Missile Intercept. Don Pendleton

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      Panama City, Panama

      YI WATCHED AS the Black Tiger squad went through the various inspections of the weapons the cartel agent had brought. Even though the warehouse was deserted and empty, the lights worked fine. The gangsters had set up a series of flimsy folding tables at various points around the room for the weapons assembly. The guns glistened with oil as the team fieldstripped them, wiped them down and reassembled them with practiced ease. The weapons were all Western and American brands, M-16 rifles, Glock handguns, some Heckler & Koch submachine guns, but that did not matter. His Black Tigers had been trained on all weapons and were very familiar with these. Yi put aside his personal preference for his weapons of choice, the Chinese-made AK-47 and the 9 mm Baek Du San pistol, and smacked the fully loaded magazine into the Glock 17. He inserted the pistol into the low-slug tactical holster on his right thigh and slipped the sound suppressor into his pants pocket. He was a bit dissatisfied with the suppressor. The cylindrical attachment was so large that, once attached to the barrel of the weapon, the cam prevented proper sight alignment. However, the Western weapons would have to suffice for the time being.

      The two men, one Mexican and the other Panamanian, who had brought the weapons stood off to the side and watched, each with a smirking expression on his face. The Mexican’s cream-colored sport jacket looked as if it needed cleaning. Half-moons of sweat had soaked through the underarms. Yi could relate. The heat and humidity in this place were so oppressive it was like standing fully clothed in a steam bath.

      The gangster from Panama was more sensibly dressed, wearing a loose chambray shirt with the sleeves razored off. He was smaller than the Mexican, but no less unctuous.

      “How you like them babies, huh?” he said.

      Yi stared at him and replied, “They are far from ideal, but they will suit our purpose. Is there any word from your other men?”

      “The ones that went north with yours?” the Panamanian asked. He smiled. “I’m sure they are there by now.”

      “I wish you to verify that,” Yi said. “I need to report to my superiors.”

      The two gangsters exchanged glances and smirked again.

      Yi’s dislike of these men grew, and he considered his options. At this point, he still needed their cooperation, to a degree, so striking down one or both of them might not yet be appropriate. But still, experience had taught him to have little tolerance for disrespect. It could undermine operational effectiveness as quickly as poor planning.

      “I think we need to report to ours, as well,” the Mexican said. “And we need to see the money.”

      Yi stared at them for a few seconds, then gestured for the Iranian, Basir Farrokhzad, to approach. The man strode forward and set the briefcase on the small card table. As his hands moved to the twin safety catches, Yi stepped between the two gangsters and held his right hand above the briefcase. “No.”

      The two gangsters looked at him.

      “What you mean, no?” the Mexican snarled. “We gotta see the money now.”

      “You see the money,” Yi said, “after you have verified that the Black Dragon and Corporal Wang have arrived at their destination. I want a progress report.”

      “The Black Dragon,” the Panamanian gangster said with a laugh. He put his index fingers next to his eyelids and pulled them back, narrowing his gaze. “Does he breathe fire, like Godzilla?”

      “It would be wise for you to show me the proper respect,” Yi said.

      “Listen, you little prick,” the Mexican said, his finger poking at Yi’s chest. “You’re in our house now. You do like we say, or it could get bad for you.”

      Yi kept his hand hovering above the briefcase. Farrokhzad looked nervous.

      “Make the call to verify,” Yi said. “Then you can count your money.”

      The Mexican and Panamanian exchanged glances and a laugh.

      The Mexican muttered something Yi took to be a vulgarity, and reached inside his cream-colored jacket. As he started to withdraw a semiautomatic pistol, Yi shifted his weight, using his left hand to seize the Mexican’s gun hand in a grip of steel, while the palm of his right smashed into the other man’s nose. He pulled the gangster’s arm outward and then chopped his extended elbow with a knife hand blow. The Mexican screamed in pain as Yi stripped the gun from his fingers.

      A switchblade knife clicked open in the Panamanian’s right hand, but Yi pivoted, bringing his right foot upward, delivering a quick and powerful crescent kick and knocking the Panamanian’s hand away. Yi’s left hand chopped his adversary’s wrist, causing the knife to drop to the floor. The man grunted in pain as Yi’s foot whipped upward with a hooking back kick, connecting with the rear of the gangster’s head. His eyes rolled upward and he crumpled to the floor. Yi pivoted again, this time delivering a roundhouse kick to the Mexican’s face, and he collapsed, as well. The colonel bent to retrieve the knife, hefting it in his hand to consider the balance and weight.

      The Mexican rolled onto his back, glaring up at Yi. The colonel’s arm cocked back and thrust forward with a blur. Seconds later, the knife vibrated, stuck in the wooden floor a few inches from the Mexican’s groin. The gangster’s face sagged.

      “As I told you, show proper respect,” Yi said in a low, guttural voice. “Now make the call.” He racked back the slide on the Mexican’s weapon, a flashy chrome Beretta 92F, ejecting the round in the chamber. Yi then dropped the magazine and hurled it toward the far wall of the warehouse. He then gripped the barrel and disassembled the pistol, flinging the parts in different directions. “Then you may count your money.”

      The Mexican nodded, took out his cell phone and hastily scrolled through the numbers. His lips twisted into a quick, nervous smile and he nodded, a look of fear in his eyes. Yi knew he would have no more trouble with this man.

      The colonel allowed himself to be imbued with a slight sense of satisfaction as he glanced at the other gangster, who was still unconscious on the floor. It had been some time since he had taken out an adversary with a single kick. It was good to know that his practice had kept him sharp.

      Force, and the judicious use of it, Yi thought, always commanded respect.

      The vision of one of the great Yi Sun-Shin’s all-powerful armored dragon ships coursing through the ocean waters in ages past flashed in his mind’s eye.

      Force, he thought. The universal language.

      Culiacán International Airport

      Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

      BOLAN AND GRIMALDI waited in the long hallway outside the international arrivals section. At the American Embassy they had been given brief descriptions of what the two FBI agents looked like, one Asian male, one Hispanic female, as well as photos. The male, Henry Chong, was Korean-American, and fluent in several languages including Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Farsi and Arabic. The female, Teresa Stevenson, was of Cuban descent and fluent in a host of languages, as well.

      As they stood watching and waiting for the two federal agents, Bolan mentally reviewed the case. A lot would depend on what the Cuban prisoner had to say. If he could corroborate that the cartel guards had been tipped off just prior to the raid, it might help the Executioner ferret out the traitor.

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