Lethal Vengeance

by Don Pendleton

  When one of them removed a cell phone from his pocket, Bolan drilled him with a single 5.56 mm round then put more pressure on the AUG’s progressive trigger, ripping 3-and 4-round bursts along the line of gunmen limned by leaping firelight. They were dropping, sprawling, before some of the soldiers still on their feet began returning fire without any target clear in their sights.

  Bolan fitted another 22 mm grenade onto the Steyr’s launcher. He then switched the rifle’s three-position gas valve on its GR setting and lined up his shot, sending the high-explosive round hurtling downrange toward impact with the door where Restaurant Solutions’ night-shift managers were trying to duck back and out of sight.

  They nearly made it, but the door, though likely made of steel, was no match for the blast that crumpled it like cardboard, ripped its hinges from the frame and hurled the twisted metal after the fleeing narcotrafficantes. From Bolan’s vantage point, he couldn’t tell which of the men were killed or wounded, and he didn’t care.

  Another grenade followed the last inside the building, this one an incendiary round that blew on impact, loosing flames that spread from wall to wall, some of them rolling backward through the open doorway and setting fire to bodies lying on the pavement there. Behind the echo of that blast, the Executioner heard a smoke alarm shrieking, men doing the same as they tried to outrun the spreading conflagration.

  He could have kept on firing. Even used another magazine to guarantee that everyone within his line of sight was dead or dying. But why bother? He was literally burning up Brognola’s time now, painfully aware that odds of solving any kidnapping or murder—why not use the word?—declined precipitately after twenty-four hours.

  By that standard, Brognola, if not dead already, had roughly two hours left. No evidence from any of the other crimes connected to El Psicópata indicated that he held his prey alive for any longer than it took to butcher them.

  The good news, if you looked at it with one eye narrowed and the other shut: Brognola violated every tenet of the unknown killer’s victim profile, which meant that any “rules” El Psicópata normally abided by might well go out the window.

  Instant death, then, or prolonged captivity?

  He couldn’t second-guess a faceless madman. All Bolan could do was put the pedal to the metal and keep rolling on, full speed ahead.

  And where that hellfire road would take him, who could say?

  Bulevar Manuel Gómez Morín

  Rodolfo Garza felt the cell phone vibrate against his thigh and drew it from his trouser pocket, glancing at its lighted screen. Its message read Unknown Caller—and he nearly let it go to voice mail without answering. Telemarketers called from time to time, despite the fact that Garza’s number was unlisted.

  “Sons of whores,” Garza muttered. But before he pressed a button to ignore the uninvited call, a niggling suspicion in his mind made him touch another to accept it.

  “What?” he asked, letting his tone convey displeasure at the caller’s rude intrusion.

  “Restaurant Solutions,” a man said in accented Spanish. He spoke fairly well, but he was obviously not Latino. American, perhaps.

  “Eh?” Playing dumb and waiting to find out what this was all about.

  “You used to own it, eh, Rodolfo?” said the voice he’d never heard before tonight.

  It took a heartbeat for the verb’s past tense to register before he snapped, “What’s that? Used to?”

  “It’s pretty much a pile of ashes now,” the caller told him. “Didn’t anybody from the cop shop call and give you a heads-up?”

  Recovering from his initial blunder, Garza said, “There must be some mistake.”

  “You made it,” the stranger said. “Maybe you can fix it, maybe not. Depends on what you’ve done so far.”

  Truly confused now, Garza answered back. “You speak in riddles.”

  “Not if you’re a major player in the Sinaloan Cartel.”

  “I—”

  “Not if you arranged last night’s kidnapping from the Gateway Rio Grande Hotel. That was the worst mistake you ever made.”

  Garza was being truthful when he told the caller, “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “Tough luck for you. Somebody in Juárez kidnapped my friend. I want him back. The person who delivers him, alive and well, gets a new lease on life until the next collector drops in to foreclose.”

  Garza played a wild card, saying, “I am no kidnapper. Try Kuno Carillo. That son of a bitch might be who you want. He’ll stoop to anything.”

  “Not upright and respecatable like you, then?” the caller said, mocking him.

  “I’m telling you—”

  The stranger interrupted him. “Carillo was my first call. You’re the last. From here on in, it’s scorched earth all the way for both cartels.”

  “Are you crazy?” Garza demanded.

  “It’s been said,” the stranger answered. “But I call it determination. You’ve already lost two properties tonight, Garza. How many can you spare before you’re out of business?”

  “Two?” It hit him then. The cutting plant he’d blamed Kuno Carillo for and now...

  “You’re catching on, Rodolfo. Now, if you’re holding my friend—”

  “I swear to Christ and Mary, I don’t know the man. You think I go around abducting strangers for the pleasure of it?”

  “Maybe not,” the caller said. “But if you didn’t take him, you’ve got ample contacts in El Paso and Juárez to learn who did. Reach out and put the pressure on. Act like your life depends on it, because it does.”

  “I cannot work miracles.”

  “I’m not asking for a miracle. Just do your best. Do what comes naturally.”

  “And if that fails?”

  “You’re out. Whether I get you first, or Kuno, what’s the difference? Maybe your boss in Culiacán will take you out for bringing all this down on his operation.”

  “You ask the impossible.”

  “Do I? Are you familiar with the Seabees, Rodolfo?”

  “Bees of the sea?” Garza felt more and more confused.

  “It’s from the initials C and B—as in the US Navy Construction Battalion.”

  “Navy construction? What has this to do with—?”

  “Never mind. You’re slower than molasses on a cold day. I was going for their motto. ‘The difficult we do now, the impossible takes a little longer.’”

  Was the gringo joking? Rodolfo couldn’t tell. “If I learn anything...”

  “I’ll let you have my number. It’s untraceable, but if you want to waste what little time you have, feel free.” That said, the caller rattled off some numbers before saying, “Did you get that?”

  Garza’s memory was excellent. Repeating the digits without a hitch, he almost smiled.

  “Good boy,” the stranger said. “One thing before I let you go to work.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you didn’t grab my friend, and your pal Kuno didn’t do it, think about who might have. One name I keep hearing is a captain with the Feds, last name of Prieto.”

  Garza ground his teeth, was on the verge of saying more, when suddenly the line went dead.

  “Screw your mother, asshole!” he snarled at the dead phone, fighting an urge to hurl it at the nearest wall.

  As for Captain Chalino Prieto, Garza knew him well enough: a greedy, overbearing swine who stood between his FIA superiors and those who padded out their salaries with monthly bribes. He let the higher-ups pretend they had clean hands, while rooting in the muck himself—with his lieutenant, Silvio Bernal, and certain underlings, dictating orders to the drug traffickers, pimps and other gangland denizens to whom he felt superior while emulating them in every way except, perhaps, good grooming and expensive clothes.

  Had Prieto done something to unleash the latest firestorm
on Juárez? Had he, perhaps, contrived a plan with Kuno Carillo to triumph over Sinaloa’s interests by setting up Garza take the fall for their collusion?

  Had Prieto stabbed him in the back after accepting his payoffs in what appeared to be good faith?

  If so...

  The only penalty for treason recognized by Garza and his masters was a slow, lingering death.

  Explanada Policía Federal

  Miguel Vergara pulled into the FMP headquarters parking lot and approached the building from the rear, avoiding contact with the FIA’s adjacent central station. While on paper and in theory the agencies cooperated perfectly, their rivalry had been an open secret nationwide for years on end. The last thing he wanted now was to be seen and noted by the very officers he was beginning to suspect of yesterday’s El Paso kidnapping.

  Vergara had a plan in mind, but it required discretion while demanding the enlistment of a friend. He had in mind Corporal Daniela Maldonado, a “B” Class Investigator assigned to the FMP’s General Directorate of Communications. They’d dated half a dozen times and, while it never clicked for either of them, Vergara knew she craved advancement, recognition—which uncovering fetid corruption in the FIA might well ensure.

  Daniela worked the night shift, normally the quiet time at headquarters, but not tonight. The raids on cartel properties around Juárez had turned the place into a hornet’s nest of feverish activity, each officer intent on learning what had sparked the present bloodletting and who—if anyone, among the drug traffickers who paid many officers far more than they received as weekly salary—might take the fall for it.

  Maldonado saw Vergara coming, frowned slightly and brushed a strand of auburn hair back from her oval face. “They’ve called you in, as well, eh?” she asked him.

  “I have some leads to follow up,” Vergara said, “but need to locate a lieutenant from the FIA.”

  Her frown deepened as she replied, “They’re right across the hall, Miguel.”

  “I should have said I need to find him quietly.”

  “What’s he done, then?”

  “Nothing I’m aware of,” Vergara said. “He may have certain information that I need as soon as possible, but if I ask about him over there...”

  “All right, but make it quick. His name?”

  “Lieutenant Silvio Bernal.”

  Maldonado tapped some keys on her computer keyboard, nodding as she said, “I show him still on duty.”

  “And where is he?”

  “That I couldn’t say. Until he checks in with their switchboard—”

  “What about the LoJack on his vehicle?”

  “You’re getting devious in your old age, Miguel.”

  “I’m not that old, Daniela.”

  Another minute passed, her keyboard clicking, then small lines of text began scrolling across the monitor. “The car assigned to him is parked,” she said. “He hasn’t checked in with Dispatch. Maybe he’s stopped for dinner and forgot to log it in.”

  “Maybe,” Vergara said. “What are those numbers?”

  “GPS cordinates,” she said.

  “You can determine the address from that?” Vergara asked.

  “It’s the address where he’s parked in La Montada.”

  “La Montada? What would he be eating there?”

  “Who knows, Miguel? You know there’s no accounting for taste.”

  Vergara let that pass. “If you have the address, can you tell say what kind of place he’s visiting?”

  “With any luck.” Her fingers danced across the keys once more then she replied, “Apparently it’s nothing.”

  “Eh?”

  “I mean, there is a building there, but it’s supposed to be vacant.”

  “Vacant? Meaning—”

  “Presently unoccupied,” she said, and almost sounded like one of his teachers at his old primary school. “There is a building there, or should be, and the taxes have been paid, but there’s no record of a recent lease for either residence or business.”

  “And the address is...?”

  “Right here.” She pointed at the screen then read the numbers out loud. “You want to write that down, Sergeant?”

  “I’ll remember it. And thank you, Daniela.”

  “Now you owe me,” she replied, her tone almost teasing.

  “Any time,” he answered, already in motion, passing back through the rear exit to the parking lot.

  He made the cross-town drive, mind racing, filled with questions. Why was Bernal taking downtime in the heart of La Montada, at a vacant edifice? If he was sleeping on the job—not an uncommon practice for police in Juárez—wouldn’t he choose a safer neighborhood? But then, if he was not alone...

  Vergara spotted the lieutenant’s car immediately, from a half block out. Two more sedans were parked beside it, neither of them standard FIA issue. The sergeant killed his headlights, coasted to the curb and switched off his engine. Sitting there in darkness for a moment, he considered what his next move ought to be.

  Three cars had to mean at least three persons somewhere in the dark, abandoned property. Assuming they were men and likely armed, Vergara reached into the gym bag on the Clásico’s floorboard and lifted out the Spectre SMG. Between that and his service pistol, he thought that should be enough.

  And if he met more enemies than he could stop with fifty Parabellum rounds, he was as good as dead already.

  Moving cautiously, Vergara passed the three parked cars, placing a hand upon the nearest hood to find it cool. They had been parked awhile, no one stationed to watch them while the others were inside.

  He saw a dim light through the filthy window of the one-time autobody shop, guessing that it was coming from a workspace at the rear, behind what used to be the waiting room for customers. Circling around behind the aged structure, he crept to a door standing ajar and made his way inside on tiptoe, easing off the Spectre M-4’s manual safety.

  The light grew brighter once he was inside, illuminating a bizarre scene in what once had been a service bay. Lieutenant Silvio Bernal stood with his back to the door. In front of him were two slumped male figures, secured somehow to metal folding chairs. Neither emitted any sound. Dark blood pooled on the concrete floor around them and a reek of gunsmoke filled the air.

  Bernal still had his pistol drawn, held down against his thigh, and he was talking to himself, a muffled muttering Vergara couldn’t understand. Holding his submachine gun steady on target, Vergara said, “I think you’ve stepped in shit, Lieutenant. Place your pistol on the floor then turn around—slowly.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Bernal warned.

  Vergara almost smiled as he replied, “Don’t be so sure, Bernal.”

  * * *

  Bolan approached his fifth target: a small but very active bank owned by Kuno Carillo in the upscale Burórata district. It was closed at night, but he intended to break in, demolish what he could before police arrived, then phone Carillo and ask if he’d made any progress on retrieving Brognola, without using his friend’s name.

  A phone call changed all that as he closed in on his mark. Miguel Vergara had been on the line, telling him, “I’ve found something you should see, señor.”

  “What’s that?” Bolan inquired.

  “Captain Prieto’s right-hand man, with two dead FIA sergeants.”

  Bolan frowned and asked him, “Who else is on the scene?”

  “Just me. He hasn’t called for any backup.”

  “Oh?”

  “Did I forget to mention that he murdered them himself?” Vergara asked.

  Bolan revised his plans without a second thought. “What’s the address?”

  Vergara told him, Bolan plotting it approximately on a mental map of Ciudad Juárez he’d memorized after receiving it from Tim Ross of the CIA. “I’m on my way,” he said.


  “Park around back when you get here,” Vergara said and killed the link.

  Arriving at the address he’d received, Bolan saw three cars parked in front of an abandoned automotive shop. Both had Chihuahua license plates, neither of them issued by a law enforcement agency.

  Easing the Glock out of its shoulder rig, he drove around behind the building, nosing in beside Miguel Vergara’s Volkswagen. When no one opened fire on him immediately, Bolan stepped out of the SUV and made his cautious way inside, the back door open to receive him.

  He had barely crossed the threshold when Vergara met him, holstering his own pistol and saying, “This way, por favor.”

  The service bay, long idle and deserted, offered Bolan a tableau of recent death. Three other men were present, only one of them alive and sitting on the concrete floor, legs twisted awkwardly before him in a semblance of the classic lotus pose. The other men had died from close-range head shots, which explained small specks of blood on the survivor’s shirt and jacket. The glum-looking captive would be faced with a dry-cleaning bill if he got through the night alive.

  “What’s this one’s name?” Bolan asked, speaking to Vergara.

  “Lieutenant Silvio Bernal. He’s known by reputation as Captain Prieto’s lacayo. What you call a flunky?”

  “That’s the word,” Bolan agreed.

  Bernal muttered something that sounded like profanity. Vergara retaliated with “Murdering bastard!”

  “You say these two are FIA sergeants?” Bolan asked, nodding at the corpses handcuffed to their chairs.

  “They were. Esteban Allende’s on the left. The other was Pedro Solana, his partner.”

  “And he capped them?”

  “After torture,” Vergara said. “Not just the cuts and bruises, but also burns from some kind of electric prod.”

  “That doesn’t sound like normal discipline.”