“Just safe bets,” Bolan replied. “When was the last time you cleared the office on time?”
“Thirteenth of Never,” Brognola acknowledged. “I forget the year. Aught-something. How’s it going where you are?”
The private line was scrambled, but Brognola took no chances. Paranoia wasn’t just a state of mind in Washington—it was a tried and true survival mechanism.
“Heating up,” Bolan said in reply. “There was an unexpected welcoming committee and we lost our guy from pharmaceuticals.”
Meaning Jack Styles from DEA. Brognola hadn’t known him personally—the agency had something like fifty-five hundred sworn agents, more than twice that many employees in all—but he still felt the sharp pang of loss.
Once a cop, always a cop.
“So, you need a new contact?” he asked.
“Negative, at least for the time being,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got some local help. We’ll try to muddle through.”
“If there’s a problem with the local shop…”
Brognola paused and Bolan filled the gap. “We’ve talked about it. This one’s good, so far. Not sure about the rest.”
“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “If you need any help, I should be able to provide it.”
He slipped in the reference to Able Team, who’d gone to bat with the Executioner more than once, their link preceding Brognola’s promotion at Justice and the creation of Stony Man Farm. Bolan and two of the Able Team warriors had traveled through hell together as outlaws, before they dropped off the grid to help Uncle Sam with his worst dirty jobs.
“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Bolan answered, “but I’ve got your number.”
“Right,” Brognola said. “But don’t let the competition get yours.”
“I’m still unlisted,” Bolan said, and the big Fed could almost sense him smiling. “Later.”
“Later,” Brognola agreed, and cradled the receiver.
So the bad news from Colombia continued. The Justice man supposed he’d get a call from Stony Man Farm before too long, reporting details of the “unexpected welcome” Bolan had received in Bogotá. There’d be a call from DEA, as well, likely complaining that they never should have asked for Brognola’s help in the first place.
As if it had been the agency’s idea.
As far as Brognola knew, the DEA’s top brass had no idea that Stony Man existed, much less what it actually did. The program was beyond top secret, authorized and created by a former President of the United States, maintained by that commander in chief’s successors to deal with extraordinary situations.
If and when the program was exposed to public scrutiny, some heads were bound to roll, Brognola’s and the current President’s among them. Nothing in the U.S. Constitution provided for creation of a black-ops force like Stony Man, and while Brognola could defend it till doomsday on moral and practical grounds, the program didn’t have a legal leg to stand on.
Virtually everything his warriors did was criminal, albeit for the classic greater good.
This time, Brognola grabbed his hat and put it on before another phone call could delay him. Stony Man, the DEA, or anybody else who sought a piece of him this night could reach him on his cell phone. He’d take the bad news as it came, meet the complaints head-on, without referring them upstairs. Unless it fell apart completely and his team could not complete a mission—something which, thank God, hadn’t happened yet—he took calls from the Man upstairs, but didn’t dial the hotline for a conversation on his own initiative.
It simply wasn’t done.
Which put Brognola in mind of a saying he’d heard for the first time long years ago, as an agent in training at the FBI Academy.
Shit rolls downhill.
When Brognola’s superiors, the President or the Attorney General, found something stinky in his in-box that demanded prompt covert attention, it came down to Brognola. Who, in turn, passed it down to Bolan, Able Team or Phoenix Force, depending on the circumstances. From there, with any luck, the worst load landed on the nation’s enemies and buried them for good.
With any luck, Brognola thought. And hoped that Bolan’s luck was holding in Colombia, where absolutely anyone could prove to be a lethal enemy.
LIEUTENANT ARCELIA PUREZA heard Cooper returning from the smaller bedroom of the safehouse, where he’d gone to make a call in private. She had resisted the burning temptation to eavesdrop, conscious that trust was their sole fragile bond.
But could she really trust this stranger?
The bombing and subsequent shoot-out in Chapinero had shocked her. Despite the fact that violence was commonplace in Bogotá and nationwide, Pureza had been personally spared until that day. Not only was Jack Styles dead, and their best connection to the DEA was severed, but Pureza had also nearly been taken out—and she herself had killed for the first time.
It had been automatic in the given circumstances, a matter of instinct and reflex, where training and self-preservation combined. She was a bit surprised to feel no sense of guilt, but guessed that there might be delayed reactions, possibly reflected in her dreams.
Meanwhile, she had to think about Matt Cooper.
He was quick to point the finger of suspicion for the ambush at the CNP or DEA, but Pureza knew nothing of his own organization. Not even its name, for God’s sake. How did she know that someone in the States—or the big American himself, for that matter—was not the traitor?
But she had to scratch Cooper off the list, since it was ridiculous to think he’d risk a bomb blast, then kill his own comrades, if he wanted Styles and Pureza dead. The wise thing would have been to dawdle, turn up late enough to let the bomb and gunmen do their work, then tell his headquarters that traffic had delayed him.
Better luck next time.
As for whoever might have sent him from the north to Colombia…
“All clear, then?” she inquired, as the man stepped into the living room once more.
“We’re square with Washington,” he said. “And you?”
“I still think that you’re right. It’s best if I don’t call the CNP just yet.”
And there, she’d done it. It was just the two of them, adrift in Bogotá and facing off against Macario’s cartel, against the AUC, and anyone else El Padrino could think of to send against them.
Hundreds, at least. All happy to kill for a handful of pesos, or simply to curry Macario’s favor. To earn a seat at his table.
Maybe thousands, then, instead of hundreds.
“Have you thought it through?” Bolan asked. “I mean, really?”
Pureza nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I’m obviously
