Recovery Force. Don Pendleton
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could manage. “You’re going to be all right, now. I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”
She nodded, blinking those red-streaked crystal-blue eyes hard—she’d obviously been crying.
Bolan disposed of the gag that had left red welts across her cheeks and then cut away her bonds with a pocketknife version of the Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife. She choked and wheezed at first, and he watched her with concern. The moment proved short-lived and only Bolan’s reflexes saved his tennis shoes from being covered by the significant amount of vomit she projected over the side of the table.
When it seemed she was finished and left only with dry heaves, Bolan said, “You don’t look much like your yearbook photo.”
She eyed him with a queer expression as he helped her sit up.
Bolan continued with a smile, “You’re much prettier in person. I assume you’re Ann-Elise?”
She nodded and wiped the side of her mouth. Her voice cracked when she said, “Dino? Is Dino okay?”
The warrior wished she would have asked him anything but that, although he knew it wasn’t as if he could put off the subject indefinitely. Despite the trauma through which she’d gone, the young girl deserved to know the truth no matter how painful it might be. Until she could come to terms with his death, the healing could not begin.
“I’m sorry,” Bolan whispered. “He didn’t make it.”
Ann-Elise looked at Bolan a moment and then let out a blood-curdling scream and threw her arms around him. He decided it was time for them to get the hell out of there, and he hauled her off the table and up the stairs without another look at Montera’s corpse.
Once they were outside, Bolan seat-belted Ann-Elise into the passenger seat of the sedan and then ran around and climbed behind the wheel. He cranked the engine, backed off the lawn and onto the road, then proceeded at a conservative pace down the quiet street. He could have just as easily left in a display of screeching, smoking tires but he figured there was little point in drawing attention. The street still looked relatively deserted and he didn’t detect the approach of police sirens.
That meant the commotion inside had probably gone unnoticed.
Good, he needed to buy some time. It wouldn’t help his mission to risk unplanned contact with the police so early in the game. He had to get on the other side of the blue wall, sure, but on his terms. Anything less would only create more problems for him, more things to worry about.
Bolan had chosen to take this one on his own. At Stony Man Farm, Hal Brognola and Barbara Price were preoccupied with larger matters. Bolan had it on good authority from pilot Jack Grimaldi, that both the Phoenix Force and Able Team units were on assignments of a grave nature. So what else was new? Bolan thought about the battle-hardened veterans of Stony Man taking it to the enemy—he wished them well.
So yeah, he would go it alone this time.
Ann-Elise simply sobbed and curled her arms around herself. Bolan had rolled up the windows so the winds wouldn’t buffet her as he pulled onto the highway. She didn’t say anything to him and he didn’t press it. He’d saved her from what would certainly have been a long and brutal captivity. That’s what he did best, and he’d leave the social work and other similar services to those better qualified to render it.
In under thirty minutes, Bolan had arrived at the large home in a peaceful, residential section on the west side of Scottsdale, close to where it bordered Phoenix.
Bolan got out of the car, opened the door and unbuckled the seat belt. He offered a hand, but the girl chose to exit without assistance. She started to walk up the sidewalk to the door and then looked back at Bolan, who stood there with arms folded as he watched her.
“Go on, Ann-Elise. Go home, your family’s waiting for you.”
“You’re—” She bit off the reply and seemed to chew uncertainly at her lip. When she took a deep breath she appeared to have mustered whatever courage it seemed to take to speak to him. “You’re not coming?”
Bolan shook his head. “There would be questions. Too many for me to answer at this moment. Do you understand?”
“Funny,” the girl replied with a slightly wistful smile. “But I guess I do.”
Bolan nodded, winked and then got in the sedan and drove away.
AFTER DROPPING OFF Ann-Elise McCormack, Bolan returned to his hotel to clean up a bit.
He showered, changed into lightweight cotton slacks and a black muscle shirt. He then transferred the Beretta 93-R to shoulder leather before donning a buttoned maroon shirt to conceal it. After cleaning the Desert Eagle and stowing it in his equipment bag, Bolan sifted through the yellow pages of the phone book until he found the address of a pharmacy on Phoenix’s southwest side. He memorized the address and then stuffed the equipment bag under the bed, leaving the privacy tag on the outside of the door to wave off maid service.
The Executioner considered his options as he drove across town. He’d approach this part of his mission with a soft probe, at first. Bolan had intel the pharmacy was a Sinaloa cartel front for laundering drug money. A narco-military unit known as Los Negros provided protection and enforcement for Sinaloa cartel ops according to Bolan’s DEA connection, Vince Gagliardi. Officially, Gagliardi was breaking every rule in the book by revealing anything he learned to Bolan. He’d been working deep undercover within the local drug distribution network as a low-ranking mule. Gagliardi had been building a case against Los Negros for some time by infiltrating Los Zetas, chief enforcement and operations for the competing Gulf cartel.
At their secret rendezvous in a Flagstaff coffee shop three days earlier, Gagliardi told Bolan, “Phoenix P.D. hadn’t been able to gather enough evidence to hit the place until now.”
“And why’s that?” Bolan asked.
“Los Negros is an extremely efficient organization,” Gagliardi said. “They’re well-equipped and highly mobile. You see, after the Mexican army brought down Osiel Cárdonas in 2003, the Sinaloa cartel saw their opportunity to move into the Nuevo Laredo region. You familiar with that?”
Bolan nodded. Nuevo Laredo had always been the hotbed of activity in the war between the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels. The region had become an extremely important drug corridor. Nearly half of all drug exports from Mexico were smuggled through the area connected on the south side of the Rio Grande with Laredo, Texas. It seemed almost ironic the area had been nicknamed la puerta a Mexico, or the door to Mexico. If anything, Nuevo Laredo had definitely become that for the drug runners.
“Okay, so everybody inside knows that Edgar Valdez Villareal runs Los Negros, but the guy who’s pulling the strings behind the move into Phoenix is a dude by the name of Hector Casco.” Gagliardi surreptitiously slid a folder across the table and then lit a cigarette while Bolan glanced through various documents. “That contains a copy of his dossier and all the shit I could dredge up on him inside our computer files. Some of it was a little tough to come by because he’s actively under investigation and there are things for which I don’t have clearance.”
“I appreciate it,” Bolan said with a nod.
Indeed he did because despite the fact Bolan had saved Gagliardi from certain death once, the DEA man was once again putting his career and his life on the line. If anyone inside the Gulf cartel suspected betrayal and put a tail on him, Gagliardi wouldn’t last twelve hours after leaving that coffee shop, never mind the heat he’d take if his handler found out he’d broken protocol to help out a friend and outsider. And the Executioner fit both those descriptors.
“What’s Casco’s angle?”
Gagliardi shrugged. “I can’t be sure yet, but I think he’s vying for the favorite-son position in this part of the border states. Maybe looking to become independent, as it were.”
“That would make sense. If Casco can gain sole control of the pipeline from Nogales to Phoenix, he’d have an operation equal to or