Missile Intercept

“Dammit! Watch what you say. You never know who’s listening.”

“Sorry, sir.” Hudson felt himself flush. McGreagor had a way of making him feel embarrassed and inadequate even if he was a couple thousand miles away.

“Use some common sense,” McGreagor snapped. “We’ve got to make this excursion flawless. If we’re going to stay on schedule for our launch, we need to impress the shit out of these investors. We can’t afford any slipups. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Hudson said. “I got it.”

“Good. Get everything set up and then get your ass back here.”

Hudson ended the call and took a long gulp of the drink.

“Your boss is upset?” the woman asked, canting her head slightly.

He shook his head. “He’s just being his typical, asshole self.”

“So,” she said, pulling Hudson close. “This will not interfere with our plans, will it?”

“No, no, of course not. Let’s not worry about him. I can handle it.”

“All is well, then?” she asked. “The company retreat will remain on schedule?”

“Everything’s ducky, Kim Soo-Han,” Hudson said, pronouncing each syllable of her name with delicious distinction. “Just ducky. Trust me.”

Soon, he thought. Soon.

Café de Luca

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN NODDED TO Martinez as the sergeant entered the small cantina and headed to their table. He’d changed into civilian clothes, as had Bolan and Grimaldi, but still hardly looked like a typical citizen out for an early-evening snack. He shook hands with the two Americans, sat, then shook his head.

“I have just come from telling the families of my fallen marines about the deaths of their loved ones. It was very sad.”

Bolan nodded in commiseration. He knew the pain of loss.

The server arrived to take his order. Both Bolan and Grimaldi had bottles of beer on the table in front of them.

“Beer,” Martinez said.

The woman left and the big marine leaned forward, his hefty forearms on the tabletop. “Now, what is it that you wished to speak to me about?”

“I’ve been thinking about the raid,” Bolan said. “The men we lost. It shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. We had the element of surprise.”

Martinez compressed his lips and nodded, a look of anger in his dark eyes.

“Sí,” he said. “I agree.”

“Right before the firefight started, someone shouted and the lights and sirens began.”

Martinez nodded again. “I remember.”

“How did they discover we were there? They hadn’t seen us, and we were moving up just like clockwork.”

“What is it you are saying?”

“Someone on our team tipped them off during our approach. It’s the only answer.”

“No,” Martinez said, shaking his head. “No. I will not believe this. I have fought and died beside my men. There is no possibility that one of them is a traitor.”

“One of the cartel guards used the word marines,” Bolan said. “He knew we were marines and not the police. How did he know that?”

Martinez looked down at the tabletop. Just as he was about to speak the server returned with his beer. She smiled at them as she set it down and asked if they needed anything else.

Bolan slipped her some pesos and shook his head. The woman smiled again and moved away.

“Think about it, Jesus,” Grimaldi said. “I wasn’t down and dirty with you guys, but my partner’s seldom wrong about such things.”

The sergeant sat in silence for several seconds, not moving.

“You owe it to your men to check this out,” Bolan said quietly.

Martinez slowly nodded.

“We can help you. We have resources we can use outside your agency. Outside the Mexican government.”

Martinez twisted his lips into a scowl and looked directly into Bolan’s eyes. “Sí, and if this is true, I will kill the traitor myself.”

“We can worry about that when the time comes,” Bolan said. “The first thing I need to stress is that you tell no one. I’m trusting you, but no one else at the moment.”

Martinez nodded.

“Second,” Bolan said, “I’ll need the cell phone numbers of everyone involved, including any of the cartel’s phone numbers on record.”

Martinez nodded again. He removed his cell phone from the case on his belt and pressed a few numbers. “I will contact Captain Ruiz now, and obtain the information you request.”

Bolan held up his hand and said, “Wait. I’d prefer to keep this just between us for the time being.”

“But the captain—”

“Should only be informed if we are correct in our assumption,” Bolan told him. “There’s no reason to cast aspersions on good marines unless we’re sure.”

“Of course,” Martinez said, and held his phone toward the Executioner.

Bolan shook his head and smiled fractionally. “I don’t want yours.”

“Take it anyway,” Martinez said. “I would never ask or expect my men to do something that I am not willing to do, as well.”

Bolan again declined the offer. Before he could say anything more, Martinez’s cell phone flashed and vibrated, signaling an incoming call. He glanced at the number on the screen, his brow furrowing, and answered it.

The Executioner followed the one-sided conversation as best he could. It seemed to contain disconcerting news. Martinez issued a couple of directives, terminated the call and replaced the cell in his belt case.

“One of the prisoners is dead,” he said. “The cartel guard. He was found strangled in his cell. I was told he hanged himself.”

“What about the Cuban?” Bolan asked.

“I gave orders that he be guarded around the clock. Your government is sending agents to conduct an interrogation, right?”

“Right. We’re heading over to the airport in a little while to pick them up. It’s imperative that nothing happens to the Cuban. We need to interview him,” Bolan stated.

Martinez stood, his face set with a grim expression. “I will go to the jail now and personally see to it.”

Bolan and Grimaldi rose in turn, and the Executioner extended his hand. “We appreciate your help.”

As they shook hands, Martinez’s expression did not waver. “And I appreciate yours. If there is a traitor in our midst, we must find him swiftly.”

Abandoned warehouse

Panama City, Panama

YI WATCHED AS the Black Tiger squad went through the various inspections of the weapons the cartel agent had brought. Even though the warehouse was deserted and empty, the lights worked fine. The gangsters had set up a series of flimsy folding tables at various points around the room for the weapons assembly. The guns glistened with oil as the team fieldstripped them, wiped them down and reassembled them with practiced ease. The weapons were all Western and American brands, M-16 rifles, Glock handguns, some Heckler & Koch submachine guns, but that did not matter. His Black Tigers had been trained on all weapons and were very familiar with these. Yi put aside his personal preference for his weapons of choice, the Chinese-made AK-47 and the 9 mm Baek Du San pistol, and smacked the fully loaded magazine into the Glock 17. He inserted the pistol into the low-slug tactical holster on his right thigh and slipped the sound suppressor into his pants pocket. He was a bit dissatisfied with the suppressor. The cylindrical attachment was so large that, once attached to the barrel of the weapon, the cam prevented proper sight alignment. However, the Western weapons would have to suffice for the time being.

The two men, one Mexican and the other Panamanian, who had brought the weapons stood off to the side and watched, each with a smirking expression on his face. The Mexican’s cream-colored sport jacket looked as if it needed cleaning. Half-moons of sweat had soaked through the underarms. Yi could relate. The heat and humidity in this place were so oppressive it was like standing fully clothed in a steam bath.

The gangster from Panama was more sensibly dressed, wearing a loose chambray shirt with the sleeves razored off. He was smaller than the Mexican, but no less unctuous.

“How you like them babies, huh?” he said.

Yi stared at him and replied, “They are far from ideal, but they will suit our purpose. Is there any word from your other men?”

“The ones that went north with yours?” the Panamanian asked. He smiled. “I’m sure they are there by now.”

“I wish you to verify that,” Yi said. “I need to report to my superiors.”

The two gangsters exchanged glances and smirked again.

Yi’s dislike of these men grew, and he considered his options. At this point, he still needed their cooperation, to a degree, so striking down one or both of them might not yet be appropriate. But still, experience had taught him to have little tolerance for disrespect. It could undermine operational effectiveness as quickly as poor planning.

“I think we need to report to ours, as well,” the Mexican said. “And we need to see the money.”

Yi stared at them for a few seconds, then gestured for the Iranian, Basir Farrokhzad, to approach. The man strode forward and set the briefcase on the small card table. As his hands moved to the twin safety catches, Yi stepped between the two gangsters and held his right hand above the briefcase. “No.”

The two gangsters looked at him.

“What you mean, no?” the Mexican snarled. “We gotta see the money now.”

“You see the money,” Yi said, “after you have verified that the Black Dragon and Corporal Wang have arrived at their destination. I want a progress report.”

“The Black Dragon,” the Panamanian gangster said with a laugh. He put his index fingers next to his eyelids and pulled them back, narrowing his gaze. “Does he breathe fire, like Godzilla?”

“It would be wise for you to show me the proper respect,” Yi said.

“Listen, you little prick,” the Mexican said, his finger poking at Yi’s chest. “You’re in our house now. You do like we say, or it could get bad for you.”

Yi kept his hand hovering above the briefcase. Farrokhzad looked nervous.

“Make the call to verify,” Yi said. “Then you can count your money.”

The Mexican and Panamanian exchanged glances and a laugh.

The Mexican muttered something Yi took to be a vulgarity, and reached inside his cream-colored jacket. As he started to withdraw a semiautomatic pistol, Yi shifted his weight, using his left hand to seize the Mexican’s gun hand in a grip of steel, while the palm of his right smashed into the other man’s nose. He pulled the gangster’s arm outward and then chopped his extended elbow with a knife hand blow. The Mexican screamed in pain as Yi stripped the gun from his fingers.

A switchblade knife clicked open in the Panamanian’s right hand, but Yi pivoted, bringing his right foot upward, delivering a quick and powerful crescent kick and knocking the Panamanian’s hand away. Yi’s left hand chopped his adversary’s wrist, causing the knife to drop to the floor. The man grunted in pain as Yi’s foot whipped upward with a hooking back kick, connecting with the rear of the gangster’s head. His eyes rolled upward and he crumpled to the floor. Yi pivoted again, this time delivering a roundhouse kick to the Mexican’s face, and he collapsed, as well. The colonel bent to retrieve the knife, hefting it in his hand to consider the balance and weight.

The Mexican rolled onto his back, glaring up at Yi. The colonel’s arm cocked back and thrust forward with a blur. Seconds later, the knife vibrated, stuck in the wooden floor a few inches from the Mexican’s groin. The gangster’s face sagged.

“As I told you, show proper respect,” Yi said in a low, guttural voice. “Now make the call.” He racked back the slide on the Mexican’s weapon, a flashy chrome Beretta 92F, ejecting the round in the chamber. Yi then dropped the magazine and hurled it toward the far wall of the warehouse. He then gripped the barrel and disassembled the pistol, flinging the parts in different directions. “Then you may count your money.”

The Mexican nodded, took out his cell phone and hastily scrolled through the numbers. His lips twisted into a quick, nervous smile and he nodded, a look of fear in his eyes. Yi knew he would have no more trouble with this man.

The colonel allowed himself to be imbued with a slight sense of satisfaction as he glanced at the other gangster, who was still unconscious on the floor. It had been some time since he had taken out an adversary with a single kick. It was good to know that his practice had kept him sharp.

Force, and the judicious use of it, Yi thought, always commanded respect.

The vision of one of the great Yi Sun-Shin’s all-powerful armored dragon ships coursing through the ocean waters in ages past flashed in his mind’s eye.

Force, he thought. The universal language.

Culiacán International Airport

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI waited in the long hallway outside the international arrivals section. At the American Embassy they had been given brief descriptions of what the two FBI agents looked like, one Asian male, one Hispanic female, as well as photos. The male, Henry Chong, was Korean-American, and fluent in several languages including Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Farsi and Arabic. The female, Teresa Stevenson, was of Cuban descent and fluent in a host of languages, as well.

As they stood watching and waiting for the two federal agents, Bolan mentally reviewed the case. A lot would depend on what the Cuban prisoner had to say. If he could corroborate that the cartel guards had been tipped off just prior to the raid, it might help the Executioner ferret out the traitor.

No one seemed to be moving on the other side of the glass partition where the customs agents waited for incoming arrivals.

“I’m going to check in with Hal,” Bolan said, taking out his sat phone.

He strolled through the series of glass doors and watched the flow of people entering and exiting the airport. A line of taxis waited off to the left. Behind him, far out on the runways, Bolan could hear the revving of a powerful jet engine getting ready for takeoff. He stood by one of the round concrete pillars, took one last look around the area as he raised the sat phone and punched in the number of Brognola’s direct line.

The big Fed answered on the first ring. “I figured you’d call,” he said. “Have Chong and Stevenson shown up yet?”

“We’re still waiting.”

“Aaron’s been checking into those cell phone numbers you gave us and comparing them to recorded calls we’ve been able to pinpoint in the area. There’s the number of a burner phone that called one of the cartel’s cells shortly before you guys hit them, if we’ve got the timing right. Then the cartel phone called one of the guys at the warehouse.”

Bolan knew the chances of identifying someone from the number of a disposable cell phone was nearly impossible, even for an expert as adept at hacking as Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman.

“Where was it purchased?”

Brognola uttered a short, hard laugh. “Mexico City. So that narrows your suspect list down to what, around twenty million?”

“Did the Bear find anything else?”

“Whoever was using the burner was in regular contact with the cartel. The number’s still in use. In fact, we found a few more calls took place earlier today, to guess what?” Brognola waited a beat and then said, “A couple more burner phones, one purchased in Mexico City, and the other one in Hong Kong.”

“That fits with the Asian connection,” Bolan said. He glanced at his watch. “You said the FBI agents’ flight was supposed to land at 1925?”

“Roger that.”

It was now 1930. “Well, they should be clearing customs soon. I’d better get back.”

Brognola told him to stay safe.

“Will do,” Bolan said. “And, Hal, email those burner phone numbers when you get a chance.”

Bolan ended the call and rejoined Grimaldi by the exits, watching as a new throng of people began moving through the doors. The Executioner kept scanning the crowd and caught a glimpse of a familiar face. He moved on an intercept course and stepped in front of Captain Ruiz and another man.

Ruiz blinked in surprise, then seemed to recognize Bolan. The other man, small and slightly built, wearing a blue suit and glasses, smiled under a bushy mustache and said in Spanish, “Excuse us, sir, but we are in a hurry.”

“Sí,” Bolan said, adding in English, “I just wanted to say hello to Captain Ruiz.”

Ruiz spoke rapidly to the other man in Spanish, then added in halting English, “These are...American agents who assisted on raid against cartel.”

The bespectacled man smiled and nodded. “Ah, you are American? The captain tells me you are very brave men. You are meeting some friends here, no?”

Bolan and Grimaldi nodded.

“Bueno. We are meeting some people as well, but perhaps we can assist you,” the man said. “Captain Ruiz brought me along to act as his official translator.”

“The people you’re meeting are from the United States?” Bolan asked.

“What?” the bespectacled man said, then turned to Ruiz and fired off a quick sentence in Spanish.

Ruiz smiled and shook his head. His companion turned back to Bolan and Grimaldi and smiled in turn. “I am sorry, but it is a private matter. It has to do with his family.”

Bolan nodded and said, “I understand. By the way, I heard that one of the prisoners we took on the raid was killed.”

Again the bespectacled man did a rapid-fire translation, after which Ruiz nodded, lifting an eyebrow and giving a sigh of regret. “Very bad thing.”

“We have made arrangements,” the shorter man said, “to safeguard the remaining prisoner so that nothing unfortunate happens to him. He has been placed in a secure location.”

“I appreciate that,” Bolan said. He glanced at Ruiz, who seemed calm. “Captain, I know I can speak for my friend when I say that we look forward to our next meeting.”

Ruiz nodded and smiled. “Thank you very much.”

Beyond them, Chong and Stevenson walked through the customs’ doors, each pulling a small carry-on.

“Looks like our friends are here now,” Grimaldi stated.

The bespectacled man whispered something to Ruiz, who turned toward the approaching special agents. “Welcome to Mexico,” he said in English, punctuating it with a wide smile.

Stevenson replied in Spanish, as did Chong. Ruiz raised his eyebrows, and mumbled something to the bespectacled man, who then said, “The captain is impressed that you speak our language so well. He hopes you both have a fortuitous stay in our country.”

Ruiz held out a card bearing his name, title and cell phone number. Bolan took it with a nod of thanks.

“Please let us know,” the translator said, “if there is any way we can be of further assistance.”

“We certainly will,” Grimaldi replied jovially.

The captain and his assistant walked off in the direction of domestic arrivals.

“I’m Henry Chong. You must be Matt Cooper and Jack White,” the agent said, extending his hand toward Bolan, then Grimaldi. Chong nodded toward Ruiz and the other man. “Looks like a friendly bunch down here.”

“Looks like,” Bolan said. He turned to the female agent. “Welcome to Mexico, Agent Stevenson.”

She smiled and shook his hand.

Grimaldi thrust his hand toward Stevenson in turn. “I second that. Anything you need, just ask ole Jack.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Bolan suggested. “Time’s wasting.”

3

National Police Warehouse Number 7

Panama Canal Zone

From their vantage point within the dense forest, the industrial center spread out before them like a lit-up shopping mall. The trees and shrubbery had been cleared for approximately thirty meters around the warehouses, and a metal fence surrounded the compound, topped by concertina wire.

These were pathetic safeguards. The task seemed almost too easy, and Yi did not want his men to be lulled into a false sense of security. Eventually, they were bound to meet stiffer resistance, but a wise man gratefully accepted good fortune when it was presented to him.

Yi ordered Lieutenant Yoon to have the Black Tigers spread out and remain undercover while the scouts cut through the fence and reconnoitered. He then turned to the Panamanian gangster, who was bound with his hands behind his back. The Mexican, also bound, was next to him. After the confrontation at the warehouse during the acquisition of the weapons, Yi felt it was prudent not to trust either man any longer, and to treat them as captured collaborators.

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