no uncertain terms just how much ammunition my enemies had purchased. It was only a matter of time. We—hypothetically, of course—armed ourselves accordingly. But a few months later, he stopped answering our messages. El Cráneo grew bolder, more vicious. I lost more men even as I took down theirs. We are running out of the special bullets. El Cráneo had obviously cut a deal with West, offered him more than I could.”
“They’re winning the war,” Burnett said.
Caqueta shrugged again. “They do not have to. You can stop this. Things can be…shall we say, much more calm. More like they used to be.”
“While you continue shipping your poison,” Burnett said.
“I do not force it up anyone’s nose or into anyone’s veins,” Caqueta said. “I am interested in business, not war.”
Burnett sighed. “Like you,” he said, “I don’t know what choice I have. Let’s get this straight, though. I’m not making any promises, Caqueta. If I could nail you to the wall, I would do it.”
Caqueta laughed. “But of course you would, Detective Burnett. That is what makes you safe. You are predictable. As long as I am not stupid enough to give you evidence you can use against me in court, you are no threat to me. And as long as you have no such evidence, I am no threat to you.”
“All right,” Burnett nodded. “We understand each other. Give me the name.”
“The man you seek,” Caqueta said, “is—”
Something caught Bolan’s attention. Reflexes honed over years of battle kicked in. Whether it was a simple shift in the wind, or some other subconscious cue, something was wrong.
“Down!” Bolan yelled. He tackled Burnett, just as Luis Caqueta’s head exploded.
They heard the gunshot as Caqueta’s nearly headless body fell forward onto the ground before the bench. There was a single, still moment in which Razor Ruiz, splattered with his boss’s blood, looked up with wide eyes. He glanced down at Caqueta’s body and to the ground behind the bench, where a tiny blade smoldered.
“Treachery!” he shouted. From within his trench coat he brought up a pistol-gripped Mossberg 590 12-gauge shotgun.
“Go!” Bolan told Burnett, drawing his Beretta.
All hell broke loose.
The unseen sniper cut loose with a rapid string of shots. Bolan spotted the gunman firing a scoped, match-barreled AR-15. He was on the roof of a nearby building. The Executioner pushed Burnett as the two men scrambled to the cover of a nearby tree. They threw themselves aside when several shots punched through the bark of the tree and into the asphalt path beyond. Burnett shouted a warning as they ran, the tree behind them catching fire from the inside out. Nearby civilians screamed and either dropped flat or ran. With no real way to counter the DU projectiles, Bolan and the detective could do only one thing. They fled.
Razor Ruiz ran after them, firing his shotgun blindly in the direction of the shooter. It was enough to foul the sniper’s aim until the Caqueta Cartel man and his quarry were out of the sniper’s line of sight.
Burnett was on his phone as they moved, calling in backup. It was unlikely they’d arrive in time to take down the sniper. The shooter would undoubtedly be extracting by now. Still, Burnett had to try. When he was sure they were safely out of the gunner’s killzone, Bolan put a hand on Burnett’s shoulder and gestured to a recently tilled-over flower garden near the asphalt path. It had two-foot brick walls surrounding it. Bolan and Burnett crouched behind the bricks and waited.
“We need him alive, if we can get him,” Bolan told the detective.
“No problem,” Burnett said. “He’s a law-abiding citizen. I’ll just arrest him.”
In a moment, Ruiz came running down the path, still carrying the shotgun.
“Ruiz!” Burnett shouted. “Stop right there!”
Ruiz yelled something incoherent, jacked a shell into his shotgun’s chamber and punched a 12-gauge slug into the brick near Burnett’s face. The cop jerked his head back, his fingers clawing at his eyes, screaming.
Bolan rolled away and surged to his feet, coming around the low wall and diving at Ruiz. He tackled the gaunt man and took him down roughly. The two rolled into the muddy grass near the path.
Ruiz was stronger than he looked. The two men grappled furiously, Ruiz screaming curses in Spanish the entire time. The cartel thug managed to get on top of Bolan as the soldier put his legs up in guard. Bolan did not want to shoot Ruiz, but the thug spotted the holstered weapon in his adversary’s waistband and grabbed for it.
Slapping his right hand deep onto the tang of the Beretta in its holster, Bolan caught Ruiz’s hand and forearm in the crook of his own arm. He tightened his arm, trapping Ruiz before the wiry man could pull the weapon free. Shoving with all his might, Bolan got his knees up in front of Ruiz, levering the man up. Then he fired a savage kick into his stomach. The cartel man rolled off Bolan, gagging and retching.
Bolan scrambled to his feet and he kicked Ruiz hard in the head. The man dropped to his belly on the ground and was still.
The Executioner drew his Beretta, glancing left and right—
And found himself staring into the barrel of a Glock.
Burnett was silent. Bolan glanced in the detective’s direction and found him prone near the flower garden, unmoving.
“Move an inch in my direction and I’ll shoot you in the head,” the man with the Glock told him. He had Bolan covered from behind. From what he could see, looking over his shoulder, the Executioner couldn’t identify the newcomer.
“Who are you?” Bolan asked.
“I could ask you the same thing,” the man said. “Place the gun on the ground very slowly.” He was just under six feet tall, solidly built, wearing cargo pants and a denim shirt under a tan photographer’s vest. Bolan noted his footwear, which weren’t work boots at all, but tan combat boots with tanker straps. On his face the man wore wraparound smoked shooting glasses. His prematurely gray hair was cropped close to his skull in military fashion.
Bolan glanced to Burnett again as he placed the Beretta carefully on the walking trail. There was no one close by; it was unlikely anyone would see what was happening and call for help. The gunman gestured Bolan back and then picked up the Beretta, his Glock never wavering. He tucked the Beretta into his waistband behind his back.
“He’ll live,” the man told him, jerking his head at Burnett. “Answer my questions and you might, too.”
Bolan just looked at him.
“I want your name and the agency you’re working for,” the man said. He stood carefully out of Bolan’s reach.
“You seem to have misplaced your rifle,” Bolan said. He didn’t know for a fact that this man was the sniper, but the look on the gunman’s face told him he’d guessed correctly.
“This weapon,” he said, his eyes flickering to the Glock, “will punch through a dozen of you single-file. The caliber’s different, but the ammo’s the same. Now, answer my question.”
Bolan
