Powder Burn

They squeezed off together, three rounds apiece, peppering the Toyota’s windshield. Behind the glass, a screaming face flushed crimson and the blue car swerved away, leaping the curb of a divider, plowing over grass and slamming hard into a row of parked vehicles.

No one emerged from the wreckage, and Bolan dismissed it, turning back toward the parking lot’s entrance. A black Mercedes-Benz appeared, nosing in a bit more cautiously than the Toyota, but determined to advance. Its passenger was firing by the time the Benz finished its turn, a compact submachine gun stuttering full-auto fire.

The natural reaction was to flinch from those incoming rounds, but the Executioner stood his ground, framing the shooter in his Glock’s sights with a steady six-o’clock hold. Ten rounds remained in the pistol, and he triggered four in as many seconds, watching the 165 grain Speer Gold Dot JHP slugs strike home with 484 foot-pounds of destructive energy.

His first shot tore into the gunman’s shoulder, while his second sent the SMG tumbling from spastic fingers. Number three drilled the guy’s howling face, and the fourth shot was lost through the Benz’s windshield. Good enough.

In the meantime, Lieutenant Pureza was nailing the driver with one-two-three shots through the windshield, another swerve starting, this one to their left. The Benz passed Bolan’s door with two feet to spare, losing momentum on the drive-by, but still traveling fast enough to buckle its grille when it struck one of the parking lot’s tall lampposts.

“Are we done?” Pureza asked him, as the echoes faded.

“Done,” Bolan said. “Let’s get out of here.”

3

Usaquén District, Bogotá

Jorge Serna was nervous. Not excited, as he’d always thought that he might be if he was called to meet with El Padrino. Not at all convinced that he would even manage to survive their meeting.

Survival, under certain circumstances, was a grave mistake.

He should have been impressed at passing by the lavish Country Club de Bogotá with its vast golf course, so close to the Mercado de las Pulgas flea market, but a world apart from bargain shoppers. Serna should have been dazzled by the sight of Unicentro, one of Colombia’s largest shopping malls, or the elite shops at Santa Ana Centro Comercial, but all of it was lost on him.

His last day?

That still remained to be seen.

El Padrino’s estate was surrounded by seven-foot walls topped by broken glass set in concrete. The only access, through an ornate wrought-iron gate, was guarded by armed men around the clock. Their number varied: never less than two, sometimes six or seven if the need arose.

On this day, he counted five men on the gate, armed with the same Tavor TAR-21 assault rifles carried by members of Colombia’s Urban Counter-Terrorism Special Forces Group. The guns resembled something from a science fiction film, but Serna knew they were deadly, with a cyclic rate of 750 to 900 rounds per minute on full-auto fire.

Only the best for El Padrino’s personal guards.

As the limousine approached, one of the guards rolled back the gate by hand. Small talk within the family claimed that the gate had once been operated by remote control, with a motor and pulleys, until a power failure made El Padrino a captive within his own walls. Workmen had been routed from bed after midnight, in the midst of a fierce thunderstorm, to overhaul the system and return it to manual control.

Passing through that gate, Serna wondered if he would be breathing when he left the property. Or whether he would ever leave.

Another rumor claimed that El Padrino had a private cemetery on the grounds, or that he fed the bodies of the soldiers who displeased him into the red-hot maw of a specially designed incinerator, sending them off in a dark cloud of smoke.

Serna had smiled at those stories, with everyone else.

But he wasn’t smiling at this moment.

He barely registered the vast house, wooded grounds or soldiers on patrol in pairs, some leading dogs. The limo whisked along a driveway, circling the mansion to deposit Serna and his escorts at a service entrance, at the rear. Another pair of soldiers met them there and nodded for them to go inside.

At the last moment, as they crossed the threshold, Serna felt a sudden urge to bolt, run for his life, but where could he go? Surrounded by walls and by men like himself, who would kill without a heartbeat’s hesitation, what would be the point?

To make it quick, he thought, and shuddered.

“Are you cold, Jorge?” one of his escorts asked. The others laughed.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“We’ll see.”

They ushered him into a large room—were there any small rooms in the house?—with bookshelves on the walls rising from floor to ceiling. At the center of the room stood El Padrino, paging through a massive tome atop a bookstand. It looked like maps or some kind of atlas.

“Jorge,” Naldo Macario said, “thanks for coming.”

As if I had a choice, Serna thought. But he answered, “De nada, Padrino.”

“You’ve had a bad day,” his master said. “It shows on your face. May I offer you something? Tequila? Cerveza?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“So, direct to business then.” Macario approached him, smiling underneath a thick moustache, hair glistening with oil and combed back from his chiseled face. “You failed me, yes?”

Serna could see no point in lying. “That is true, Godfather.”

“I send five men to perform a simple task, and four are dead. The job is still unfinished. Only you remain, Jorge.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

Apologies were clearly pointless, but what else could he say? He had failed and survived, the worst combination of all.

“I know you’re sorry,” Macario said. “I see it in your eyes. But failure must have consequences, yes?”

Serna’s voice failed him, refused to pronounce his own death sentence, but he gave a jerky little nod.

“Of course you understand,” Macario went on. “Under normal circumstances, I would have you taken to the basement, and perhaps even filmed your punishment as an example to my other soldiers.”

Serna felt his knees go weak. It was a challenge to remain upright.

“But these,” El Padrino said, “are not normal circumstances, eh? For all your failings, it appears that I still need your help.”

“My help, sir?”

“You saw the American, yes? Before he killed the others and escaped, you saw his face?”

“I did, sir.”

“And you would recognize him if you met again?”

“I would.” He nodded to emphasize the point, seeing a small, faint gleam of hope.

“Then it appears that you must live…for the moment,” Macario replied. “Correct your error, find this gringo for me, and you may yet be redeemed.”

“Find him, sir?”

“Not by yourself, of course.” His lord and master smiled at that, the notion’s sheer absurdity. “With help. And when you find him, do what must be done.”

“I will, sir. You can count on it.”

“His life for yours, Jorge. Don’t fail a second time.”

THE SAFEHOUSE WAS AVERAGE size, painted beige, located on a cul-de-sac north of El Lago Park in Barrios Unidos. Bolan turned off Avenida de La Esmeralda and followed Pureza’s directions from there. She unlocked the garage, stood back to let him park the Pontiac, then closed the door from the inside.

They had been lucky with the G6, in the circumstances. It had taken only two hits, one of them a graze along the left front fender that could pass for careless damage from a parking lot, the other low down on the driver’s door. Nothing to raise eyebrows in Bogotá, where mayhem was a daily fact of life.

Pureza led the way inside, through a connecting door that kept the neighbors from observing anyone who came and went around the safehouse. They entered through a laundry room, into a combination kitchen–dining room that smelled of spices slowly going stale.

“You use this place for witnesses?” he asked Pureza.

“That, or for emergencies. I think this qualifies.”

“No clearance needed in advance?”

“If you are asking who knows we are here, the answer would be no one.”

“No drop-ins expected?”

“None.”

“Okay. Who knew about our meeting?” Bolan asked.

“You think someone inside the CNP betrayed us.” The lieutenant didn’t phrase it as a question.

“If the bomb had been a random thing, I wouldn’t ask,” Bolan replied. “But when they follow up with shooters, it’s specific. No one tailed me from the airport, so there has to be a leak.”

“Why must it be on my side?”

“I’d be asking Styles the same thing,” Bolan said, “if he was here. My only contact with the DEA is dead.”

“So you’re stuck on me.”

“The phrase would be ‘stuck with you,’ and that isn’t what I said. You’ve done a good job, so far. I’m impressed, okay? But someone had to tip the other side about our meet.”

“You’re right,” Pureza said, relaxing from her previous defensive posture. “I was assigned by my commander, Captain Rodrigo Celedón. Above him, I can’t say who might have known.”

“You trust your captain?”

“With my life,” she said.

“Be sure of that before you talk to him again. Because it is your life.”

“The DEA may have a leak, as well.”

“It happens,” Bolan granted. “But they’re getting whittled down in Bogotá these days, and I don’t picture Styles setting himself up to be hit.”

“What’s your solution, then?”

“A solo op,” Bolan replied. “Or a duet, if you’re still in.”

“You think I’d leave you at this stage?”

“It wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you ever did,” he told her frankly.

“I must still live with myself,” Pureza said. “One person I can absolutely trust.”

“And you’re on board with what I have to do?”

“That part has been…shall I say vague? I was assigned to help with what is called a ‘special case.’ Beyond that, all I know is that the cartel wants you dead. And me, as well, apparently.”

“That sums it up,” Bolan said. “Naldo Macario wore out his welcome with the massacre at your Palace of Justice. It’s crunch time. I’m the last resort.”

Pureza held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “So, we aren’t building a case for trial,” she said at last.

“The trial’s been held. The verdict’s in. Macario’s outfit is marked.”

“You understand I represent the law?”

“The system’s broken down,” Bolan replied. “We’re trying an alternative.”

“If I refuse?”

“You walk. We try to stay out of each other’s way.”

“And Macario wins.”

“No, he’s done, either way.”

The lieutenant took another moment, making up her mind, then nodded. “Right,” she said. “Where do we start?”

Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.

THE TELEPHONE CAUGHT Hal Brognola reaching for his hat. It was an hour and a half past quitting time, and he was taking more work home, as usual. He might have let the call go through to voice mail if it hadn’t been his private line. Leaving his gray fedora on its wall hook, Brognola snagged the receiver midway through its third insistent ring.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to catch you headed out the door,” the familiar voice said from somewhere warm and far away.

“So you’re into remote viewing now?” Brognola inquired.

“Just safe bets,” Bolan replied. “When was the last time you cleared the office on time?”

“Thirteenth of Never,” Brognola acknowledged. “I forget the year. Aught-something. How’s it going where you are?”

The private line was scrambled, but Brognola took no chances. Paranoia wasn’t just a state of mind in Washington—it was a tried and true survival mechanism.

“Heating up,” Bolan said in reply. “There was an unexpected welcoming committee and we lost our guy from pharmaceuticals.”

Meaning Jack Styles from DEA. Brognola hadn’t known him personally—the agency had something like fifty-five hundred sworn agents, more than twice that many employees in all—but he still felt the sharp pang of loss.

Once a cop, always a cop.

“So, you need a new contact?” he asked.

“Negative, at least for the time being,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got some local help. We’ll try to muddle through.”

“If there’s a problem with the local shop…”

Brognola paused and Bolan filled the gap. “We’ve talked about it. This one’s good, so far. Not sure about the rest.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “If you need any help, I should be able to provide it.”

He slipped in the reference to Able Team, who’d gone to bat with the Executioner more than once, their link preceding Brognola’s promotion at Justice and the creation of Stony Man Farm. Bolan and two of the Able Team warriors had traveled through hell together as outlaws, before they dropped off the grid to help Uncle Sam with his worst dirty jobs.

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Bolan answered, “but I’ve got your number.”

“Right,” Brognola said. “But don’t let the competition get yours.”

“I’m still unlisted,” Bolan said, and the big Fed could almost sense him smiling. “Later.”

“Later,” Brognola agreed, and cradled the receiver.

So the bad news from Colombia continued. The Justice man supposed he’d get a call from Stony Man Farm before too long, reporting details of the “unexpected welcome” Bolan had received in Bogotá. There’d be a call from DEA, as well, likely complaining that they never should have asked for Brognola’s help in the first place.

As if it had been the agency’s idea.

As far as Brognola knew, the DEA’s top brass had no idea that Stony Man existed, much less what it actually did. The program was beyond top secret, authorized and created by a former President of the United States, maintained by that commander in chief’s successors to deal with extraordinary situations.

If and when the program was exposed to public scrutiny, some heads were bound to roll, Brognola’s and the current President’s among them. Nothing in the U.S. Constitution provided for creation of a black-ops force like Stony Man, and while Brognola could defend it till doomsday on moral and practical grounds, the program didn’t have a legal leg to stand on.

Virtually everything his warriors did was criminal, albeit for the classic greater good.

This time, Brognola grabbed his hat and put it on before another phone call could delay him. Stony Man, the DEA, or anybody else who sought a piece of him this night could reach him on his cell phone. He’d take the bad news as it came, meet the complaints head-on, without referring them upstairs. Unless it fell apart completely and his team could not complete a mission—something which, thank God, hadn’t happened yet—he took calls from the Man upstairs, but didn’t dial the hotline for a conversation on his own initiative.

It simply wasn’t done.

Which put Brognola in mind of a saying he’d heard for the first time long years ago, as an agent in training at the FBI Academy.

Shit rolls downhill.

When Brognola’s superiors, the President or the Attorney General, found something stinky in his in-box that demanded prompt covert attention, it came down to Brognola. Who, in turn, passed it down to Bolan, Able Team or Phoenix Force, depending on the circumstances. From there, with any luck, the worst load landed on the nation’s enemies and buried them for good.

With any luck, Brognola thought. And hoped that Bolan’s luck was holding in Colombia, where absolutely anyone could prove to be a lethal enemy.

LIEUTENANT ARCELIA PUREZA heard Cooper returning from the smaller bedroom of the safehouse, where he’d gone to make a call in private. She had resisted the burning temptation to eavesdrop, conscious that trust was their sole fragile bond.

But could she really trust this stranger?

The bombing and subsequent shoot-out in Chapinero had shocked her. Despite the fact that violence was commonplace in Bogotá and nationwide, Pureza had been personally spared until that day. Not only was Jack Styles dead, and their best connection to the DEA was severed, but Pureza had also nearly been taken out—and she herself had killed for the first time.

It had been automatic in the given circumstances, a matter of instinct and reflex, where training and self-preservation combined. She was a bit surprised to feel no sense of guilt, but guessed that there might be delayed reactions, possibly reflected in her dreams.

Meanwhile, she had to think about Matt Cooper.

He was quick to point the finger of suspicion for the ambush at the CNP or DEA, but Pureza knew nothing of his own organization. Not even its name, for God’s sake. How did she know that someone in the States—or the big American himself, for that matter—was not the traitor?

But she had to scratch Cooper off the list, since it was ridiculous to think he’d risk a bomb blast, then kill his own comrades, if he wanted Styles and Pureza dead. The wise thing would have been to dawdle, turn up late enough to let the bomb and gunmen do their work, then tell his headquarters that traffic had delayed him.

Better luck next time.

As for whoever might have sent him from the north to Colombia…

“All clear, then?” she inquired, as the man stepped into the living room once more.

“We’re square with Washington,” he said. “And you?”

“I still think that you’re right. It’s best if I don’t call the CNP just yet.”

And there, she’d done it. It was just the two of them, adrift in Bogotá and facing off against Macario’s cartel, against the AUC, and anyone else El Padrino could think of to send against them.

Hundreds, at least. All happy to kill for a handful of pesos, or simply to curry Macario’s favor. To earn a seat at his table.

Maybe thousands, then, instead of hundreds.

“Have you thought it through?” Bolan asked. “I mean, really?”

Pureza nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I’m obviously marked. Macario never relents, once he’s decided someone needs to die. My only hope, apparently, is pushing on with you.”

“A stranger you don’t know from Adam,” he said, half-smiling. “And whom you have no good reason to trust.”

“I didn’t want to say it,” she replied. “But, yes.”

“It’s only natural,” the soldier replied. “If you weren’t suspicious, I’d think you were crazy.”

“Call me sane, then.”

“Good. As for the trust, we’ve started building it. I can’t believe you’d sit there waiting for the bomb, then drop those shooters, if you were on Macario’s payroll.”

Pureza felt her cheeks warm at the sound of her own thoughts, spoken by this man. “I can say the same for you,” she said.

“Okay. We’re straight on that, then. Next, you have to ask yourself what one man—or the two of us together—can possibly accomplish in the face of killer odds.”

“You should become a mind reader,” she said.

“I’m sticking to the obvious,” Bolan said. “We’ve already cleared the first hurdle, trashed Macario’s plan and sent four of his hardmen home in body bags. He’ll be angry over that, and sometimes anger breeds mistakes.”

“You’re right about the anger,” Pureza said. “His rage is almost legendary, and the punishments he metes out are…extreme. As for mistakes, he’s made none yet that I’m aware of.”

“Wrong. We’ve seen the first already,” he said. “We’re still alive.”

“Is that a victory?”

“Damn right. Now all we have to do is stay alive and keep hitting Macario where it hurts most, until he runs out of steam.”

“Perhaps you underestimate him,” she suggested.

“I’ve been up against his kind before,” Bolan replied. “They’re tough, no doubt about it. But they’re only human. Humans die.”

“It’s all-out war, then?”

“To the bitter end. If you want out, the time to bail is now.”

“And spend the rest of my short life in hiding? No, thank you.”

Her answer seemed to satisfy him. Bolan simply said, “Okay. We’re good to go.”

“One thing you must remember, Mr. Cooper.”

“Make it ‘Matt.’”

“All right. One thing you must remember, Matt.”

“Which is?”

“We’re only human, too.”

4

“You trust him to deliver, Naldo, after he failed the first time?”

“It was a peculiar circumstance,” Macario replied. “My guess would be that Germán failed to take enough men for the job. Jorge is normally dependable, and he’s aware of what will happen if he fails a second time.”

Esteban Quintaro didn’t seem convinced, but he had not become the cartel’s second in command by challenging Macario. Instead of arguing, he shrugged and said, “No doubt you’re right.”

“The DEA man was eliminated,” Macario said. “That’s something in our favor. It leaves—what, another six or seven in the city?”

“Eight,” Quintaro said. “I have their names and photographs.”

“I’m only interested in the ones who got away.”

“We know the woman,” Quintaro said. “Arcelia Maria Pureza, a lieutenant with the National Police assigned to the narcotics unit. She is thirty-one years old and lives at—”

“Have we tried to buy her, Esteban?”

“On two occasions. She declines our friendship.”

“Foolish pride. Why is she still alive?”

“You never before gave the order to eliminate her, Naldo.”

“You have her home address.”

“I do.”

“Put soldiers on it. If she turns up there, they should attempt to bring her in alive.”

“Alive, Naldo?”

“For questioning. I wish to know the name and the affiliation of her gringo friend.”

“With that in mind,” Quintaro said, “I’ve checked at El Dorado and prepared a list of new arrivals from the States. There were fifteen gringos traveling alone, six more in pairs. Our friend at DAS is gathering a list of their hotels.”

“Check all of them,” Macario replied, knowing before he spoke that the instruction was unnecessary.

And he worried that it might be a wasted effort, too. The stranger, whomever he was, might well be traveling under an alias. There was a fifty-fifty chance that when they learned his name at last, it wouldn’t help.

“While you do that, Esteban,” he continued, “reach out to our friend in Washington.”

“The congressman from—”

“Yes. It’s doubtful he’ll know anything about such matters, but there is a chance—a small one—that he can assist us. The American police kowtow to politicians.”

“And if he can’t help?” Quintaro asked.

“Thank him for trying. Send him a bonus.”

Quintaro’s face revealed his personal opinion of rewarding failure, but he wisely left the words unspoken. “As you wish, Naldo,” he said.

“What’s your opinion, then? About our man of mystery,” Macario inquired.

The question seemed to take Quintaro by surprise. In truth, Macario seldom sought his lieutenant’s opinion. He preferred to give orders and leave Quintaro to carry them out. On this occasion, though, he tried a different tack.

“He won’t be DEA,” Quintaro said.

“Why not?”

“If he’d been sent from Washington, officially, he would have met them at the U.S. Embassy, not in the Pink Zone. He’s avoiding contact with the diplomats.”

“Which tells us…what?”

“He’s unofficial, operating off the books. Perhaps the CIA?”

“They aren’t involved in drug investigations,” Macario said.

“As far as we know,” Quintaro replied. “Under the so-called war on terror, who can say?”

The man had a point. Macario’s attacks on various American officials, culminating with the massacre at the Palace of Justice, could be enough to put the CIA on his trail. Which would mean what, exactly?

In the old days, before Macario was born, the CIA had schemed to eliminate various targets. They’d failed repeatedly with Castro but had scored with Che Guevara in Bolivia, Allende in Chile, plus others in Africa and Asia. Such “executive actions” were forbidden these days, at least on paper, but Macario understood that reality often deviated from public policy.