Cartel Clash

by Don Pendleton

  Rojas turned to his guest.

  “I should ask your forgiveness, Señor Bondarchik. My recent behavior has been less than polite. My excuse is the sudden turn of events that have quite seriously affected my organization. I am not a patient man. I resent attacks on my authority. But it does not excuse my rudeness to you. I apologize.”

  “And I accept.”

  “I am flattered that you came all this way to see me.”

  “The satisfaction of my clients is important to me. Your disappointment concerned me, so I decided to come speak with you in person to resolve any problems. And my name is Vash. In our businesses, setbacks can be serious.” Bondarchik paused before he spoke again. “Forgive me if I touch on delicate matters, but these problems you speak of. Are they to do with the incidents over the border? The last one being the strike against the American Marshal Dembrow?”

  “You have heard?” Rojas asked.

  “Yes. Tell me, have you learned who is behind these attacks?”

  “Only that they seem to have been carried out by a man named Cooper. It is all we have been able to find out. There are no suggestions as to who he works for, though his skills suggest some kind of military background. As far as I can tell, he works alone but seems to have excellent advisory information to direct him.”

  “From what I understand, U.S. agencies are not allowed to carry out such strategies without sanction.”

  “The DEA has been trying to build cases against Dembrow and myself for a few years. As you point out, they can do little except make raids on drug consignments and seize the cargo. To actually allow them to step in and make major arrests leading to trials, they need watertight evidence. They have never managed to reach that level.”

  “So why are they taking such action at this time?”

  “A short while ago an undercover DEA agent was discovered within Dembrow’s organization. We had him dealt with, and left his body as a statement to the DEA that we would not be intimidated. It is since his death that these incidents started to take place. No information about this man Cooper has been uncovered. He picks his targets and kills without hesitation. He manipulated both Dembrow and myself into trying to regain a stolen cocaine shipment. It resulted in both sides shooting at each other. I will admit he made us look foolish. Despite one of our teams capturing him, he escaped and destroyed a warehouse containing a valuable consignment of hard goods.”

  “Wearing you down,” Bondarchik said. “Creating unrest. Catching you all off guard.”

  Rojas nodded. “Exactly. And then he went after Dembrow and struck at his house. He destroyed it and blew away Dembrow’s security force. Dembrow’s organization is gone—there is nothing left. The local authorities have moved in and arrested the few of Dembrow’s men left standing.”

  “Will it affect you?” Bondarchik asked. At the back of his mind was the rest of the money Rojas owed him on delivery of the missile system. “Could the DEA get to you through Dembrow?”

  “They might try, but my protection here in Mexico is very good. And legal attempts will be intercepted and challenged. If the DEA makes a fuss, the paperwork will be lost in the system. And the DEA is an American agency. Here in Mexico it has very little authority.”

  “What about this man Cooper?”

  Rojas smiled for the first time, shrugging. “We are ready in case he does step over the border. I have my security around the estate. Let us hope he doesn’t make a try while you are here, Vash.”

  Tomas Trujillo appeared.

  “Calderon is here,” he said.

  “Introduce him to Señor Litvenko,” Rojas said. “Find them a quiet place, provide them with whatever food and drink they want and instruct everyone they are not to be disturbed.”

  The Mexican turned to Bondarchik. “Are you ready to eat now?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the morning we will talk. Tonight we both relax, yes?”

  It was the last thing Rojas said before his world exploded.

  31

  Once Bolan completed his call to Seminov, he edged his way back down the rocky slope to where he had left his M-16, wrapped and hidden. He retrieved the rifle, and made sure he had a full magazine in place and a couple of spares in his pouches. Contrary to his previous decision to leave the weapon behind, Bolan now found he was going to need the longer range for his next move.

  The Executioner left his former position and worked his way around the perimeter, keeping a close watch in case any of the Rojas security team swept his current area. With the dock and the garage still ablaze, there was plenty to keep them occupied. Perhaps, Bolan thought, Rojas would have his key people close to the house. He hoped that was the case—Bolan had something else to accomplish before he went after the top man.

  Vash Bondarchik’s aircraft.

  Bolan wanted to disable it, to prevent it taking off. The possibility that Bondarchik himself may have been on board was too good an opportunity to ignore. Stranding the Russian on Mexican soil would be a bonus.

  Disabling most of the security lights had left large areas around the estate in total darkness once Bolan moved beyond the burning building and dock. The landing strip was well beyond that area. The big American used the rocky seaward edge of the property to approach the strip. It forced him to a slow pace, but he wasn’t concerned. It gave him more time to survey his upcoming target.

  Flat on the rocky ground, the water lapping at the shore feet below, Bolan made a thorough recon of the landing strip and the buildings that stood farther back. There was a service hangar, a couple of smaller huts and a control tower. Bolan noted that the strip had its own power supply, because several lights were blazing. One of the smaller huts had to have housed a generator. He also counted at least five armed guards patrolling, and a parked jeep, without a mounted machine gun. Through the glass in the control tower he spotted at least two operators.

  As Bolan worked his way farther around the site, he saw a pair of helicopters parked on a circular landing pad. A second jeep stood close by—and this one did have a 7.62 mm machine gun, with an attentive gunner in position.

  The focus of attention was the cream and blue Boeing BBJ2. Mobile floodlights ringed the aircraft, spreading a wide oval of intense illumination around the jet.

  Bolan spotted a fuel tanker moving away from the aircraft. Bondarchik had obviously made sure the jet was fueled.

  Did that suggest he was planning to leave?

  Bolan’s destructive show of force could have forced his hand. Business aside, Bondarchik would not want to become trapped in the middle of Rojas’s enforced war.

  Too bad, Vash, Bolan thought. You’re here and you can stay.

  Bolan was ready to move in closer when he picked up movement to his left. He froze, hidden in the deep shadows beyond the bright lights surrounding the Boeing. Only his eyes moved, picking up the slow-moving, armed sentry easing through the grass edging the landing strip. There was something in the way the guy moved that told Bolan he suspected there was an intruder close by. It showed in his posture, the way he held himself, the muzzle of his SMG tracking back and forth.

  The guy was close, now only five to six feet away. Bolan could see he was a big man, broad and solid. Yet he moved with the easy grace of a hunter, his motion fluid, his head moving back and forth, as if he could scent his prey. The Executioner didn’t dismiss the thought. Skilled hunters often operated on a level above that of ordinary men. As hunters they survived on their instincts, using every human sense to its utmost. Sound and sight and—yes—smell. Tracking man, the wiliest of prey, required those heightened skills, and this guy, so close to Bolan, was using his.

  The Executioner understood, and played the guy at his own game. He made no moves that would attract the hunter. Even the slight rustle of clothing, the merest clash of equipment, could give the prey away. It was all a good hunter needed. So Bolan stayed immobile.

  Waiting.

  In such proximity to his target, Bolan didn’t want to use any weapon
s that would alert others. He still needed the element of surprise if he was going to carry out his strike on Bondarchik’s aircraft. He wanted his attack to be on his terms—not theirs. So he needed that first surprise element to work in his favor.

  The guy was getting dangerously close. Bolan caught a sliver of light reflect off his face. Just a sliver but enough to expose the hunter. The guard was almost level with Bolan, eight feet away, still searching. The Executioner knew the situation couldn’t last. The hunter’s instinct would kick in and he would sense his enemy. When that happened, it would be too late to do anything.

  Bolan saw the sentry’s head turn in his direction. He observed, almost in slow motion, the dark-skinned, high cheeks, the thick mass of black hair sweeping back as the guy leaned forward. The SMG curved around, seeking Bolan, who moved with surprising speed, considering the weight of ordnance he was carrying. The adrenaline rush added impetus to his leap. The move drove him forward, bodily slamming into the big Mexican. The brute force of the impact pushed Bolan’s opponent back, tipping the balance. The soldier jammed a big hand beneath the man’s chin, forcing his head back. The move caught the guy off guard. Bolan kept pushing. He heard the Mexican grunt, throw down his SMG. Then he flung both of his muscular arms around Bolan, immediately starting to squeeze. The guy was powerful, his grip bearlike in its intensity. Bolan’s feet left the ground and for a moment he was caught in the other man’s embrace—this required drastic action.

  The Executioner took his hand away from the man’s chin, and as the large head lowered Bolan bunched his fist and hammered it into the broad flare of his opponent’s nose. He felt the nose break, and the guy grunted against the pain. Bolan hit him again and again, keeping up the brutal assault. Despite the terrible pain and the hot gush of bright blood from his smashed nose, the Mexican kept his grip. Maybe he was hoping his adversary would succumb before the agony of his broken nose became too much to bear. It was a contest of wills between a pair of stubborn and determined fighters. The Mexican shook his head in frustrated rage, blood spraying from his face. Bolan kept up his attack. The guy’s nose had lost all resemblance to its former shape. It was nothing more than a crushed and bloody mess.

  Sucking in a breath and pushing thoughts of his crushed ribs to the back of his mind, Bolan maintained his physical assault, his pounding fist starting to have an effect on the Mexican’s grip. Bolan sensed some relaxation and arched his back, placing his free hand against the Mexican’s chest and pushing. The man uttered a low moan and let his adversary drop, as he raised his hands to his bloody face. There was no hesitation in Bolan’s actions as he reached down and freed his combat knife. His right hand came up in a calculated sweep that buried the knife deep in the Mexican’s chest. Bolan shoved hard, the blade sinking up to the hilt, the keen tip slicing into the guy’s pumping heart. Bolan worked the handle, angling the blade so it cut across the heart, enlarging the wound. The Mexican fought the oncoming surge from his dying heart before he toppled with a heavy thud. Panting, Bolan bent over and eased the knife from the man’s chest. He wiped it clear and returned it to his sheath.

  There was no lingering over his kill. Bolan took a few seconds to suck air back into his lungs, and stretched his body to ease his bruised ribs. He knew he’d be sore later, but that didn’t relate to his current situation. He circled the site, bringing himself to where he could get a clear shot at the Boeing.

  Down on one knee, Bolan brought the M-16 to his shoulder, using the sling strap to brace his arm. He sighted on his first target, steadied his breathing and fired. The 5.56 mm slug hit true, and the first of the jet’s landing wheel tires blew with a soft thump. Bolan adjusted for a second shot. Another hit. Over the next long seconds Bolan methodically blew out every tire on the Boeing’s landing gear, watching the aircraft dip and sink a few inches as the burst rubber let the wheels drop to the concrete. He changed position after each few shots, making his exposure difficult.

  The Executioner had already fired three shots before the men in the jeep reacted. Their first priority appeared to be for their own protection as both men dived for cover behind their vehicle. Sporadic fire sent bullets winging into the darkness beyond the glare of the floodlights. The slugs were wide. The shooters had no idea where their target was.

  As he blew out the final nose wheel, Bolan turned his rifle on the bank of floodlights around the Boeing. His steady rate of fire shattered the majority of the lights, leaving the aircraft in shadow.

  He could hear voices yelling in excited Spanish.

  Shouldering the M-16 Bolan used the darkness around the aircraft to move in closer. It was time for the big fireworks. He circled the Boeing until he was behind the jeep and its two-man crew. They were still under cover, still sending shots into the darkness because there was little else they could do until they had a solid target. Bolan lifted the Uzi and hit the pair with hot bursts that tore into their bodies and punched them to the ground. He moved on, clearing the immediate area, and crouched behind the cover of wooden packing cases.

  From his new spot, Bolan had a clear view of the two helicopters on the pad. He pulled another one of the LAWs into position and primed the weapon. He heard the familiar whoosh as the missile launched, streaking through the night. It impacted against the closer chopper, enveloping it in a burst of orange and red fire. The helicopter blew apart, sending debris in all directions. The second aircraft was badly damaged from the flying debris, its fuselage and canopy burned and pockmarked by shredded metal.

  The explosion brought an instant response from the airstrip crew. Bolan’s firing position was assaulted by a number of volleys of autofire. The wooden packing cases were reduced to matchwood, but Bolan was all clear, having moved the moment he triggered the LAW.

  He chose the armed jeep for his next assault; taking out an armed and mobile target made sense. Bolan had used the relentless power of the 7.62 mm machine gun himself, so he was in no rush to find himself in its line of fire.

  The jeep had started to roll as Bolan hit it with the third LAW. The vehicle turned into a moving ball of flame as the missile detonated, its front wheels lifting. Broken parts spun across the concrete as the jeep disintegrated. The driver and gunner were swallowed in the conflagration.

  Bolan saw two men rushing his position. He threw aside the LAW tube and brought his M-16 back into play. The Executioner stood his ground, triggering a steady stream of slugs from the assault rifle, and saw the two Mexicans drop. Briefly in the clear, Bolan dug in his heels and sprinted for the base of the control tower. He pressed against the lower wall, sliding an HE round for the grenade launcher into place. Ready, he moved around the base of the tower, stepped back a few feet and targeted the glass control room. He triggered the grenade and almost immediately heard the shatter of glass. The blast spewed broken glass from the control room, debris showered down to the ground. A shrieking man was catapulted from the control room, his arms and legs windmilling as he plummeted to the concrete. His clothing was smoldering from the heat of the blast that had thrown him out the window.

  From the control tower Bolan ran to the rear of the service hangar. He took out a single gunner who’d spotted him and was running for an intercept. The guy expressed surprise when Bolan, instead of ducking for cover, turned and spent precious seconds tracking in on his already firing opponent. The Mexican had most likely never faced anyone in close combat. He knew how to jam a trigger back and let a magazine expend itself in seconds, but never realized the tendency of full-auto fire to bounce and move around. Bolan leveled the M-16 and hit the guy with a pair of well-placed slugs that took part of his brain out through the large hole in the back of his skull.

  Bolan hauled open the rear personnel door of the service hangar and slipped inside. He heard noise from out front. His adversaries would be searching for him outside, not in the building, so before they came to check, Bolan used his depleting armory to inflict more damage to the Rojas base. The hangar was a busy place. Engine parts, machinery and tools,
and a haphazard supply of oil drums and aviation fuel were stacked all over the place. Bolan used a pair of his incendiary devices. He pulled the pins and threw the canisters along the oil-marked concrete floor, then backtracked and got out of the hangar before the heat on Rojas became even hotter. As he slipped into the darkness behind the building, Bolan heard the incendiary devices detonate with soft thumps. He saw the intense glare from the igniting thermate and visualized the rising, terrible heat that would soon be generated inside the hangar.

  As he worked his way around the hangar and the demolished control tower, Bolan picked out the shape of the fuel tanker that had recently been filling the tanks of Bondarchik’s Boeing. Rojas, he decided, wasn’t going to be needing that any longer. The soldier readied his last LAW and fired it into the side of the tanker. He had no idea how much liquid fuel was left in the vehicle, but the missile set it off and the fireball was impressively spectacular and had to have been visible from Rojas’s house.

  Bolan retreated, leaving the landing strip a burning shambles, and started a long, slow advance toward Rojas’s final refuge.

  32

  The distant crackle of automatic fire was the first indication to Vash Bondarchik that things were not as they should be. He turned to find that his host, Rojas, had snatched up an internal phone and was calling his security crew. Bondarchik could not speak Spanish, so he had no idea what the man was saying, but he caught the rising tone in Rojas’s voice and knew it was not good news. The Russian reached inside his jacket and closed his fingers around the butt of the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle he always carried. Just feeling the checkered grips added a moment of satisfaction. He glanced at his bodyguards, alerting them to stand by.