Negros is an extremely efficient organization,” Gagliardi said. “They’re well-equipped and highly mobile. You see, after the Mexican army brought down Osiel Cárdonas in 2003, the Sinaloa cartel saw their opportunity to move into the Nuevo Laredo region. You familiar with that?”
Bolan nodded. Nuevo Laredo had always been the hotbed of activity in the war between the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels. The region had become an extremely important drug corridor. Nearly half of all drug exports from Mexico were smuggled through the area connected on the south side of the Rio Grande with Laredo, Texas. It seemed almost ironic the area had been nicknamed la puerta a Mexico, or the door to Mexico. If anything, Nuevo Laredo had definitely become that for the drug runners.
“Okay, so everybody inside knows that Edgar Valdez Villareal runs Los Negros, but the guy who’s pulling the strings behind the move into Phoenix is a dude by the name of Hector Casco.” Gagliardi surreptitiously slid a folder across the table and then lit a cigarette while Bolan glanced through various documents. “That contains a copy of his dossier and all the shit I could dredge up on him inside our computer files. Some of it was a little tough to come by because he’s actively under investigation and there are things for which I don’t have clearance.”
“I appreciate it,” Bolan said with a nod.
Indeed he did because despite the fact Bolan had saved Gagliardi from certain death once, the DEA man was once again putting his career and his life on the line. If anyone inside the Gulf cartel suspected betrayal and put a tail on him, Gagliardi wouldn’t last twelve hours after leaving that coffee shop, never mind the heat he’d take if his handler found out he’d broken protocol to help out a friend and outsider. And the Executioner fit both those descriptors.
“What’s Casco’s angle?”
Gagliardi shrugged. “I can’t be sure yet, but I think he’s vying for the favorite-son position in this part of the border states. Maybe looking to become independent, as it were.”
“That would make sense. If Casco can gain sole control of the pipeline from Nogales to Phoenix, he’d have an operation equal to or even exceeding the one out of Nuevo Laredo.”
“Right,” Gagliardi said. “But now the Home Invasion and Kidnapping Enforcement squad within the Phoenix P.D. has obtained information about this pharmacy. Word has it that a major meet is scheduled there three days from today. And according to everything I can gather this HIKE squad plans to be there for it. There’s even talk Casco’s going to make a personal appearance.”
“Yeah. But for what reason?” Bolan said. “If your intelligence is good, they wouldn’t risk such a meeting without some purpose.”
“That I can’t tell you,” Gagliardi said. “But I can tell you my intel comes from pretty high up. I’d be very surprised if this wasn’t the real thing.”
Bolan had nodded in understanding. He couldn’t bring himself to doubt the information because Gagliardi had risked a lot to get it to him. It also made some sense in that it appeared Hector Casco was out to make a name for himself; Casco obviously wanted a larger cut of the action if nothing else. Those two facts alone made it important enough to check out. Bolan’s only choice, then, would be to do a soft probe of the place and see what turned up.
With Ann-Elise McCormack out of danger, Bolan felt the time had come to explore this a bit further. By this point, the police would be at the cartel residence on the other side of town in force, not to mention swarming the McCormack and Montera homes. That left the field wide open and bought Bolan a little more time to check out Gagliardi’s intelligence.
Bolan pulled his vehicle into the back parking lot of a diner positioned directly across from the corner pharmacy. He stepped into the cool interior, sat down and ordered a sandwich. As he waited, the warrior studied the facade. The place looked plain, unremarkable really, save for the striped awnings that jutted from above the pair of large plate-glass windows—one each facing the cross streets. That old-fashioned look seemed out of place in this kind of “upscale” neighborhood and yet Bolan saw some wisdom in that. It made it seem like another friendly, neighborhood drugstore, maybe something out of Norman Rockwell.
Then the glint of light catching on metal from the rooftop of the three-story building across the street caught Bolan’s eye. He watched with interest, never taking his eyes from the building save for a brief acknowledgement of the waitress, who set the plate on the table with a clank.
“Can I get you anything else, honey?” she asked, tossing her blond hair as she cracked her gum.
By the time Bolan answered her, he’d spotted a second rooftop enemy position and three more at street level. “There a pay phone around here?”
She nodded. “Out back.”
Bolan held up a ten as he slid out of the booth and said, “Keep the change.”
“Wow, a whole dollar-twenty-five,” the waitress said with mock admiration. “Thanks, sir. Hey! What about your sandwich?”
But Bolan was already out the door and walking casually along the side of the building. He could have called from his cell phone but he didn’t want any of the diner occupants to overhear him. Beside the fact, the pay phone would be at least a bit more secure for Gagliardi. If anyone traced the call to the undercover agent’s own mobile phone, at least they wouldn’t be able to tie it to anything solid.
Gagliardi answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Bolan replied. “Can you talk?”
“At the moment. What’s up?”
“You said the other day that rumor control had it Casco was going to be at this meet.”
“Right.”
“Any idea what time it was planned for?”
“Not a clue. I only know it was supposed to go down today.”
“You know how to reach this guy who’s heading up the HIKE squad?”
“Nope, but I got a name.”
“What is it?”
“Captain Joseph Hall. Why?”
“Because I think he and his team are about to walk into a trap,” Bolan replied.
2
No sooner had the words left the Executioner’s mouth than he heard the squeal of tires on pavement.
He bid Gagliardi a hasty farewell, then skirted the building until he reached the corner and risked a glance in the direction of the pharmacy. Two unmarked units had arrived and parked on the sidewalk, flanked by two uniform squads blocking the intersection. A large police van arrived a moment later, probably dispatched to haul away whomever the cops took into custody.
Bolan whipped the Beretta from his shoulder holster and dashed along the side of the diner until the first rooftop sentry he’d spotted came into view. The warrior had only seconds to take the guy down before the sentry started sniping at the cops. He was packing SJHPs, subsonic to suppress noise, but at only 125-grain apiece it would also severely limit the chances for a first-hit kill. Bolan thumbed the selector to 3-round-burst mode. He then sighted on the shadowy figure visible just above the parapet and squeezed the trigger. A trio of
