Mission: Apocalypse. Don Pendleton

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      Dominico was appalled.

      “Do it!” the guards begged in unison. “Do it!”

      Dominico shot Bolan a look, sighed, put his fists on his hips, flexed his pecs, flared his lats, turned his head and lifted his chin as he seemed to lean slightly into a wind only he was aware of. The profile was unmistakable. You could almost see the silver cape flowing behind him. “Santo!” the guards cried. “Santo Solomon!” Both men snatched up pens and paper from the desk and demanded autographs. Bolan and Dominico were both given neck badges and proceeded past the checkpoint while the guards stopped just short of squealing like schoolgirls and fainting in Dominico’s wake.

      “I can’t believe you told them who I was, man. You never reveal masked wrestlers,” Dominico muttered. “It isn’t cool.”

      “I had to tell them something. I could have told them you were King Solomon the notorious drug smuggler instead. You saw the patches on their uniforms? Those young gentlemen are Special Forces and trained specifically to kill people like your other alter ego.”

      “Man…” Dominico wasn’t mollified. “What am I doing here?”

      “There’s something I want you to see.” They passed through a canvas corridor and came into a large medical tent. “And some people I want you to meet.”

      A short, fat bald man in a white lab coat waddled forward quickly. He was followed by a short, lean man in Mexican military camouflage with the subdued three-star insignia of a colonel. The doctor stared at Dominico in awe. “It’s true!”

      Dominico sighed heavily. Bolan suspected the guards had gotten on their cell phones. Bolan made introductions. “Dr. Corso, Colonel Llosa, meet Memo Dominico.”

      The doctor giddily pumped Dominico’s hand. “You know, I grew up watching El Santo, the original.”

      “Who didn’t?” Dominico admitted diplomatically.

      “But you? Santo Solomon? When my boys were young? You were their hero. I took them to see you wrestle El Monstro Rojo when you won the title.” Corso managed to curb his hero worship slightly. “Forgive me, but may I ask why you are here?”

      Colonel Llosa stared at Dominico with a professional interest that had nothing to do with wrestling. “I also must admit I am intrigued.”

      “It’s somewhat complicated,” Bolan said. “Dr. Corso, may I show him your patients?”

      “Of course.” There were sixteen beds in the tent but only two were occupied, and monitors, drips and machines surrounded them. Dominico jarred to a halt as they got close. The two men inhabiting the beds hardly looked human. Neither was conscious and their breath was so shallow that only the mournful beeps of the vital signs monitor indicated they were alive. Dozens of tubes and wires were busy carrying out their most basic bodily functions for them while other machines monitored their impending death. They were as stick-thin as famine victims and open sores covered their bald, sunken skulls.

      “You know what’s killing these guys, Memo?” Bolan inquired.

      “I don’t know.” Dominico stared at the two dying men greenly. “AIDS?”

      Bolan read Dominico’s body language and saw no deception. “No, radiation poisoning.”

      “Radiation poisoning?” Again Dominico was clearly both confused and appalled. “How did they get radiation poisoning?”

      “They were exposed to radioactive material,” Llosa answered dryly. “Dr. Corso is the head of Nuclear Medicine at the American British Cowdray Hospital Cancer Center here in Mexico City. Doctor?”

      Corso tapped his chart. “Both men were exposed to lethal levels of radiation. Given the rapid onset of symptoms and the searing of the lungs I believe they breathed in contaminated dust, most likely from spent nuclear fuel rods that had been stored improperly. We will most likely never know. Both men were in an advanced state when they were dropped off in the parking lot at Mexico City General. Neither man was conscious at the time of admission and neither has regained consciousness since. They were initially misdiagnosed as victims of some sort of virus and put under quarantine. Luckily the head virologist had received federal nuclear, biological and chemical emergency training and recognized the symptoms of radiation poisoning. It then became a military matter. I was called in and the United States government contacted.”

      “Any luck IDing them?” Bolan asked.

      The colonel shook his head grimly. “As you know, neither man had any identification on their person. The federal police ran their prints and came up empty. Your FBI had no record of them, either. They lack any of the usual gang tattoos. If I had to bet? These men are campesinos from the countryside, day laborers who came to Mexico City looking for work. I would also wager neither man was told what he was handling and neither were any safety or decontamination protocols observed.” He shook his head sadly. “They were used and then thrown away.”

      “There isn’t any radioactive material in Mexico!” Dominico objected.

      “Not normally,” Bolan agreed. “In this case Mexico is a transshipment point.”

      The colonel gave Dominico a severe look. “And you know all about transshipment points, don’t you, Memo?”

      Dominico flinched.

      Bolan steered the conversation back to business. “I believe these men were exposed to the same radioactive material that was being stored at your warehouse outside of Culiacán.”

      “I told you man! It isn’t my warehouse anymore!”

      Bolan gave Dominico a long, hard look. “Someone is using your routes and your contacts to smuggle nuclear materials through Mexico.”

      Dominico shook his head vehemently. “No one is using my routes, man!”

      “Yeah?” Bolan leaned in close. “Well, someone used the warehouse and the airstrip outside of Culiacán. Your old stomping grounds. You said yourself you gave out your territory when you retired.”

      Dominico backed up a step. “No way, man! I said I gave up my piece of the action! I never gave up my routes, and I sure as hell never gave up my people or my contacts! I took care of my own!”

      “You’re routes and your people are being used, Memo, and they’re going to start dying if this stuff is still being stored improperly. We don’t know where the material came from. All we know is that it was in Mexico City and then it was in Culiacán. It’s moving north, Memo, and at the end of the trail someone is going to build a bomb.”

      Dominico gaped.

      Bolan locked eyes with him. “I want your people, I want your old routes, I want your contacts and for that matter I want you. Everyone involved will go to ground when I start hunting, but they just might talk to King Solomon. You’re going to open some doors for me. With luck we might just stop something terrible from happening, and we might just save the lives of some people you care about along the way.” Bolan locked eyes with him. “You in or out?”

      Dominico broke eye contact and stared over at the blistered, emaciated dying men in the beds. He looked back at Bolan and met his burning gaze. “I want a gun.”

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