the question hang for a few seconds.
“Hell, Candy, what would we do with a body messing up the place?”
“Just needed to clarify the situation.”
“Well, it ain’t hard. Find him. Put him out of his misery. Bury him in the desert and keep the shovel for a souvenir.”
Candy smiled. “Hey, why’d you not say it was easy as that?”
Hatton made no comment. He knew the way Candy operated. He might make light of the deal in conversation, but in reality he was a professional who made people disappear. He gave off the impression of being a good old country boy, when he was, in fact, one of the most coldhearted men Hatton had ever come across. Candy took pride in his line of work, employed the very best and never, ever walked away without completing a contract.
They fell into light conversation until their food arrived. Eating became the most important consideration after that, neither man saying very much until they were done.
“When you catch this son of a bitch you need to look for his cell phone. He filmed Jessup. If the law lays its hands on it…”
“I get it,” Candy said. “Don’t you fret. It’s as good as done.”
“You know how to contact me if you need to,” Hatton said. He finished his third coffee, pushed his plate aside and stood up. “While we were deciding how to deal with this, I set a couple of our boys on the job.”
“That’s fine,” Candy said. “Give me the word if they find anything.”
The call reached Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, at Stony Man Farm. He was off mission, had been for a few days, and was beginning to wonder if the world had shut down. He knew that was a forlorn hope. Somewhere, something was happening, or about to, and he was outside the zone.
Then his phone buzzed. He picked up and heard Brognola’s voice.
“Can you meet me in the War Room in five?”
There it was, then. Back to work.
Brognola nodded as Bolan entered the room. “So what do you have for me?” he asked the Big Fed.
Brognola handed over a thin file from his desk, and Bolan studied the head-and-shoulders image of a good-looking man in his early thirties, thick black hair across his forehead. There was intelligence in his dark eyes.
“Hermano Escobedo,” Brognola said. “Good guy. Trying to make his way. He entered the country from Mexico legally, sponsored by a friend. The photo is a couple years old. Escobedo lives and works in Broken Tree, West Texas.”
Brognola slid another photo across his desk.
A hard face stared back at Bolan, defiance in the man’s expression. Almost immediately, the soldier sensed something off-kilter.
“Seb Jessup. Texas native. Hard-ass, but smart. A spell in the army dropped him into the thick of combat in the Middle East. Army trained him to kill, and it looks like he picked up other bad habits. When he came home, he set himself up in business in Broken Tree. Built a reputation. Surrounded himself with a hard crew. Into all kinds of rackets. Soon had the money and the clout to rise to the top and stay there. Hires the best legal backing available. We know Jessup is into hard crime, but nothing’s been proven. He’s the bad guy in this little drama.”
“What’s the connection?”
“Escobedo has the goods on Jessup. Called us willing to help. Said he had hard evidence that would put Jessup behind bars, that he would hand over what he had if we could keep him alive and safe. He’s no fool, Striker. Just an honest man willing to go that extra mile.”
“So what happened?” Bolan asked, knowing he wouldn’t have been called in if this was a simple matter of witness protection.
“Escobedo was doing some landscaping for Jessup, working in his gardens. He witnessed a pair of Mexicans, young man and woman, being beaten in one of the stables. Jessup himself was leading the attack, using a baseball bat. He was going wild. Yelling about them screwing up a deal. He swore he was going to make them an example. Escobedo told us Jessup didn’t stop until the two were dead. And he said he caught it all on his phone.”
“Bad place to be for Escobedo,” Bolan said. “But you have to give him credit. That takes courage.”
Brognola nodded. “Anyway, word came to me after the two US Marshals sent to pick him up were gunned down. Something must have leaked after Escobedo made the call. When backup finally got there, he was gone. No one knows where he went. Striker, we need you to find him. He stepped up to help and now he’s out in the cold. He’s not going to trust anyone with a shield. And he knows Jessup’s people will be out looking for him.”
All Bolan had to go on was the photograph, plus the few facts Brognola had provided. But they told the soldier all he needed to know about Escobedo. He was an honest man who had become a target because he had stood up to be counted. His courage made him a threat to Seb Jessup, and men like Jessup reacted to threats by eliminating them. Two people had already died.
Jessup had defined the rules, so Bolan would play by them.
It was a simple procedure. Jessup, by his actions, had shown himself to be beyond the law. He worked his criminal enterprises with no concern over who got hurt. He was arrogant in his refusal to walk the line. Bolan knew his type. He fought them every day. The takers. The destroyers. Those who held nothing but contempt for ordinary people. It was those ordinary people Mack Bolan stood up for. They were unable to fight back against the lawbreakers, so the Executioner did what he could to redress the balance. It was a long-term campaign, but one he accepted willingly.
Now his priority was to protect Hermano Escobedo. It was too early to assess the magnitude of the opposition. Bolan simply knew Jessup would throw a sizable force into the field. As many bodies and as much money as it would take.
Bolan was one man. That itself might work to his advantage. He had the technical resources of Stony Man as backup, but Mack Bolan was well used to his lone wolf status. It was the way he worked best. One man could move quickly, and he didn’t need to wait for others to respond. He didn’t have to hold back while others hesitated. Bolan went in at his own speed, making his decisions on the go, and there were no rules of engagement to consider. If something needed doing he simply went ahead and did it.
“Hal, bring Jack in. I’m going to need a ride to Texas.”
Ascensión, Chihuahua, Mexico
* * *
DRY AND DUSTY wind blew in from the open land beyond town. Hermano Escobedo felt the gritty detritus patter against his clothing as he walked the quiet street and ducked his head against the persistent dust. It was the time of day when sensible people stayed indoors to wait out the heat of the afternoon and take a siesta. Escobedo allowed a faint smile to curl his mouth at the thought.
