Lethal Vengeance. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ Chaveña was a working-class district, its best-known landmarks a nineteenth-century plaza with a fountain called “the Font of the Keyhole” and Parque Borunda with its carnival layout including thrill rides, gaming arcades and countless food kiosks.

      Bolan, for his part, was embarking on a thrill ride of his own, with no amusement in the forecast.

      He found the designated shopping mall, two blocks west of Parque Borunda, across the street from a funeral home. Hoping that wouldn’t turn out to be an omen, he pulled into the lot, parked and exited the SUV.

      Tim Ross emerged from a standard government-issue sedan.

      Facing each other in the sunshine, heat rising around them from the asphalt, they shook hands.

      Ross introduced himself and followed with a question. “Captain Joshua Brinkman?”

      “Close enough,” Bolan said. The false name was a throwaway he’d never use again on a mission.

      “I managed to get all the items from your shopping list. Sounds like you’re throwing quite a party.”

      “Need to know,” Bolan replied. “You know?”

      “I do indeed. You want to check the items over?”

      “Absolutely.” Bolan popped the RAV4’s fifth door, while Ross opened the trunk of his sedan. Their bodies screened the trunk’s contents from random passersby—but if someone Bolan couldn’t see already had the meet under surveillance...well, he figured he was screwed.

      Inside the trunk, black duffel bags of sundry size took up most of the space. Ross unzipped one of them and held it open for inspection, asking Bolan, “Good on this one?”

      “I’d say so.”

      The bag contained a Steyr AUG bullpup assault rifle, factory-equipped with a Swarovski 1.5x telescopic sight, plus an integral flash hider doubling as a launcher for 22 mm rifle grenades of the NATO standardized nonbullet trap variety. Also inside the bag was an assortment of grenades—HE, smoke and incendiary—and a stack of translucent magazines packing forty-two 5.56 mm NATO rounds apiece.

      Satisfied, Bolan zipped the bag and shifted it to the RAV4’s cargo area.

      The second duffel bag contained a Benelli M-4 Super 90 semiautomatic tactical shotgun, packing seven 12-gauge rounds in its tubular magazine plus one in the chamber. With its collapsible buttstock extended, the piece measured just under three feet, tipping the scales at nine pounds loaded.

      “This looks fine,” Bolan allowed, shifting over the second bag.

      The third contained a Heckler & Koch MP-5K submachine gun. The “K” stood for kurz, German for “short,” and this classic was a compact version of H&K’s classic MP-5, used by military and law enforcement units in roughly one hundred nations worldwide. The MP-5K had a vertical foregrip in place of its parent’s handguard, measured 12.6 inches with its stock collapsed, and weighed 4.4 pounds empty. That weight increased significantly when you added a Beta C-Mag drum magazine loaded with 100 rounds of 9 mm Parabellum ammo.

      Nodding his satisfaction, Bolan added that bag to the others in his SUV.

      The fourth duffel held three sidearms and holsters to accommodate them. The largest was an MRI Desert Eagle chambered in .44 Magnum, weighing nearly five pounds with eight rounds in its mag and one up the spout. The other two handguns were Glock 22s chambered in .40 Smith & Wesson, identical except that one’s muzzle was threaded to accept a sound suppressor. Bolan had added the backup in hopes that he’d find Hal Brognola alive and fit to pull his weight during a fight.

      A final kicker in the fourth bag was a Cold Steel GI Tanto knife with a black blade and polypropylene handle to match. Its sheath was adjustable for wearing on a belt, ankle or upside down, suspended from a shoulder rig. Also included was a pair of Leupold BX-1 Compact Rogue 10x25 compact binoculars.

      “Okay,” Bolan said when he’d moved that bag, as well. “The rest?”

      “You’ve got a first-aid kit including QuikClot combat gauze, morphine syrettes, suturing gear, adhesive tape and various accessories—scissors, tweezers, like that. Also in there, you’ll find a detailed map of Ciudad Juárez, plus highway and topographical maps of Chihuahua and neighboring states—Coahuila, Durango, Sinaloa and Sonora. No one told me how far you’d be traveling or how long you’ll be at it.”

      “Hard to say,” Bolan replied.

      “And need-to-know. I get it.” Finally, Ross took a cell phone from one of his pockets, handing it to Bolan. “This is clean, a burner, with my number saved to memory. Also the consulate’s, if it comes down to that. I didn’t bother with the law enforcement contacts.”

      “Just as well,” Bolan said.

      “Like I thought.” Ross hesitated, then added, “The phone has built-in GPS, but I’ve deactivated it. You’ll want to double-check that for yourself, I guess.”

      “No need.” Bolan lied. It would be the first thing he checked as soon as Ross was out of sight.

      “I guess you know you’re in a world of shit down here,” Ross said.

      “I’m up to date on the travel advisories.”

      Ross nodded, said, “Can you trust anybody? Hell, who knows? Some mornings, I’m not sure I trust my mirror. That guy looking back at me seems shifty half the time.”

      “I’ve had those days, myself,” Bolan replied.

      “Right. Well, good luck on whatever, then. If I don’t hear from you again...”

      “Consider it good luck,” the Executioner replied.

      He watched Ross drive away, then double-checked the burner’s GPS and found it was, indeed, switched off. He opened it, looked at the battery and SIM card, nothing there that seemed to be an independent tracker. Satisfied, he took one of the Glocks with him before he slid behind the RAV4’s steering wheel, fired up the vehicle and pulled out of the parking lot.

      From here on, he’d be rolling blind through no-man’s-land. A killer’s playground, right.

      And now there was a new killer in town.

      Federal Police Headquarters, Ciudad Juárez

      Captain Chalino Prieto sat at his desk, overlooking Avenida Hermanos Escobar in the Omega district, smoking his third cigar of the day. He had a bottle of Don Julio tequila in his desk, but thought it still too early for a drink, although he badly wanted one.

      Prieto was a portly man with double chins, and bags under his hooded eyes, black hair, just going gray at the temples, combed back from a squarish face. Clipped to his belt, an eight-pointed star of gold identified his agency and justified the Jericho 941 semiautomatic pistol holstered on his hip.

      Prieto’s suit was tailor-made from linen, to accommodate Chihuahua’s weather, and his cowboy boots were hand-tooled, polished to a mirror shine. His jacket’s side pockets were reinforced to bear the weight of brass knuckles on one side and an eight-inch switchblade on the other, razor-edged, its handle made of ebony.

      The СКАЧАТЬ