Salvador Strike. Don Pendleton
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that one. Brognola had an insight and knowledge into the workings of the criminal underworld like it was nobody’s business. Brognola was older—probably much older than he looked—and Marciano had always assumed he was semiretired, since he hardly ever saw the guy. Still, if he needed advice or wanted a fresh approach to a prosecutorial problem, Brognola was the first guy he would go to and that was saying a lot since, to his knowledge, the man had no law degree of any kind other than from the school of hard knocks. Yes, indeed, the guy had been around a very long time.
“Honey, I’m leaving!” Marciano called to his wife as he snatched his leather valise off the side table in the entryway of their two-story home.
Caroline had found the place when it got listed with her agency, and while taking a couple through it she fell in love. Marciano liked their private place by a lake in the foothills of the Shenandoah, but the trip had become impractical when his firm grew in size and clientele base, so Caroline convinced him to move to Herndon. He didn’t really like the additional upkeep required by the neighborhood association, and he wasn’t much for gardening or landscaping, but it did afford him an opportunity to spend quality time with Caroline so he didn’t really mind.
Marciano opened the heavy front door of his house and a loud thumping sound greeted him. The steady beat came from some kind of sound system inside the late-model Lincoln SUV with heavy window tinting parked at the curb. Marciano took a couple of hesitant steps through the doorway and closed it securely behind him. As he proceeded down the flagstone pathway that curved toward the driveway where his BMW sat idling, he noticed the rear-seat window of the SUV roll down.
He instantly recognized the object that protruded from the interior, but just a moment too late to really do anything about it.
Gunfire resounded through the chill morning air as a torrent of hot lead spit from the muzzle of the submachine gun. Slugs ripped through Marciano’s double-breasted pinstripe suit and lodged deep in his flesh, his body dancing under the impact of each round. Some of the bullets hit center mass while others grazed him deeply and in enough volume to actually tear chunks of flesh from the bones of his arms and legs. Marciano never saw his shooter; he also never saw the trio of young Hispanic males in gray hooded sweatshirts marked with the symbol of MS-13 as they emerged from the backseat of the SUV.
The young men made their way up the flagstone path, kicked in the front door and fanned out to scour the house. They would complete their work in short order, gunning down Caroline Marciano with the same butchery as her husband and then set fire to the home. These events would signal the fate of the U.S. Attorney General’s case, as about the same time police units responded to reports of gunfire coming from the area of the Marciano residence, a federal game warden would discover the butchered remains of a headless and handless victim in a wildlife marshland at the edge of Riverbend Regional Park—remains the coroner took several days to identify as those of Ysidro Perez.
1
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
“Without a case, the AG was forced to release the gang leaders they had in custody,” Hal Brognola said. “MS-13 had tried to hide the identity of the body, but fortunately we had DNA and blood samples that had been taken when Perez required medical treatment for his diabetes while in federal custody.”
A brooding silence fell on the War Room as the others considered Brognola’s grim announcement. Among that group sat a figure more powerful and imposing than all the rest. Arms folded, Mack Bolan leaned back in his chair and stared at the documents of a file folder arrayed before him. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a new tune but no question remained in his mind that this particular case required his kind of intervention. No matter the enemy, Bolan’s battle plan was always the same—strike terror into the heart of an organization to the point where he destroyed it from the inside out. The time had come to execute that plan against MS-13.
“Tell me more about Marciano,” he told Brognola.
The head Fed’s eyebrows rose. “You mean beside the fact that he was a top-notch prosecutor and good friend?”
Bolan nodded.
Brognola sighed. “I first met him a few years ago when the AG brought him on board. I haven’t known too many like him, Striker. Gary was relentless. He had come from a background in corporate law, but he took to federal prosecution like a duck to water. There are some men who are born for this kind of thing. Just like you were born to do what you do, Gary was the exact same way.”
“He never gave you a reason to think he might have been playing for the other team?”
“Absolutely not.”
Bolan furrowed his brow. “Then we have to assume these gang members had someone inside the Justice Department feeding them intelligence. They knew where and how to hit Marciano’s family, and they knew where this Ysidro Perez had been holed up while he was waiting to testify.”
“That was our initial conclusion, as well,” Barbara Price interjected.
Stony Man’s beautiful mission controller flipped a lock of honey-blond hair behind her ear. Bolan caught the movement and his eyes locked on hers. Through the years, Price had been a steady aid and object of physical comfort to Bolan. They saw each other rarely, but on such occasions they shared a deep connection and intimacy. Price’s background in the NSA qualified her better than anyone else to oversee the daily operations of the Stony Man teams, and they appreciated her. But, she had chosen to reserve her deepest and most personal passions for the Executioner.
Brognola continued. “The thing everyone forgets is that I knew Gary Marciano. I acted mostly as a sounding board and confidant for him, and one thing I know about him for sure is that he tended to play his cards very close to the vest. In the case of MS-13, there were only two other people who knew those kinds of details—me and the Attorney General. And since my personal questioning of the AG in front of the President leads me to conclude he didn’t say anything, the theory that an insider passed sensitive materials to any shot-callers inside MS-13 is damned unlikely.”
“There were two other agents with the BATF who questioned Perez,” Price said. “I had Bear look deeply into both of these guys, and neither of their activities of recent give us any suspicion they leaked intelligence of their dealings to any outside parties.”
“That’s right,” Aaron “the Bear” added. “I dug into their phone records and e-mails. I even scanned their personal financials for large purchases or cash transactions of any kind. They both came back as clean as a whistle.”
That note satisfied Bolan. Kurtzman had repeatedly demonstrated his wizardry in the wide arena of technology. The computer servers installed in the Annex at Stony Man Farm processed and stored massive amounts of information. Kurtzman could hack into just about any secured system in the world. If either of the BATF agents had left a trail of any kind, Kurtzman was the man to find it. If he said they were above reproach, then that was good enough for Bolan.
Price looked toward Brognola, who tendered a curt nod. “Given what we know to this point,” she said, “there’s only one other possibility. One other person did know about Ysidro Perez and Marciano’s case. But nobody outside Marciano or Hal knew that. Not even the Attorney General.”
“I’m listening,” Bolan replied.
“You’re familiar with the history of MS-13?” Brognola asked.
Bolan nodded. Mara Salvatrucha Trece’s could trace its roots back to the early 1980s and the peasant guerrillas that immigrated into the United States, victims of the bloody civil war in El Salvador. While their origins came about in Los Angeles, they had risen in status and numbers exceeding one hundred thousand members. Their operational territory numbered in excess of thirty states. Their platform: become the largest and most powerful gang in the country; their methods: robbery, gunrunning, drug trafficking and murder-for-hire. They had become nothing less than a domestic terrorist group, one that was organized and well equipped, and Bolan knew it was time for him to act in a way law enforcement could not.
“Back in 2001,” Price said, “when the