twelve gallons of bleach into what was left of your heroin, I could just spare myself some hearing damage and let Montoya-Juarez have you.”
Munoz’s dark eyes bulged, irises narrowing to pinpricks in sheer horror.
Bolan released the colonel and flicked on the Desert Eagle’s safety.
“Wait…”
“For what?” Bolan asked.
“Juarez has competition,” Munoz replied.
“I know the layout,” Bolan told him. “There are six other cartels sweating Montoya-Juarez right now.”
“A new player who only popped up recently,” Munoz stated. “I gave Juarez a hookup to make a move the other day.”
“With who?” Bolan pressed.
“Army officer by the name of Salvada,” Munoz confessed. “Salvada called in some ex-soldiers to make the hit, but equipped them.”
The Executioner regarded him coldly as Munoz ran the numbers in his head. Nearly one hundred pints of bleach would completely ruin one hundred pounds of heroin instantly. That was a quarter of the two hundred kilograms he had left. Together with the 150 lost at the border, and even more seepage, Munoz could kiss any chance of making it up to the cartel.
Bolan dropped the magazine and racked the slide, then lobbed the empty Desert Eagle onto the desk. “All yours, Colonel. I suggest you run like hell. You’ve got a few hours before Montoya-Juarez stops waiting for you.”
Munoz nodded, looking at the gun.
“Who knows, maybe you can find mercy with the government and military you betrayed. Or you could trust that the Border Patrol won’t kill you on sight,” Bolan suggested. He lobbed one of the fat .50-caliber bullets to Munoz. “Or, you could find your own way out.”
The Executioner turned and left the office. He’d gotten halfway down the hall when he heard the solitary roar of the Mexican’s pistol, followed by the thud of a limp body striking the floor.
He was working his way up the Juarez Cartel, but now he heard about another player in this game.
One that might have been the reason why the governor of Guerrero State wanted the Executioner to join the conflict.
He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.
CHAPTER THREE
Anibella Brujillo looked over the railing of the patio at the tall American who was walking up the marble stone path. Over six feet tall, he had deeply tanned skin and a lean, powerful frame. His denim jacket was tight at the shoulders, but hung loosely enough at the waist to inform her that he had to have concealed at least one large handgun in its folds. Clear, ice-blue eyes looked her over and she smiled softly, her wide, lush lips curving as her eyes narrowed invitingly. Emilio Brujillo didn’t even notice the man walking up the path until she gently cleared her throat.
“The American is here, darling,” Anibella said, resting her hand on his thigh, delicate fingers giving his linen-sheathed leg a tender scratch.
Brujillo looked up from his newspaper, nodding absently. “Thank you, darling.”
Brujillo was about twenty years older than Anibella, but even for being only in his midfifties, he was gray and wrinkled, a worn-down man. His run for the governorship of Guerrero had been long and hard, and his work since being in office had been relentless. It was as if the beautiful Mexican singer had married a withered old grandfather, instead of a vibrant, crusading politician. Physically, he looked a wreck, but he still managed to speak in a strong, forceful timbre. Some of her high-society friends seemed scandalized by her public displays of affection with the shrivelled politician, despite knowing about her dalliances on the side.
Emilio Brujillo walked toward the man his friend in the U.S. Justice Department had called Agent Matt Cooper. Anibella assumed it wasn’t his real name, more likely a cover for someone who had a far more sinister history. She looked him over, seeing signs of faint scar tissue on the man’s callused hands and the bit of forearm visible under the light, summer-weight denim jacket. He looked at her, and though his face carried an ageless quality, the glance carried the weight of a man who had been through more than one lifetime.
Brujillo shook Bolan’s hand, and despite the wear and tear on the Mexican governor’s features, his grip was strong, but not challenging. “Welcome to Acapulco, Señor Cooper.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bolan replied, nodding.
“This is my wife, Anibella,” Brujillo introduced. “Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of her. She is a part of my government, and is one of my most trusted confidants.”
Bolan looked at Anibella again, studying her. She reined in her charming, playful nature, instead presenting a curious and innocent facade. The Executioner tensed, watching the change wash over her, and Anibella realized that he was observant, noting the sudden shift in her outward nature. Anibella dropped the charade and simply smiled.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Bolan said, burying his suspicion out of her sight. He was as facile in controlling his emotions as she had been, which set her on edge.
“A pleasure to meet such a man who has earned our president’s trust as an ally,” Anibella replied.
Bolan nodded, looking to Brujillo. “I generally operate off the grid, and alone. Perhaps if you had a trusted operative…”
“I was thinking of having you work with my wife,” Brujillo began.
Bolan raised an eyebrow, glancing to her. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”
Anibella could sense his distrust, and her control over him slipping away.
That was when the Saint of Death tipped her hand, granting the high priestess her advantage back.
BLANCA ASADO RUBBED HER EYES and sighed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep after making certain that Armando Diceverde was patched up and hidden in a safe place. She didn’t want her friend to end up as a statistic or a victim of an overzealous assassin. Asado knew that the men who had struck the night before weren’t federales. Even though she’d engaged in a few “black” SWAT-style operations with the police, they would have had the hotel more tightly sewn up, and wouldn’t have even bothered with grenades through the window. They’d have simply opened up with some powerful rifles, not the relatively weak AK-47s, and just hosed through the walls for thirty seconds, then gone in and policed the corpses. The AKs would have penetrated the hotel walls, but these were gangsters, not working with the best knowledge of what a powerful weapon could do.
Asado’s home was being watched by the police. She recognized the unmarked cars and the stakeout teams, not because she knew the men personally, but because she knew their style. That was all right. Blanca had fresh clothing and some tools in the trunk of her Impala. She’d showered and changed at a public beach. While she had a Remington 12-gauge shotgun and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine pistol in her trunk, taking the place of her spare tire, she’d left them alone.
Instead, she’d reloaded her stubby little Ruger and pocketed two speedloaders for it. The pocket-size .357 Magnum revolver was a good gun, but she needed something easier to reload and shoot quickly and accurately.
