Devil's Playground. Don Pendleton
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fingerprints are all over a sheet of paper you photographed for us,” Kurtzman replied.
“Any information on the Asado twins?” Bolan asked.
“Except for the sudden, recent accusations of Rosa being the head of a major drug gang while working out of Anibella Brujillo’s security detail, they’re clean, hardworking and exemplary lawmen, er, women,” Kurtzman stated. “Frankly, if they had been in U.S. law enforcement, we’d have had both of them through the blacksuit program. It’s just a shame that Mexico’s law-enforcement community is an old-boy network. They’d have gone even further.”
“One won’t,” Bolan mentioned. “And the other is on the run now.”
“Nobody ever accused the federales of being white knights,” Kurtzman mused. “There are plenty who are good and honest, but there’s enough who will buy into any story to protect their careers with the heat on.”
Bolan sighed. “It’s amazing that Mexican law enforcement gets as much done as it can.”
“The channels are tangled down there. I deal mostly in Internet, but this is Acapulco law enforcement. Word of mouth is still the most reliable means of these people getting in touch with each other, and if they’re putting anything in writing, it’s paper and ink, not digital,” Kurtzman said.
“That’s okay. I’ll shake answers loose the old-fashioned way,” Bolan replied. “Twist an arm, and listen to the music.”
Kurtzman made a sound of disgust. “Damn it. I forgot.”
“Something I said?” Bolan asked.
“Narcocorridos,” Kurtzman stated. “What you said about listening to the music.”
“Right. The tradition of putting the stories of crimes into song. Murderers and drug dealers keep their legends alive that way,” Bolan said. “If there was anything, we’d hear it in music.”
“I’ll see about what’s on the hit list,” Kurtzman offered. “Some of the songs make it onto the Internet.”
“Instead of pirated music, music about pirates,” Bolan mused sardonically.
“Bingo. I can also see if we have anyone who has their ears open on that particular community,” Kurtzman stated.
“It’ll be a needle in a haystack,” Bolan replied. “Murder is the flavor of choice for those songs. Drug dealers, while admittedly pretty sexy in that field, don’t get noticed for their brand-new street corner deal, just for putting the hit on someone in their way.”
“And anyone out to make Rosa Asado look bad will keep things mum about framing and murdering her,” Kurtzman concluded.
“Keep working that angle,” Bolan requested. “It’s an alternate form of intelligence.”
“What about the Santa Muerte angle that popped up?” Kurtzman asked.
“Digging into that is even further off the Internet grid,” Bolan said. “And for now, I’m on my own.”
“Wish we could get Rafael or Rosario to hit the streets for you down there,” Kurtzman said, “but Able and Phoenix are busy.”
“I have my own sources down here, Aaron,” Bolan replied.
“The running Asado twin?” Kurtzman asked.
Bolan looked around the office that Anibella Brujillo had provided for him in the governor’s mansion. He’d performed a thorough sweep of the room, and had found three active bugs so far. A small white-noise generator next to the laptop he was talking into would mask any sound he made as he used a headphone and jawbone-contact microphone unit plugged into the computer to communicate directly with Stony Man Farm. The contact mike, taped to his jaw, wouldn’t be affected by the white noise generator, since it picked up the vibrations of Bolan’s voice directly through his body, not the air. The cyberlink between the laptop and Kurtzman’s system was protected by powerful encryption software, so hacking the information flow would be difficult. Still, the Executioner wasn’t willing to discuss his contact with Blanca Asado even over an encrypted line, protected by a cocoon of bug-disorienting noise.
“I have my means. And suspicions,” Bolan returned. “Thanks for the background on the hitters. Any word on where they’ve been staying recently would help immensely.”
“I’ll track that, too,” Kurtzman promised. “Good luck, Striker.”
“Thanks,” Bolan said, signing off.
He turned off the laptop and disconnected from his headphone and contact mike. Anibella Brujillo would want an update, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.
BLANCA ASADO LOOKED at the business card that Agent Matt Cooper had flipped her in their brief encounter. Armando Diceverde took a sip of warm beer as he sat in the corner of the hotel room. The handsome little journalist had his laptop out and was hooked to the Internet via a satellite-capable modem.
“I’ve got nothing on Agent Matt Cooper of any agency,” Diceverde announced. “All results on his Justice files come up as access denied. Whatever he does is shoved into a deep hole that I can’t pull up.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” Asado returned. “But he has a voice mail and an e-mail contact.”
“Probably a secure drop he can tap when he needs to,” Diceverde mused. “Nothing we could actually use to check up on him.”
“Your implication?” Asado asked.
Diceverde took a deep breath. “He’s a spook.”
“Oh,” Asado answered, rolling her eyes. “That’s news to me.”
“Sarcasm will get you nowhere,” Diceverde mumbled. He took another sip.
“Beer and painkillers don’t go well together,” Asado warned for the third time.
“Says you,” Diceverde answered. “I’m feeling a nice buzz here.”
Asado looked at the arm that hung in the sling around the reporter’s neck. If the bullet had struck any closer to the joint, he’d have needed a serious hospital stay, and amputation would have been an option. The little journalist had been lucky, and she couldn’t begrudge him his minor alcohol-and-painkiller-induced high.
“Want one?” Diceverde asked, motioning the base of his bottle toward the remnants of a six-pack she’d brought him.
“I’m good,” Asado answered. “E-mail him.”
“Cooper’s people would be able to track us easily in that case,” Diceverde warned.
“He could have put a bullet in my head instead of giving me his calling card,” Asado countered. “I’ll trust him. For now.”
“You type, then,” Diceverde said. “I’m good at using a search engine typing one-handed, but doing anything more is testing my limits.”
Asado patted him on his good shoulder. “Take a rest from typing. I’ll send the e-mail.”
Diceverde sucked down a long pull of his beer before getting up and plopping on the bed, letting the woman take his place at the desk.
“Establishing contact,” she typed into the header and body of the e-mail. She sat back and waited for a response. Considering Cooper’s mysterious air, he obviously had a large organization behind him. They’d be watching for any e-mails to his contact address.
She wasn’t surprised when the phone rang after a minute. Plucking it off the cradle, she put it to her ear.
“Blanca Asado?” a woman asked on the other end.
“Speaking,” she answered.
“You made an attempt to contact Agent Matt Cooper by e-mail.”
“You’re his secretary?” Blanca