El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá
Mack Bolan traveled light. His carry-on contained some extra clothes, sparse toiletries, a guidebook to the city and surrounding countryside. Nothing that might alarm security and raise red flags at either end of his long flight from the United States, with a short stopover in Mexico City.
No weapons, for instance, although he’d be needing them soon.
Bolan was early, by design. His contacts were expecting him for early dinner, in the city’s northern quarter known as Chapinero, but he needed solo time before they met, in order to prepare himself.
First up, the wheels. He had a Pontiac G6 reserved with Budget in the main airport terminal. The smiling girl behind the counter photocopied “Matthew Cooper’s” California driver’s license, swiped his credit card—all bills meticulously paid on time, in full—and gave Bolan his keys.
Ten minutes later, he was rolling eastward on Avenida El Dorado, keeping pace with high-speed traffic as he left the airport’s small city behind him. Downtown Bogotá lay nine miles distant from the airport, and he could’ve covered it within five minutes flat, except for a preliminary stop.
He made that stop in Ciudad Kennedy, a district in southwestern Bogotá named for the martyred American president. Bolan’s guidebook told him that the area was Bogotá’s most populous district, home to fourteen percent of the city’s population, but he was only interested in one inhabitant.
The man had a pawn shop two blocks north of Calle Primero de Mayo. He introduced himself as José and accepted Bolan’s nom de guerre without question. José’s shop was a place where money talked, and the merchandise that Bolan sought wasn’t displayed for public scrutiny. A visit to the backroom set him up and took a bite out of his war chest, but the case had been donated by a kiddie pimp in Jacksonville before he shuffled off the mortal coil, and there was always more where that came from.
When Bolan left the shop, he carried two fat duffel bags that might have clanked a bit, if anyone was listening. He also wore a Glock 23 semiauto pistol in a fast-draw sling beneath his left armpit, two extra 13-round magazines pouched on the right for balance. A Benchmade Stryker automatic knife with four-inch Tanto blade was clipped on to his belt, for easy access.
Bolan put the duffels in the Pontiac’s trunk, locked them down and he was good to go.
Traveling naked always made the Executioner uneasy. He could kill a man two dozen ways barehanded, but most shooters wouldn’t close within arm’s reach if they had a choice. And as for tackling more than two or three at once, if they were armed, forget about it.
He was covered for all foreseeable contingencies: two rifles, one for distance and one for assault work; a submachine gun with suppressor for close quarters battle where stealth was required; a combat shotgun, just because; assorted hand grenades, spare ammo for the different weapons, with accessories including jungle camouflage fatigues and hiking boots.
His destination was Chapinero. Bogotá’s most affluent district, and the capital’s banking and financial center, ranged along Calle 72. Bolan wasn’t on a banking mission at the moment, though. No hefty deposits or gunpoint withdrawals. His target was the stylish Andino Mall on Carrera 11 in Bogotá’s Zona Rosa.
The Pink Zone.
He supposed the district had been named for its high concentration of gay bars and other amenities serving the bulk of Bogotá’s LGBT community. There was more to the Pink Zone than gay life, however, including some of Bogotá’s most popular restaurants, nightclubs and stylish hotels.
Still homeless in the city, Bolan didn’t plan on checking into the Victoria Regia, the Andino Royal or any of their posh competitors. His contacts would be waiting for him at a relatively small sidewalk café, where they could watch the street and get to know each other briefly, prior to moving on.
Bolan would recognize his contacts from the photos Hal Brognola had provided, with their dossiers. One agent from DEA and one from the Colombian National Police, teamed to collaborate with Bolan in an atmosphere where trust was hard to come by and the lifespan of an honest law enforcement officer was often short.
Together, Bolan hoped they could accomplish something.
But if necessary, he could soldier on alone.
It wouldn’t be the first time—or, with any luck, the last.
Bolan spotted the Andino Mall and made a drive-by, picking out the open-air café, sighting his contacts at a table set back from the curb ten feet or so. Three chairs, and one still empty. Waiting.
The soldier drove around the block and found a parking garage, grabbed a ticket and parked three floors above street level, overlooking Carrera 11. He locked the Pontiac and pocketed his keys, then found the outer stairwell and descended toward the busy street.
“THIS MAN WE ARE SUPPOSED to meet. What was his name, again?”
Jack Styles resisted the impulse to smile. He knew damned well that his companion hadn’t forgotten the name. Arcelia Pureza never forgot anything.
“Matt Cooper,” Styles replied, adding, “That’s all I’ve got, aside from my HQ’s assurance that he’s pro material, experienced and off-the-books.”
“Clandestine operations,” Pureza said with a pretty frown.
“What else? After the latest…incident,” Styles said, resisting the temptation to say massacre or slaughter, “Washington isn’t about to send another diplomat.”
“You understand my delicate position in this matter,” Pureza said, telling, not asking, him.
“I understand your people have signed off on it,” Styles said. “Or so I was led to believe.”
“In the spirit, of course, they agree,” his companion replied. “But in practice—”
“It’s practice that matters,” Styles told her. “If spirit could win this thing, we’d have had it wrapped up years ago.”
Pureza nodded, toying with her wineglass on the tabletop. “Of course, you’re right. But you must understand the mind-set, Jack. After the killings, it became a matter of machismo, yes? A case of proving that the government cannot be frightened or intimidated.”
“But?”
“But anger fades,” she said. “And resolution, too, verdad?”
“Sadly, that’s true,” Styles granted. “Which is why we’re moving fast, before the brass can get cold feet.”
She nodded, sipped her wine, then said, “It goes beyond that, though. My people may regret what they have set in motion, if the resolution is not swift and sure. If there is…how do you say it? Collateral damage?”
“That’s how we say it.”
“In which case,” Pureza warned him, “the powers that be may attempt to distance themselves from the choice they have made. They may assert deniability, and leave us grabbing the sack.” Styles did smile then. “Holding the bag,” he said, gently correcting her. “And, sure, I’ve seen it done. The trick is to deliver, make it quick and clean—or
