The Cartel Hit

BORDER RUN

When a Mexican national captures the murder of an innocent couple on video, Mack Bolan is tasked with protecting the young man and delivering his evidence to authorities. But then the killer turns out to be a high-powered cartel boss intent on destroying any trace of his crime—including the witness. Suddenly the man with the video is running for his life, and Bolan has no choice but to join the chase.

A hired assassin and his army of trained killers outnumber Bolan in the unfamiliar Mexican territory, and he must rely on quick thinking and guerrilla-style tactics to wipe out the enemy and ensure the safety of the one man who can shutter the gang’s operations for good. The cartel is fighting dirty, but the Executioner is about to lay down his signature brand of cleansing fire.

The a la muerte soldier took another step closer accompanied by the clink of metal on metal

The Executioner sprang from his hiding spot, driving his left hand forward to grasp the guy’s throat, striking hard at the exposed torso with his right. The Tanto’s cold blade sliced through clothing and sank in up to the hilt. Bolan felt the man shudder as he slid the knife left to right to extend the wound.

Bolan pulled the weakening man in against the log, leaning on him hard. When all movement ceased, he pulled out the knife and cleaned the steel blade against the man’s shirt, then sheathed it.

He could hear faint noises coming from the headset the man was wearing. Bolan slipped it off the body, held the earpiece close and listened to the transmission.

“Enrico, what is going on? Talk to me. Where are you?”

“I found him,” Bolan said, keeping his voice low. “You want to come and see?”

There was a brief silence.

“Who are you?”

“The one you cannot find. The one who is going to send you to hell.”

The Cartel Hit

Don Pendleton

There is no witness so terrible and no accuser so powerful as the conscience that dwells within us.

—Sophocles

Some men don’t have a conscience, or choose to ignore it. When conscience fails, that’s where I step in. With guns blazing.

—Mack Bolan

THE

MACK BOLAN

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Copyright

Prologue

His name was Hermano Escobedo. Mexican by birth. He came from a small village in Chihuahua, where there was little opportunity to further himself. Four years previously he had traveled across the border into Texas, encouraged by a longtime friend who had done the same thing a couple years earlier and found work. When his friend had the means to send money to Escobedo, he’d told him to make the journey. America was where Escobedo could earn a living. He could send cash to his remaining family—his aging grandfather and grandmother. The offer was too good to pass up, and Escobedo finally made the trip.

Initially, things worked out well. Escobedo’s friend helped him get established, pointed him in the right direction to find work. He learned to speak the language. He was smart and had a good ear. It helped. In the Texas town of Broken Tree, the young Mexican showed a willingness to take on a number of jobs.

Escobedo’s background was farming. He had a flair for gardening and built a small but steady number of clients. His touch with flowers and plants gained him more customers. He was able to save a little money and his long-term plan was to provide for his grandparents. He found himself a small apartment in Broken Tree. It was nothing grand, but to Hermano Escobedo it was a step up from the tiny place he had shared with his grandparents. Then, two years into his time in America, he received the news that his grandparents had passed away. The priest in the village handled the funerals, so Escobedo had little incentive to return to Mexico.

When he received an offer to tend the gardens at the out-of-town estate belonging to a man named Seb Jessup, Escobedo accepted. One of his Broken Tree clients had referred him to Jessup. When Escobedo first saw the place, he was overwhelmed. It was huge, a great, sprawling house surrounded by lawns and gardens. There were stables for the many horses the man owned. Barns to house machinery. It was always busy, with people coming and going all the time. Expensive cars. Smiling young women. It could have been all too much for a simple peon from Chihuahua, but Escobedo had a steady head on his shoulders. He pushed the glamorous lifestyle out of his mind and simply took on the work offered.

Everything went well at first. Jessup sent a car for him three days a week, though Escobedo rarely saw his employer. In fact, he had only ever seen the man once to speak to. That had been on the day he accepted the job. The drive from town took just under twenty minutes, and the day began early and ended late. Escobedo was given charge of the operation. There was a fully equipped workshop that contained all the tools he would ever need, and while the workload was heavy, he took it in stride.

After a few weeks, Escobedo became accepted among Jessup’s other employees, to the point that hardly anyone paid him much attention. And Escobedo simply blended in. He was paid at the end of each week by a man named Hatton, who seemed to be Jessup’s right-hand man. Hatton said little.

Escobedo’s friend, being ambitious, had moved on. He had packed his belongings into his car and driven out of Broken Tree, leaving Escobedo to his new life. It didn’t worry him too much. He had always been a solitary person. It was only in the evenings that he felt out of place, but long days of physical labor left him exhausted, and he retired early most nights, knowing his day would start early. When he was not working at the Jessup place, he had his local customers to tend to.

It did not concern Escobedo that there were times when the atmosphere of the Jessup estate changed. Became tense. Agitation seeping in through the calm. Escobedo had learned early on to stick to his own affairs, not to involve himself in matters beyond his purview. He had heard rumors about Seb Jessup, that some of his enterprises were on the risky side. Perhaps even unlawful. Escobedo closed his mind to these rumors. He had steady work. No one bothered him and whatever his employer got up to was none of his business.

That was because he had no idea what was really going on around him. He stayed below the radar. His friend, shortly after Escobedo had arrived in Texas, had explained the facts of life:

“Remember who you are. Do your work. Be humble and do not ask questions. Leave your curiosity at home each day. Be what you are. Invisible. The laborer. Have no shadow. Understand this and you will survive. Make noise and you will pay the price.”

Even though he kept a low profile, Escobedo could not escape hearing the gossip of the other Hispanic employees. Some worked inside the house, others in the body shop where Jessup’s extensive fleet of cars and SUVs were parked. Escobedo picked up murmurs. Tried to remain indifferent, but words stuck. Remained in his memory.

Words like illegals.

Wetbacks.

Transients from across the border.

Once heard, these words became a permanent fixture in Escobedo’s thoughts. He wanted to ask questions, but his friend’s advice made him hold his tongue. So he watched and listened. There was inside him a sense of morality that refused to allow him to ignore those words. And the harder he tried to dispel them, the stronger the need to know more plagued him.

The urge to understand grew, and he watched and listened more intently.

His friend’s advice teased him. Leave your curiosity at home each day. But Escobedo’s need to know would not let him rest.

He understood the regime that exploited Mexican labor. The shadowy businesses that brought in cheap workers, in the same position as he was. People who wanted to work. To enjoy a better quality of life. They all knew it was a risk, that they would be paid only the minimum, yet they still came, because even that was better for many of them than the life they had in Mexico.

Escobedo had been luckier. His friend had obtained a work permit for him, the piece of paper that made him official. Having someone vouch for him had made life easier. At least Escobedo did not have to survive like a criminal. He could walk the streets with impunity. He wished things were better, but at least here in America he felt safer than in Mexico. And if he worked hard he would eventually become an American citizen.

Then the day came when a situation developed and drew Escobedo to it with its addictive power.

He had been on his knees behind the thick shrubs he was pruning, so was unseen by the men who made their way through the gardens and vanished inside one of the large barns. Something in the way they moved caught Escobedo’s interest, and he heard one of them speak as he passed within ten feet of him, seemingly unaware of the Mexican’s presence.

“Damn illegals. Jessup will make them pay this time…”

Escobedo had waited until the men were all inside the barn, then took a roundabout route that brought him to the far side of the building. As he slid against the wall, he heard a voice that was unmistakably Jessup’s. The man was angry, almost ranting. Escobedo eased his way to a side door and slipped through it. The sound of Jessup’s voice filled the interior of the barn. Escobedo snaked his way through the collection of farm implements until he was able to see what was happening.

And wished he hadn’t.

He knew right then that his earlier indifference to the rumors floating around had allowed these things to continue. He had learned things about Jessup that he should have reported, yet his concern for his own safety had forced him to stand back, trying to convince himself he should stay clear.

Leave your curiosity at home.

A half dozen of Jessup’s men were gathered in a loose crowd around a pair of kneeling Mexicans. The man and woman were young, already bleeding from blows to their faces. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Seb Jessup stood over them, his angry words echoing off the rafters.

Escobedo caught fragments of his tirade, which had to do with lost money, betrayal, risking Jessup’s business and threatening his livelihood…

Without thinking, Escobedo pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He trained the camera on Jessup and the kneeling Mexicans. He had no idea how he could help the young couple, but he felt compelled to do something. Anything. Because the terrible feeling sweeping over him told him something bad was about to happen.

One of the men stepped forward and handed something to Jessup.

It was a wooden baseball bat, and without pausing, Jessup swung it, striking first the girl, then the young man.

The sickening sound would stay with Escobedo for a long time. The crunch of the hard wood against weaker skulls. Jessup alternated between his two victims, and their pained cries filled Escobedo’s ears. Terrible sounds. Even when the pair slumped forward, Jessup kept up the barrage. Blood flew in bright sprays. The young couple flopped on the barn floor, bodies jerking and twitching as the estate owner battered them in a frenzy of rage. Jessup was spattered with red, yet he still kept up the attack, until one of his men told him the man and woman were dead. He stepped back, panting from his exertions as he stared at the splintered bone and brain matter oozing from the misshapen skulls.

Jessup threw down the bloodied baseball bat.

“Get rid of them,” he said. “And when you meet with those Mexican traffickers, tell ’em what happened. Put the fear of God into those fuckers…”

Escobedo felt a presence. He turned and looked into the face of one of Jessup’s men.

“Hey, you greaser son of a bitch.” The man reached out to grab hold of him.

Escobedo swung around and instinctively lashed out with his free hand, more in panic than resistance. His bunched fist slammed against the other man’s jaw. The sound of the blow was loud. The guy spun away from Escobedo, dazed by the strike. His legs gave and he fell to his knees.

Escobedo didn’t stay around to see what else was happening. He understood his position. He had witnessed Seb Jessup commit two brutal murders. There was no way the man could allow that to go unpunished.

Escobedo remembered the baseball bat, dripping with the blood of the two victims. That could be his fate if he didn’t move.

He pushed the cell phone into his pocket, then turned and ran across the barn to the door where he’d entered. He shouldered it open and went through. Legs pumping, driven by pure fear, he ran through the gardens and around to the front of the big house. As he crossed the paved drive, he was confronted by the ever-present collection of vehicles parked there.

His thoughts of escape pressured him to go to the closest vehicle, a heavy Ford 4x4. As he yanked open the driver’s door, he saw the keys hanging from the ignition. Escobedo climbed in, fumbled with the key, then felt the powerful engine burst into life. He dropped the handbrake, yanked the lever into Drive and stepped on the gas pedal. The 4x4 lurched forward, tires burning against the asphalt. Escobedo fought the wheel as the vehicle turned. He felt it slam against the side of one of the other parked cars, then he got control and headed toward the exit.

He had no fixed destination in mind. His only thoughts were to get away from Jessup and his crew. Escobedo knew they would be coming after him. He was not an experienced driver and thanked God that the roads in Texas tended to run straight. The Ford hurtled onward, responding to his foot on the pedal, and the engine roared as the vehicle gathered speed.

Tangled questions fought for space in his mind.

What to do?

Where to go?

Who could he trust?

He glanced in the rearview mirror.

Several vehicles were on his tail. They were still a distance away, but Escobedo knew that would change.

He had made a bad mistake. One that could end with him sprawled out on that barn floor, his body beaten and bloody. Jessup standing over him, rage in his eyes as he battered him to death. Escobedo had gone into the barn without a clear thought in his head, intent on finding out what was happening, not considering the implications.

He had confirmed his suspicions, but had he expected to simply walk out and inform the authorities? Now none of that mattered.

Hermano Escobedo had exposed himself, and his discovery has plunged him into this nightmare.

Stories about traffickers should have warned him. They bought and sold human lives, their only concern the money they made from the business. One more dead Mexican would pass unnoticed.

Unless he could escape from them.

Escobedo stared through the windshield. How would he get away? They were already following him, and he knew they would not give up. He had witnessed the cruel deaths of the two young Mexicans. Jessup needed to make sure the knowledge went no further.

Broken Tree lay before Escobedo. He realized he might not find any kind of salvation in the town. Seb Jessup was well-known here, while he himself was practically a stranger. He couldn’t think of one person he could go to, and a wave of despair washed over him. Violence and death such as this had never featured in his life. It made him think that leaving Mexico had been a mistake. Life in his home village might have been slow and lacking in opportunity, yet there had been no reason to imagine anything like his present situation. Right now, he would welcome his pedestrian existence in Ascensión.

Despite his fear, Escobedo remembered what he had seen. Two young lives wiped out in an instant. Hopes and dreams gone. All because of Jessup’s rage and animal brutality. His own safety suddenly didn’t seem so important.

He failed to see the bend in the otherwise straight road until he reached it. Escobedo tugged on the steering wheel, felt the 4x4 slide, dust streaming up from the tires. The front wheels cleared the edge of the pavement and the vehicle bounced, the hood seeming to rise in front of him. The vehicle hit the drainage ditch and dropped hard, coming to a jarring stop. Escobedo hung on to the wheel, managing to prevent himself from being thrown forward. The engine stalled and he sat in silence for a few seconds.

Move, Hermano, he thought. Before they reach you. Because you will be a dead man if they do.

He snapped out of his frozen state, pushed open the door and half fell from the car. He caught his balance and stared at his surroundings. A scrubby field swept away in front of him, and in the hazy distance he could see the edge of Broken Tree. Without a moment of hesitation, he cut across the field.

When he reached the trash-strewn back lots, Escobedo eased between two stores, emerging on the main street.

Get away from Broken Tree. The thought persisted. It was the sensible thing to do. If he remained in town, Jessup’s people would find him.

He forced himself to walk calmly along the street, his mind creating and rejecting scenarios. He had to do something direct. Simple.

He walked past a bank, then suddenly stopped. To get away he would need money. He took out his wallet and used his card to draw a few hundred dollars from the bank’s ATM; the money he had been saving for his future in America. With the cash in his pocket, he continued down the street.

There was a small coffee shop along the way. Escobedo went inside and ordered a drink, sat down in the farthest booth from the door, where he could still watch the street.

Had he evaded the men pursuing him?

He couldn’t believe they had given up. With the realization that he had proof of Jessup’s crime, they would not let up. They would search Broken Tree end to end. Probably hand out money for information about him.

He needed to do something to protect himself. He thought about going to the local police, but rejected the idea. He had heard about local law enforcement sometimes having connections with organized crime, and now that he understood Jessup’s involvement with human trafficking, he couldn’t fail to think along those lines. Whether it was true or not, he didn’t dare expose himself to it.

Was he becoming paranoid?

He argued with himself over that. He had not imagined the events in the barn. The scene had been real. Too real. He couldn’t afford to underestimate Seb Jessup.

With local law enforcement off the table, that meant going further afield.

His knowledge of the American justice system was limited. Escobedo had stayed well within the law, so had not come into contact with it, but he had heard of the FBI and Justice Department in Washington. Surely they were far enough away not to be affected by someone like Seb Jessup in a small town in Texas.

Escobedo finished his coffee and left. It was late in the afternoon. He walked through town until he came to the municipal library. It took him some time to find what he was looking for, but when he finally left, he had a telephone number written on a piece of paper.

He found a working pay phone on the edge of the park at the center of town. His hand trembled as he lifted the receiver, and he dropped a couple coins before he finally deposited the correct change.

The line was clear and the voice on the other end calm and precise. The words spoken would change Escobedo’s whole life.

“Justice Department. How can I help?”

* * *

IT WAS DARK by the time Escobedo reached the building where he rented his small apartment. He stayed in the shadows, waiting until he was sure no one was watching the place, then he climbed the stairs. He let himself in quietly and used the illumination from the street to guide him around. He was not expecting to stay very long. Just enough time to stuff a few belongings into a backpack.

His instructions from the man he had spoken to in Washington had been clear: “Stay away from contact with anyone you know. Do not speak to anyone. Do exactly what the agents tell you, and cooperate. Try to behave normally, so that you do not arouse suspicions.” The man had described a location, and given a time when two agents would pick him up and take him somewhere secure.

Escobedo left his apartment by the fire escape and strode quickly through the neighborhood to the rendezvous point. It was a long walk, and when he reached the spot and saw the parked SUV blink its lights, he moved faster, relieved that his pickup was waiting as promised.

He was almost at the car when the squeal of tires behind him made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the shadowy bulk of the approaching vehicle as it accelerated.

Everything moved so fast that Escobedo had no time to think of anything except staying alive.