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Recovery Force
The last gunner realized the odds had been narrowed
The gangbanger raised his gun and sprayed indiscriminately in the warrior’s direction. Bolan took cover and grimaced at the thought that an innocent bystander might get in the way.
Unfortunately for the gun-toting hood, he’d never have the chance to kill Bolan or a noncombatant.
The man’s body began to rock under the impact of the half-dozen or so police weapons suddenly aimed at him. The cops doled out a fury of destructive automatic fire from their Colt AR-15s and pistols. The thug staggered a moment and then collapsed to the pavement.
Bolan continued in motion around the corner and sprinted down the street. He would have to lay low for a while, come back later to retrieve his vehicle. He couldn’t spend the next twenty-four hours in a police lockup under interrogation. He still had a lot to do in Phoenix.
The mission had only just begun.
Recovery Force
Don Pendleton’s
The Executioner ®
The law condemns and punishes only actions within certain definite and narrow limits; it thereby justifies, in a way, all similar actions that lie outside those limits.
—Leo Tolstoy
1828–1910
What I Believe
I won’t stand by and watch this epidemic of terror spread throughout America. As long as I have breath in me, I will stamp out these kidnappers, murderers and drug peddlers at the source.
—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.
“We’re in the eye of the storm. If it doesn’t stop here, if we’re not able to fix it here and get it turned around, it will go across the nation.”
—Chief of Police
Phoenix, Arizona
I won’t stand by and watch this epidemic of terror spread throughout America. As long as I have breath in me, I will stamp out these kidnappers, murderers and drug peddlers at the source.
—Mack Bolan, The Executioner
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Prologue
The girl awoke with a start, covered in sweat.
Her heart thumped in her chest; her breath came in short bursts—more like gasping than breathing. She tried to reach up to the pain at the back of her head that throbbed with each beat of her heart. In her state of murky consciousness, it took time to realize that someone had bound her hands….
SHE DIDN’T REMEMBER passing out but realized she must have because she came to again with much the same reaction. She noticed her parched throat this time and it felt as if her tongue had swollen to twice its normal size. She wanted to puke but she realized if she did it could mean death. The gag would prevent her from voiding and she might choke on her own vomit. So she wretched a few times and swallowed back anything more.
Only fourteen years of age, she hadn’t known such terror before and probably wouldn’t know it again.
Then she thought of her boyfriend, Dino Montera, only two years older than her. He was a tall kid, muscular and in good shape, a football player on the junior varsity team. Even Dino had been caught off guard by the men who seemed to come out of nowhere. At least, Ann-Elise thought that they were men, although she sort of remembered hearing a woman’s voice at some point, too. The only other thing she could remember was that they spoke in another language, probably Spanish. Maybe Spanish? Ann-Elise couldn’t be really sure, but she would have to pay better attention because the cops would want to know when they came to her rescue.
Then she looked over to her right, turning her head slowly to stave off the pain. She remembered, as she stared at her boyfriend through blurred vision—poor Dino was tied to a chair, his face blood-caked—that something had struck her in the back of the head. Hard. That’s why it probably hurt so much. God, maybe she had brain damage or something. She’d heard about that kind of thing happening after being hit in the head. And Ann-Elise knew about those things because she’d studied them in her dad’s medical books. One day, she wanted to be a doctor, like her dad.
Her mother, a prominent attorney to residents of Scottsdale, had warned her not to go gallivanting about downtown Phoenix without an adult. What difference would that have made? If the men who had knocked her unconscious were able to take down a young man Dino’s size, they would have been able to take down any adult just as easily.
Ann-Elise didn’t have to wonder anymore about her captors because one of them suddenly appeared, blocking her line of sight. She looked up at the man but he’d concealed his face with some sort of mask. She couldn’t really make out anything about him other than he was very big, and he had dark eyes. There wasn’t any emotion in them. They stared at her without pity or consideration, and Ann-Elise considered in that moment the horrific possibility they might hurt her more. Ann-Elise decided not to think about such things yet. Obviously, they had kidnapped her and Dino for ransom and she knew her father and mother had enough money to pay. They would pay her captors, pay whatever it took. And they had many wealthy friends, too. They lived in a city that was home to some of the wealthiest people in the world. At least, that’s what everyone at the academy said.
Boy, she wouldn’t be able to live this one down.
The man stared at her another moment and then turned his attention to Dino. Ann-Elise watched with a mixed sense of shock and terror as the man reached down to grab something and came up with a large, plastic bucket. He suddenly heaved the bucket in Dino’s direction and doused him with water. Probably cold water.
The bastard!
Dino came suddenly awake and choked back what sounded like a scream. The man stood there a moment, arms folded, and Ann-Elise thought she heard him make a noise. Something that sounded like a laugh. Then the man reached forward suddenly, untied Dino and hauled him out of the chair. Dino staggered and stumbled around like a drunk, and Ann-Elise realized he’d probably put up more of a fight than she had, so they had to beat him up to stop him. Her poor, poor Dino. He had taken punishment intended for her just because he tried to protect her.
The man finally clamped a hand on Dino’s shoulder and steered him out of Ann-Elise’s sight. She began to make protests, screaming against the gag and warning the man with a flurry of threats and curses not to hurt her boyfriend, but she couldn’t see if it had any effect. Not that she thought it would…. She began to cry, trying to refrain because that made it more difficult to breathe. Her cries became sobs as she heard an incessant thumping noise—a sound that could only have been Dino taking another beating.
Why were they hurting him? What had he done to them?
Her mind screamed at them to stop but she knew she could do nothing about it.
And then for a long time the sounds stopped and she heard no more noise, nothing. Then the sound of voices, angry voices arguing or something.
Yes, it was definitely Spanish.
Then she heard a door open and the man came back into view, walking backward and dragging something, but Ann-Elise couldn’t tell what. Although she knew it was probably Dino, she didn’t want to think about it. Maybe not. Maybe it was just some equipment, a bag or box or something. Whatever it was, the man wasn’t too gentle about dumping the load onto the floor next to her. The man didn’t give her a glance as he stomped out and slammed the door behind him, causing Ann-Elise to jump.
And she began to cry again, moaning Dino’s name past the gag, the sound of her cries muffled in her own ears.
1
Mack Bolan lowered the binoculars and frowned. Too quiet.
He sat in his vehicle parked a half block from the residence where he believed members of the Sinaloa drug cartel were holding a teenage girl and her boyfriend. The sun beat through the windshield, threatening to roast him out. All windows were down and the sunroof open to facilitate air movement, but there didn’t seem to be much of it today in southwest Phoenix. So Bolan sat practically motionless and ignored the heavy sweat that soaked his face, neck and areas where his clothing fit snugly.
The warrior looked a bit out of place.
Although he’d dressed like a native in khaki-style shorts and a loose-fitting polo, it still looked idiotic for him to be sitting in his car in the midmorning heat. Fortunately, activity in the neighborhood had seemed minimal, most everyone already having gone to work or run the day’s errands. Bolan had been sitting there since about 0730 hours and it was nearing eleven.
There hadn’t been so much as a stirring around or in the target house. The shades were pulled and only a dusty, early-model SUV sat in the drive. Bolan scanned the place one more time through the binoculars, then studied the black-and-white print made from a yearbook photo of the missing girl, and a similar one taken around the same time of her boyfriend.
The Executioner’s intelligence had been sketchy, but he knew the information provided by Stony Man would be much more solid than anything the Phoenix police could give him. Trouble had come to the Sun City and it seemed nobody could do anything about it. Half the country believed the press when they touted the war between the Sinaloa and Gulf drug cartels out of Mexico as the primary reason for the rise in kidnappings. The other half chalked it up to nothing more than media hype. The naysayers were convinced the kidnappings were mostly related to the higher likelihood ransoms would be paid due to the fact Arizona had long attracted the rich and elite.
Bolan thought both sides of the issue had merit. But with the numbers at an all-time high, the Executioner realized the time had come to put an end to it. And while he couldn’t completely eliminate it, the problem was large enough that it could branch out. The best way to stop it was here and now—terminate the enemy’s plan of action before it reached that point.
And Bolan planned to start with two innocent teenagers.
Bolan put the photos away, secured the binoculars and then checked the action on his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The pistol had served him well on many past missions, and recently he’d upgraded to the newer Mark XIX model with a brushed chrome finish. The Beretta 93-R that he normally wore in shoulder leather rode in a hip holster concealed by the loose-fit polo. His best offense would be surprise, in this instance, since the place wasn’t likely to be heavily fortified or guarded. Additionally, the Sinaloa cartel had probably been using it as a stash house for a while, which means any of its occupants would be relaxed and not too alert. That made it a perfect target for someone with the Executioner’s special talents.
Bolan laid the Desert Eagle on the passenger seat, started the rental car and coasted down the street until he came within a few yards. He then swung the nose into the driveway at an angle as he picked up speed and drove across the pavement onto the lawn of half-dead grass. When he got within a few feet of the front door he gave the horn a blast before snatching up the pistol and going EVA.
Less than a minute elapsed before the door opened and a stocky, bare-chested Mexican with a shaved head and tattoos covering half his body emerged from the house. He looked angry as he gave the sedan a once-over, but then his eyes tracked to the right. But he was too late and Bolan was on him before the hood could react in time to bring up the pistol he’d been holding behind his baggy jeans. Bolan caught him with a kick that broke several ribs and drove the cartel gangster into the unyielding metal of the foreign-make rental. As the guy’s body bounced off of it, Bolan followed with a backhand that drove the butt of his pistol into a point behind his opponent’s ear. The guy dropped to the pavement like a stone.
Bolan pushed through the front door in time to see another hood emerge from a hallway off the main living area. The man raised a pistol, holding it gangster style with the ejector port pointed up. Bolan snap-aimed the Desert Eagle and squeezed the trigger twice. Happenstance favored Bolan because that first round struck the gunman’s hand that held the pistol and sent it flying. The second round landed dead-center in the chest, fracturing the breastbone before coring through tissue to the spine and driving the hood into the wall behind him. He collapsed on the carpet in a heap.
Another gunner jumped into view, framed by an entryway into the kitchen, a shotgun in his hand. Bolan dove in time to avoid the first blast of buckshot that winged over his body and blew a massive hole in the drywall. The warrior rolled and that saved him from a second blast into the carpet that sent dust, dirt and chunks of crushed carpet fibers in every direction. Bolan followed through the roll and into a firing posture on one knee. He acquired his target in milliseconds and triggered a round before the man could get off a third shot. The 280-gram slug busted through the hood’s left side, perforating his heart as it traveled upward at an angle and exited out his right armpit. The impact spun the enemy and he slammed against the wall. The shotgun clattered to the linoleum followed by the corpse a heartbeat later.
Bolan swept the muzzle of the Desert Eagle across his immediate field of fire, eyes and ears attuned to any further threats. Eventually, he relaxed and got to his feet, although he didn’t let down his guard. He held the .44 Magnum at a ready state while he scoured the rest of the house. Eventually, he found a door concealing a stairwell that emerged onto a semifinished basement.
The sight of a breathing, conscious girl tied to an old table sent a ripple of satisfaction through Bolan’s tired body, but he also noticed the lump of bruised, beaten flesh on the ground. He rushed to the boy’s motionless form and checked the pulse at the neck. Nothing. Bolan pressed his lips together in a hard mask as he rose and approached the girl.
“It’s okay,” he said as quietly and evenly as he could manage. “You’re going to be all right, now. I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”
She nodded, blinking those red-streaked crystal-blue eyes hard—she’d obviously been crying.
Bolan disposed of the gag that had left red welts across her cheeks and then cut away her bonds with a pocketknife version of the Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife. She choked and wheezed at first, and he watched her with concern. The moment proved short-lived and only Bolan’s reflexes saved his tennis shoes from being covered by the significant amount of vomit she projected over the side of the table.
When it seemed she was finished and left only with dry heaves, Bolan said, “You don’t look much like your yearbook photo.”
She eyed him with a queer expression as he helped her sit up.
Bolan continued with a smile, “You’re much prettier in person. I assume you’re Ann-Elise?”
She nodded and wiped the side of her mouth. Her voice cracked when she said, “Dino? Is Dino okay?”
The warrior wished she would have asked him anything but that, although he knew it wasn’t as if he could put off the subject indefinitely. Despite the trauma through which she’d gone, the young girl deserved to know the truth no matter how painful it might be. Until she could come to terms with his death, the healing could not begin.
“I’m sorry,” Bolan whispered. “He didn’t make it.”
Ann-Elise looked at Bolan a moment and then let out a blood-curdling scream and threw her arms around him. He decided it was time for them to get the hell out of there, and he hauled her off the table and up the stairs without another look at Montera’s corpse.
Once they were outside, Bolan seat-belted Ann-Elise into the passenger seat of the sedan and then ran around and climbed behind the wheel. He cranked the engine, backed off the lawn and onto the road, then proceeded at a conservative pace down the quiet street. He could have just as easily left in a display of screeching, smoking tires but he figured there was little point in drawing attention. The street still looked relatively deserted and he didn’t detect the approach of police sirens.
That meant the commotion inside had probably gone unnoticed.
Good, he needed to buy some time. It wouldn’t help his mission to risk unplanned contact with the police so early in the game. He had to get on the other side of the blue wall, sure, but on his terms. Anything less would only create more problems for him, more things to worry about.
Bolan had chosen to take this one on his own. At Stony Man Farm, Hal Brognola and Barbara Price were preoccupied with larger matters. Bolan had it on good authority from pilot Jack Grimaldi, that both the Phoenix Force and Able Team units were on assignments of a grave nature. So what else was new? Bolan thought about the battle-hardened veterans of Stony Man taking it to the enemy—he wished them well.
So yeah, he would go it alone this time.
Ann-Elise simply sobbed and curled her arms around herself. Bolan had rolled up the windows so the winds wouldn’t buffet her as he pulled onto the highway. She didn’t say anything to him and he didn’t press it. He’d saved her from what would certainly have been a long and brutal captivity. That’s what he did best, and he’d leave the social work and other similar services to those better qualified to render it.
In under thirty minutes, Bolan had arrived at the large home in a peaceful, residential section on the west side of Scottsdale, close to where it bordered Phoenix.
Bolan got out of the car, opened the door and unbuckled the seat belt. He offered a hand, but the girl chose to exit without assistance. She started to walk up the sidewalk to the door and then looked back at Bolan, who stood there with arms folded as he watched her.
“Go on, Ann-Elise. Go home, your family’s waiting for you.”
“You’re—” She bit off the reply and seemed to chew uncertainly at her lip. When she took a deep breath she appeared to have mustered whatever courage it seemed to take to speak to him. “You’re not coming?”
Bolan shook his head. “There would be questions. Too many for me to answer at this moment. Do you understand?”
“Funny,” the girl replied with a slightly wistful smile. “But I guess I do.”
Bolan nodded, winked and then got in the sedan and drove away.
AFTER DROPPING OFF Ann-Elise McCormack, Bolan returned to his hotel to clean up a bit.
He showered, changed into lightweight cotton slacks and a black muscle shirt. He then transferred the Beretta 93-R to shoulder leather before donning a buttoned maroon shirt to conceal it. After cleaning the Desert Eagle and stowing it in his equipment bag, Bolan sifted through the yellow pages of the phone book until he found the address of a pharmacy on Phoenix’s southwest side. He memorized the address and then stuffed the equipment bag under the bed, leaving the privacy tag on the outside of the door to wave off maid service.
The Executioner considered his options as he drove across town. He’d approach this part of his mission with a soft probe, at first. Bolan had intel the pharmacy was a Sinaloa cartel front for laundering drug money. A narco-military unit known as Los Negros provided protection and enforcement for Sinaloa cartel ops according to Bolan’s DEA connection, Vince Gagliardi. Officially, Gagliardi was breaking every rule in the book by revealing anything he learned to Bolan. He’d been working deep undercover within the local drug distribution network as a low-ranking mule. Gagliardi had been building a case against Los Negros for some time by infiltrating Los Zetas, chief enforcement and operations for the competing Gulf cartel.
At their secret rendezvous in a Flagstaff coffee shop three days earlier, Gagliardi told Bolan, “Phoenix P.D. hadn’t been able to gather enough evidence to hit the place until now.”
“And why’s that?” Bolan asked.
“Los Negros is an extremely efficient organization,” Gagliardi said. “They’re well-equipped and highly mobile. You see, after the Mexican army brought down Osiel Cárdonas in 2003, the Sinaloa cartel saw their opportunity to move into the Nuevo Laredo region. You familiar with that?”
Bolan nodded. Nuevo Laredo had always been the hotbed of activity in the war between the Sinaloa and Gulf cartels. The region had become an extremely important drug corridor. Nearly half of all drug exports from Mexico were smuggled through the area connected on the south side of the Rio Grande with Laredo, Texas. It seemed almost ironic the area had been nicknamed la puerta a Mexico, or the door to Mexico. If anything, Nuevo Laredo had definitely become that for the drug runners.
“Okay, so everybody inside knows that Edgar Valdez Villareal runs Los Negros, but the guy who’s pulling the strings behind the move into Phoenix is a dude by the name of Hector Casco.” Gagliardi surreptitiously slid a folder across the table and then lit a cigarette while Bolan glanced through various documents. “That contains a copy of his dossier and all the shit I could dredge up on him inside our computer files. Some of it was a little tough to come by because he’s actively under investigation and there are things for which I don’t have clearance.”
“I appreciate it,” Bolan said with a nod.
Indeed he did because despite the fact Bolan had saved Gagliardi from certain death once, the DEA man was once again putting his career and his life on the line. If anyone inside the Gulf cartel suspected betrayal and put a tail on him, Gagliardi wouldn’t last twelve hours after leaving that coffee shop, never mind the heat he’d take if his handler found out he’d broken protocol to help out a friend and outsider. And the Executioner fit both those descriptors.
“What’s Casco’s angle?”
Gagliardi shrugged. “I can’t be sure yet, but I think he’s vying for the favorite-son position in this part of the border states. Maybe looking to become independent, as it were.”
