at the door.
From the deepening blue of the sky out his window, it was close to sunset, and the rap of delicate knuckles on the door preceded the voice of Anibella Brujillo. “Are you awake, Agent Cooper?”
“Come in,” Bolan said. He set the mighty Israeli pistol back under the pillow.
Anibella opened the door. Gone was the linen white blouse and black, short skirt she’d worn before. She wore no rings or earrings, and her black hair was pulled back into a bun. She wore a long-sleeved, navy-blue shirt, fitted to match her contours. Her long, lean legs were tucked into black jeans, which were just loose enough not to constrict her movements. High-top black gym shoes clad her feet, comfortable and sensible in opposition to the pumps she’d worn earlier. She was also wearing a belt with a flap holster and spare magazine pouches on the opposite hip.
“You said you would make your move at sundown,” Anibella told him.
“You look like you’re dressed to kill,” Bolan replied. He turned and dropped his cargo shorts, pulling on his form-fitting blacksuit. He didn’t doubt that Anibella was appraising his body as he wrapped it in the high-tech battle uniform he’d made his second skin. A pair of blue jeans went on over the bottoms of the blacksuit and he pulled on combat boots over socked feet. “I know you feel like you deserve a shot at these—”
“I’m just going to be your driver, Agent Cooper,” Anibella cut him off, her voice hard, all wisps of seduction drained. “I know the places you wish to go.”
“They also want you dead,” Bolan replied. He strapped quick-draw leather around his waist, and retrieved the Desert Eagle for it. The Beretta 93-R and its harness slid around his broad shoulders. A black, untucked linen shirt concealed the warrior’s battle gear, and he rolled the long sleeves of his blacksuit up to the elbow where they would disappear under their linen covering. Heavier ordnance was in his war bag, which he hefted.
“I’m not stupid enough to stand and fight,” Anibella said. “Not alone. If they come after me, I’ll take off. I’ve got a backup rendezvous in case we end up separated.”
Bolan regarded the woman in front of him. In the hours that he had slept, a change had washed over her. Instead of seeming as if she were trying to crawl under his blacksuit, she was all business now. “What kind of wheels do you have?”
“A 1992 Toyota 4WD,” the first lady replied. “It looks rusty, but we have a few armor plates under the hull to take care of the important components and cargo. V-8 engine, run-flat tires and a full communications suite.”
“You usually have a stealth vehicle assigned to you in your job?” Bolan asked.
“It was something I’d bought from the DEA when they were cleaning house a few years back,” Anibella explained. “I told you, I’m the one in charge of my husband’s efforts to clean these jackals out of our state. I needed an inconspicuous vehicle.”
“For what?” Bolan inquired.
“Meetings with sources outside of the system,” she responded. “And some observation.”
“I can’t say I approve,” Bolan told her.
“Why? Because I’m not six foot three and two hundred pounds?”
“Because a face like yours is hard to miss,” Bolan countered.
She slid on horn-rimmed glasses. Combined with the tautly pulled bun of hair, and a lack of makeup or jewelry, any resemblance between the creature in front of the Executioner and the finely attired beauty he’d met that morning was tenuous. Bolan knew the maneuver well. Role camouflage. He had been able to pass himself off as a harmless reporter to a hardened, desperate thug looking for brute work in the past, blending into underworlds across the globe. Accepted as an Irish terrorist by the Islamic jihad or an Italian businessman in Greece, Bolan had slid through enemy expectations by playing on their perceptions. Disguise was more than makeup and prosthetics, it was body posture, tone of voice, and even gestures.
Bolan didn’t want Anibella along for the ride, though. She would cramp his style, especially if he picked up a lead. And there was the problem of contacting Blanca Asado, and sorting out the stories of the two women. His gut trusted Asado, but he wasn’t infallible. Anibella’s facility at changing her colors like a chameleon was worrying and concerning, especially how she seemed to try to manipulate him, but until Bolan had solid evidence, he couldn’t really act against her, especially if he wanted to make use of her resources in his crusade to bring cleansing flame to Acapulco.
“I’ll be behind bullet-resistant glass and armor plate, and can go zero to sixty in 5.6 seconds with the 4WD,” the first lady told him. “They might not miss me, but they won’t be able to punch through.”
“Why you and not an agent?” Bolan pressed.
“Because this is the second time that these animals have come close enough to me to shoot me. I’ve been working too hard to clean up this state, and now it’s personal. I want this place to ditch its seedy reputation, and I want to put anyone between me and the perfect paradise in the ground,” the woman stated. “You’ve been shot at. There’s no doubt of that.”
“It’s my job,” Bolan explained.
“Job? Or duty?” Anibella asked.
“So you’re driven?” Bolan asked. “What about earlier? Sharing a shower doesn’t sound like someone on a crusade.”
Anibella’s hazel eyes narrowed to razor slits. Rage radiated from her in palpable waves.
“I was just checking to see if you thought with your dick,” she growled. “You blunted some of my best efforts, so you passed my trustworthiness test.”
“I see. If I’d been weak enough to get naked with you, then I’d be too incompetent to take on the cartel,” Bolan mused.
“Not incompetent,” Anibella said, softening slightly. “But too easily distracted.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
