Stand Down

by Don Pendleton

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Bolan said as he watched the three run behind the manager’s office, a freestanding building in front of where the guests stayed. Moments later, a silver Escalade tore out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading after them.

  Kelly glanced back at their pursuers. “Jeez, you sure get a lotta people pissed off at you.”

  Despite their situation, Bolan grinned. “Story of my life.” He checked the rearview mirror, then noticed her climbing into the backseat. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure they don’t catch us, that’s what.” She’d found the shotgun and a box of shells on the floor, and was deftly reloading it.

  “Maybe I should do that.”

  Having finished feeding shells into the magazine, Kelly racked the slide with practiced ease. “No, you keep driving. If they ram us, I think you’d be able to handle it better. You’ll be coming up on Sandy Lane. Turn left onto it.”

  Sure enough, the silver Escalade roared right up to their bumper, then crashed into it, jarring the entire vehicle. Everado, his eyes red and teary, stuck his head and gun out the passenger window and let loose with a flurry of rounds, none of them even coming close to the SUV.

  Bolan shook his head. “Those flash-bangs really screw with your vision. He won’t be seeing straight for a while. Here’s the turn—hang on!”

  Bolan tapped the brake just enough to let the wheels grab the pavement as he guided the top-heavy SUV onto the single-lane road leading out into the prairie. Their pursuers almost overshot the intersection, and had to back up before they could tear off again after their quarry.

  “Should we wait for them to catch up?” Bolan asked as he eyed them in the rear view mirror.

  Kelly smirked. “They are kind of pathetic, aren’t they?”

  “Well, they weren’t in the motel room. Good move with the lights, by the way. A lot of people wouldn’t have had the guts to follow through with it.”

  Kelly snorted. “I sure wasn’t going anywhere else with those assholes. I was more worried about you being stuck in the middle with Everado about to blow your brains out.”

  “I’m touched.” The bright lights of the pursuing SUV finally filled the cab. “Here they come.”

  “I’m on it.” Kelly held the slide and pistol grip of the shotgun with white-knuckled fingers, but she looked more than ready to let loose some hellfire. Bolan slowed the SUV a bit, letting the other one pull alongside, the two vehicles taking up the entire road.

  “Almost there…”

  Everado fired a shot that glanced off their hood. “Pull over, motherfuckers!” he shouted into the wind.

  Kelly hit the electronic window control for the back window. As soon as she had enough room, she pointed the muzzle of the shotgun at the silver SUV’s right front tire.

  “Holy— Stop!” Everado barked at his driver, trying to swing around and aim his pistol at the same time. He was too late.

  Kelly unloaded on the tire, shredding it, then pumped the slide and hit the right front fender, the slug punching through it into the engine.

  The driver of the silver Escalade panicked and yanked his steering wheel hard right to get away from the onslaught. At that speed, there was only one way the SUV could go.

  The luxury SUV rolled onto its side, then flipped over completely before coming to a stop lying on the passenger side, a total wreck, one wheel still spinning, and smoke drifting from its holed engine compartment.

  “Sure hope Everado got back inside before that happened.” Bolan executed a neat y-turn and drove back up to the broken SUV, illuminating it in his vehicle’s headlights. A large bloodstain was plainly visible on the shattered windshield, and the left-turn signal flashed uselessly.

  “Let me have that.”

  Kelly handed over the shotgun.

  Bolan checked the load, then got out and slowly approached the other vehicle, his weapon at the ready. There were no signs of life, no moans or shouts for help. Reversing the gun, Bolan slammed the butt into the windshield, breaking it loose from the frame. Eventually, he had enough free that he could lever it out onto the road.

  The driver was clearly dead, his face turned into a mask of blood and glass on his lolling head. A cell phone was still clipped into a hands-free holder plugged into the dashboard. Bolan grabbed it, then scanned for his real quarry. He almost didn’t see Everado until he spotted a cowboy boot lying on the broken door window. The would-be south-of-the-border gangster had somehow gotten his entire body wedged into the passenger-side leg compartment. Reaching in, Bolan grabbed him by the arm and pulled none too gently until he had pried the kid’s body out. As he did, something clattered to the ground.

  “Figured that would show up again.” Bolan picked up his Beretta 93-R, which had fallen from the kid’s waistband, and tucked it into the holster at the small of his back.

  He saw the splayed limbs of another body in the backseat of the SUV but didn’t really care. He had the person he’d come for. Dragging Everado’s limp body back to his Escalade, Bolan opened the passenger door and checked the glove compartment. As he’d expected, he found heavy plastic zip ties. Trussing the young man’s arms and legs, he carried him to the cargo area and tossed him inside, then got back behind the wheel and drove away.

  9

  Quintanar was on his third cup of coffee in the past hour as he coordinated every aspect of the search from one end of town to the other. They had put out the bulletin to the local radio and television station, and teams of two men were scouring the town and every house in a five-mile radius.

  The only promising lead had been an apparent disturbance at the Miracle Mile Motel that involved shots fired at the location. By the time Quintanar and heavy reinforcements had gotten there, the place was a mess of activity, with the few remaining guests milling around among the fire department vehicles and an ambulance, which had been called out to investigate a call of smoke coming from one of the rooms.

  After confirming that the room was secure and the building was in no danger of igniting, Quintanar had walked through the room with the firemen. He found a bullet hole in the back wall about four feet off the floor, and evidence of another that had gouged out a chunk of the door frame as it had passed. He noticed no blood anywhere, just overturned furniture and evidence of a scuffle. Well, that and the bullet holes and some kind of incendiary device, he thought. Somebody decided to raise the stakes, and I bet I know exactly who that was. The deputy took pictures of the damage, then shot the rest of the room with his digital camera before heading to the bathroom.

  A twisted, charred piece of metal under the sink caught his eye. Quintanar squatted to take a closer look. He’d already suspected what had happened from the smell, and the metal confirmed his theory. Someone had set off a flash-bang grenade in here. He shook his head. It had to have been an eardrum-shattering thunderclap in this enclosed space. He pulled out a plastic bag from his pocket and used a pen to sweep the fragment into the bag. He examined the rest of the floor, finding several more fragments, and bagged them as well.

  A voice called through the window. “Hey, Deputy, we got a victim outside, below the window.”

  Quintanar rose and carefully peered out the window at a young man sitting on the concrete parking marker, rubbing the back of his head. “Keep him there.”

  He strode outside and around the building to the young man, whom he recognized as one of Everado’s crew. Quintanar pulled the paramedic, a plumpish but efficient woman named MacReady, aside. “How’s he look?”

  “Banged up, but otherwise all right. His face got scraped by the pavement—apparently when he used it to break his fall out the window—and he’s got a good-sized lump on the back of his head. If I were the overly cautious type, I’d probably run an X-ray to see if he got a concussion, but he’s not displaying any of the typical symptoms. I think he took a knock to the skull that rattled him, but he should be all right with a good night’s rest. He’ll probably have a hell of a headache for the nex
t couple days.”

  “All right, thanks. If he’s okay to be released to me, I think you’re pretty much done here.”

  She nodded. “Thanks, Rojas.”

  He walked over to the kid and stared down at him. “Hola, Luis.”

  The kid started at hearing his name, glancing up with a sheepish expression. “Hola, sir.”

  “Mind telling me what went down here this night?”

  Luis filled him in on Everado’s plan to catch the gringo. For his part, Quintanar wasn’t surprised. It had all the hallmarks of the younger De Cavallos—long on guts, short on brains. Beyond that, Luis couldn’t tell him anything else, not even which way they had gone. After making sure the kid was okay to drive, the deputy sent him home, telling him he’d follow up with any more questions in the morning.

  Interrogating the motel owner also proved worthless. All he knew was that a man matching the description on the radio had checked in earlier that afternoon, but he hadn’t seen him recently. The boy cleaning the rooms, however, was a fount of information. He confirmed that Everado De Cavallos had paid him one hundred dollars to let the young thug and his group set up in the agent’s room to capture him when he returned. The ambush had gone wrong, and the American had escaped, along with a teenage girl. They had taken off north in an Escalade, followed by Everado and his remaining boys.

  Admirably restraining his anger at having them slip through his fingers a second time, Quintanar was just pulling onto the highway when dispatch radioed him about a 911 call received from Sandy Lane, a mile west of the highway. It involved a silver Escalade, matching the description of the one Everado had been in, that had overturned on the road.

  Quintanar had hit his lights and sped out there, but arrived too late once again. Of the rest of the flunkies, only one had survived, and he was seriously injured. There was no sign of their leader. Quintanar had tried Everado’s cell phone number, but it had gone straight to voice mail. That was slightly heartening—it probably meant the little pendejo was still alive somewhere.

  Quintanar made sure the area was cordoned off and the paramedics got the lone survivor off to the Quincyville hospital. Next he called the nearest three teams and executed a search of the nearby plains, just in case Everado had been injured and wandered off into a field. When they’d turned up no sign of him, he’d had them fan out and search every house in a three-mile radius, looking for that black Escalade. Once again he silently cursed De Cavallos’s rejection of his plan to outfit every company vehicle with GPS trackers. Should have gone ahead and done it anyway, then we’d be on our way to finding him instead of running around with our heads up our asses, he thought.

  Shaking his head, he pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed the senior De Cavallos’s number. “Si?”

  “It’s Quintanar, sir.” The deputy brought him up to speed on the situation, including the search efforts for his son.

  Despite his personal stake in the matter, De Cavallos was all business. “Based on what you’ve found, what do you think happened to my son?”

  Quintanar didn’t hesitate. The man may have been a dick to work for, but he respected family ties. Rojas wasn’t about to yank his chain on this. “It’s very likely that the American has taken him hostage, sir. Have you tried contacting him recently?”

  “Yes. The call always goes to voice mail. I know you’ll do everything in your power to recover my son alive. Keep me informed, and remember that all Cristobel facilities are at your disposal.”

  “Thank you sir, we’ll find your son, I promise.”

  Quintanar disconnected the call, then contacted his search teams via walkie-talkie. No one had found anything yet. He told them all to keep looking and contact him the moment anyone found any lead, no matter how slight. Climbing back into his Dodge Ramcharger, he racked his brain, trying to work out how a total stranger could disappear so quickly into the countryside. He quickly reviewed where he had seen Cooper—outside the diner, and at the…

  “Newspaper!” He took off back into town, pulling into the Gazette’s parking lot a few minutes later. A lone light burned in the building. Quintanar got out of his car and rapped on the glass of the main door. A frizzy-haired man rose from his desk and peered out at the deputy.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m looking for the editor, Casey Hinder.”

  “She’s gone home for the evening.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Tamping down his increasing irritation, Quintanar called dispatch and got the address of the Hinder home. Driving there took less than five minutes. The Hinders lived in a neat trailer with a postage-stamp sized lawn on the north side of town. Lights were on in the kitchen and at one end of the trailer.

  Quintanar got out of his car, put his hat on and climbed the wooden steps to the front door on the side of the home. He knocked, then stepped back and waited. The light next to the door came on, and the inner door opened to reveal Casey Hinder behind the screen.

  “Deputy Quintanar, what can I do for you? I don’t think my daughter has any more information for you than what she told you this afternoon.”

  “Good evening, Ms. Hinder. I’m sorry to bother you this late at night, however, you’re who I came to see.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “It has to do with that man you met earlier today, Matt Cooper.”

  She frowned. “Yes, he stopped by the newspaper office. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Have you been watching television or listening to the radio recently?” Quintanar asked.

  “To be honest, I deal with the media all day long, so the last thing I really want to do is see more of it when I come home. Why?”

  “It turns out that Mr. Cooper is a felon who has already committed several crimes in our town, including assault against several deputies, and kidnapping, I’m afraid.”

  The woman’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my God? What can I do to help?”

  “I’d like you to come down to the station and get an official statement about the conversation that you had with him. Would you mind?”

  “No, no, of course not. Just let me tell my daughter where I’ll be. Just a moment.” The door closed, and Quintanar heard muffled conversation for a few moments, then she reappeared in a jean jacket, with a purse under her arm. “Let’s go.”

  10

  Everado De Cavallos awoke to pitch-blackness. In his disoriented state, for the first few moments he couldn’t tell if he was conscious or still dreaming. Blinking his eyes, he felt one lid move slowly, sticky with what he hoped was only sweat and not blood.

  His entire body felt like it had been thrown into a brick wall—everything hurt from his head to his toes. His right arm throbbed particularly hard, but when he tried to move it to check how badly it was damaged, it resisted his attempt. Pulling harder only sent sharp pains through his wrists, which were pinioned to his sides.

  Breathing hard, Everado pulled again, trying to move his legs at the same time, but finding them secured too. He realized he was tied to a straight-backed kitchen chair. Straining his eyes to the limit only revealed more impenetrable blackness.

  Suddenly he heard a soft, high-pitched whine, as if some kind of electronic device had just powered up. “Hey? Is anyone there? Can you help me?”

  A firm hand fell on his shoulder, making Everado jump and cry out. “I could help you, Everado, but I don’t think you’d like it.”

  “Cooper? Is that you? Hey, man, if you’re really Justice, you can’t do this to me. I know my rights. You gotta Mirandize me, and give me a lawyer and at least a fucking phone call.”

  “Hmm, you’re right. Where are my manners?” A bright light flashed in Everado’s eyes, making him turn away from the glare. He felt something fall into his lap, and blinking, glanced down to see his own cell phone turned on with a speed-dial number appearing on the screen: Dad.

  “I’ll bet you want to push that call button really bad right now, don’t you?” Bolan said. Despite himself, Everado realized he was strainin
g down at the phone, trying desperately to reach it with his fingers, his nose, any way he could. He pulled as hard as he could, but the cell phone remained maddeningly out of reach. After maybe a minute, the phone was snatched away and turned off. “Let the record show that the suspect refused his phone call.”

  “Hey, what the fuck—” was all Everado got out before a leather-gloved hand clamped tightly over his mouth. Everado felt warm breath on his neck and heard Cooper’s cold voice whisper in his ear. “Shh—you asked for your rights, so I’m going to tell you what they are.”

  Everado tried even harder to break free, but his fingers were losing all feeling, and arching his back got him nothing but his head yanked back. Although his wrists were slick with sweat, he couldn’t get either hand loose.

  “I’d be careful if I were you, Everado. Try anything else, and you could be charged with resisting arrest. You’re already neck-deep in crap at the moment, and adding more charges could make things go even worse for you.”

  Breathing hard through his nose, Everado calmed, relaxing into his chair again. “Good, good. Now, where were we? Ah, yes, your Miranda rights. You have the right to remain silent, however, be advised that I will use any and all methods of coercion to get you to waive that right and tell me everything I want to know. There’s no way in hell I’m providing you a lawyer, but if you manage to survive this interrogation session, one can be appointed for you when you go to court. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  The hand was removed, and Everado spluttered and spat before replying. “What the hell are you doing? You’re a federal agent operating in the United States of America. You can’t fucking treat me this way!” Sweat bloomed everywhere on his body, and his bladder tightened involuntarily.

  “Yeah, about that…” The cell phone flared again, the light from the screen illuminating Bolan’s head, which was half-covered by a high-tech set of night-vision goggles. “I’m afraid I may have misled you a bit. You see, I’m not a federal agent. I’m what you would call a freelancer, able to do whatever I please, whenever I please, wherever I please—and to whomever I please. You can consider this place my own private extraordinary rendition site. Now, since I’m a humane interrogator, I’ll give you your choice of methods.”