got to his feet. He hadn’t lost control of his Colt, but he wisely kept it pointed at the ground. His senses were scrambled by the concussion grenade, and if the bomb had gone off inside the apartment, instead of in the doorway, the compression wave would have left them both far more than merely stunned. Asado helped pull Diceverde onto the balcony, and by the time he reached for the railing, he no longer needed assistance.
There were no more signs of enemy activity, but that could have been a lull in the action, Asado thought.
“My car is down there. Follow me,” Asado stated.
“Lead the way,” Diceverde replied. He picked up speed as they reached the stairs.
Asado jumped when she was five steps from the bottom, landing on the sidewalk in a crouch, using her forward momentum to throw her against the fender of her sedan. Gunfire sparked, and Diceverde’s Colt cracked into the darkness. The journalist ducked, having drawn the attention of the hit men, and Asado spotted the muzzle-flash, pinpointing the enemy gunners. She fired another burst, giving Diceverde a break to join her at the car.
Asado threw open the door and ripped off the last of the AK’s load to cover for Diceverde as he crawled into the passenger seat. She let the empty rifle clatter to the ground and slid in behind the wheel. A twist of the key and the engine roared to life. Throwing the car into Reverse, she peeled straight toward the assassins as they rushed her. Diceverde lurched up after reloading his pistol, but Asado stomped on the gas and the Chevy Impala’s rear bumper struck one of the gunmen. The Chevy shook, and Diceverde’s shot missed the charging gunmen as the car rolled over one and quickly past the other.
The other gunman had thrown himself out of the way and Asado stood on the brake, momentum whipping the nose of the Impala around as she ground the gearshift into drive. With a tromp on the gas, she was off, shooting into the street as gunfire banged against the car.
Diceverde shouted in pain, his gun falling into the seatwell.
“Armando?”
“Took one in shoulder,” he rasped.
“Just hang on,” Asado told him. “I’ll get you to some help.”
“Feels like my arm is broken, but there’s not much bleeding,” Diceverde said, pained.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Asado replied, swinging around a corner. She wanted to make certain no one followed her.
Once she was sure that they had no tail, she pulled off onto the side of the road and reached under her seat for the first-aid kit. She packed the gunshot wound with gauze and taped it in place to control the bleeding. Diceverde was right; there wasn’t much blood. She taped his forearm against his stomach to hold it in place, then worked up an improvised sling from seat belt straps in the backseat, always keeping an eye out for enemies who would try to finish the job.
Blanca Asado couldn’t believe she’d lost both her sister and her trust in her country in the same night.
COLONEL JAVIER MUNOZ put down the phone and massaged his brow. His mind reeled from the threats his Juarez connection had growled at him. He looked at the big chrome Desert Eagle on the desk next to him. If he didn’t recover the lost heroin, they’d thread his tongue out his throat and staple his genitals to it, before giving him the sweet release of death.
He rested his hand on the pebbled rubber grips of the massive handgun. One pull of the trigger and he’d hammer out a .50-caliber slug. He’d never shot anyone with it before this day, and Sosa’s death was illuminating. The man’s head had been cored violently, brains squirting out the back in a fountain of human destruction. But even the power of the Desert Eagle might not be enough against the gunmen of the Juarez Cartel. Maybe if he put the muzzle between his lips and squeezed, he wouldn’t feel it.
Something scraped behind him, a movement just outside the cone of yellowed light from his desk lamp. Munoz’s fingers clawed the big handgun closer when another Desert Eagle chopped down like an ax, crushing his carpal bones between two slabs of heavy steel. A hand clamped over the colonel’s mouth before he could let out a cry of pain over his shattered limb, bones floating freely in pulped meat. Munoz’s eyes bulged in their sockets and he was stretched hard backward out of the chair, neck bones creaking against each other.
“Nice pistol,” came a dry, grim voice. “Trouble is, I can lift mine.”
Munoz’s throat burned as his muffled howl of agony tried to force its way past his lips.
His attacker’s Desert Eagle disappeared with the ruffle of steel sheathing itself in leather.
Bolan reached out and picked up the massive .50-caliber weapon, thumbing back the hammer, then sliding on the safety. “In your next lifetime, if Desert Eagles are still around, this is how you should carry it.”
Munoz swallowed as the huge weapon’s muzzle pressed to his cheek. He wanted to struggle, but with Bolan’s knee shoved into the back of his chair, and hundreds of pounds of leverage hauling on his chin and stressing his spine, the colonel was left helpless and paralyzed with pain. His good hand clawed at the hand over his mouth as he struggled to speak past Bolan’s restraining fingers.
“You’ve got something to tell me?” Bolan asked, loosening his grip. “Just remember, you call for help, I put one in your stomach, so it’ll take you a long time to die.”
“Yes, sir,” Munoz whispered, making sure his voice didn’t rise. His windpipe still felt choked off, but this time from fear not physical force. Tears burned down the colonel’s cheeks.
“I listened to your phone call. Your bosses don’t think very much of your performance tonight,” Bolan taunted softly. “After all, losing nearly a dozen men to one enemy combatant?”
“You didn’t fight fair…” Munoz protested, his voice a harsh, ragged exhalation.
“And you did, opening fire on two American lawmen forbidden to return fire against you?” Bolan asked. Munoz’s neck twisted until he was looking at a pair of cold, merciless blue eyes. At first he was going to cry out in pain, but the icy gaze froze his soul.
“Skip the ‘poor me’ whining, Munoz,” Bolan informed him. “All I want to know is who am I sparing the trouble of mutilating you by putting a bullet in your head?”
“Roderigo Montoya-Juarez,” Munoz replied.
“Right,” Bolan returned. “As if Montoya-Juarez would get any of your foul fluids on his fingers. Tell me another joke.”
“I swear. I swear!” Munoz replied, his voice rising.
Bolan ground the steel of the barrel hard against Munoz’s cheek, the ridge of the bone crunching against the unyielding metal. His hand clamped tighter over the colonel’s mouth. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that you were trying to make some noise in order to call for help.”
“I’m not,” Munoz whispered. “I’m not…I just don’t want to die.”
“You’ve done everything you can to convince me otherwise,” the Executioner informed him. “You know how light the trigger is on these pistols, right?”
Munoz heard the metallic clink of the safety catch snapping off. His pants grew hot and wet as his bladder cut loose. “Please…”
“You’re
