an impressive figure, topping the six-foot mark by a good three inches, his broad, less than handsome face darkened with his fury. The rest of his body was in proportion to his height. He was a fitness fanatic, working out every day in the expensively equipped gym attached to his spacious house. He also trained in martial arts, so the concept of being able to break bones was well within his ability. Not that he needed to use physical force—he paid people to do that for him. But he had done the deed himself on occasion.
At the moment, the thunder of his voice had the crew members subdued. They were all tough, but they might as well have been children as they stood ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. They were his men. He paid them well—very well—and provided whatever they needed. All he asked for in return was loyalty and a commitment to the business they were in. He got it. His people were in for the duration. As ruthless as they were in the pursuit of the Rojas Cartel’s needs, they were cowed as Dembrow ranted at them for turning a simple expedition into a total disaster.
As his rage subsided and the invective he spewed began to slow, Dembrow felt his control returning. He ran a hand through his collar-length blond hair and fixed his crew with a hard stare, delivering his concluding words.
“This isn’t what I pay you sons of bitches for. One guy. One fucking guy and he’s making all of you look like a bunch of mouth-breathin’ peckerwoods. This guy is smart, and he can handle himself. Just look what he did to Dante’s crew at the diner. One man, and he put them all down. Now I’m going to say it one more time. Nothing gets done until I give the say-so. Understand? I give the orders—you carry them out. For the moment walk easy. I don’t want the town getting too jumpy. If that happens, the cops will have to start rousting us, and I have enough to worry about. I’ll have this mother dealt with my way.”
The moment Dembrow stopped ranting the subdued group turned and left the study, the last man out closing the door.
Dembrow leaned on his hands, his head hanging. Willing himself to calm down, he took deep breaths, sucking air deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. His anger finally contained, he stood and crossed to the well-stocked wet bar in the corner of the expansive, richly furnished room. He opened the glass-fronted cooler and took out a chilled bottle of beer, removed the cap and enjoyed a long swallow. The cold liquid didn’t satisfy him as it usually did, a sure sign that Dembrow was far from happy. He took out a second bottle and returned to slump behind his desk.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He drained the first bottle and opened the second.
The silent figure in the high-backed deep leather recliner facing the room’s big window slowly eased it around so he could see Dembrow. He had remained unheard and unseen during Dembrow’s bawling out of his crew. He stood and crossed to the bar, helping himself to a large tumbler of vintage bourbon.
Tall, lean, his thick dark hair framing a hollow-cheeked face, he wore all black and moved with a languorous grace. He sat down again, swirling the bourbon in the tumbler, breathing in the fumes.
His name was Billy Joe Rankin. He was Dembrow’s closest adviser, a thinker who viewed a problem from all angles before he offered any kind of advice.
“You want my opinion, Marshal? Get on the phone and call in Preacher and Choirboy. Turn those homicidal maniacs loose. This is their kind of work.”
“Dammit, Billy Joe, I don’t need this right now.”
“Marshal, this is a bad patch you’re going through. It’ll pass. Hey, you’ve gone through times like this before.”
“Oh, sure. This time I let a damned Fed into my organization. He skims off information they can maybe use against me and almost walks away with it.”
“But he didn’t. Manners is dead, and the Feds still don’t have any kind of case against you. Let that ride. If anything does rise to the surface, we’ll let the lawyers handle it. Believe me, Marshal, this is going away.”
“Not until I know who this bastard is.”
“That’s something we all want to know.”
“Is he a damn Fed? A cop? Some psycho on a mission from God?”
“You want to find out?”
“Well, yeah, that seems to be a good idea.”
“Then do what I say. Let your boys run around making noises, but sic Preacher and Choirboy on him. Toss them a contract and let them run.”
Dembrow reached for one of the phones on his desk, tapped in a number and waited while it rang out. The voice on the other end was immediately recognizable.
“Preacher. You want to take a run over? I got a proposition for you two. Big payday. Huge payday. Well, hell, of course the usual. Half down if you come on board. The rest when you deliver. Sure, I’ll be here.”
Rankin poured himself another drink. He stood at the big window overlooking the grounds of Dembrow’s large property.
“It’s time you put that swimming pool in, Marshal. It’ll make a nice addition to the place. We can cut a good deal with Jack Templeton.”
“You think?”
“Big pool. Patio surround. Spot for a barbecue. Damn good way to entertain business clients. Have a few pretty girls running around in bikinis. Or no bikinis.”
Dembrow laughed. “Hey, you could be right, Billy Joe. What the hell, like you said, we got the cash. Give Templeton a call. Set it up.”
Rankin sipped his bourbon, his mission accomplished. Dembrow’s mind had been diverted from his current problems. His employer was a hard man when it came to his business dealings, but he had a failing that caused him to worry overly when problems came his way. If Dembrow allowed himself to be drawn away from his main concerns, the drug business might suffer, and no one in the organization wanted that. Especially Rankin. He enjoyed the success of Dembrow’s dealings and the material gains that he enjoyed. He wanted it to stay that way, so it was part of his job to keep Dembrow on a linear path, fielding off anything that might rock the boat.
PREACHER AND CHOIRBOY showed up an hour later. They parked a gleaming 1986 Lincoln Continental in the drive and stepped out, clad in tailored Western-style suits, complete with leather boots and wide brimmed Stetson hats. They were every inch Texan boys, down to the expensive aviator shades and string ties. The Mexican houseman let them in and escorted them through the house. Dembrow was in his office, alone, Rankin attending to other business. The pair settled into the big armchairs ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. The houseman took their hats. Dembrow handed them ice-cold bottles of beer, then settled back in his own chair.
“Nice job you boys did on that Fed. I think we got the message across.”
“Take