Lethal Vengeance

by Don Pendleton

  “He claims Captain Prieto used the prod.” Vergara moved to stand over the seated officer as he demanded, “Tell him what you said to me.”

  Bernal sneered at Vergara. “I’ll say nothing, asshole.”

  Vergara kicked his captive in the ribs, causing a pained grimace. “You’re done, Bernal,” he said. “I have you with the officers you killed, and when they test your pistol for ballistics, that means sixty years twice over. You know how convicts treat a dirty cop like you at Almoloya prison, eh?”

  “You think you’ve won something?” Bernal replied. “I have protection. This will never go to trial.”

  “I’d guess he’s right,” Bolan chimed in.

  Vergara turned to face him, wearing a confused expression. “But the evidence—”

  “Won’t matter if he’s dead.”

  That got Bernal’s attention. Glowering at Bolan, he said, “Dead?”

  “Obviously,” Bolan answered. “When Prieto left you here alone to clean up after him, what did you think was happening?”

  “He went to...” Bernal caught himself and left the sentence dangling, incomplete.

  “Went off to do something important, right?” Bolan decided it was time to roll the dice. He had no qualms about lying to murderers. “So why’d he drop a dime on you?”

  “What does that mean?” the lieutenant asked.

  Vergara jumped in then. “What he’s saying is that Captain Prieto called in your location to report a crime. You take the fall, eh?”

  “No, no. He would not—”

  “Betray you?” Bolan said. “Hey, I’m surprised he didn’t kill you, but he must have had his reasons.”

  “You are both liars,” the lieutenant said.

  “You call us liars? When you sit there covered in blood from two policemen you’ve just murdered?”

  “Tell us where Prieto went and what he’s doing,” Bolan interjected. “There may still be time for you to walk away from this.”

  “I don’t know where he’s gone,” Bernal replied, “but I can tell you why.

  “Last night, he sent these two incompetents to collect a lawman, one of yours—” a nod to Bolan as he spoke “—from a hotel across the border. Imbeciles that they were, they brought back the wrong man, no good for whatever Prieto had in mind. He didn’t tell me that part, only that he’d ordered them to get rid of the prisoner.”

  Bolan’s stomach did a slow barrel roll. “Get rid of him?”

  Bernal nodded. “They gave him to El Psicópata. Sometimes, when he isn’t killing women for the fun of it, that one does favors for Prieto and his friends from the cartels.”

  “Disposal favors,” Bolan said, not asking.

  “Yes. You understand now.”

  “But he left you with these two,” Vergara said.

  “El Psicópata may kill men sometimes,” Bernal replied, “but those are homeless losers from the streets. He would not take the risk with cops.”

  “So, when he left you here...”

  “He claimed he was going off to find El Psicópata. Whether that is true or not, I can’t be sure.”

  “Where do I find this psychopath of yours?”

  “Not mine,” Bernal replied. “Prieto met him somehow, but he never shared the details. I don’t know his name or where he lives.”

  So close, Bolan thought. But he faced another dead end now with Brognola’s time running out, if it hadn’t expired already.

  He was turning toward Vergara, with a question forming in his mind, when Bernal suddenly produced a small revolver he’d concealed somewhere—likely an ankle holster that Vergara had overlooked—and scrambled to his feet. “You think to take me in? I won’t be—”

  When Vergara shot him, the report was almost deafening inside the closed former body shop. Bernal went over backward, gagging on the blood from a throat wound. Seconds later, he lay still and limp.

  Vergara nudged the dead lieutenant with his foot then stepped away. “Shit! If I’d searched him...but I didn’t want to wind up grappling with him and—”

  “Forget it,” Bolan told him. “We were never here.”

  “That doesn’t help your friend.”

  “No, but at least I have a target now.”

  “An objective? But he told you nothing useful.”

  “Wrong,” Bolan replied. “He told me that I have to find El Psícópata.”

  “City and state police have tried for years, señor.”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t see the right people or ask them the right way.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pemex District

  The screaming seemed to last forever. Even now, knowing the butchery was finished, Hal Brognola still imagined echoes of the woman’s anguished cries. He had turned away, hating himself for his helplessness, refusing to play the role of witness to a monster’s sick idea of pleasure, but there’d been no shutting out the sound effects from Hell.

  When he was done, the remnants of his work consigned to plastic garbage bags, the madman had gone upstairs to shower off, the rush of water through old pipes thrumming like weird, atonal background music in Brognola’s basement cell. He tried to minimize the stench of slaughter, breathing through his mouth, but then there was the taste of death, as if spilled blood had mingled with the air.

  He didn’t know how much time had elapsed before his captor came downstairs again, dressed in a cleaner shirt and blue jeans, gnawing on a sandwich. Brognola was grateful that the nutcase didn’t want to share it with him.

  Talking with his mouth full, the freak told him, “Now you see my problem, eh?”

  “Big goddamn problem,” Brognola replied. “But I can solve it for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Just free my hands and let me have a gun.”

  “You’re such a joker, American. I’ve enjoyed our time together.”

  Past tense. Brognola kept quiet, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Unfortunately, you misunderstand me. Las chicas are not my problem. Far from it, in fact. My public in Juárez expects a certain standard from me, always new refinements to my art. Will they accept or understand the sacrifice of un hombre viejo like yourself? Old men are not the normal fare I offer them.”

  “There’s nothing normal about you, guy.”

  “Not by your standards, of course, but I am now as I was raised to be. Molded by loving hands, as you might say.”

  “Is there a point to this?” Brognola asked.

  “Indeed. I’m still debating what to do with you, but time is running short. There may be someone in Chihuahua who would take you off my hands, for profit or amusement, but that means more exposure, eh? One man already knows me, and that’s one too many for my taste. In truth, I’ve thought of killing him myself.”

  “Sucks being you,” Brognola said.

  “Sometimes. But I strive for adaptability.”

  “There’s still the gun option.”

  Ignoring him, the crazy man said, “Under other circumstances, I could blindfold you again and set you free. You haven’t seen enough to lead police back here, but you might wind up being interviewed by mi patrón, the man who keeps my secret. That would be...awkward.”

  Has to be a cop, Brognola thought. Damn it all to Hell.

  “Still worth a try, at least,” the big Fed said.

  “I think not. Knowing I must kill you to protect myself, the only questions left are how to do it and where to dispose of you.”

  “I get a vote on that?”

  “My vote is the only one that counts.”

  “So much for liberty, equality, fraternity.”

  “That’s the French motto, señor, not Mexico’s.”

  “My bad,” Brognola said, fighting a sudden urge to laugh hysterically.

  “Ours reads La Patria Es Primer
o. The homeland comes first. You see? I am my own homeland, myself alone.”

  “Okay. So when’s the party?”

  “You Americans are so hasty.”

  “I’m just tired of listening to your bullshit,” Brognola said.

  His captor turned away, walked to a nearby workbench with indelible, suspicious stains, and came back with a roll of duct tape. Tearing off a six-inch strip, he pressed it down across his captive’s mouth.

  “And I of yours, bastard. Now think about what lies in store for you, while I decide how you should die.”

  Calle Nigeria

  Kuno Carillo saw Pepe Díaz approaching him once more, cordless phone in hand, a dour expression on his face, and could have sworn he tasted bile.

  “The gringo wants to speak with you, boss,” Díaz informed him, offering the telephone.

  Carillo accepted it and raised it to his ear, as if expecting an electric shock instead of simple words. “What now?” he asked.

  “Same message as before,” the grim voice said. “My friend. I want him back.”

  “And my answer to you is still the same. I do not know him, much less where he is tonight.”

  “What if I answered half of that for you?” the caller asked. “Would that be any help?”

  “If you know where to find him—”

  “Not that part,” the caller interrupted. “I know who had him lifted from El Paso.”

  “So? And who is that?”

  “A captain with the Federal Investigative Agency. I mentioned him to you before. Remember?”

  “Sí.” Chalino Pietro, the arrogant bastard. “But speaking someone’s name is hardly proof.”

  “I heard it from his number two myself. That would be Silvio Bernal.”

  Another piece of shit, Carillo thought. He was Prieto’s bagman, strongarm, very possibly an executioner. “If you know they are kidnappers, file a charge and lock them up. You don’t need me.”

  “Did someone tell you I’m a cop, Kuno?” the gringo asked. “Would a cop be burning down your choicest properties and turning your soldiers into an endangered species?”

  “If they could, no doubt,” Carillo said.

  “And if you didn’t pay them all to look the other way.”

  “That’s simply business in Juárez, in all of Mexico.”

  “Maybe. But when Prieto had my friend kidnapped stateside, he brought no end of trouble back and dumped it on your doorstep. Think about it when I stop in at your bank. I’m planning to withdraw my whole account.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “People keep saying that. It hasn’t slowed me down so far.”

  Already thinking past this moment, planning to send a troop of soldiers to his bank in Burórata, Carillo said, “If there was some way I could help you, make this go away—”

  “Maybe you can,” the gringo said. “Turns out Prieto’s stooges grabbed my friend by accident, when they were sent to kidnap someone else. Right now, I don’t care who or why. Word is, when Prieto saw who they brought home, he hit the roof and passed my friend off to a guy they call El Psicópata.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “So you’ve heard of him?”

  “Who has not, in Juárez?”

  “You track him down before I do and find my friend alive, you might earn some consideration.”

  “That may take some time,” Carillo said.

  “Take all you need,” the gringo told him. “I’ve still got lots of stops to make and fires to start.”

  “Wait, now—” Carillo began to say then realized the line was dead.

  Calle Rancho la Nutria

  Dean Jeffers sipped a beer that cost too much, watching a pair of nude Latina women simulating sex on stage, using a wing chair as their central prop and getting decent mileage out of it. Around him, men ranging in age from early twenties to midfifties clapped and cheered, some howling like coyotes at a full moon. A dozen topless waitresses manuvered between tables, taking and delivering drink orders, pausing long enough for minor fondling in full view of nasty-looking bouncers if the tips were satisfactory.

  Pretensions at the strip club began with its name: Zorro Azul—“Blue Fox” in English. Jeffers thought some of the girls on staff were foxy, true enough, but none of them were blue, the name reminding him of aged women who used blue rinse on their hair.

  Pan back for more b.s. The Blue Fox “gentleman’s club” stood on a street whose Spanish name translated into “Otter Ranch.” Jeffers supposed there might’ve been a ranch somewhere in the vicinity at one time, maybe even breeding river otters plucked out of the Rio Grande in bygone ages. But no farmland remained within Juárez these days, and you’d be hard-pressed to find otters without crossing the border for a visit to El Paso’s zoo.

  As for the larger neighborhood, whoever labeled it Pradera Dorada—“Golden Prairie”—must have been either a con man or delusional.

  No problem. Jeffers liked to get away from his job at the US Consulate sometimes, step out of his apartment in an upscale area of the city and enjoy the seamy side of Juárez. Tonight, despite his pressing workload, he had craved it more than usual.

  It seemed that everybody and his dog was on Jeffers’s case today, given the bloodshed that had started in midafternoon, surpassing what was normal for Juárez. He’d seen a recent list of cities ranked by murder rates—the kind of thing that passed through embassies around the world—and noted that Juárez ranked twentieth. That meant it logged more than eight hundred homicides per year, an average of fifty-six dead residents out of 100,000 if the actuaries had it right. Call it a tad over two killings daily, all year long.

  Today, though, all the records had been blown away. Police were still collecting bodies—forty-one and counting—with no end in sight so far.

  And for some reason Jeffers couldn’t fathom, everybody up and down the ladder of command was nagging him for answers as to why and who might be responsible.

  He understood the call from DEA headquarters back home. Jeffers was their gung-ho, go-to operator in Chihuahua, not the alpha dog, but a grunt who found things out and got things done at any cost.

  It was the other calls that had him rattled now and sparked his need to duck and cover, find a dark hole for himself where he could drink and maybe paw a little halfway willing flesh.

  First, it had been Captain Prieto who had called him—summoned him, no less—to meet Kuno Carillo and Rodolfo Garza at the Hotel Parlamento. Never mind that Jeffers should have been trying his best to have the nacotraffiantes extradited to America for trial and life on lockdown in a supermax. Jeffers hadn’t managed that, and knew he never would. Both cartel leaders paid him well and kept him looking good at headquarters by feeding him their second-string competitors.

  That meeting had been tense enough, but since then, both Carillo and Garza had phoned him privately, complaining that some unknown enemy was still raiding their labs and warehouses, dropping their so-called soldiers as if they were targets in a carny midway’s shooting gallery.

  Jeffers drained his second overpriced beer then flagged down the nearest waitress and handed her five dollars US for a chance to stroke her rear as she went off to fetch his refill. As he watched the woman thread her way through the crowd, Jeffers felt a shivering vibration in his pants, entirely unrelated to the chica’s charms.

  Cursing under his breath, he took the cell phone from his pocket and saw CP glowing at him from its LED screen.

  Damn it. Chalino Pietro again.

  Dispensing with hellos, he keyed Accept and said, “Still working on it, Captain. No news yet.”

  The oily voice came back at him. “But I have news for you.”

  “Okay, spill it.”

  “You are familiar with El Psicópata, are you not?”

  “Your local ghost, the way I understand it,” Jeffers said. “He gets th
e blame for slicing up a lot of women, but you-all can’t find him, if the creep even exists. Reminds me of our Slender Man up north.”

  “He’s not a ghost,” Prieto said.

  “Really? That’s what those crazy twelve-year-olds up in Wisconsin claimed, after they stabbed one of their classmates. Claimed they butchered her on orders from the Slender Man. One of them also claimed she’d talked to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Lord Voldemort.”

  “So what if they were loco?” Prieto asked. “Is their victim not dead?”

  “She’s not, in fact,” Jeffers corrected the captain. “They knifed her twenty times or something, but they couldn’t even do that right. She lived and made a full recovery.”

  “El Psicópata’s victims have not been so fortunate.”

  “And neither have the homicide detectives logging overtime to bust him.” Smiling at the waitress as she brought his beer, Jeffers handed her another fin and asked Prieto, “What’s with all this psycho business? Bottom-line it for me, Captain.”

  “I may know why Carillo and Garza are under fire.”

  “Okay. I’m listening.”

  “It’s come to my attention that a law enforcement conference was recently concluded in El Paso.”

  “Yeah, I know about it,” Jeffers said. “I dodged a bullet and my chief sent Roddy Graves, a suck-up who gets off on all that diplomatic crap. What of it?”

  “One of those attending was abducted. I do not recall the name. Some kind of administrator from your Justice Department in Washington.”

  Jeffers frowned. “I didn’t get a memo about that.”

  “Perhaps your new attorney general would like to keep it quiet, eh?”

  And then it clicked. “You think whoever this guy is, the one who got kidnapped, put all this other crap in motion?”

  He could almost see Prieto shrug at that. “All I can say for certain is that the kidnappers proved themselves incompetent.”

  “How’s that?” Jeffers asked.

  “By kidnapping the wrong man.”

  “I’m still not seeing how your local Norman Bates comes into it.”

  “Who is this Bates?” Prieto asked.