Killpath

by Don Pendleton

  Delapaz swallowed. “We don’t cower. We attack. By the numbers. Cover each other. We’re heavily armed, well-equipped and trained professionals.”

  The other three men seemed doubtful, gazing warily into the shadows of the parking lot. Who knew what kind of opposing force they could run into in there? Delapaz slapped the closest of his comrades. “We outnumber them. Keep cool and follow your training.”

  Delapaz began to turn away from the carnage in the middle of the avenue, but a dark shape suddenly dropped down in front of him. Startled but in control, Delapaz brought up his automatic rifle before his brain had even made sense of the sudden apparition.

  A hand with a grip of steel clutched the barrel of Delapaz’s weapon, wrenching it from his sweaty palms. He felt a tug on his shoulder sling, and he lost his balance. A bright flash of light and pain lanced through his head. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  HAVING STUNNED THE leader of the group, Mack Bolan lunged forward and shoved the limp figure into the man closest to them. The dazed commando had been the only one who’d caught the flicker of movement as Bolan rappelled over the railing and dropped to street level, almost literally landing on top of the Soldados.

  The second gunman staggered, letting out a cry of dismay at Delapaz’s clumsiness. The shout further distracted the other two, giving the Executioner his chance. He snagged the handle on the back of one Colombian’s fighting vest. The D-ring was meant for dragging a wounded soldier to safety and medical assistance. The Executioner had another purpose in mind. He wrenched the Cali commando backward and drove his knee into the man’s spine.

  The thug shouted in agony, releasing the carbine in his hands to clutch at his back. Another Soldado struck out at Bolan, but he rammed his elbow into the side of that man’s neck, a powerful blow that dropped the thug to the parking garage floor.

  The leader was still dazed, but the last man standing had now gotten his bearings and aimed his rifle at Bolan. The Executioner pinned the carbine against his opponent’s chest, taking the gun out of this equation. With his other hand, he clawed at the Colombian’s eyes. The man screamed in pain, bringing his hands up to his face.

  Bolan snatched both of his wrists, getting leverage on his enemy. With a twist, he hurled the stunned opponent across his hip, slamming him head-first into the concrete. To make certain he was down for the count, the Executioner kicked him in the temple, rendering him unconscious.

  The man he’d kneed in the back caught Bolan’s attention. He was busy trying to stand. Once more, Bolan yanked the D-ring on the guy’s vest, pulling up hard, then smashing his face into the ground. A geyser of blood gushed from his nostrils, and before he could even reach up to stanch the flow, Bolan gave him a karate chop where his neck met his shoulder.

  Nerves short-circuited from the impact, and the man crumpled into a senseless heap at the warrior’s feet.

  He turned back to the leader and gave him a quick slap to bring him back around.

  “Whuh…”

  “Call Carbonez,” Bolan ordered.

  “We don’t…”

  Bolan gave him a light tap on the cheek. “Call the next person up the food chain from you, then.”

  The man’s eyes widened as he took in his surroundings and Bolan’s intimidating presence. He felt around his vest pocket for his phone as Bolan stripped him of magazines and the other gear in his vest. When he found the guy’s knife, Bolan pressed the button and the blade sprang into place.

  “Don’t stab me,” the man pleaded.

  Bolan fixed him with a hard stare. “I don’t see you calling your supervisor.”

  The leader blinked, then looked at his phone, connecting with his lieutenant.

  “B-boss?”

  Bolan grabbed the phone from the commando’s hand.

  “What’s going on?” the voice on the phone asked. “I’m not getting anything from anyone at the scene…”

  “Sorry to say that all but four of your men are dead,” Bolan said. “We hung La Brujah out as bait, and you morons fell for it.”

  “The other…guys…alive?” the fellow on the ground asked.

  “Not that it’ll help you,” Bolan told the stunned gunman. “Your bosses might not let you live for blowing this hit. Now you, boss,” he continued.

  “Screw you!” The phone disconnected.

  Using his own PDA, Bolan sent the data from the call to Stony Man so they could zero in on this commander’s location. Then he hit redial on the Soldado’s phone, and the same man picked up. He was ranting in Spanish almost faster than Bolan could translate, but that didn’t matter. Bolan just needed him to stay on the line so the tech crew in the Blue Ridge Mountains could do their work.

  Bolan’s PDA buzzed, and he watched as a map of Cali zoomed in on the officer’s location. Within a few moments, he had an address and a name.

  “Manuel,” Bolan said, cutting the man off mid-rant.

  “Oh, no,” the officer muttered.

  “I’m coming by to pay you a visit.”

  “Coming?” Manuel Herrera asked.

  “See you soon,” Bolan said, hanging up.

  The dazed man blinked again. Bolan knocked him out with a kick that shattered his jaw.

  It was time to meet up with Rojas.

  * * *

  HILDE ROJAS PEELED out of the body armor. The exertion of rushing to the rendezvous with Cooper, especially in Cali’s early morning humidity, had left her hot and sticky. Now that they were back at the safe house, she was glad to be free of the heavy protective vest.

  She reached for cargo pants and a long-sleeved compression shirt, her take on the blacksuit. They only planned to stop here briefly, changing gear and loading up on ammo.

  They’d already taught Los Soldados Nuevos de Cali to be afraid of the dark. Now it was time to show them the daylight hours were no time for a siesta.

  “So, Manuel Herrera, eh?” Rojas called to Cooper as she slipped into her fighting clothes. “When I was last in Medellin, I heard he was an up-and-comer here in Cali. He was taking out honest cops and reporters off of the back of a motorcycle.”

  “I had one of our ambushers call his boss. It looks like Herrera earned himself a promotion in the business,” Cooper replied.

  Rojas stepped out of the bedroom as Cooper strapped on his gun belt, complete with the massive .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, hung low, belted into place around his thigh. His Beretta 9 mm was in its shoulder holster.

  Cooper covered the holster and the short-sleeved compression top he wore with a long, loose Hawaiian shirt that concealed the massive gun in its fast-draw rig on his hip. Still, even a small bump on the sidewalk would reveal the firepower beneath the warrior’s clothes.

  That told Rojas that they were going by car.

  “What is the plan for Herrera’s place?” she asked.

  “You get to see how well you do with a grenade launcher off of the practice range,” Cooper answered.

  With that, he opened the safe house door and stepped outside.

  Before following him, Rojas did something she hadn’t thought of doing since she was ten years old.

  She made a sign of the cross and whispered a prayer for help.

  10

  “How the hell did you manage to blow a hit on one woman?” Carbonez sneered into the phone. “I mean, sure, I can see one motorcycle team failing. I can even understand two, but by all reports, there shouldn’t be two of my Land Rovers burnt to useless husks in the street.”

  Herrera felt fire swell in his chest in response to the general’s derision.

  “If you look at those reports—” He bit off his words, remembering that Carbonez was not the kind of man who tolerated back talk. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Fourteen more of our fellow soldiers are on their way to the morgue,” Carbonez said. “And a little punk like you is going to start raising your voice?”

  “I am sorry, sir. Delapaz said that there was a sniper in a parking garage. He ambushed the other teams
. And he was armed with some heavy firepower.”

  “Yet, with all of that firepower, he left four of your men alive,” Carbonez countered. “Tell me why I shouldn’t take that as a hint that you’re colluding with these bastards?”

  “He was sending a message. To me…and then on to you.”

  “The message being what?” Carbonez asked.

  Herrera hesitated. “Your phone network…he said he was coming for a visit.”

  There was a cold silence on the other end, and the captain almost wished Carbonez would roar or curse, if only to break the tension. Instead, when Carbonez spoke again, the steady calm in his voice made Herrera’s blood run cold.

  “So he’s got a location on us. He must have hacked into the SNC’s network or something?”

  “Yes, sir,” Herrera replied. He closed his eyes, wincing as he braced for the oncoming storm.

  “And you thought to bury the lede of this story for how long into this conversation?” Carbonez asked.

  Herrera swallowed. “I don’t know how long this conversation has been going on. And I have not had much of an opportunity…”

  “The American could be on his way to you. Hell, he could be standing on your front steps right now. And you decide it’s a good time to shoot the shit?”

  “Sir…”

  “If you interrupt me again, pull your pistol out, shove it in your mouth and suck it until the clip is empty,” Carbonez snarled.

  Herrera went silent, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  He could hear the general pacing back and forth, burning off the ire sizzling under the surface.

  When the general spoke again, his voice was more controlled. “Based on the attack at Macco’s, we know this bastard strikes at night. Skulking around in the dark, like a coward. You should have a few hours, Herrera. You’d better not let me down again.”

  Herrera swallowed. The livery garage where he headquartered was already revving up for full alert. When the cold-voiced killer who’d wiped out the assassination squads warned of an inevitable meeting, he’d pulled in his remaining hunters. Even though it was hours until sunset—the American and La Brujah’s next window of opportunity—he intended to be fully prepared well before then. Herrera couldn’t afford any margin of error.

  Thankfully, with two more armored vehicles on the premises, they’d have a chance to deal with these two interlopers.

  Once Carbonez was finished chewing him out, Herrera would head right back to work, organizing the troops, making sure everyone was primed and ready for the impending assault.

  Suddenly, the ground heaved beneath him, and a deafening roar swept through his office. The next thing he knew, he was on his hands and knees, ears ringing. Books and files had been thrown from shelves and framed pictures had been knocked off of their hooks on the walls.

  “The fuck was that?” Carbonez shouted into the phone.

  “We’re under attack!” Herrera snapped back in response. “I thought he would only attack us at night!”

  Herrera scrambled to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. He plucked out his handgun and jammed it into his waistband. If the American and the Witch were attacking in the bright light of day, then the general wasn’t so damned worthy of Herrera’s respect. The moron had lied to him, and because of that, he could already smell the reek of burned flesh on the other side of his office door.

  “More of my men are dying out there! And you are the one who these bastards are targeting!” Herrera continued. “You’d better pray to whatever god you believe in that they fucking kill me, because if they don’t, I’m coming for your ass!”

  Herrera couldn’t tell if the phone was still working or if Carbonez had hung up, but he didn’t care.

  “I will take your operation apart piece by piece, until you’re begging me to kill you,” he said before hanging up himself.

  Another hammering fist of high explosives made the walls shudder, and Herrera stumbled through the half-opened door, looking into a garage which was filled with billowing smoke, injured men and screams of panic.

  * * *

  “I SEE WHAT you mean by taking them off balance,” Brunhilde Rojas said. “They’re only now setting up security patrols.”

  The Executioner was silent, peering through a pair of compact electronic binoculars. The digital zoom on the small device made it possible to pick up the smallest of details at a hundred and fifty yards, which was where he had parked their ride.

  From the car, they had a slight elevation on Herrera’s livery, and Bolan could see a small army of Soldados moving around, gathering supplies, arming up, checking for weaknesses around the perimeter.

  The livery served as a cover through which the SNC could launder cocaine money, but Herrera’s varied fleet of vehicles was more than just a front. Villanueva had told Bolan that the frames of many of these cars and trucks were packed with drugs, but this garage was also a transportation hub for the Soldados. As such, Bolan was more than happy to take this juicy piece of fruit and smash it to a pulp.

  “Let’s not give them any more time to get ready for us,” Bolan said.

  “Grenade launcher?” Rojas guessed.

  Bolan nodded. “We strike from a distance and soften them up. Go for each of the vehicles, and try to take out more than one with each grenade. Right now, we don’t have to worry too much about direct casualties and antipersonnel operations.”

  “There’ll be enough fuel in there to do half of our work for us, right?” she said.

  “Exactly.”

  They got out of their rental car and went around to the trunk. Bolan had packed two six-shot 40 mm grenade launchers. Together, the weapons had more than enough firepower to take on a small tank.

  “First six shots, go for maximum vehicle destruction,” Bolan told Rojas. “That will cause enough secondary mayhem and distraction for us to move in closer and finish the job. The last thing I want is for any of that livery to survive and end up going to another cartel at auction. No one gets those trucks…or anything else on the premises.”

  Rojas nodded, picking up one of the launchers and shouldering it. Bolan grabbed the other. The weapon’s scope gave him a good view of their targets below. With the two handles and a collapsible stock measured for his length of pull, the Milkor MGL felt good.

  Rojas picked out two SUVs parked near each other.

  “Just say when,” she whispered.

  “Now,” Bolan said.

  Rojas pulled the trigger, and the Milkor thumped against her shoulder, a 40 mm shell arcing through the air and landing just inside the open door of the SUV.

  An instant later, both of the black armored vans detonated. The blast was loud and long. Despite the distance, Bolan felt the ground vibrate beneath them.

  Bolan looked for something else to hit with the MGL and chose a pack of motorcycles parked near the garage entrance. As the SUVs belched out gouts of flame and shrapnel, some of Herrera’s men ran toward them. Bolan held his fire just long enough for the Soldados to get within a few feet of the motorcycles, and then pumped out a grenade.

  The motorbikes flew away from each other, their ruptured gas tanks spraying fuel, which rapidly ignited, thanks to the spark of the grenade. Flames blossomed and washed across the group of men and the remaining motorcycles.

  Rojas fired again and struck a moving van in its covered trailer, the 40 mm shell easily puncturing the metal skin and then detonating inside.

  She swung and punched another shell into the windshield of a limousine that was starting up, gunmen lunging to get into the war wagon and ride it into bloody battle with their attackers. The 40 mm shell turned the windshield white with dozens of fractures, and passenger windows popped outward.

  Bolan turned his attention back to his own sights, seeking more targets around the livery. As his launchers spewed death and devastation into the livery, he could hear Rojas chuckling as she unleashed her last three shots.

  Once his MGL was empty, Bolan plucked additional shells from
a pouch on his battle harness and fed them into the under-barrel attachment on his rifle. Rojas had just dumped out her empty casings and had replaced them with six more grenades. She punched another shell through the windscreen of a semi truck, blowing its roof and doors off, flame spilling through any opening. Several of Herrera’s men were taken out by the blast.

  Bolan thumbed his rounds into the M4’s “boom tube” one at a time, methodically firing high explosives into the group below.

  “Finish your payload,” he told Rojas. “We’re moving in now!”

  Rojas smiled with devilish glee and aimed at another semi just behind the livery, popping off two shots. The twin grenades fell like raindrops but landed with the effect of thunderbolts, the double explosion rupturing the trailer and the cab and causing severe damage to that side of the garage.

  As they sprinted back to the car, Bolan scanned the smoldering livery, taking stock of the damage. They dropped their MGLs back in the trunk, and Bolan stuffed an M4 carbine into Rojas’s hands as she slithered into the three-point sling.

  “Clean kills,” he ordered. “That’s 5.56, not .300, so we can scavenge ammunition from down there.”

  Rojas nodded.

  Bolan squeezed her shoulder, locking eyes with her.

  “Clean. Kills.”

  Rojas frowned.

  “I saw what you did to Macco, remember?” Bolan said.

  Rojas shrugged. “We’re in a fight. I’ll stop them and drop them as quickly as I can. Just as you would.”

  She turned and shouldered her carbine, looking through the ACOG mounted on the flattop Picatinny rail. A couple of gunmen were rushing up the hill, having finally figured out where the grenades were coming from. Rojas tugged the trigger, ripping a short burst into one of the Soldados and dropping him like a sack of garbage. Bolan picked off the second guy.

  “Go time,” he grunted.

  Even as they descended and crossed the hundred and fifty yards between their grenadier’s roost and the garage, the Executioner was taking out enemies. By the time they’d reached the edge of the compound, he had gone through two thirty-round magazines.