“Your journey here now has to be more than a simple desire to return to your home,” he said. “It has to be something important to bring you all the way back from America.”
“Perhaps I just wanted to make a visit.”
“Mmm.” Xavier nodded. “But something more than that, I feel.” He sipped his coffee.
“You’re right, Father. I came because I needed somewhere to hide.” Escobedo stared at him. “It was not in my heart to seek absolution. Or to burden you with my problems…”
“But when you saw the church, the old feelings drew you here.” Xavier smiled. “It is well known the church embraces those who seek comfort. Whether they believe they need it or not.” He paused. “Is that not so, Mano?”
Escobedo drank more of his coffee and allowed his thoughts to assemble in some kind of order. Then he told him what he had seen and the danger he now faced.
“And do these men have guns?” the priest asked.
“Sí.”
“And do you, Mano, have a gun with which to defend yourself?”
“No, Father. I have nothing. I am not a man of violence.”
“Then you did the only thing you could, and walked away from these people.”
“I could not think of anything else I could do.”
“A wise move. Now, will you stay here? Or move on? This I ask only so that I can make some arrangements.”
Escobedo shrugged. “The last thing I wish is to bring my problems to you.”
“Do you believe these people may come here?”
“It’s possible. I’ve been selfish and thoughtless. I thought coming here would put me out of their reach, but that was stupid of me. I need to go. Move on before people get hurt because of me.”
“You will do no such thing, Mano. Let me think about this. I am sure we can figure out something.”
“Ascensión is small. The people here can do nothing against these men. I will only bring trouble.”
“Then we must get you far away. To a place where even these people cannot find you. Trust me, Hermano. I have a good friend. A priest who has a church in a small village much like Ascensión. It’s by the ocean, below Culiacán. There you can have the time to decide what you must do.”
“This could be dangerous for you, Father Xavier. Too dangerous.”
“Let me worry about that. Mano, it may take me a few days to arrange this. Until it is time to go you will need to remain as out of sight as possible.”
“I could go the family farm. Now my grandparents are both dead, I’ll be alone there.”
“Good. I will send for you when everything is ready. I can get you food, and old Quilla can lend me a burro.” Xavier smiled. “Have you remembered how to ride one?”
For the first time in many days Escobedo smiled. “Ride a burro? Father, it is something you never forget.”
“Then it is settled, Mano. Take some more coffee and I will go and get things ready for you.”
3
Broken Tree, Texas
Mack Bolan studied the apartment building from the confines of his car, checking out the area around it and not moving until he felt secure. The building stood on a quiet street, away from the main drag. It wasn’t exactly a poor area of town, but the homes were not likely to be featured in any upmarket style magazines. Hermano Escobedo lived well within his pay grade.
After glancing at his watch, Bolan decided it was time to move. He had the location of Escobedo’s rooms, and though he doubted the man was home, he had to start his search somewhere.
He exited his vehicle and locked it, then checked his Beretta 93R in its shoulder holster. He wore civilian clothing—a light shirt under his jacket, tan chinos and soft-soled shoes. The area was quiet. Bolan stepped inside the building and made his way to the rear stairs, up to Escobedo’s floor. He could hear voices, speaking mainly in Spanish; the yell of a playing child. Faint music came from behind a closed door. He walked along the hallway and stopped at Escobedo’s apartment. There were slight indentations around the edge of the door level with the catch, the damaged wood showing fresh marks.
Bolan slid his hand inside his leather jacket and gripped the Beretta 93R. He slid the autopistol free and held it down by his right side as he gently eased the unlocked door open, just enough to slip through.
He was in a short hall that ran the length of the apartment, with a pair of doors branching off left and right ahead of him. He heard activity coming from the room to his left, then voices.
“…wasting our time. Escobedo isn’t here and anything he had he took with him.”
“Hell, man, you don’t know that.”
“If he was smart enough to bug out he won’t have left us a message.”
Something banged on the floor.
“Why don’t you just yell and let the neighbors know we’re in here.”
“Okay, okay.”
“We don’t come up with anything, someone is going to be pissed.”
“The hell with that. If there isn’t anything to find, what are we supposed to do? Get creative and make something up? Face it, Clegg, he’s gone.”
“Candy likes answers.”
“Yeah? I like college girls. How many times do I get them?”
Bolan eased up to the doorway of the occupied room and peered inside.
It was sparsely furnished, with a faded carpet, and an old TV set in one corner. Walls that were once cream had lost their color.
And there were two men. Jeans and boots, baggy shirts. One had a curl-brimmed Stetson pushed to the back of his head. He also had an autopistol tucked down the back of his Levi’s.
They were going through a cheap sideboard, scattering the contents of the drawers across the floor. In frustration, one of the men pushed a row of books off a shelf.
“No goddam phone left here,” the one called Clegg said.
“If he had stuff on it for the cops, there ain’t no chance he’d leave it here.”
“And Hermano keeps the place so tidy,” Bolan said, quietly announcing his presence. “I hope you’re thinking of cleaning up.”
The pair turned in concert, the one with the waist-banded pistol snaking a hand around to grasp it.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Obviously not your best friend,” Bolan said, raising the 93R.
He turned toward the guy with the gun, so the other man took his chance, bunching his shoulders as he launched himself across the short distance. His left hand jerked up, showing the lock knife he held. The blade snapped into place as he closed in on the soldier, but he failed to notice Bolan’s hand as he swept it around and slammed the butt of the Beretta against his nose. Hard. Then a second time. The guy’s nose simply collapsed under the stunning impact. Blood gushed from his nostrils and he stumbled, dropping his knife.
Bolan didn’t hesitate to swing the 93R back around to his second target. The Beretta was set for triple fire and he laid three suppressed 9 mm slugs into the guy’s chest. He struck the wall, his face registering shock. His legs gave way and he slid down the plaster, giving off a long sigh.
A soft probe had turned hard. It wasn’t the first time Bolan had been confronted with unexpected hostility, and the situation had called for rapid action. If he had been a fraction slower it might easily have been him down on the floor, and anyone who raised a violent hand in the Executioner’s direction had to be dealt with.
A scrabbling sound reached Bolan’s ears and he turned. The first guy was lunging for the knife he’d dropped. Bolan had not had the time to clear the blade, and as the man clenched the weapon in his fist Bolan moved forward to intercept, stomping on his opponent’s outstretched fingers. Bone crunched and a pained yell burst from the guy’s mouth. Bolan had already followed through, his other foot arcing around and smashing into the side of the man’s exposed throat. A strangled grunt escaped the already bloody lips as his head snapped to one side. He rolled over, landing hard, and the way he sprawled told Bolan his blow had broken the guy’s neck.
Bolan’s first chore was to check the two men to see if they’d been carrying anything useful. All he turned up was one cell phone, which he pocketed. Next, he examined the rooms. The flimsy wardrobe in the bedroom contained only empty wire hangers. Bolan realized Escobedo must have taken every item of clothing he owned; which suggested he was not anticipating a return. The same went for personal belongings. It looked as if Hermano Escobedo had cleared the apartment.
Back in the living room, Bolan crouched down and went through the few items that had been strewn across the floor. A few magazines, old newspapers, paperback books. As he rifled through them, something slipped out from between the pages of one volume. A creased photograph showed a view of what appeared to be a Mexican village. A town square with a fountain, and a church on the far side. There were a few lines of writing on the back, too faded for Bolan to read. He turned the picture over again and studied the image.
Just a street in some distant Mexican village. But he’d ask Aaron Kurtzman and his team at Stony Man to run it through the system.
Bolan spent another fruitless ten minutes going through the apartment. He found nothing else, so left as quietly as he had arrived, through to the rear of the building and across the back lot, taking a slow, circuitous route to where he had left his vehicle. He drove away, heading back to where he had left Grimaldi waiting with the plane, at an airstrip about an hour out of Broken Tree.
Bolan had established that someone was looking for Hermano Escobedo, and not to invite him for a quiet drink. If there was an intensive search taking place, on top of the deaths of the two marshals, then Seb Jessup did have something to hide.
Bolan had been tasked with finding Escobedo and bringing him in alive. Now he knew he was in a race against Jessup’s people. That knowledge did nothing to deter him. He would search for and find Escobedo. Once the Executioner took up the challenge he would not be persuaded to step aside. Especially not when he was there to protect the life of a hounded man.
4
Broken Tree, Texas
“Somebody is interested in Escobedo’s whereabouts,” Bolan said into his sat phone. “Enough to put their lives on the line.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Brognola said.
“They made the choice,” Bolan said, detailing what had happened at Escobedo’s apartment. “Couple of things I’d like Bear to check for me.”
“Go ahead.”
“I have a picture I’m sending through from my cell. I need the cyber boys to see if they can identify the printing on the rear. See if they can tell me where the photo was taken. It’s a long shot, but right now I don’t have much else to go on except a name. One of the guys in Escobedo’s apartment used it. Candy. Thin, I know, but maybe we can tie this guy to Jessup.”
“Okay,” Brognola said. “Call you back if we get anything. You got any thoughts on this?”
“I’m thinking—guessing—that Escobedo has jumped the border, gone into Mexico to lose himself. He stays on this side, he’s in Jessup’s backyard. He’d be less conspicuous in his own country, and he might already know a place to hide.”
“So maybe the photo is somewhere familiar to Escobedo?”
“Could be, Hal. The guy moved to the US to work. Left his home behind. Could be the photo holds memories for him. A reminder. People like to keep things like that.”
“We’ll go with that for now,” Brognola said. “Like you say, we don’t have much else. You hanging on to Jack?”
“No. He can make his way back. I’ll collect my gear from the plane and get a room in a local motel. If Aaron comes up with anything I can decide what to do from there. I’m sending a cell along with Grimaldi. Took it from one of the intruders. There might be something useful in its memory. And I’ll send my Beretta with Jack, too. If I’m crossing the border I can’t risk carrying. Pointless to have my weapon with me if I get caught up in a search by the authorities.”
“I can let a couple of my men know what happened in Broken Tree,” Brognola said. “If there’s any local problem, they can run an overwatch. Cover your back if the you-know-what hits the fan.”
“I don’t want to be a killjoy,” Bolan said, “but tell them to walk softly in case this Jessup character has any connections with the local law.”
* * *
AN HOUR AFTER Grimaldi took off, Bolan was in the diner attached to the motel he had located a few miles down the highway. A welcome sight for any traveler negotiating the long and lonely Texas road. Bolan was on his second coffee when his phone rang.
“Hey, cowboy, how is it down there in the Lone Star State?”
The voice was familiar and welcome, clear and sharp over the satellite connection.
“All the more lone without you here,” Bolan said.
“Why do I never have my voice recorder handy when you say things like that?” Barbara Price’s tone was easy and friendly.
“Remind me when I get back to say it again. But right now, I take it you’ve got something for me?”
“We have some information Bear believes will be of help.”
“Go ahead.”
“The picture from your phone has the photographer’s logo on the rear. Pretty faded, but by the magic of computer enhancement our guys worked at the pixels and enhanced them until they were readable.”
“What do we have?”
“We’re looking at the town of Ascensión. The photo shows the square and the church on the Avenida de la Ascensión. I’m sending you the enhanced image. And a location for the town.”
“Tell Aaron and the team thanks. I’ve got a starting point now.”
“Anything else you need at the moment?”
“I sent my Beretta back with Jack. Didn’t want to risk being caught trying to take a firearm across the border.”
“Lucky for you we have some sources available. I’ll make a call and speak with you once you’ve made the crossing. Do I need to tell you to take care?”
“You always do.”
“Watch yourself, soldier.”
They ended the call there. Bolan finished his coffee and made his way to his room. The data had come through from Stony Man and Bolan studied the sharpened image. Kurtzman had also sent some GPS coordinates that gave Bolan a starting point from the border crossing a few miles from Broken Tree. He brought up a map of the route to Ascensión. It was a day and a half’s journey, and would take Bolan into isolated territory. He could understand if this was where Escobedo had traveled, and the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the fugitive had headed home. Rural Mexico. Off the beaten track. Burdened with information he would not have chosen to have, Hermano Escobedo had likely retreated to familiar ground, searching for anonymity. Bolan had a suspicion the man might not be as successful as he hoped.
The soldier checked the gear he had brought with him from Stony Man. For a cover, he had taken on the guise of a freelance photographer on assignment. Stony Man had a dummy publication that would back him up if anyone should look into his credentials. The business cards he carried had him down as Mark Lassiter, and Bolan had the necessary documents and US passport to confirm his identity. Lassiter’s trip to Mexico was for the purpose of photographing landscapes and buildings to be featured in an upcoming spread of a travel magazine. With her usual efficiency and speed, Barbara Price had pulled together the package, handing it to Bolan just before he had moved out with Grimaldi.
Plugging his sat phone into its charger, the soldier turned in for the night. He had a long drive ahead of him in the morning.
* * *
BOLAN WOKE BEFORE dawn and ate a light breakfast before loading his belongings into his 4x4. He drove to the rental agency and paid to extend the renta
l period, making sure the gas tank was filled and the oil and water levels topped up.
He reached the border crossing by midmorning and waited in line to enter Mexico.
His thoughts went back to Hermano Escobedo’s apartment and the dead men he had left there. The radio he had tuned in to, a local station, made no mention of the bodies. It was possible they had not yet been discovered. There were other possibilities. Brognola might have exercised Federal influence to have news of the deaths suppressed in order to leave Bolan in the clear and give him time to get into Mexico. The chance that Jessup’s own persuasive power might also have been working crossed Bolan’s mind. If the man imagined some outside agency was working on Escobedo’s disappearance, he might have kept the deaths quiet so his own search for the Mexican could proceed without too much external interference.
Bolan passed through the border crossing with no problems. It was a busy day and the guards on both sides had enough on their hands to be concerned about a harmless American photographer on his way to take pictures. After his papers were checked, he was sent on his way.
5
Broken Tree, Texas
Candy leaned against the weathered fence and watched as one of his hands worked on an unbroken mustang. The animal had plenty of fight in him, kicking and fishtailing his way around the dusty corral. Despite the animal’s brute strength, the man in the saddle refused to quit. He was Candy’s best bronco buster; a bowlegged, sun-dried cowboy who didn’t understand the word quit. He would, if need be, cling to that saddle for the whole damn day.
“We got the word,” someone said behind Candy.
He turned and saw one of his men, Lorenzo, standing close by.
“Hope it’s the word I want to hear.”
“Tye and Clegg were pulled out of Escobedo’s place. Both dead. Hatton told me he’ll make sure they won’t be found.”
“What about the son of a bitch who took ’em down?”
The Cartel Hit Page 4
