Salvador Strike. Don Pendleton
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against him isn’t my mission objective,” Bolan said.
“Then what do you plan to do?”
The Executioner remained silent, but the cock of his head and steely gaze served as an adequate answer to Smalley’s question.
“I see,” Smalley said.
“Sometimes we can’t play by the rules with a group like MS-13. They’ve terrorized this country long enough, Chief. It’s time for real action, permanent action.”
Smalley nodded slowly with a faraway expression, not even meeting Bolan’s gaze. He could tell the policeman was warring with the idea just presented to him. In the most technical sense, Bolan’s tactics were nothing short of military operations conducted in the civilian sector, a clear violation of a dozen or so federal laws, including one constitutional amendment. Unfortunately, the breaking of such laws was sometimes the only way to combat those who chose to operate outside them. Still, for a guy like Chief Michael Vernon Smalley, it was a damned anachronism to the end purposes of law enforcement and contradictory to everything he knew.
“Though I don’t necessarily agree with your approach,” Smalley said, “I promise you’ll have my support during your efforts.”
“That’s all I would ever ask of you or anyone,” Bolan replied.
“Okay, so how do we do this?”
“First, I need some idea of the core operations area for MS-13.”
Smalley nodded, rose and went to a map of the city hanging on the wall to his right. He pointed to a small area on the south side of the city where it bordered a major road. Smalley traced his finger along that road and said, “This is the Dulles Toll Road, which also marks the border between the city and unincorporated areas of Herndon and Reston. Most of the gang activity has been confined to this region. One of the problems we’ve faced in recent times is the influx of illegal immigrants to this area. We don’t really know why that’s the case, but we do know it’s taxed many of our resources. When we first started to have problems with MS-13 and related gang activity, the Justice Department formed the Northern Virginia Gang Task Force—then NVGTF. There are sixteen communities and law-enforcement agencies now directly involved with the organization, and since 2003 we’ve accomplished much in the cleanup.”
“And then recently you were flooded with a resurgence of activity?” Bolan asked.
Smalley nodded and dropped back into his chair. “Right. We think it’s directly related to the fact we’ve been dealing with this illegal immigration problem. There’s no way for us to combat both problems, and the task force has been suffering from monetary cutbacks since we thought we had the problem licked.”
“Okay. It sounds like the south’s the place for me to start. One other question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you know anything about the case Gary Marciano was building against MS-13 or this witness he had stashed away?”
Smalley shook his head. “I knew Gary Marciano pretty well. Naturally, he was a prominent member of this community. You see, the Town of Herndon numbers about twenty-two thousand people, but we’ve always tried to maintain that sense of a small community. I considered Gary a personal friend, but I didn’t know he was working on a major case. If I had, I might have offered him some protection or assistance. Lord knows, he helped out this department on many occasions. He’ll be missed, though, and you can bet your ass that his family will receive all the resources at my disposal for the future. Whatever they need, they’ll get. I put my personal stamp of guarantee all over that one.”
Bolan nodded as he rose and stuck out his hand. “I’m sure you will. I appreciate the help, Chief.”
Smalley shook the Executioner’s hand and said, “You’ll stay in touch?”
“Count on it.”
As Bolan turned to leave the chief’s office, Smalley called after him. “Hey, Cooper?”
“Yeah.”
“You really think you can fix this problem of ours?”
“I can’t make any promises,” the warrior replied. “But in twenty-four hours when the smoke clears and you see who’s left standing, you’ll have your answer.”
3
“Who is this pinche, homeboys, eh?” Mario Guerra splayed out on the sofa with a forty-ounce bottle of beer in his left hand, banged his right fist against his chest and flashed the younger men surrounding him with a sign of solidarity. “Who is this pinche cabrón you allow to kill our homeboys and dis the one-three?”
“We don’t know who he is, Mario,” replied Louie Maragos, one of Guerra’s lieutenants.
Guerra sneered. “Well, then, you better find out, homeboys. You know what I’m saying? This dude, he kills like what…nine boys?”
“Ten,” another soldier corrected.
“Shut the fuck up!” Guerra said, tossing his half-full beer bottle at the man. “I want to know who he is and how he knew we were going to show up.”
“We can find all that out, jefe,” Maragos replied. “But how do we find out how he knew about our plans to hit the park?”
“What, you some kind of clown or something?” Guerra asked. “Obviously, we still got a snitch on the inside somewhere. We got someone who likes to run their mouth—” he flapped his thumb against his fingers “—the minute that they see a cop. It means that somebody probably had to be helping Ysidro. Maybe it’s even one of you homeboys.”
Maragos bristled at the suggestion. “Hey, listen, homeboy, I know you’re in charge and all, but there ain’t no way I’m going to let you accuse me of something without some proof.” Maragos dropped his hand to where he could easily reach the piece he kept at the small of his back. “Ain’t no way, jefe. Sí?”
“Okay, okay,” Guerra said. He sat back down and shook his head. “I ain’t going to accuse you of nothing. I wasn’t going to do that, homeboy.”
Maragos nodded and relaxed his hand. There were rules in the organization; it was a necessity for the kind of place it was. Every moment a homeboy had to be looking over his shoulder, watching not only for trouble from outsiders but from within the organization. Every member had to prove himself in a grueling initiation that included not only a thirteen second beat down by other members, but also by doing something to prove his loyalty. For the females it might be just taking a beat down, or maybe having sex with a number of the ranking vatos. In other cases it might be doing a strong-arm robbery, selling drugs or even participating in a hit with other members.
Whatever the case, the motto of the gang was simple: Being in MS-13 Will Land You in the Cemetery, the Hospital or Prison. The rules were designed to enhance solidarity and prevent a breakdown in the structure of the gang. This code of conduct included rules for how to deal with defectors and dissidents, rules like “you rat, you die” and “everything belongs to the gang,” and the context of those rules made it just as serious an infraction to accuse someone of being unfaithful to MS-13 without proof, simply because the penalties for betrayal were so severe. It was their code, their creed, and nobody—not even a shot-caller—was above the rules.
“Do any of you homeboys have any idea where this guy came from? Who he’s working for?” Guerra asked more calmly.
“My informant says he might be working with the federales,” Maragos replied. “He might also be a local on loan from the Virgins.”
Guerra smiled at their own internal reference to the gang task force of the state, a unit that had been the bane of the Hillbangers’ existence since its formation. After the death of the traitor in 2001 and subsequent imprisonment of the leader who ordered her execution, Guerra had taken over as shot-caller for the Hillbangers. He ordered them to lie low and let enough time pass so that the task force