Annotation
The major mover in the cocaine trade has always escaped U.S. Government indictment. Now, with a little persuasion from the DEA, the drug king's top lieutenant has turned stoolie. His testimony will topple a million-dollar empire…if the DEA can get him to Los Angeles alive. Worried inside leaks, the Feds call in unofficial escort.
The two-thousand mile run becomes a cross-country killing-ground as the Bolan brothers and their charge are ambushed at every turn by free-lance gunners hungry for the bounty on the stoolie's head.
Two men against an army. But when the name is Bolan… it's enough.
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Don Pendleton's
Prologue
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Epilogue
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Don Pendleton's
The Executioner
Blood Run
Without duty, life is soft and boneless. It cannot hold itself together.
Joseph Joubert
Duty is the sublimes word in our language. You cannot do more. You should not wish to do less.
Robert E. Lee
I've seen my duty, and I'm carrying it out as best I can. Some people say the odds are stacked against me. But I knew that from the start.
Mack Bolan
To the men and women of the FBI's Violent Criminal Apprehension Program — VICAP. God keep.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this work.
Prologue
Ernesto Vos was never comfortable when he had to travel far from home. It wasn't simply parting from the luxuries he had accumulated at his fortress home in Bogotá that bothered him. A child of poverty, he could make do with simple pleasures if the need arose. As he examined his reflection in the windowpane, Vos silently admitted to himself that what he felt was fear.
It wouldn't do for any of Vos's soldiers to imagine their boss afraid. His reputation had been built on his sheer ferocity, a taste for blood and combat that had christened him "El Tigre" on the streets of Medellín, before he weeded out the competition in a string of dirty little wars to stand alone at the pinnacle of his profession. Fear was alien to Vos in those days, when a younger man had everything to gain and nothing in the world to lose. His life had seemed a minor thing to risk in the pursuit of gold and power. He had watched the other dealers, yearned to emulate their lifestyle with the flashy cars and women who could break your heart by simply entering a room. Vos knew that if he died in the attempt to seize that prize, it would be worth the effort. Nothing mattered short of victory.
But now the victory was his, and he had built an empire of his own. He had a harem at his beck and call, a troop of soldiers ready to annihilate his enemies on cue, if any could be found. He dined with politicians, judges, headline entertainers, making friends and contacts to perpetuate his empire. From the gutters, he had risen to achieve his every secret fantasy.
Times change. Perspectives change. The boy with nerves of tempered steel was now a man with everything to lose if he allowed himself one small mistake, a single careless step. His enemies were still alive and well, but they had changed their faces and their tactics over time. Instead of stalking him in alleys, they brandished warrants and injunctions, writs of search and seizure, fat subpoenas ordering him to appear for this or that investigation where he would be pilloried and made to look a fool.
The Yankees were such hypocrites at heart. Vos filled a need, provided services for which they paid him very handsomely indeed, and still they would insist on going through the motions of resistance, passing laws that only served to make his work more difficult — and therefore more expensive.
In the sanctuary of his fortress, Vos was frequently amused to hear the politicians calling for a wider, tougher war on drugs. How many of the soapbox preachers had themselves indulged in his cocaine from time to time? How many had accepted campaign contributions from his front men, channeled through the several civic groups and labor unions he controlled? How many took the time to notice that their children had been snorting drugs for years, supporting Vos's empire even as the politicians tried halfheartedly to bring him down?
He sometimes wondered what would happen if the traffic in cocaine was wiped out overnight. Could Wall Street function? Would the entertainment industry bog down without its daily flurries of imported snow? How many million-dollar athletes would begin to drag their heels in practice? Where would lawmen turn to supplement their meager pay?
It might be interesting, he thought, to interrupt the flow for several days and watch the righteous maggots squirm. A shortage would be good for business, boosting prices on the street, and it might also be instructive for his enemies. A squeeze play, as it were. He could deprive the fat cats of their payoffs, leaving them to deal with several million of his hungry customers. A week should do the trick, while Vos sat back and played his private games in Bogotá.
He smiled, the mirror image ghostly, lacking any trace of human warmth. It was a tantalizing thought, but he wasn't about to interrupt the stateside flow of powder on a whim. He understood the rules of play and knew that politicians were required to make these noises for the public, wooing votes from sheep who more than likely used his drugs themselves. If everyone who talked about the evils of cocaine would simply cease to buy it, Vos would have to find himself another line of work. But he wasn't concerned about that farfetched possibility.
He was concerned about arrest.
The periodic visits to America were risky, now that he'd been indicted on a list of federal charges longer than the U.S. Constitution. Safe at home, he could dismiss the charges as a mere charade, more window dressing in the phony war on crime. It would be different once he stepped onto American soil. He'd be subject to arrest and prosecution — he might even be convicted, if a witness could be found to testify against him.
They'd have a problem there, of course. His insulation from the daily traffic was superb, with buffer layers of middlemen assigned to handle every routine task from harvesting the coca leaves to peddling grams and kilos on the street. If there was killing to be done, Vos pushed a button, made a call, and someone else arranged the details. Only half a dozen people in the world could link his name with the narcotics trade and make it stick. In the event of his arrest on U.S. soil, they'd be rounded up and killed to break the chain of evidence.
Vos had designed the system himself, anticipating treachery, the urge of weaker men to save themselves when pressure was applied. He thought his safeguards would be adequate, but they hadn't been tested under fire. A measure of uncertainty remained, and so he felt himself at risk each time he left Colombia. At home he could control the law. Abroad…
The seaplane had been flying low, evading radar, and the sparkling water now looked close enough to touch. A string of shaggy islands broke the surface, short on beach and long on tangled undergrowth. The Keys had always been a smuggler's paradise, concealing pirates, rummies, covert agents of the CIA at war with Cuba. Vos regarded it as perfectly appropriate for him to carry out his business here. He was continuing a grand American tradition.
Still, the meeting was unorthodox to say the least. Aguire had been cryptic on the telephone, despite the scrambler, mentioning his contact with a customer who was prepared to purchase seven thousand kilos each and every month, year round. No name were mentioned, but a suitcase filled with earnest money had been handed to Aguire in Fo
rt Lauderdale, a small down payment on the income they would earn from this account alone.
If Vos could cinch the deal.
The customer insisted on a face-to-face with his supplier. It was totally unorthodox, and Vos had nearly scrubbed the deal. But he was captivated by the thought of moving almost ninety thousand kilos yearly to a single buyer. Calculating on the standard wholesale rate, that came to something like two billion dollars in a single year.
A businessman was forced to weigh his risks against returns, and Vos had first suggested that the buyer come to Bogotá. They could discuss the deal in private, Vos could entertain his guest like royalty, and their mercenary friendship would be sealed. He was disturbed by the rejection of his offer, unimpressed by arguments that Mr. X was anxious to protect his image by avoiding any hint of impropriety. And yet, two billion dollars made allowances for certain eccentricities.
The meeting would be brief — an hour at the most — and he would be away before the FBI or DEA was aware of his presence in the Keys. When they inevitably heard the rumor, days or weeks from now, it would be one more victory for Vos against his enemies. He'd have shown them, once again, that writs and warrants weren't worth the paper they were printed on.
The seaplane circled once, and Vos could see Aguire on the beach below, two other men beside him, one more in the launch offshore. The trio on the beach was standing guard on the three-piece matching luggage. Vos allowed himself a smile, imagining the weight of so much currency, the things that it could buy.
The drugs weren't on board, of course. He never traveled with a shipment under any circumstances, knowing that a gram of powder in his pocket would eliminate the need for witnesses, destroy his years of careful preparation for defense in court. If he was caught with drugs, his life was over, finished.
It had been seven months since he'd seen Aguire, one of six who could connect him positively to narcotics traffic in North America. His territory was the Gulf, from Florida to Texas, and he'd grown wealthy in Ernesto's service, funneling the powder inland, dealing with distributors in bulk who passed their product on from half a dozen major staging areas to dealers in a block of twelve southeastern states. Aguire's counterparts were stationed in New York, Chicago, Southern California, San Francisco and Toronto, covering the major markets and their various subsidiaries.
They were all expendable.
The pilot made a perfect touchdown, and Vos's troops were on their feet before he stirred. He never traveled anywhere without security, and flying visits to the Keys meant four guns minimum. For this trip, he'd laid on five and slipped a pistol in the waistband of his tailored slacks for personal insurance.
Vos allowed his men to pick their places in the launch. It gave the boat stability, and they could shield him with their bodies if an ambush had been laid on shore. It was preposterous, of course, and yet… Vos didn't like the way that trees and undergrowth marched almost to the water's edge. The beach was nothing but a sandy sliver wedged between a mass of jungle and the sea.
More reason to complete his business swiftly and be gone. He'd observe the normal courtesies, express his honest pleasure at the prospect of a fat two-billion-dollar windfall, but he wouldn't linger where he was wanted by the law. It would be foolish, flirting with disaster.
Aguire's two companions had dressed casually, in keeping with the climate, but their craggy faces didn't fit the tourist image. Vos was mildly curious about their background and connections, but his mind was focused chiefly on their luggage and the bags of money that would come his way in future months.
The sand was firm beneath his feet. Vos shook Aguire's hand and waited while the introductions were completed. On his left was Michael Wix; his comrade, narrower of face and build, was Ansel Crane. They'd be pseudonyms, Vos realized, but what was in a name?
"Good trip?" Wix asked without a trace of interest.
"Uneventful." Crane was studying Vos's bodyguards, eyes shifting toward the seaplane, like a gambler calculating odds. "We have important business to discuss."
"No bullshit, huh? I like that. Problem is, there's been a little change of plans."
"What sort of change?"
Before Vos finished speaking, he was conscious of another sound intruding on his consciousness, approaching rapidly from somewhere out to sea. Without a backward glance, he recognized the sound of helicopter engines.
"Fact is, you're busted," Wix announced, as men in camouflage fatigue erupted from the jungle, automatic rifles covering Vos's men. "You have the right…"
He never had a chance to finish. One of the drug lord's soldiers broke in the direction of the launch, another opened fire on reflex, and the beach exploded with a clap of sudden thunder. Vos went down and hugged the sand, his first cold rush of fear supplanted by lethal rage against the traitor who had sold him out.
Aguire.
Someone tripped across his legs, went down, and stopped a bullet as he tried to rise. Vos felt the automatic pressed against his ribs, glanced up in time to see Aguire racing for the trees. He shifted, slipped one hand inside his ruined jacket — freezing as the muzzle of a weapon prodded him behind one ear.
"I wouldn't," Crane advised him.
It was over in another moment: three men dead, five others wounded and the seaplane grounded by machine-gun fire directed from the helicopter. Vos allowed himself to be disarmed and handcuffed, knowing it was useless — suicidal — to resist.
"Where were we?" Wix was smiling now. "Oh, yeah. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can — and will — be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak with an attorney. If you can't afford one, what the hell, we'll throw one in for nothing. Do you understand these rights that I've explained to you?"
Vos fixed his eyes upon Aguire, who was cringing in the shadow of the trees.
"I understand my options perfectly," he said. And smiled.
1
Mack Bolan made a drive-by on his target, circling once around the block before he found a spot to park his car downrange. The vehicle was a Mercedes, rented with the neighborhood in mind, and Bolan didn't think that any night owls on the block would call for Denver's finest if they chanced to look outside and see it standing at the curb.
If they should see the driver, though, all bets were off.
The Merc had been for show, but Bolan's garb was strictly functional. He wore an inexpensive overcoat to hide his blacksuit and the military harness with its guns, ammo magazines, grenades and Ka-bar fighting knife. An Uzi submachine gun was suspended from its shoulder strap beneath one arm. The coat concealed everything except a small telltale bulge. His face and hands were smeared with war paint, and the combination of his camo makeup with the overcoat gave Bolan the appearance of a flasher who'd gone too long without a bath.
The streetlights here were few and far between, providing islands of illumination that were easily avoided. Bolan recognized old money in the homes around him, and he knew old money would resist the civic urge to plow up streets and sidewalks, planting vapor lamps at intervals of twenty feet. Old money could install security devices that made streetlights obsolete, and Bolan kept that thought in mind as he struck off across a broad expanse of manicured lawn.
New money was his target for the night. Specifically the kind of money earned by peddling poison on the streets. His target was a stranger, but he knew the guy by reputation, from a summary of information in his files at Justice. Jaime Santana was a modern success story for all the wrong reasons. A product of the 1980 Mariel boat-lift, he'd come to the United States complete with a criminal record of burglary, rape, narcotics trading and attempted murder. The attempt was documented through conviction, while a dozen more successful homicides had never been charged against him. After brief detention in a holding pen outside Atlanta, Santana had managed to persuade a judge that his offenses were "political," a patriot's campaign against the Communist regime of Cuba, and he was released to prey upon American society.
Narcot
ics was the game, but on a larger scale than Santana had ever dared to dream of in his native Cuba. Denver was his chosen base of operations. The competition had been fierce in larger cities such as New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, while markets flourished in the neighborhood of Boulder, Vail and Aspen. Santana dealt any kind of drugs available, but cocaine was his specialty. He kept it snowing all year long in Denver, treating customers to Cuba's version of a Rocky Mountain high.
While Bolan thought of Santana as a deserving target, he hadn't picked the mark himself. A call from Hal Brognola had been instrumental in delivering the Executioner to Denver. Justice had devoted eighteen months to planting someone in the Cuban's syndicate, an agent starting on the streets and moving upward through the ranks on sheer initiative, with an occasional assist from Washington. He'd been close to pay dirt when he disappeared, and nine days later, hikers found his body in the mountains south of town. It took forensic experts two more days to verify ID from dental charts, and they could only say the agent was a long time dying under skillful hands.
It was an action that demanded some response, and with the case in flames, the men of Justice had begun to search for alternate solutions to the problem posed by Jaime Santana. Brognola's call had set the wheels in motion. If it all worked out, their problem would be solved tonight. Forever.
Bolan stood in shadow, scanning Casa Santana. TV cameras had been tucked beneath the eaves to cover street and driveway. Bolan drifted to the side and shed his overcoat to scale a wooden fence that had clearly predated Santana's arrival. Older money valued privacy in Denver, but it rarely gave a second thought to physical security. The new arrival had refrained from startling his neighbors by erecting defensive walls, and Bolan meant to take advantage of the lapse.
He spent a moment perched on the fence to verify that there were no attack dogs in the yard, then dropped into a combat crouch. A porch light burned in back, but otherwise the yard was dark, as floodlights would have drawn unwelcome notice from the neighbors. Bolan held the Uzi ready as he moved around the house and found a vantage point beneath the corner-mounting camera that was set to scan the yard.
Blood Run Page 1
