Cartel Clash. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the waitress for more coffee. He felt for the young woman. Her life had been dramatically changed following the death of Manners, and the soldier understood her situation. The man she had loved had been snatched from her, and her own brother had the responsibility for that. He would not have liked to have been in that position.

      “Since Tomas has gone across the border to see Rojas, I finally went back to Don’s apartment. It was torn apart. Dembrow’s people had been there. Perhaps they believed Don had left information lying around. They are that stupid. Did they expect he would display his reports for them to find?” She sat upright, thrusting her hands through her dark hair, shaking her head. “I could have cried when I saw what they had done to his apartment. It wasn’t much, but we had spent good times there. Then I found the lighter on the floor where it had been scattered with other things. I took a few personal items and wrapped them in a bundle. It was only as I walked away that those two followed me.”

      “And that was when I showed up.”

      “Lucky for me.” She smiled, raising her coffee cup. “I want to know how I can help. What can I tell you about Dembrow’s organization? Or Rojas?”

      “All you know. Or believe you know.”

      A sixth sense made Bolan’s combat senses flair. Something had altered the mood of the diner, and when he glanced beyond Pilar he saw that the diner was deserted. The waitress and the cook from the kitchen had vanished.

      Bolan reached behind him and eased out the P-226. As he brought his hand to the front, Pilar’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon.

      A moving shadow caught Bolan’s eye. Someone moved into view from the kitchen. The guy cleared the edge of the serving shelf. He carried a shotgun, the muzzle rising.

      Bolan’s reaction was pure and simple. He two-fisted the SIG and triggered three fast shots. The 9 mm slugs centered in the guy’s chest, knocking him back. His hands jerked the shotgun up and it fired at the diner’s ceiling. Shots blasted at one of the light fittings, sparks showering as the fluorescent tubes exploded.

      The door to the diner burst open, a lean figure stepping inside. The guy carried an SMG and he opened fire as the muzzle tracked in.

      Bolan had reached out to grab Pilar and haul her out of the line of fire, but his action was a second too late. In a frozen moment of clarity he saw the coffee cup in her hand explode, the dark liquid shearing into fine drops. The line of slugs traveled along her arm and across her chest, the brutal impact shredding cloth and puncturing flesh. Gouts of blood flew everywhere as she was twisted under the impact. The stunned expression on Pilar’s beautiful face was suddenly obscured as the spray of slugs ripped into her jaw and cheek, taking away bone and tissue. Then her thick mass of black hair swung wildly in the instant before the top of her head exploded, blood and brain matter misting the air.

      5

      Rage at the wanton destruction of a young life fueled Bolan’s actions. Even as Pilar’s slender body fell back, the Executioner dropped to one knee below the level of the table. He took a single, hard breath, then launched himself from cover, knowing his move had gained him scant seconds. The gunner would be angling away from the door, seeking to regain his target. Bolan wasn’t about to allow him any leeway.

      He heard the thump of booted feet on the diner floor and saw the guy’s lower legs in the gap between booths. Bolan snapped the SIG around, extended his right arm and put single shots into the guy’s knees, the 9 mm slugs shattering bone and dropping the shooter to the floor. As he stumbled, yelling in pain, the hardman came face-to-face with his attacker, and the intense look in the Executioner’s eyes told the man his life was at an end. He threw out one hand as if to plead for mercy, but his supplication was ignored. Bolan hit him with a triple volley that caved in his face and cored into his brain.

      Bolan powered up off the floor, tucking the SIG back behind his belt and snatching up the abandoned SMG, an H&K MP-5. He noted the taped second magazine as he straightened and, checking the diner’s frontage, saw the black SUV parked at an angle on the diner’s lot, its doors gaping open. Three more armed figures were closing on the eatery, weapons up, confirming they were not stopping in for coffee.

      As the lead gunner mounted the steps, Bolan triggered the SMG through the glass of the door. Glittering shards blew out, mingling with the sustained burst of automatic fire. The guy took the full force in his midsection, the volley tearing at his insides. A few 9 mm rounds blew out at the base of his spine, the impact of the burst wrenching him off the steps and depositing his writhing form on the pavement.

      Bolan kicked the door, bursting into the open, and immediately engaged the other shooters. His MP-5 stuttered in a harsh rattle, his shots catching the pair before they could react in any substantial way. Bolan put them down with cold efficiency. He coolly changed magazines as the first clicked empty, then raked the bloody pair on the pavement again before turning the SMG on the SUV. The soldier hit the vehicle with the rest of the magazine, shredding tires, shattering windows and puncturing the gleaming bodywork.

      When all the gunners had been silenced, he stood for a moment, the SMG’s muzzle pointed at the ground, then he turned and went back inside the diner. He paused briefly beside Pilar’s still form, checking her pulse and finding none, as he had expected.

      “I let you down, Pilar Trujillo. Forgive me for that. But I’ll see this through, and that’s a promise.”

      He walked behind the counter, through the kitchen and out the rear door. Bolan kept to the shadows, working his way back to the motel, breaking down the SMG as he went, throwing parts in all directions until he had discarded the weapon. His prints weren’t on file—thanks to the cybercrew at the Farm, so he wasn’t worried about that. He picked up the distant wail of sirens, so he stayed on the back lots, finally slipping inside the motel grounds and easing through the shadows to reach the path that led to the rooms. By the time he let himself back into his room, his anger had subsided to a controllable level.

      But the sensation of loss hadn’t.

      Pilar’s death would be with him for a while. Once again an innocent had died because she had become involved in the soulless determination of Evil to protect itself against exposure. Siding with Manners had drawn the young woman into the line of fire. Her enemies had tracked her, taking her life as casually as flicking off a light switch. Only this time they had not taken into account the response of the man with her. Bolan had already been involved in the matter, but his resolve had been strengthened by her death, a needless, unnecessary, cruel death. A vibrant young woman had been destroyed through greed and the hunger for power.

      For Bolan, her death would offer yet another ghost to join the others. Though he had long ago accepted the dreams that sometimes visited him in the long dark nights, each new visitation simply affirmed the commitment he had made when he embarked on his War Everlasting.

      The Executioner seldom dreamed about the enemies he had killed. Usually it was those who had been caught up in the violence through no fault of their own. He called them his friendly ghosts.

      Bolan checked the motel courtyard through the window shutters. People were emerging from rooms, moving toward the street. He dropped the pistol into his carry-all, then he unbuttoned his shirt and ruffled his hair, opened his door and stepped outside, merging with the curious motel guests.

      “What’s going on?” he asked, feigning a sleepy voice.

      The young couple he had spoken to shrugged.

      “Sounded like shooting,” the man said.

      Bolan СКАЧАТЬ