Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  Bondarchik felt the heat immediately. It wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket. There was a long Mercedes limo waiting. The Russian crossed to it and climbed inside, sighing with relief as the chill of the air conditioning hit. He sank into the seat. Litvenko sat beside him, the two burly bodyguards in the rear facing seats. The limo pulled away after luggage was deposited in the trunk.

  A young, lean Mexican sat next to the driver. He turned now to greet them.

  “Welcome to Mexico, Mr. Bondarchik. I will be looking after you for the present. I am Tomas Trujillo.”

  26

  Chico Morales glanced from the thick wads of U.S. dollars on his desk, to the tall, dark-haired American, then back to the money. He could gauge by the thickness of the bills there was a great deal of money sitting in front of him. Even though an electric fan was whirring close by, sending cool air over him, Morales felt a sheen of perspiration break out on his face. He unconsciously reached up to scrub at his unshaved jaw.

  “Tell me again what I have to do, señor. Por favor. So there can be no misunderstanding.”

  “I have private business in Agua Verde. I need a place to park my aircraft. One of your hangars would be ideal.”

  “And what else?”

  “The plane needs to be refueled and kept out of sight. I was told Chico Morales would be able to help, that he is an honest man.”

  Morales leaned back in his creaking, scuffed swivel chair. He might not have been obese, but he was a big man, his clothing rumpled and stained.

  “Who told you these truths about me?”

  “A man from Langley who rates you highly.”

  BOLAN’S INFORMATION had come from Brognola, via a CIA contact the big Fed had known for some years. His agency connection was one of those few outsiders Brognola kept tucked away for special occasions. As far as the CIA man was concerned, Brognola was working out of his Justice Department office and knew nothing about the big Fed’s Stony Man Farm connection. Brognola and the CIA man did each other favors from time to time that offered benefits to either man. It was a satisfactory arrangement that worked well.

  Brognola had simply asked for a safe contact in the Mexican location, hinting he had something in the pipeline that might have a beneficial result. Once his contact realized the significance of the area, he offered Morales as a local asset.

  “Just don’t get him compromised.”

  “All I need is for him to offer a little storage space for a while. No direct involvement.”

  “Morales is solid, Hal. He has a mercenary streak a mile wide, but he’s always done good by us.”

  “That’s all I need, Tom. Put this one on my tab.”

  “Don’t think I won’t, buddy.”

  BUD CASPER HAD FLOWN Bolan to a safe landing on the airstrip carved out of the vegetation, about a mile in from the Gulf coast. Taxiing the twin-engine Cessna to a stop outside the line of hangars, Casper had braked short of the flat-topped building that served as control tower and office. While Casper stayed with the aircraft, Bolan had eased himself from the passenger seat and crossed to the building. He knocked on the door and waited until he was told to enter.

  The office smelled of old cigars and stale coffee. There was a busy desk covered with files, shelves overflowing with documents, and the walls were dotted with outdated calendars and pinups.

  Lounging in a large, worn leather executive chair was a Mexican in his early forties. His thick black hair was due for a trim and his clothes looked as if they served as his pajamas. He watched as Bolan stepped inside. Despite his outward appearance, Chico Morales had the look of a man with sharp instincts and an equally keen brain.

  After the introductions, Morales asked Bolan to take a seat, watching the big American intently. When Bolan produced the wads of cash and offered his proposal Morales became seriously interested.

  “This man from Langley has a name?”

  “He said to tell you Lightfoot.”

  Morales nodded. “And what do I call you, señor?”

  “Cooper.”

  “May I speak honestly?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is not truly tourist country. You understand?”

  “I’m not a tourist and I haven’t come to lie on a beach. This is Benito Rojas territory. Not a man who welcomes interference.”

  Morales smiled. “So you have not come to Agua Verde to wish him well. Or to fish in the bay?”

  Bolan shrugged.

  “Others have tried to negotiate with Rojas. But he is not a man who indulges others.”

  “I understand that,” Bolan said. “Do we have a deal?”

  Morales picked up the money. “Sí. We have a deal. You can put your aircraft in hangar three.”

  “How far to Agua Verde?”

  “Two, maybe three miles north from here. On the coast. And before you ask, the Rojas place is another twenty miles up the coast.” Morales left his chair and led the Executioner to a large map of the area pinned to the wall. “Agua Verde. Here, within this bay. Rojas has his place overlooking the sea on the eastern edge of the bay.”

  Bolan ran a finger along the map to a spot between Agua Verde and the Rojas property. A docking facility called Puerto Verde.

  “This is where Rojas has his oil terminal?”

  Morales nodded. “Sí. This is how Rojas appears to be legítimo. He runs the dock and the oil distribution here. Most of the laborers are local men—honest men who need the work.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Nothing that hombre has his hands on could be truly honest. There is another side to the business I am sure.”

  “Thanks for your help, Chico.”

  Morales smiled. “Thank you, mi amigo. Is there anything else you need?”

  “A ride to town and the name of someone who can hire me a boat.”

  “That is easy. I have a spare automobile you can use. Not new, but very reliable. You are most welcome to borrow it. I know who you can hire a boat from. But what are you going to do?”

  “I’ve reconsidered. A little fishing trip will relax me for a while.”

  “Of course. Hiring a boat is a good way to explore and see the sights.”

  MORALES HAD SPOKEN the truth about the car. The ride was certainly not new—it was a nondescript American Dodge, easily fifty years old. Age notwithstanding, the vintage engine still had plenty of punch beneath the hood, and Bolan didn’t miss seeing that the tires were fairly new, with plenty of deep tread. When he hit the road outside the strip, he found the brakes worked well and the springy ride could have been worse. With his bags in the spacious trunk and Casper at his side, Bolan wheeled the big Dodge toward Agua Verde, keeping his foot light on the gas pedal. He had realized quickly there was power in the engine, and the last thing he wanted was to be pulled over by a Mexican cop for speeding.

  27

  The dockside was quiet. No one paid a great deal of attention as Bolan parked the Dodge. He and Casper climbed out of the vehicle and stood at the edge of the dock, looking out across the calm waters of the Agua Verde bay. Local boats were drifting back and forth, and Bolan noted there were a few moored along the wooden jetty close by.

  “That’s the place,” Casper said.

  He indicated a faded sign hanging loosely to the white frontage of a store displaying marine tackle.

  “Stay close, Bud,” Bolan said.

  He crossed the quay and stepped out of the hot sun into the cool interior. The store was crowded with gear. Bolan sensed movement ahead of him and saw a Mexican wearing a loud shirt over creased blue jeans. The man leaned on the scarred counter.

  “I was told you speak English,” Bolan said. “My Spanish is a bit rough.”

  “Do not concern yourself, señor. If you have come to do business then we all speak the same language.”

  “Chico Morales told me you are the man to see about hiring a boat and equipment to fish.”

  “Sí, I can do that. It could be expensive.”

&nb
sp; “That is not a worry,” Bolan said. “My friend and I want to enjoy our free time. You have what I need?”

  “Look around, señor, and pick what you want.”

  “I need a good boat, with plenty of fuel.”

  The man nodded and called for his assistant. He gave orders and the assistant left. He watched as Bolan moved around the store, selecting items he wanted. When the big American returned to the counter and set down his selection, the Mexican’s face was covered in a generous smile. He quickly calculated the cost, adding the rental for the boat and fuel. The final figure was high. Bolan spent a few minutes haggling over the price and got a few hundred dollars knocked off. He wasn’t going to pay without making a deal. An American paying without worrying over the price might arouse curiosity and draw attention to Bolan and Casper, which was not what the Executioner wanted. A satisfactory price was agreed, and Bolan handed over the cash—more from the satchel of money he had appropriated from the trunk of the Lincoln Continental. It was a small victory making the drug traffickers pay in part for their own downfall.

  The boat was ready an hour later. Bolan and Casper boarded along with their equipment for the fishing trip, Bolan’s bag containing his ordnance, and a box of provisions purchased from a nearby store. Casper then started the engine and, after Bolan had loosened the lines, he eased the boat away from the jetty and steered it across the bay.

  “STRIKER, YOU’VE GOT enough ordnance in there to head up the next Mexican Revolution,” Casper said.

  “Damned well better not get to that.”

  Bolan had his weapons spread across the boat’s cabin. He was aware of the battle ahead, the numbers up against him. By this time Rojas would have heard what happened to his partner across the border. Bolan figured Rojas to be the smarter of the two. He would assume the responsibility of his position and act accordingly, which meant he would be ready for Bolan. Against the Executioner’s favor was the lack of knowledge over how many he might be facing. In his favor was his skill at close-quarters combat, and a willingness to move with the tide and adapt. Sheer numbers, unless thoroughly disciplined and highly trained to fight, didn’t guarantee success.

  “That offer still stands,” Casper said. “And you know I’m no beginner.”

  “Hell, Bud, you proved that a couple of times. Let’s stick with what we already agreed. You go with me as far as the drop-off point, then wait to haul me out. I’ve got a feeling when I quit it’s going to have to be fast.”

  Casper nodded. “Okay. I’m your man.”

  The pilot stepped back and watched as Bolan quietly set out his weaponry. He had to admire the way the man went about his business. No rush. The steady, deliberate actions of a man at one with his mission.

  Clad in his blacksuit and combat boots, Bolan outfitted himself for the coming assault. His weapons selection was more or less identical to the one for the earlier strike with the addition of a satchel holding a number of six-inch-by-four-inch metal devices. They drew Casper’s attention and Bolan handed him one.

  “Solid.”

  Bolan nodded. “Metallic explosive mine,” he explained. “Clamp it to the target and activate with the button on the side. It has an integrated timer that runs for ten minutes, then detonates the explosive compound inside. Neat and lethal.”

  The mines had been worked up and built by the Stony Man Farm resident armorer, John “Cowboy” Kissinger. The man was no slouch when it came to devising deadly weapons for the SOG warriors. The punch delivered by the devices would be enough to lift a 4x4 off the ground even as it was being shredded.

  “Striker, you have some dangerous friends.”

  Bolan smiled at that. Casper didn’t know the half of it.

  “You want to go start the engine and get us out of here?”

  Casper left the cabin and went up on deck. He fired up the powerful boat engine again and left it slowly turning as he went and pulled up the small anchor that had held them while Bolan checked his gear. Back in the wheelhouse Casper increased the power and took the boat forward.

  Out of sight below, Bolan placed his ordnance in a long sealable bag and placed it on one of the side benches. He pulled a loose sweatshirt and a pair of canvas trousers over his blacksuit so he could show himself on deck. Standing next to Casper, studying an area chart spread across the navigation table, Bolan traced their route across the bay. It would take a couple of hours to work their way around to the coastal inlet where Rojas had his estate.

  The day was hot and clear. Only a few shreds remained of the early mist that had hung over the surface of the water. They passed a few other boats as they cruised toward their destination.

  “Don’t you think Rojas is going to be watching every access point to his property?” Casper asked.

  “I didn’t say it was going to be easy,” Bolan said.

  BY MIDDAY they had anchored a distance offshore. Casper broke out the gear, and they settled down to some serious fishing. They were not the only boat in the area. Others had anchored, and a number of enthusiasts were trying their luck. Casper had fished before, and he landed a couple of specimens in the first hour.

  “You think they’re watching?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” Bolan said. “But they can’t suspect every boat that stops in Agua Verde bay.”

  Bolan took his binoculars and stood in the cover of the wheelhouse, scanning the coast in and around the bay. He located the oil terminal. A couple of long jetties stretched out from the main dock, where cranes and container facilities dominated the scene. Behind them there were warehouses and an office block. Swinging the glasses back, Bolan studied the private jetty to one side of the Rojas property. A number of high-power speedboats were tied up to the wooden dock, and twenty feet back from it was a long, low modern building, and on the far side an open area with a smooth, grassed area that curved its way to the Rojas house.

  Like the former Dembrow residence, it was large and opulent. Bolan’s discreet scan revealed that Rojas had a number of armed guards patrolling the grounds.

  “Find what you want?” Casper asked, as Bolan emerged from the wheelhouse, carrying a couple of bottles of chilled beer from the cooler.

  “Answered some questions,” Bolan said.

  He leaned against the rail, his back to the shore, and watched the other boats gently riding the waves. If he had been that way inclined, Bolan could have harbored a little envy for the men in those boats. They were there simply to enjoy the weather and the fishing. When the day was over, they would turn around and return to Agua Verde. Most likely they would end up in a cantina swapping fishing stories.

  There would not be any of that for the Executioner. The closest Bolan would get to fishing would be his association with Rojas. The man was a human shark, a predator striking at the heart of civilized man. Rojas fed off the weak, preying on those dependent on the drugs he supplied.

  Bolan didn’t look too deeply into the craving for drugs as much as the realization of what the stuff was doing to society—it ruined lives, broke up families and encouraged crime in all its forms. And those who were caught in the trap, found themselves hooked on the treadmill, unable to break free. It was an ever-increasing desperation for drugs that made the addicts come back for more, and men like Rojas were always there to feed that need. His moral code had become lost in the dark twist of his soul. Rojas didn’t consider the effects of his trade. He only cared about staying top dog and hauling in the flood of money coming his way.

  Bolan’s work would start with the onset of darkness. He had come to Agua Verde to shut down the Rojas Cartel. The Executioner had started the ball rolling back in Cooter’s Crossing, the finale coming about with the destruction of Dembrow’s crew and the razing of his house. He had similar work ahead of him.

  This time around the target was Rojas and everyone associated with him.

  A couple of the fishing boats remained in the area, showing lights against the dark, the exuberant calls of their crews floating across the water as they bragg
ed about the size of their catches. Bolan signaled to Casper. The boat’s engine coughed into life. They came about and slid through the quiet water until they rounded the promontory that briefly blocked them from the Rojas property.

  Bolan was ready, his face and hands darkened with waterproof combat cosmetics, and a waterproof rubber suit over his blacksuit. He had checked his satellite radio communicator with Casper before he enclosed it under the rubber suit, along with his fully charged cell phone nestled in a blacksuit pocket.

  Slipping over the side, Bolan reached up and took the heavy sealed bag that held his weapons as Casper handed it down. He hooked the strap over one arm and let the bag settle in the water. There were a couple of buoyancy pouches built into the bag that kept it floating just below the surface.

  “You watch your back, Striker,” Casper said. “Make your call and I’ll come for you.”

  Bolan nodded and pushed off from the side of the boat, heading for the rocky shore, the darkness swallowing him quickly.

  28

  Earlier, as he swam toward the shoreline, Bolan had heard the whine of a jet aircraft overhead. Glancing up, he spotted the lights of a plane coming in to land. It swept overhead, already low, then angled in across what would be Rojas ground space. Bolan recalled mention of a landing strip in the files, but he hadn’t realized just how large it might be. When the sound of the jet faded, the soldier turned his attention back to his swimming.

  The full moon allowed Bolan enough light to see his way ashore. He had been in the water for three-quarters of an hour, making his way to the rocky shoreline just to the south of the Rojas estate perimeter. He emerged from the warm Gulf water, easing his weapons bag with him, and worked his way into the jumble of rocks.

  He worked his way out of the rubber suit, rolled it into a bundle and stuffed it into a gap in the rocks. Then he opened his weapons bag and armed himself with the Beretta and Desert Eagle after checking each weapon. The combat webbing went on next, the pouches already loaded with extra magazines for his complement of weapons, plus incendiary canisters. Bolan slid the Cold Steel Tanto combat knife into place. He slung the satchel holding the magnetic mines across his back, feeling their solid weight, and he hung the Uzi around his neck. The Executioner decided against taking the M-16 this time. With four LAWs he figured he was carrying the maximum—he didn’t want to over-burden himself. He could handle a heavy load, but even he had his limits and slowing himself too much was asking for trouble. So he zipped up the rubber bag and concealed it beneath a shallow overhang, covering it with sand and pebbles.