Mission: Apocalypse. Don Pendleton

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      Bolan had weighing that option. Colonel Cesar Llosa was a Mexican Special Forces commander and a twenty-year veteran of the war on drugs. The Mexican cartels had a five-million-dollar bounty on his head and numerous attempts to collect had been made. He had surrounded himself with a cadre of men personally loyal to him. Bolan trusted the colonel, and if Bolan needed helicopters and Mexican Military assistance Llosa would be the man to go through. The problem was that Mexico was riddled with corruption from top to bottom, including the police and the military. The minute Colonel Llosa and his strike teams left Camp One in force, everyone would know it, and any move Bolan made in coordination risked being leaked somewhere along the line.

      At the end of the day? The best chance Bolan had was to continue acting independently and try to make the intercept happen in Mexico.

      “Tell Colonel Llosa I’m operating in the field and I’ll send him a full report ASAP.”

      “Okay, but he won’t like it. What’s your next move?”

      “Memo took a bullet and lost some blood. As soon as he wakes up, we’re going to figure the most likely route the materials would have taken based on his old smuggling machine and what we know about Amilcar. I need extraction out of Altata, and I want to avoid any roadblocks or checkpoints. I need a plane with a legit flight plan in and out of here. Oh, and there isn’t landing strip anywhere nearby.”

      “Way ahead of you, Striker. Jack is on his way to your position in a floatplane as we speak. ETA is two and half to three hours. Sit tight. Get some rest. He should be there right around dawn.”

      “Thanks, Bear. Striker out.”

      Bolan stepped out onto the patio. Dominico was blissfully snoring away. Busto was smoking and staring out at the lagoon. She turned and gave him a smile out of her battered face. “We leaving?”

      “Not yet. I have a friend bringing a plane. We have an ETA of about two hours.” Bolan stretched and grabbed a bottle of water from the bucket. “I’ll watch if you want to go in and grab some shut-eye.”

      “You know, I would rather go stick my feet in the water.” Busto gave Bolan a sad, mutilated smile. “Culiacán is only fifty-five meters above sea level, and only eighty kilometers from the sea, but most people there have never seen the Pacific. I love the water, but like most people in the city I almost never go.”

      Bolan dropped his water back in the bucket and grabbed two bottles of beer. “Whatever baby wants, baby gets.”

      “You say all the right things.”

      Bolan kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, and he and Busto walked down to the water. The night breeze off the Pacific was the best thing that had happened to either of them in the last twenty-four hours. “Najelli is a beautiful name,” Bolan mused. “Is it Aztec?”

      “Very good. It is Aztec.” Busto beamed at Bolan. “You even pronounced it correctly.”

      “What does it mean?”

      “Love.”

      “Nice.” Bolan stepped into the surf and the waters of the Pacific lapped around his ankles. Busto followed him into the water. They walked a few dozen yards until they came upon a hump of rock sticking up out the water and sat down. They spent long moments silently sipping beer and looking up at the stars. Busto spoke very quietly. “I can’t go back home, can I?”

      “No, there are too many people who know you were at Amilcar’s when he was killed. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity in Culiacán, but Varjo was a made man. Now he’s dead and the cartels know you were involved.”

      “So, what happens to me and my family?”

      “Witness protection. I’ll set you up.”

      Busto sighed.

      “You don’t want to leave Mexico, do you?”

      Busto thumped her hand over her heart in solidarity with her homeland. “I’m a mexicana. La raza—born and raised. I don’t want to drive a school bus or bus tables in…Minnesota.”

      “You say you like the water. Florida is nice for that.”

      “Oh, so the U.S. government is going to set me up in a beach house in Florida?” Busto lit a cigarette and blew smoke bitterly into the ocean breeze. “Is that what you’re promising?”

      “I said I’m setting you up. That’s what I’m promising.” Bolan shrugged. “Me? I like Hawaii, myself. Of course there aren’t a lot of Mexicans on Molokai. Your daughter will have to learn how to surf if she wants to fit in.”

      Busto’s hand slid into Bolan’s and gave it a squeeze.

      Mack Bolan and Najelli Busto sat with their feet in the Pacific drinking beer as they waited for the sun.

      CHAPTER SIX

      Bolan rose onto his elbows as he heard the drone of a twin-engine aircraft. Busto made a noise and lifted her head from his chest. Bolan shielded his eyes against the rising sun and saw the plane coming straight out of the orange ball. It banked to land in the lagoon and the dark silhouette dissolved into the sleek lines of a blue-and-white Piper Aztec Nomad floatplane. The water on the lagoon was as flat as glass and the plane threw up graceful, twin white-water rooster tails in its wake as the pontoons cut the surface. The plane turned toward them across the lagoon and cut its engines. A familiar face was grinning behind the water-spattered windscreen and blue-mirrored aviator sunglasses. The pontoons gently ground to a halt against the sand, and Jack Grimaldi popped out of the cockpit. He stepped out onto the pontoon and tossed a small anchor into the sand. He looked at Bolan, looked at Busto, and looked back at Bolan again. “Nice.”

      Bolan glanced at his watch. “You made good time.”

      “I had a good tailwind out of Baja, and if you’re going to fly an amphibian—” Jack Grimaldi, ace Stony Man pilot, grinned at his plane “—you can’t beat an Aztec Nomad.”

      Busto perked at the name. “An Aztec Nomad?”

      Bolan smiled and gave Busto’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s what you are now.”

      Busto giggled.

      Grimaldi nodded. “It’s a plush ride.”

      The sound of the plane had brought Dominico wandering down the beach. His arm was in the sling Busto had rigged for him. He staggered a little bit with blood loss and hangover. He clutched the tequila bottle and took some hair of the dog to brace himself. He looked Grimaldi up and down noncommittally. “Who’s this guy?”

      “Fellow pilot,” Bolan said. “You’ll like him.”

      Grimaldi shoved out his hand. “Jack.”

      Dominico stuck out his hand and noticed there was a bottle of tequila in it. “Uhh…”

      Grimaldi took the bottle and took a swig without batting an eye. “Top of the morning, Memo.” He handed the bottle to Bolan. “This would go better with coffee.”

      Bolan agreed. They needed a strategy session and everyone needed food. Altata СКАЧАТЬ