Cartel Clash

At the moment, the thunder of his voice had the crew members subdued. They were all tough, but they might as well have been children as they stood ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. They were his men. He paid them well—very well—and provided whatever they needed. All he asked for in return was loyalty and a commitment to the business they were in. He got it. His people were in for the duration. As ruthless as they were in the pursuit of the Rojas Cartel’s needs, they were cowed as Dembrow ranted at them for turning a simple expedition into a total disaster.

As his rage subsided and the invective he spewed began to slow, Dembrow felt his control returning. He ran a hand through his collar-length blond hair and fixed his crew with a hard stare, delivering his concluding words.

“This isn’t what I pay you sons of bitches for. One guy. One fucking guy and he’s making all of you look like a bunch of mouth-breathin’ peckerwoods. This guy is smart, and he can handle himself. Just look what he did to Dante’s crew at the diner. One man, and he put them all down. Now I’m going to say it one more time. Nothing gets done until I give the say-so. Understand? I give the orders—you carry them out. For the moment walk easy. I don’t want the town getting too jumpy. If that happens, the cops will have to start rousting us, and I have enough to worry about. I’ll have this mother dealt with my way.”

The moment Dembrow stopped ranting the subdued group turned and left the study, the last man out closing the door.

Dembrow leaned on his hands, his head hanging. Willing himself to calm down, he took deep breaths, sucking air deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. His anger finally contained, he stood and crossed to the well-stocked wet bar in the corner of the expansive, richly furnished room. He opened the glass-fronted cooler and took out a chilled bottle of beer, removed the cap and enjoyed a long swallow. The cold liquid didn’t satisfy him as it usually did, a sure sign that Dembrow was far from happy. He took out a second bottle and returned to slump behind his desk.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He drained the first bottle and opened the second.

The silent figure in the high-backed deep leather recliner facing the room’s big window slowly eased it around so he could see Dembrow. He had remained unheard and unseen during Dembrow’s bawling out of his crew. He stood and crossed to the bar, helping himself to a large tumbler of vintage bourbon.

Tall, lean, his thick dark hair framing a hollow-cheeked face, he wore all black and moved with a languorous grace. He sat down again, swirling the bourbon in the tumbler, breathing in the fumes.

His name was Billy Joe Rankin. He was Dembrow’s closest adviser, a thinker who viewed a problem from all angles before he offered any kind of advice.

“You want my opinion, Marshal? Get on the phone and call in Preacher and Choirboy. Turn those homicidal maniacs loose. This is their kind of work.”

“Dammit, Billy Joe, I don’t need this right now.”

“Marshal, this is a bad patch you’re going through. It’ll pass. Hey, you’ve gone through times like this before.”

“Oh, sure. This time I let a damned Fed into my organization. He skims off information they can maybe use against me and almost walks away with it.”

“But he didn’t. Manners is dead, and the Feds still don’t have any kind of case against you. Let that ride. If anything does rise to the surface, we’ll let the lawyers handle it. Believe me, Marshal, this is going away.”

“Not until I know who this bastard is.”

“That’s something we all want to know.”

“Is he a damn Fed? A cop? Some psycho on a mission from God?”

“You want to find out?”

“Well, yeah, that seems to be a good idea.”

“Then do what I say. Let your boys run around making noises, but sic Preacher and Choirboy on him. Toss them a contract and let them run.”

Dembrow reached for one of the phones on his desk, tapped in a number and waited while it rang out. The voice on the other end was immediately recognizable.

“Preacher. You want to take a run over? I got a proposition for you two. Big payday. Huge payday. Well, hell, of course the usual. Half down if you come on board. The rest when you deliver. Sure, I’ll be here.”

Rankin poured himself another drink. He stood at the big window overlooking the grounds of Dembrow’s large property.

“It’s time you put that swimming pool in, Marshal. It’ll make a nice addition to the place. We can cut a good deal with Jack Templeton.”

“You think?”

“Big pool. Patio surround. Spot for a barbecue. Damn good way to entertain business clients. Have a few pretty girls running around in bikinis. Or no bikinis.”

Dembrow laughed. “Hey, you could be right, Billy Joe. What the hell, like you said, we got the cash. Give Templeton a call. Set it up.”

Rankin sipped his bourbon, his mission accomplished. Dembrow’s mind had been diverted from his current problems. His employer was a hard man when it came to his business dealings, but he had a failing that caused him to worry overly when problems came his way. If Dembrow allowed himself to be drawn away from his main concerns, the drug business might suffer, and no one in the organization wanted that. Especially Rankin. He enjoyed the success of Dembrow’s dealings and the material gains that he enjoyed. He wanted it to stay that way, so it was part of his job to keep Dembrow on a linear path, fielding off anything that might rock the boat.

PREACHER AND CHOIRBOY showed up an hour later. They parked a gleaming 1986 Lincoln Continental in the drive and stepped out, clad in tailored Western-style suits, complete with leather boots and wide brimmed Stetson hats. They were every inch Texan boys, down to the expensive aviator shades and string ties. The Mexican houseman let them in and escorted them through the house. Dembrow was in his office, alone, Rankin attending to other business. The pair settled into the big armchairs ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. The houseman took their hats. Dembrow handed them ice-cold bottles of beer, then settled back in his own chair.

“Nice job you boys did on that Fed. I think we got the message across.”

“Take a man’s money, it’s only right you give him value,” Preacher said.

Reaching down behind his desk Dembrow lifted a tan leather carry-all. He placed it on the desk and slid it in Preacher’s direction.

“Well, guys, it’s time for you to do it again.”

Preacher took the bag and placed it on the floor between the armchairs.

“You heard about the shooting at the diner?” Dembrow asked.

Choirboy nodded. “Kind of ended up messy.”

“That was a local fuckup,” Dembrow said. “Some of the hired help decided to think for themselves and take out the girl the undercover Fed had been bedding. Figured they were doing me a big favor. All they did was screw up and make the situation worse.”

“The way we heard it, the girl had some protection,” Preacher said.

“Damn right. He spread my crew all over the scene and walked away. “

“He our target?”

“I’ve run some checks, and no one seems to know who this bastard is.”

“Nothing from the local law-enforcement agencies?”

“I had a word with my contacts at local and State. Not a whisper. If this guy is undercover, he’s so deep he’s invisible.”

Preacher drained his beer. “If the Feds have put in another agent so soon after the last one, he won’t be making himself known. And he isn’t about to make any new friends. That means he’s working in the cold. He’ll be a stranger. That could work for us. Folks around these parts don’t buddy up so fast. They tend to be suspicious if you’re not a native.” He pushed to his feet. “You leave it to us, Mr. Dembrow. We’ll find your boy and retire him.”

Choirboy picked up the money bag.

“I’ll keep you posted,” he said.

7

Choirboy placed the leather bag in the Lincoln’s trunk. When he climbed into the car, Preacher had the vehicle running, the powerful engine softly purring. Choirboy sank back in the soft seat, tipping his hat forward over his face.

“When you reckon you have the strength,” Preacher said, “give me some thoughts.”

“If we’re goin’ to find this boy, we need a starting point. How about the diner? He was there. He took out Dembrow’s crew. Somebody had to have seen him.”

“Good thinking, son. It’s the diner, then.”

They waited until dark. At 11:15 p.m., the parking lot was empty. The staff parked up at the rear of the establishment. Preacher coasted onto the lot, the Lincoln’s lights already turned off. Choirboy followed him out of the car and they walked down the side of the building, looking for the back entrance. The kitchen door was ajar against the night heat. There were two cars parked in back.

“Let’s do it, son,” Preacher said, leading the way in.

The diner’s kitchen hung on to the day’s cooking smells. A wall air conditioner pushed out barely chilled air, rattling as it worked. The owner, middle-aged and thickset, hunched over a deep fat fryer as he cleaned it. The back of his T-shirt clung to his skin, patches of sweat darkening the cotton.

“They say industrial kitchens can be dangerous places,” Preacher said conversationally as he moved up behind the man.

The man straightened and looked at Preacher and Choirboy. There was no mistaking the implicit threat in Preacher’s voice, so the man simply stood there.

Choirboy walked directly past, skirting the edge of the kitchen and emerging in the dining area to confront the waitress, who was clearing tables. She froze when she saw Choirboy, her eyes suddenly wide, swiveling toward the diner’s entrance. The damaged door had already been replaced since the shooting.

As Choirboy shook his head at her, he crossed to the door and locked it, then stood with his back to it as Preacher and the owner appeared.

“Both of you sit down,” Preacher said. “This ain’t gonna take long.”

“If this is about the shooting, we already told the cops everything we know,” the owner said.

“Let’s make this quick, then. You were both here that night?”

“Yes,” the woman said. She was in her early forties, not unattractive, but starting to show her age. She kept brushing loose strands of hair back from her cheek.

“The man and woman who came in—did you know them?”

“No, sir. Both were strangers to me,” she said, and the owner nodded his agreement.

“Tell me about the man.”

“Tall. Black hair and blue eyes. Handsome looking guy in a rugged sort of way. And he looked like he would be able to handle himself. Polite, too.”

“See, that wasn’t hard,” Preacher said. “And you gave a good description, ma’am.”

“Something that comes with the job,” she said. “You get to check people over. Try to spot potential problem customers. I guess it’s a habit.”

“Did they drive onto the lot?”

“No. I only noticed that after they’d already ordered, because two of our regulars left and drove away and the lot was empty. I didn’t have time to think about it, what with everything that happened.”

“So the guy and the girl must have walked here?”

“I guess so.”

“Unusual,” Preacher said. “Folk don’t make a habit of walking the streets around here.”

“So where did they come from?” Choirboy asked.

“Likely the motel,” the owner suggested. “Motel?”

“Out of the parking lot, make a left and it’s a couple hundred yards on the same side of the street.”

The waitress nodded in agreement. “That’s right. We get folks staying there coming in to eat. Hardly worth driving, it being so close.”

“You tell the cops that?”

“Ed and me told them nothing. The way they treated us, the hell with them,” the woman said.

Preacher glanced at his partner. Choirboy smiled.

“How did the shooting go down?” Preacher asked out of professional curiosity.

“We didn’t see it,” the woman said. “An armed man came in through the kitchen door. He pushed Ed and me into the big cold room and locked the door. Said if we raised any fuss he’d shoot us.”

“Next thing we heard,” Ed said, “was like a war had broken out. Lots of gunfire.”

“After that it just went real quiet. We didn’t know what was going on, so we stayed quiet, too.”

“When the cops came and started shouting, we hollered and they let us out. Bastards treated us like we were part of it,” Ed grumbled, obviously still resenting the treatment he’d received at the hands of the local police. “Questioned us half the damn night, and us still shivering from that cold room.”

“Is that all you wanted?” the waitress asked.

Preacher could see she was trembling.

“That’s all, ma’am. Hope we haven’t upset you too much. We’re going now.” He turned away, then paused to look back. “That thing you mentioned?”

“What?”

“Being able to remember details about customers and all?”

The waitress managed a thin smile. “It doesn’t seem to be working tonight,” she said, understanding the reasoning behind Preacher’s question. “Could be because I’m at the end of my shift.”

Preacher raised his hands. “Lucky for us then.”

BACK IN THE CAR Choirboy said, “Nice folks.”

“Yep.”

Preacher turned onto the street and coasted along until he saw the lights of the motel. He made a left and rolled the Lincoln across the courtyard, coming to stop outside the manager’s office. Through the window he could see the guy on duty watching TV.

“Come in the back way,” he said. “I’ll go talk to the guy.”

The motel manager didn’t even look up from his TV as Preacher entered the airless office. He simply waved a hand.

“You want a room?”

“Just some information.”

Now the man glanced up, irritation on his face.

“Do I look like a fucking tourist guide?”

Preacher smiled. “Remember I asked politely.”

“I’ll put you down for an award. If you don’t want a room, I’m busy.”

“This could have gone a lot easier, son,” Preacher said.

“Just get the hell out of here ’fore I—”

“Before you what, boy?” Choirboy asked.

He had walked around to the rear of the office, coming in through the screen door and had moved up beside the manager. He pressed the muzzle of his handgun against the guy’s skull.

“I asked nicely,” Preacher said, “but this cocky son of a bitch decided to get lippy.”

He turned and locked the door, closing the blind.

“You know what?” Choirboy said. “I recognize this bird. He used to work for Harry Lyle out of Dallas. You recall that place Lyle had downtown? This guy used to work behind the bar, but Harry caught him shortchanging customers. Had him worked over and run out of town. They called him Hatcher. Nick Hatcher.”

“I do believe you’re right there, son.” Preacher leaned against the desk. “He was a lippy bastard then. No grace in him at all.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t work for Lyle anymore,” Hatcher said. “But I do work for someone a damn sight harder, so you better lay off me.”

Preacher’s eyes raised to Choirboy’s face and smiled. No words were needed. Choirboy used his pistol to remind Hatcher he was in no position to make threats. The meaty slam of the steel against Hatcher’s head delivered the message. Hatcher grunted, sliding from his seat after the third blow and landed on his knees, his head hanging. Blood ran down his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. More dripped to the floor. Preacher joined Choirboy behind the desk, and together they hauled the dazed Hatcher back into his seat. Hatcher stared up into Preacher’s face, still defiant. The killer sighed, then without warning he punched Hatcher in the face a few times, rocking the man’s head back. Blood spattered Hatcher’s features, and he would have slid out of the chair again if Choirboy hadn’t caught hold of his shoulders and pulled him back.

“Don’t make the mistake of believing I give a rat’s ass who you work for,” Preacher said after a while. “Anything that even smells of a threat kind of gets me all upset, son.”

“Take heed of that,” Choirboy said from behind Hatcher. “He gets kind of unstable if someone threatens him.” He slapped Hatcher on the shoulder. “You should have been nice to the man. We would have been long gone by now, and you could be back watching your movie.”

“So what is it you want?” Hatcher asked. His words were muffled due to the bloody state of his lips and a couple of loose teeth. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he spoke.

“Night of the diner shooting. You had a guest here. Big guy.

Tall. Black hair. Blue eyes. He could have walked to the diner. Had a girl with him. Pretty. Mexican. She was the one who got shot and killed. You recall?”

Hatcher considered the question, sucking air noisily into his battered mouth. He seemed to be having trouble focusing on Preacher’s face, but he eventually nodded.

“Only stayed a couple of nights. Left the day after the shooting. I never seen him with no girl. I don’t notice everyone who walks by.”

“Now that wasn’t hard, was it?” Choirboy asked.

Hatcher pushed to his feet, wobbling unsteadily, and made his way to the file box on the desk. He rifled through the cards until he found the one he wanted, passed it to Preacher, then sank back into his seat. Preacher slid the card into his pocket after a quick look.

“His vehicle? What was the make and model?”

“Late model Ford 4x4. Dark red. License number’s on the card. The guy calls himself Matt Cooper.”

“Been a pleasure doing business with you, Nick,” Preacher said. “We’ll go now. Leave you to your business. Here’s a word of advice. Don’t even consider bringing the cops in. It wouldn’t do you any good. Tell your boss what happened if you feel you need to.” Preacher smoothed down his jacket. “If you do, tell him Preacher said hello. He’ll understand.”

Hatcher watched them leave, his eyes already glazing over, sliding back down in his seat.

Choirboy led the way out through the back door. They walked around to the waiting Lincoln. Choirboy got behind the wheel and Preacher settled beside him.

“Which way?” Choirboy asked.

“You choose, son. I got a few calls to make.” Preacher took out the registration card and held it up. “We got some tracking to do, but first I need to get us a little direction.”

While Choirboy cruised, Preacher tapped in a number and held his cell phone to his ear.

“Clarence, I need you to check out a license-plate number for me.” He read out the details. “Soon as, son. This is urgent. Call me.” Preacher redialed and asked to speak to Dembrow. “His name is Matt Cooper. That’s all we got up to now, but it’ll do.”

He ended the call.

“If this yahoo ain’t an undercover cop,” Choirboy said, “who the hell is he?”

Preacher considered. “Good question, son. I’ll ask when we find him.”

“Maybe he’s some covert military specialist. Delta Force. SEAL. Sent in by the government so he don’t have to be answerable to anyone.”

“Son, you amaze me sometimes,” Preacher said. “It could be you’ve lit on the right number. DEA and the like don’t have those kind of skills. They ain’t trained in such business. But the military teach their special forces just the way our boy acts.”

“Likely then he won’t be easy to find.”

“Oh, hell, son, it wouldn’t be fun if it was easy.”

8

“Local cops have put the shooting down as gang related,” Brognola explained. “It wouldn’t be the first time drug factions have fallen out and tried to clean house.”

“So they won’t be digging too deep?” Bolan asked.

“They’ll go through the motions. Open a file and log in all the details. Truth be told, Striker, a few dead traffickers aren’t going to merit a big-time operation. On past experience the police know they’ll get no help from anyone. Local criminals will pull in their heads and stay quiet. Questions will get the cops nada. Somewhere along the line the file will end up in the cold case drawer.”

“What about Pilar?”

“They know she was related to Tomas Trujillo, so she’s being treated as a hostile. A member of the Rojas Cartel. And before you say it sucks, Striker, let’s go with it for now.”

“How do I fit in? Any story on my presence?”

“They have you down as a cartel goon, there to look after the girl.”

“Whoever I’m supposed to be I don’t come over as good at my job,” Bolan said. “Pilar is dead either way.”

“Quit that, Striker. You did what you could at the time. No blame.”

“I blame myself. You know how I feel about innocents getting caught up in these things.”

“I know, and I wish I could make it right for you.”

“These bastards spread their violence around like confetti at a wedding, Hal, and they don’t give a damn who gets dragged into the line of fire.”

“Which is why we’re doing what we can to put them down.”

“What about Don Manners? Is the DEA going to put his death in a cold case file?”

“They won’t quit. But what have they got to go on? No witnesses. Manners was undercover, so all the feedback they have is his own. Dammit, Striker, it’s why you’re there.” Brognola’s last words were delivered with a hard edge, almost hinting that Bolan was the one with all the answers.

The Executioner let his friend’s frustration wash over him. He understood the big Fed’s mood. Like Bolan, Hal Brognola accepted every loss personally. He worked the edge all the time, aware of the way the game was played—hard investigations that often produced minimal results and were frequently closed due to the death of courageous men and women. Brognola was a man of courage himself, and he carried the burden on his broad shoulders.

The brief silence was broken when Brognola cleared his throat, his voice gruff as he said, “You didn’t deserve that, Striker.”

“I’ll try not to lose any sleep over it,” Bolan said lightly. “Did Manners point the finger at any local cops who might be on the Rojas payroll?”

“I’ve been going over the file reports the President delivered. Manners did talk about one in particular. A Deputy Chris Malloy. He works out of the narcotics squad for the county sheriff’s department, which is headquartered in a town called Cooter’s Crossing.”

“Having a man right on the inside could come in handy for the cartel.”

“Damn right it could. I had the cyberteam run a profile on the guy. They dug into Malloy’s personal computer files and uncovered a hidden folder. Malloy is computer smart, but there was no way he could stop Akira from breaking his encryptions. Malloy has a couple of bank accounts under a false name, and he gets regular deposits. Generous amounts, too. Akira followed the trail and traced the deposits back to a guy named Eugene Corey.” Akira Tokaido was the Farm’s top computer hacker. “And?”

“Corey’s main business is a very successful vehicle franchise in the area. Anything from autos to trucks to big rigs. He has sites all around the country. He buys, sells, rents and runs ads on TV. ‘If it’s on wheels—we do the deals.’ That’s his slogan. Rumor has it, from the DEA files, that Corey supplies transport to the Rojas Cartel as a subsidiary to his main business, and pulls in some big bucks. There’s no direct connection, but with the number of sites he has scattered around the county, it’s hard to keep track of all vehicle movements. From what Akira’s probing has brought to light, it looks like he’s also slipped in payola for the cartel as an extra.”

“It’s somewhere for me to start,” Bolan said.

“I’ll have the data downloaded to your phone,” Brognola said.

“Thanks for that.”

“Anything else you need?”

“Work up a file on Bondarchik. If Manners was correct on this weapons shipment to Rojas, it might be helpful if I know how it’s being done.”

“You’ll have it all shortly.”

BOLAN CRUISED the highway until he spotted a gas station. He turned in and filled the Ford’s big tank. While he was there, he checked water and tire pressure. Inside the convenience store he bought some bottles of water and a handful of health bars. He stored those in the cab, spun the wheel and drove across to the handy diner on the far side of the lot. Falling back on his military training, Bolan decided it was time to have a meal while he waited for Stony Man to send him the data he needed. Eat when you can. Sleep when you can. The enemy wasn’t going to give you space if those needs came up at a bad time.