Mind Bomb. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ “That does appear to be our boy.”

      Able Team was of a mind.

      “They went for a pin,” Schwarz observed.

      Lyons nodded. “Didn’t shoot at us much.”

      “And they brought along a cartel torturer and interrogator,” Pol concluded.

      “So why would the cartels be involved in seemingly random suicide bombings, much less any after-the-fact gringo investigations?” Schwarz asked.

      “Dunno.” Lyons looked to Blancanales. “Let’s ask him.”

      “Good idea.” Blancanales smiled. “Give me the keys. Finish your coffee. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

      Lyons tossed him the keys. “Where you going?”

      “Shopping.”

      * * *

      URIBE SAT IN the cellar in his underwear, handcuffed to a pipe. Despite the massive blunt trauma on his arms and legs, his wrists were bruised and abraded from trying to pull the pipe free of the wall. Neither the cast-iron drainpipe nor Uribe was going anywhere. Uribe was built like a middleweight who had given up boxing and taken up hot-dog eating competitions. His shoulders, chest and arms were still muscled but he had a gut that looked as though he’d swallowed one of his bowling balls, and he was bowlegged. Religious tattoos that the Catholic church would frown upon intertwined with Juárez cartel symbols that crawled down his arms, chest and stomach. He had a face like an Aztec statue with a crew cut.

      Lyons sat in a chair opposite, giving him the hard stare over a folding card table. To Uribe’s credit he hadn’t started blubbering and spilling.

      Blancanales came down the steep steps with a duffel bag over his shoulder, followed by Schwarz. Able Team was fairly sure Uribe had not gotten any kind of look at Blancanales. Uribe proved it by looking Blancanales up and down and spitting on him. “¡Raza traidor!”

      “Race traitor?” Blancanales smiled without an ounce of warmth. He was the lord of role camouflage and he affected a perfect Mexico City accent with both his Spanish and his English as a second language. “I am venganza de la raza, Bowler. I am the vengeance of our race, and for what you have perpetrated against La Raza?” Blancanales reached into his bag and set a bowling pin on the table. “You attacked these gringos. They learned who you are, BolaBolo. They have delivered you unto me.”

      Uribe blinked.

      “You are going to pay.” Blancanales set a large tube of personal lubricant next to the bowling pin.

      Uribe paled with shock. “No...”

      Blancanales reached into his duffel and pulled out a vintage leather bowling bag. He unzipped it to reveal a scratched and ancient eleven-pound bowling ball. Blancanales nodded at Schwarz. “Set up the camera. This goes out live.”

      Uribe went white.

      Blancanales lifted his chin at Lyons. “Take off his chonies.”

      Uribe threw up the churro and pineapple Fanta he had been given. He screamed and gagged at the same time. “No! No! No!”

      Lyons ripped off Uribe’s tighty-whiteys with a yank. Schwarz set up a small video camera on a desktop tripod as Blancanales squeezed clear lubricant over the top of the bowling pin like he was topping an ice cream sundae. “Turn him over. Head down, ass up.”

      Uribe screamed and kicked. Lyons effortlessly grabbed his ankles and brutally spun him facedown. The killer keened like a rabbit being killed as the Able Team leader kicked him into position. Schwarz scoffed as Uribe was kneeled up into a scary uncle. “Someone’s been in lock-up before.”

      “No!” Uribe moaned. “Anything!”

      “Any what?” Lyons snarled. “Name anything you can do for me except bleed out from internal injuries!”

      “Anything!” Uribe shrieked. “I’ll tell you anything!”

      Blancanales stared down at Uribe, as cold as a medieval executioner. “This man is mine.”

      The Bowler threw up again. His voice cracked into a ragged soprano range as he shrieked at Lyons. “Anything!”

      Lyons kept his face neutral. Playing the “good cop” was an extremely rare experience and he intended to enjoy it. “Why?”

      Uribe shuddered. “Why what?”

      “Why are you here?”

      The whites of Uribe’s eyes were like a deer’s in the headlights. “You brought me!”

      “Why did I bring you here! Why am I talking to you! Talk to me or Señor Venganza has his way!”

      “I’m just a sicario!”

      Sicario was the Latin-American term for cartel muscle and killer. The term was as ancient as the Bible. “You’re a torturer, a disappearer and a learner of secrets.”

      “We were paid! Anyone who came asking! About the bombers! To take them! Find out who they were. Who they worked for. Then make them disappear!”

      “Who paid you?” Lyons demanded.

      “I don’t know. The orders came from the top.”

      Lyons believed him. “New Juárez Cartel?”

      “Yes!”

      “Who gives you orders?”

      Uribe shuddered in shame. “El Guillotino.”

      “Bowling Ball and the Guillotine...” Schwarz muttered. “Love these Juárez guys.” He picked up the bowling ball. “Give him the ten pin, flip him, spread him and let’s see if I can pick up the split.”

      “No!”

      Lyons stared implacably at the cowering, naked killer. “What’s El Guillotino’s name?”

      “Eladio Manzo!”

      “Tell me about the bombers.”

      “The bombers!” Uribe wept in fear and confusion. “Fanáticos! Psychos!” The torturer started to rise. “Who knows—”

      Lyons drew his Colt Python and cocked it. “Head down, ass up!”

      Uribe whimpered and resumed the position.

      “You’re saying the bombers weren’t working for the cartels?”

      Uribe actually looked shocked.

      Lyons considered the quivering waste of skin in front of him. He tended to believe him. Lyons had been on both ends of some very rough interrogations, but he was not a torturer. He suddenly dropped to his heels beside Uribe. BolaBolo shrieked like he no longer had a pair. Lyons deemed his subject ready. “You wanna live?”

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