Killpath

by Don Pendleton

  Morales’s bulging forearm pushed across her face, and Rojas kept her chin pinned to her clavicle. If that hunk of muscle and power got across her windpipe, everything would be over. Jagged nails stabbed at her forehead, raking back in an effort to wrench her head up.

  “Don’t struggle so much, Hilda,” Morales sneered. “It won’t hurt for—”

  Rojas lunged up with her good arm, blindly digging her fingers into Morales’s meaty face. She jabbed her eye with a thumbnail, and Morales let out a howl. “Enough!”

  Heavy boots stomped across the wet tiles. Rojas felt rough hands grip her own trying to make her release Morales’s face. Rojas grit her teeth, resisting the guard’s efforts. Morales had come after her, taunted her, given her the desire to kill.

  She wanted to ensure Morales would never forget her failure to end the life of Brunhilde Rojas. The memory would be scrawled across her face in the unmistakable signature of Rojas’s claw marks.

  A punch connected with Rojas’s jaw, and the world went black.

  It had been a good run, but her sons would go unavenged, she thought as she descended into oblivion.

  * * *

  WHEN ROJAS OPENED her eyes, she was dressed. She was in a pair of coveralls, though one of her arms was hanging in a sling under the open front of the prison jumpsuit. She was in an office with a window that showed the open sky outside. She spotted the guard tower nearby. So, she was still on prison property. The desk was clean—no papers, but more importantly, no pens or letter openers that she could grab and turn into a weapon.

  A burly man sat in the chair behind the desk, and a tall, dark stranger stood, arms folded, against the wall. Rojas blinked, lingering on the man’s cool blue eyes. He was observing her, his features impassive. His presence in the room was a weight, a magnet for her.

  “Brunhilde Rojas, aka La Brujah,” the seated man read from a file. “Born in Argentina, daughter of a Colombian father and a German mother, hence the name Brunhilde. Naturalized citizen of the United States at age four.”

  Rojas glanced at the man behind the desk. He was a broad, serious fellow who showed a road map of years on his face. “So you know who I am…”

  “You followed in the footsteps of the Cocaine Godmother and the Queen of the Pacific, right down to having your teenaged sons follow you into the business,” the man continued.

  “And who are you?” Rojas asked, anger spiking in her voice. Her teenaged sons. Mis hijos.

  “My name is Harold Brognola, Justice Department,” he offered. “And my associate, here, is Matt Cooper.”

  Rojas’s lip twitched. “You mention my sons again…”

  “Not even your last remaining son?” Brognola asked.

  “Pepito?” Suddenly the iron that was holding her straight in her chair buckled under the weight of her youngest boy’s mention. “What have you done with him?”

  “We haven’t done anything with him other than put him into protective custody,” Cooper told her. “But we have found out that your cartel is looking for Pepito.”

  Rojas grit her teeth. “So you come to prison to mock me with this? I’ve been in a cell for seven years! I don’t know anything new.”

  “Apparently you know enough,” Cooper told her. “They sent someone to kill you.”

  “That didn’t work too well for them,” Rojas answered.

  “You’re not an angel,” Cooper said. “Not with the dozens of kills you allegedly had a hand in. But you are a mother, and Pedro Rojas is innocent.”

  She leveled her gaze on the blue-eyed, deep-voiced man. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, and she could see the powerful swell of muscles, as well as the crisscross of old scars which wove its own tale of a long and brutal life. “So I talk, and then what? You make some arrests, a few men get taken off the streets in New York or in Austin or—”

  “Cali.” Cooper cut her off.

  “You want me to give you information about Cali?” Rojas asked. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been there. Says so right in that file.”

  “I want more than information,” Cooper said. “And I don’t want information for arrests. Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos could care less if a few of their guys go to jail. Arrests won’t give them a reason to spare Pepito. We need to make them know that even looking at an American citizen again will bring down all the fires of heaven and hell.”

  Rojas sat back. “No arrests?”

  “You still know how to use a gun,” Cooper told her. “And while that shoulder is healing up, I’ll refresh your skills.”

  “How bad is my arm?” Rojas asked, looking down at the poor limb in its sling. Her ribs hurt, too, but at least she could breathe, meaning that they hadn’t been broken. “X-rays are still being developed, but it’s probably just a dislocated shoulder,” Brognola said.

  Rojas glanced sideways at Cooper. “And you’re going to give me a pistol?”

  “Pistols. Rifles. Shotguns. Sub guns. Whatever we need,” Cooper answered. “And we’re not going to give them to you in here.”

  Rojas flexed her hand, then gingerly tried to move her arm under the jumpsuit. No, nothing was broken, and Cooper was right; it wouldn’t take long for her to get back into fighting condition.

  “Why would you help me in protecting my son from the New Soldiers?” Rojas asked. “What do you get out of this?”

  “What’s in it for us is the same as what’s in this for you. Payback,” Cooper said. “They killed your sons. They also tortured and killed a DEA agent.”

  Rojas frowned.

  “I’m not asking you to give a damn about Agent Blanca,” Cooper continued. “But I do want you to get me close enough to teach the survivors a lesson.”

  “Survivors,” Rojas repeated. She locked eyes with Brognola. “I thought you said you were Justice Department.”

  “I said I was,” Brognola answered. “He didn’t.”

  Rojas pushed herself up from her chair. “And what if I don’t want to go?”

  Cooper tapped the file in front of Brognola. “The federal government couldn’t convict you on the sixty to seventy murders of rivals and fellow gang members you either did yourself or farmed out to hit men. You outsmarted them on that front, so they nailed you on possession and sale of narcotics. But you’ve got bodies piled up behind you. A lot of bodies.”

  “You’re not appealing to my angels?” Rojas asked.

  Cooper narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to her. Their faces were inches apart, and this close, his gaze bored into her. “I’m asking for you to let your devils out to play. So, does the Witch, La Brujah, ride again?”

  “If we succeed, what else happens?” Rojas asked.

  “Pepito will be safe. And we can fake your death. No one will ever see you again, unless it’s on a telenovella,” Cooper promised.

  “I’ll be with Pepito?”

  Cooper nodded. “I will do everything in my power to make sure you and he are together.”

  Rojas didn’t flinch from his steely gaze. Some voice at the back of her mind brought up the possibility that her Pepito was already dead, and once this was done, this man would put a bullet in the back of her skull.

  But these men didn’t seem duplicitous. She sensed honesty and strength in Cooper, that made her want to jump at this chance. He didn’t seem like a fanatic so much as a crusader, a too-good-to-be-true idealist out to make the world a better place, despite the lethal intentions of going to Cali, armed to the teeth.

  “This isn’t a trick?” Rojas asked.

  “You’ll find I’m pretty devious when I’m on the hunt,” Cooper said. “But when it comes to making a deal—making an ally—I’m honest. I’m solid. I will go to bat for you.”

  “Will you take a bullet for me?” Rojas asked.

  Cooper took a deep breath. “If you prove yourself as an ally, sure. But I’m not expecting a miracle.”

  “Because I’m a woman? Because I’m Colombian?”

  “Because you’ve got over sixty dead bodies to your n
ame,” he answered.

  “How many do you have to yours, Cooper?” The tall, dark man smirked.

  “How many?” Rojas pressed.

  The way Cooper avoided the question made the hairs on the back of Rojas’s neck stand on end.

  4

  Rojas and Cooper were sitting in business class together, bound for Cali. The only things in their luggage were the standard clothing and toiletries, and they each had a smartphone in a hard case. Lack of guns, even a hidden boot knife, made Rojas feel very bare, like a raw, exposed nerve ready to be plucked. Cooper didn’t seem as anxious; he simply sat back, studying files on the phone.

  Within a day of meeting Cooper and Brognola, Rojas had gotten rid of the accursed sling. Sure, she was chewing ibuprofen tablets as if they were breath mints, but she’d regained full range of motion a day after that, and the kick of an Uzi’s steel folding stock against her shoulder while on full auto was now completely tolerable.

  During their training sessions, Cooper had watched over her, his gaze wary but not hostile. That didn’t mean he had many smiles for her. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t here to make friends.

  The truth hung over the two of them. Rojas had never been a gentle soul, and while she was still enraged at the deaths of her sons, she’d killed their fathers, killed rivals, killed the wives and children of others who dared oppose her as she ran New York City. Cooper had lowballed the number of dead to her name that day in the office, whether by ignorance or by choice.

  Even so, he was obviously aware of her past as a ruthless killer. Not that he seemed afraid of her. He was cautious, alert, but Rojas had the impression that one ounce of antagonism toward him would end with her neck snapped.

  In the days that had followed their initial meeting, Cooper had re-familiarized her with shooting skills, but he had also taught her the hand signals they would need to work side by side in the field. If he intended to take her life, he would not be such a completist when it came to going into action.

  He had made no bones about their plan.

  Hilde Rojas was to be the bait. Once she appeared on the scene in Colombia, the SNC would pick up her scent and come after her.

  Los Soldados were from a different group than her, another faction of the splintered Colombian drug scene. The old Cali and Medellin cartels were not friends, and much blood had been spilled at the height of their rivalry. When their boss died in a hail of gunfire from a military and police strike, Medellin collapsed into its own mayhem. Nobody there would consider Rojas anything more than a relic of the past.

  That she was out of jail after serving only seven of her twenty years would surprise those bosses in Medellin struggling to build a new power base, but she wouldn’t draw their attention.

  Only the SNC would be interested in La Brujah.

  “You also have barely touched your drink,” Rojas commented, too restless now to stay silent. “I’ve got you figured out, you know. You’re a professional, and you believe in being in control.”

  “In control of my thoughts and body,” Cooper replied. “I prefer to be aware and at the top of my game. True control of events around you is an illusion.”

  Rojas thought of her own downfall. For over a decade, she’d smashed all opposition or dissent to her rule with ruthless efficiency. Back then, she’d thought she’d been in total control. The truth was that, eventually, her own people turned against her, flipping on her before she could flip on them. Her wildest caballeros had realized that she’d orchestrated so many deaths for the smallest slights or offenses that they themselves could become her next targets.

  That was how the DEA had caught her. Someone in her ranks had snitched, but not wanting to implicate themselves in any killings, they’d fed the DEA information about her drug stashes.

  Two years of pretrial maneuverings and her conviction meant that she’d missed out on seven of her youngest son’s twelve years. Her last living son, and she hadn’t been present for more than half of his life.

  All because she thought she had more control than she truly did.

  “You all right?” Cooper asked.

  Rojas nodded. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “You wandered off for a moment.”

  “Si,” Rojas returned. “I’m fine.”

  Cooper frowned. “Just don’t let your attention wander when we get to Colombia.”

  Rojas narrowed her eyes. “I was holding my own, naked and unarmed, against three bruiser girls just before you met me. I don’t let my mind wander. I won’t let my mind wander.”

  “You’re no good to me dead, so keep on your toes,” Cooper said. He returned to the intel on his smartphone.

  She grimaced. Rojas didn’t like being told what to do. One of the reasons why she’d become so powerful was that she lived by her own rules. Yet she realized that part of her craved this man’s approval.

  Cooper was a powerful presence, able to convey praise or condemnation with a simple glance. No man had ever made her feel even a flicker of this kind of…what?

  Dependence? No. He actually made her want to step up her game, to prove herself.

  Awe? Not quite. Nothing he did seemed magical to her, not when she saw the truth behind his tactics and his training.

  Rojas downed the last of her bourbon, feeling it burn her throat, then closed her eyes, hoping to drift off to less conflicted thoughts.

  When the nightmares of blood and mourning came, however, she wasn’t disappointed.

  * * *

  RAMON CARRILLO STRUCK a match off the back of his friend Fernando’s head. Fernando wasn’t his real name; it had been bestowed upon him for his thick neck and broad, bull-like physique. Carrillo didn’t even know his real name. Still, it was better than calling him “Toro.”

  Fernando didn’t seem to mind that his scalp was being used to light a match. In fact, Carrillo’s gesture made him chuckle.

  “How much longer do we have to wait for ’em?” Fernando asked.

  Carrillo looked at his watch. “We’ve got another twenty minutes before the passengers disembark from the plane.”

  Thanks to bribes, Carrillo, Fernando and a half dozen of their closest friends had managed to avoid metal detectors and security checkpoints at Alfonso Bonilla Aragón International Airport, where Hilde Rojas was supposed to arrive.

  Both Carrillo and Fernando, dressed in roomy linen suits, were armed with Brazilian-built knockoffs of Micro Tavor bullpup rifles, 23 inches from nose to butt stock. Thanks to a single point sling, the guns were well-concealed under their loose jackets. When it was time to pull them out, the 5.56 mm NATO rounds would pummel their targets at a rate of seven-hundred to nine-hundred shots per minute.

  Hilde Rojas’s presence in Cali was either the stupidest idea the United States government had ever had, or it was an intentional sacrifice of a pain in the ass. Sending her back to Medellin might have given her a better chance at survival, but Rojas’s enemies were numerous in this city.

  The woman had been responsible for the deaths of dozens of Carrillo’s friends.

  The announcement of her return to Colombia had been practically broadcast over a loudspeaker. She was chum in the water, and Carrillo could see dozens of fellow tiburons patrolling the airport, predatory eyes scanning the gates as they waited for their target to show up.

  Carrillo and Fernando walked along, anxious and ready for some action. It looked as if three or four different factions were part of this welcoming committee.

  Across the room, Carrillo could make out the unmistakable figure of Miguel Villanueva. He was tall and slender, a battered brown Stetson on his head. He carried a small gym bag, which didn’t seem out of place.

  So, one of the top cops in Colombia was also waiting for Rojas to show up. Maybe more than one.

  That would make things stickier. Carrillo and his brethren would have been more than sufficient for a rival gang or airport security, and they would have no problem taking down a lone federal marshal accompanying the former prisoner.
<
br />   But if Villanueva was here, he might have brought a contingent of Colombian National Police, a platoon or a whole company, even. Sure, Carrillo and his allies were armed as well as any cop would be, but they could easily be outnumbered.

  That was when Carrillo spotted them. Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos.

  Fernando’s grimace informed Carrillo that he’d noticed the group, as well.

  “Everyone’s come out to greet La Brujah,” the big bull of a man grumbled. “Should we stick around?”

  Carrillo got out his phone as casually as he could. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that others were also conferring with their higher-ups.

  The Soldados moved in as a vanguard, unmistakable with their military precision and solid formation. Angry eyes regarded each of the other gangs as they swept into the terminal in a flying V, marching apace, not bothering to hide that they were armed.

  “Boss,” Carrillo said into the phone. “The SNC showed up.”

  “How many?”

  “A dozen,” Carrillo responded. “And no one else seems to know what to do.”

  “Just get out of there,” his boss responded. “We do not need to get into a shooting war with the Soldiers.”

  Carrillo assented, then ended the call. All that money spent on obtaining and smuggling the rifles in here, on getting past security. All of it for nothing. He was disappointed that he wouldn’t have a chance to shoot down a legend, but considering that even looking the wrong way at a Soldado could inspire a retaliatory massacre, staying wasn’t worth the risk.

  As they turned and walked away, Carrillo saw people filing off the plane. He paused, scanning those exiting the aircraft.

  He was not going to leave without a glimpse of the person they had come here to kill.

  Carrillo had photos of Rojas on his phone, which he’d studied extensively, not in small part because of her lean, leggy figure and sultry expression.

  But no woman matching Rojas’s five-foot-eleven-inch description came through the gate, nor did anyone who appeared to be a federal marshal.

  Carrillo watched two men step into the airport. The taller of the two had a gut around him that looked as if he’d seen more time at an all-you-can-eat buffet rather than a gym. His companion was scrawny, his jaw dark with shadow from a day without shaving.