Salvador Strike. Don Pendleton
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in Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. Because of how much leadership they took down, the Justice Department thought they had effectively crippled the organization and its influence. Unfortunately, they were wrong.”
“You see, one of the things Gary realized after he was first assigned Perez’s case was that while each cell had its own shot-callers,” Brognola said, “the source of the strings being pulled was in El Salvador.”
“Where the gang originated,” Bolan said. “It makes sense. There’s always a bigger fish out there.”
“Well, Gary decided the only way they could bring MS-13 down for certain this time was to send an agent to penetrate the hierarchy. He came to me with his idea, and we agreed for a time to keep it between just ourselves.”
“Why didn’t he want to let the AG in on it?” Bolan asked.
Brognola chuckled. “I know why you ask, and I can assure you now that he didn’t suspect his boss of any wrongdoing. He knew it would be difficult to get the additional funding for such an operation without any hard proof, so he brought the guy in from the outside on temporary duty, a BATF agent named Ignacio Paz. He padded the expense line items and nobody looked too closely, including the AG, since they knew he was building a major case against MS-13 with Perez.”
“So Paz goes undercover in El Salvador to locate the top dog in the organization,” Bolan concluded.
“Right,” Price replied. “And nobody’s heard from him in weeks. We have found information on Marciano’s computer under some secretly encoded files.”
“I’ve ordered Bear to extract and decrypt the files from the computer so nobody at the AG’s office or FBI forensics would find them,” Brognola said. “I didn’t want to risk exposing Paz. Striker, MS-13 has its own intelligence service. They’re in the courts, the police departments, even the jails and prisons. They report on their own members and have even been known to send men out to commit crimes for the sole purpose of circulating them through the prison systems and assassinating deal makers.”
“I’m familiar with these kinds of tactics, Hal,” Bolan said. “From what you’ve told me, I think Marciano was on the right track. The only way to put down a group as organized as this is to chop off the head.”
“That was our feeling exactly,” Brognola replied.
“Okay, I’m in. Where do you want me to begin?”
“Well, Mario Guerra was released yesterday morning,” he replied. “As leader of the Hillbangers cell, we believe Herndon’s the place to start.”
“Your mission has two objectives,” Price said as she slid photographs across the table. “First, eliminate the leaders that were released both here and in Los Angeles. If we can’t prosecute them because their intelligence unit has managed to stay one step ahead of them, maybe your removing their influence entirely will produce the desired effects. Second, pick up the trail on Ignacio Paz, and if you find him alive get the information you need to destroy the hierarchy in El Salvador.”
“I’ll need Jack,” Boland said. “For at least part of the gig, anyway.”
Price smiled. “I figured as much. He’s on his way back from a mission with Able Team. They’ll be landing here within a few hours.”
“Fine. Ask him to be on standby and I’ll touch base as soon as I see what’s what in Herndon.”
“There’s one hitch,” Brognola said a bit sheepishly. “Since the Justice Department was forced to release Guerra, the AG had to call and inform Herndon’s chief of police, a guy named Mike Smalley. Smalley’s kind of old school, Striker.”
“So what you really mean is he’ll be territorial about any federal assistance and try to be in my back pocket every step of the way,” Bolan concluded. “I understand.”
“Just handle any encounters with kid gloves, okay? The President wants this mission executed surreptitiously. He doesn’t like the kind of attention you tend to draw. Not to mention the fact we suspect Herndon’s law enforcement will already have its hands full since we’re hearing reports the Hillbangers plan to retaliate for Guerra’s detainment.”
“I’ll try to keep it to a dull roar.”
BOLAN KNEW his promise would be an empty one.
Stony Man’s intelligence was sound wherein it regarded retaliation by MS-13, and the Executioner sensed the imminence of such an attack. He could feel it in his gut. The thing that most bothered him was the intelligence network of which Brognola had spoken. It was big and complex, to be sure, which meant there would be at least a few “officials” on the payroll. Outside of Stony Man, Bolan knew he couldn’t trust anybody. Worse yet, this mission ran on the proverbial time clock—a man’s life hung in the balance. If the Hillbangers managed to uncover the details of Marciano and his witness, it wouldn’t be long before someone discovered evidence of Paz’s mission into El Salvador and leaked that intelligence back to the hierarchy. Hence, the mission to eliminate their leadership was more about severing lines of communication than much else.
At least it would buy him some time.
Bolan considered his options of where to start, and since it made perfect sense that the Hillbangers would want to make a statement, he knew the memorial service for Marciano would be the most likely place. Bolan glanced at his watch and realized the service had already started, but he could probably make the outdoor reception scheduled to follow. Bolan took his exit into Herndon off the Dulles Toll Road and drove to a downtown men’s shop he remembered.
Forty-five minutes later, the warrior emerged in a midnight blue serge suit, white shirt and pattern-print tie of maroon, blue and teal. The conservative business suit served to provide the look he sought. Except for his height, he didn’t think he’d stand out too much at the memorial service. And only the most trained eye would notice the bulge of the Beretta 93-R that rode in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Even an expert might miss it, however, since Bolan had long ago perfected the art of role camouflage, and learned how to walk with a gun in a way that eliminated the telltale signs most looked for on any person carrying concealed.
Bolan drove straight to the outdoor area where they were having the memorial service reception, a small park just a few blocks from the Marciano home. The Executioner took note of the two squads he passed through on the road that ran the circumference of the park, as well as the pair of suited agents wearing sunglasses standing post at the park entrance. One waved him down and he complied, rolled down his window and flashed the Justice Department credentials that identified him as a member of the FBI.
The guy studied the creds carefully, gave Bolan a once-over, then nodded and waved him through. Bolan drove on—he was just another federal cop showing up for some free food and to pay his respects, of course. According to Brognola, Gary Marciano had been a popular man among both his peers and other members of the law-enforcement community. A real friend of cops, Brognola had recalled fondly.
The fact MS-13 would pick this place and time to make its hit might have seemed insane to others—given the sheer number of cops that would be present—but to Bolan it made perfect sense. They would look to make a big and spectacular statement, and wouldn’t it be a great bonus if they could take out a few cops in the process? Bolan understood that psyche all too well; he’d seen it more times than he cared to count. MS-13 had stated in no uncertain terms it desired to be the biggest and baddest gang in America, and their target was suburbia because MS-13 probably felt it would prove harder for the police agencies of smaller communities to combat the gang’s varied and illicit activities.
Bolan had no such limitations, legal, jurisdictional or otherwise. He would hunt down every last one of them, utterly destroying their organization wherever it reared its ugly head.
Bolan left his car and made his way casually to the group of attendees already ensconced beneath the massive white canopies they had erected over row after row of tables and folding chairs. A small buffet and portable wet bar stood at the end of one of the canopies, attendants hovering