away and stifled a belch with the back of her fist. “Cuah’s dead.”
“Yes, that is true, and now a woman I happen to know in the Tijuana’s fire department dispatch has just informed me a fire has been reported at the city morgue. Does this not strike you as an interesting coincidence, Agent Smiley?”
Smiley pushed away from the table. “Let’s go.”
“No.” Bolan rose and checked the loads in his Beretta. “We’ll never get there in time to do any good.”
Villaluz stood and broke open a heavy, snub-nosed Colt .38. “Your associate is right.”
Bree drew her weapon. “So why are we drawing down, then?”
Bolan pushed his weapon’s selector to 3-round burst mode. “If the bad guys just took care of loose ends in the morgue, then our main concern is keeping Mole alive.”
Villaluz donned his cowboy hat and tipped it at Smiley. “And you, señorita.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” Smiley checked her pistol. “I should have thought of that.”
“It’s the brain damage.” Bolan said.
“Hey!”
“Stay behind us. Stick close.” Bolan nodded at Villaluz. “Inspector?”
“Sí, the observation ward is on the first floor.” Bolan and Villaluz fell into formation as they left the medical conference room. Doctors and nurses scattered to get out of the way of the two large, armed and grim-faced men as they strode down the hall. Smiley had to run to keep pace. “Hey! Wait up!”
A braver than average nurse stepped toward them as they entered neonatology. “Sirs, this area is—”
Villaluz held up his badge. Bolan held up his gun. “Staff elevator, where?”
The nurse gawked and pointed to the door down the corridor. Smiley caught her breath as they reached the elevators and Bolan punched the button. “How likely do you figure?” she asked.
The inspector scowled. “Agent Smiley, there have been two gunfights in Mexican hospitals this year. After what has happened this night nothing would surprise me.” The elevator pinged and they stepped inside the car. Bolan glanced at the Colt Marshall in Villaluz’s hand. “Heard they call you Two Gun on the street.”
The inspector lifted his coat to reveal an identical revolver in a cross-draw holster. “It is faster to draw a second gun than to reload the first. It is perhaps the most important thing my father ever taught me.”
Bolan nodded. Villaluz Senior sounded like a man to be reckoned with.
Villaluz smirked at the machine pistol in Bolan’s hand. “Yanquis and their big guns…”
The elevator door opened to the sound of screaming. Doctors and nurses were running in different directions down the halls. A worst-case scenario came through the wide double doors that led into the observation ward. Six Hispanic males walked in three by three. All six wore trench coats, which were open, revealing body armor. All four men carried submachine guns. For just a second before the doors swung shut, Bolan saw the dead bodies littering the floor, testifying to the fact that civilian casualties weren’t a problem for the enemy. A crowd of doctors and nurses stampeded down the corridor like sheep before a pack of wolves.
“Everybody down!” Bolan roared and fired a 3-round burst into the ceiling.
“¡Todos abajo!” Villaluz thundered.
Medical professionals hugged walls, hugged the floor or threw themselves over counters or through open doors. A few still ran willy-nilly in blind and deaf panic. Bolan brought his Beretta 93-R on line in both hands. “They’re wearing armor!”
“Sí!” Villaluz shouted. He held his .38 one-handed in front of himself like an old-style target shooter and shouldered a scurrying intern to the floor. Smiley dropped to a knee between Bolan and the inspector.
The killers shouted and swore in defiance. Everyone’s weapon ripped into life at once. There was nowhere to run and no cover to be had.
Observation, Records and Receiving turned into the OK Corral as Team Bolan went for the head shots.
Bolan’s first triburst collapsed a killer’s face. Another gunner screamed as Villaluz’s pistol erupted and shot his ear off. The screaming stopped as the inspector’s second shot slammed through the man’s septum and blasted apart his brainpan. Both dead men had the decency to collapse into their compatriots behind them and spoil their aim. Long bursts ripped into the ceiling lights, and half the corridor went dark. Smiley’s auto-pistol cut loose as fast as she could pull the trigger. She caught mostly shoulder, but it was enough for Bolan and Villaluz’s cross fire to crush the third killer’s skull beyond recognition. Bolan’s next triburst tore out a killer’s trachea, and two huddling nurses screamed as they were struck by the arterial spray. Villaluz clicked on empty and slapped leather for his second gun. Smiley’s Glock cracked on like clockwork and another gunner fell. The inspector raised iron, and the last hard-man staggered beneath a full broadside from Bolan and company.
The battle was over in a matter of heartbeats.
Smiley rose and ejected her spent mag. “Jesus, that was—Jesus!”
Fresh screams ripped through surgery as the double doors flew open beneath the boots of two more killers. Bolan’s burst scattered the skull of one, but then the Beretta slammed open on empty. Villaluz punched a shot into one armored shoulder and clicked on empty. Both men simultaneously shoved Smiley to the floor and dropped to a knee. The action made both men’s pant legs ride up and expose the ankle holsters they wore. Bolan’s snub-nosed Centennial revolver rose up in his hand. Villaluz leveled a tiny, antique Colt .32. Bolan felt the wind whip of bullets passing close to his head as he and the inspector’s revolvers spit fire.
The killer collapsed to the floor with his face cratered into a bloody moonscape.
Smiley pushed herself up snarling. “God…damn it!”
Bolan and Villaluz rose and swiftly reloaded. The Executioner eyed the inspector’s cocktail-sized hideaway weapon. “So how come they don’t call you Three Gun?”
“Before tonight—” Villaluz let out a long shaky breath as he reloaded his menagerie of metal “—I have never had to pull the third one.”
Bolan considered leaving. Sirens sounded in the distance. The Hospital Angeles fire suppression system finally made up its tiny silicon mind about the gun smoke in the air and recessed sprinkler heads deployed out of the ceiling and brought on the rain. The goat-screw trifecta was complete as a baker’s dozen of armed and soggy security guards roared through the surgery doors, guns drawn, telling everyone to get down a day late and a dollar short.
CHAPTER THREE
FIA Headquarters, Tijuana
The shit storm of recrimination was long, enduring and heartfelt. La Agencia Federal de Investigación wasn’t happy and its collective, bureaucratic brain blindly pinned the tail on Mack Bolan as the donkey of its discontent. They threatened him with incarceration, litigation and deportation. Bolan weathered the storm. He had operated in Mexico before, and he had a
