Crisis Nation. Don Pendleton

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      “And there endeth the lesson,” Bolan concluded. “You in?”

      “Oh, well, how may I be of assistance to…” He gazed at Bolan in open, smiling suspicion. “The United States Department of Justice?”

      Bolan and Constante understood each other. The soldier had been sent under the umbrella of the United States Department of Justice as Agent Matthew Cooper, a DOJ “observer” of the current political crisis. However, if that were true he would be spending his time with diplomats, politicians and lawyers rather than standing ankle-deep in the silt of the Laguna San José with a lowly homicide inspector. The title and the job description were phony and both men knew it. All Constante knew was that the Man had come to his island, and apparently the inspector thought it was about time.

      “Give me a name,” Bolan said.

      “What kind of name, señor?” The inspector asked innocently.

      “Why, the name of the worst son of a bitch in San Juan.”

      “Oh!” Constante brightened. “That is easy. The name you want is Yotuel d’Nico.”

      “I think I’ll go have a talk with this Yotuel.”

      Constante grinned happily. “I will light a candle for you.”

      2

      “So who’s this Yotuel, anyway?” Bolan asked.

      The bar stools around Bolan emptied as if he were radioactive. The bartender was short, fat, potbellied, bald and missing his front teeth. He also had a cursive letter N for La Neta tattooed on the back of his hand between his right thumb and forefinger. He looked Bolan up and down and leaned in close. “Hey, gringo, why don’t you finish your beer and fuck off?”

      Bolan finished his beer and ignored the invitation. “I mean, is he some kind of tough son of a bitch or something?”

      The bartender elaborately washed his hands in the sink and muttered, “You dig your own grave” under his breath in Spanish.

      “All the way to China, baby,” agreed Bolan. He pushed his empty mug forward for another.

      Strangely enough the bartender began refilling Bolan’s glass. He smiled without an ounce of warmth. “Did you say…baby?”

      “You bet your ass,” Bolan agreed.

      “You should be careful of using that word in this place. Bebito Jesus might be listening.”

      Bolan took the bait and the refilled mug. “We all have a friend in little baby Jesus.”

      “No.” The bartender kept on smiling. “Not you, my friend.”

      There was no mirror behind the bar. Bolan had been aware of people in the dark booths in the back, and he had heard someone walking up behind him. He was somewhat surprised to find himself suddenly in shadow as if there were a solar eclipse in the barroom. Bolan swiveled his bar stool and behind him was Bebito Jesus.

      There was nothing little nor Christlike about the behemoth looming over him. The man had to have topped six-foot ten, and his frame was sheathed in sumo-wrestler-sized rolls of fat. He looked like a cartoon character, but there was nothing funny about the look in his eye or the bass rumble of his voice. “Fuck you.”

      Bolan blew the froth off the top of his mug, and it slopped onto the giant’s sandaled feet. He raised his mug in toast. “And your mother.”

      Bebito blinked. It was perhaps the first time anyone had said that to him in his life. Bolan didn’t underestimate his opponent, but the Puerto Rican, on the other hand, seemed to be fatally underestimating Bolan. He slowly reached out with one spatulate hand and gathered up the front of the big American’s shirt in his fist and began lifting him out of his seat. Bolan rose and snapped the stacked leather heel of his dress shoe down into his adversary’s left big toe. Bebito’s shoulders cringed and his eyes went blank with the sudden shock. Bolan took the opportunity to stomp down again and break his other big toe. Bebito gasped and stooped toward his pain. This brought his face on par with Bolan’s. The Executioner snapped his forehead forward and shattered Bebito’s cheekbone. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

      The behemoth toppled backward. Bolan sat back down at the bar. He hadn’t spilled a drop of beer. “So, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, well, you know? They call this Yotuel guy the Lion but he sounds like a real pussy to me.”

      “Mister…” The bartender stared at Bolan in almost total incomprehension. “You’d better leave.”

      “Yeah.” Bolan put down his beer mug and dropped a twenty on the bar. “Tell this Lion freak I’ll be back tomorrow, same time.”

      Bolan walked out into the street. Constante still leaned against the front fender of his black, unmarked Crown Victoria police car. This was one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in San Juan and the lanky inspector ate a Cuban sandwich and drank a Budweiser tall boy from a six-pack sitting on the hood like he owned the place. “Did you speak to Yotuel?”

      “No, but I stepped on a few of the right toes,” Bolan answered.

      “I heard a crash. I almost came in.”

      “I ran into Bebito.”

      Constante started in surprise. He clearly knew the giant. “Bebito Jesus? What happened?”

      Bolan shrugged. “That was the crash.”

      The inspector was impressed. “He assaulted you?”

      “It didn’t get that far.”

      The inspector looked sidelong at Bolan. “Is he dead?”

      “No, but he needs to go see his podiatrist.”

      “Ah, well, it begins.” Constante sighed happily.

      BOLAN AND THE INSPECTOR drove through the night. The violent street protests of the day had given way to candlelit vigils in the plazas. Puerto Rican rock bands and rappers played freedom benefits. Professors and students made dramatic oratory. The guitar playing, speech making and talk over megaphones of a greater Puerto Rico were counterpointed by the darkened and looted storefronts and the smoldering and burning cars on the streets. The inspector had driven to a number of bars and spoken to informants. Bolan had not been privy to the conversations nor had he inquired. Right now it was Constante’s play.

      “Well, amigo, I will tell you.” The inspector turned to him now. “It appears that Yotuel is very angry with you.”

      “So I would imagine,” Bolan admitted.

      “He is also aware that I was standing outside the bar while you impugned his reputation and destroyed his enforcer in insulting fashion.” The inspector paused and then said, “I gather you are armed?”

      Bolan had full war loads at the DOJ building, three safe-houses and every military base on the island. He tapped the Smith & Wesson Centennial revolver in a cross-draw holster beneath his shirt. A lightweight titanium model of the same gun rode in an ankle holster. He simply said, “I have a gun.”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ