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Cartel Clash
Don Pendleton
Tensions are high after a powerful Mexican drug cartel kills an undercover DEA agent in a declaration of war against the United States. A shipment of missiles is bound for the region, and Washington's hands are tied with red tape.With the border beyond American control, only Mack Bolan can get in and stop the destruction before innocent blood is shed.With no backup, no government protection and hired killers tracking his every move, death and destruction are about to strike. The law may not be able to touch the cartel, but Bolan isn't the law–he's the Executioner.
The second armed Jeep swept into view
The man behind the machine gun hadn’t known what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t to have a friendly gun turned on him. Bolan raked the Jeep from front to back, bullets punching into the hood and windshield. The driver jerked back, his chest and head pulverized by the continuous blast of automatic fire.
The Jeep swerved and ran on for yards before the engine stalled and it rattled to a stop. The Executioner hammered at it until the gas tank’s contents caught a spark and erupted in a boiling surge of flame.
The surviving traffickers had begun to pull themselves together for a concerted rush at Bolan’s vehicle, but the Executioner swung the barrel of his weapon back on line and inflicted more damage. Under his relentless fire, the men went down hard, bodies bloodied and torn.
Bolan’s finger released the trigger and the chatter of the machine gun ceased. All that remained was the moaning of the wounded. The dead held their peace.
The Executioner knew the clock was ticking. Though the numbers were still falling, he knew without a shadow of doubt there would be others.
How long he might hold them back was anyone’s guess.
Cartel Clash
The Executioner
Don Pendleton
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I sure as hell won’t.
—George S. Patton
1885–1945
No matter how long and bloody the conflict, the drug war has to be faced head-on. Those engaged in the trafficking of narcotics have no scruples. No conscience. Their victims do not concern these people. All they see are the dollars their foul product earns. If we are to engage, our resolve has to be unshakable and our tactics as ruthless as theirs.
—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
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Prologue
Border Country, Texas
“It never ceases to amaze me,” Preacher said, “how ingenious folk can be when it comes to making things that do harm.”
He was fingering a strand of the razor wire that stretched across the tract of land where Texas met Mexico. It ran in an unbroken line east to west, a man-made barrier cutting across the invisible border.
Choirboy, his partner, nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze to the barely moving figure spread-eagled across the wire. The man’s earlier struggles had slowed imperceptibly until he was almost motionless. His initial twisting and turning had caused countless cuts and gashes in his naked flesh, and he was torn and bloody.
“No question it ain’t doin’ him any favors,” he said.
Preacher shaded his eyes as he glanced skyward. The sun was directly overhead. Hot and bright. The man on the wire was unprotected and unable to save himself from what was to come. Preacher didn’t figure on more than a couple of hours.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Something cool in a long glass is my choice.”
They turned and walked to the 4x4 parked close by. Choirboy drove, turning the vehicle in the direction of the dirt road roughly two miles away. From there a twenty-minute ride would bring them to the main highway.
Preacher took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He listened as the number rang out. When it was answered, he recognized the voice immediately.
“She’s done,” Preacher said.
“Fine. The rest of your fee will be transferred by morning.”
“Hell, I wasn’t calling about that. Just to let you know the problem has been resolved.”
“Okay.”
The call over, Preacher put away his phone and turned on the radio. The station was local, playing some country and western.
“Now that is nice,” Choirboy said.
“It is so, too,” Preacher said. “Push that pedal down, son, I’m getting real thirsty.”
THE MAN LEFT BEHIND on the razor wire took another hour to die. The savage beating he had received before being thrown on the barrier had weakened him already. He had two broken arms, broken ribs and a bad fracture in his left leg. The deep wounds inflicted by the steel razor barbs had accelerated his loss of blood, and the dehydrating and burning effect of the overhead sun hastened his death.
It was another full day before the body was discovered by a border patrol team. Hardened though they might have been by the things they had witnessed, the two-man team was shocked at the brutality of the violence that had led to the man’s death. A department chopper was called in, and after the body had been recovered it was flown to the closest medical center where an autopsy was carried out and the task of identifying the dead man was initiated.
It took only a couple of hours for fingerprint and dental ID to confirm who the man was: Don Manners, a six-year veteran of the DEA. During the six months preceding his murder, Manners had been operating undercover, working his way into the drug cartel headed by Benito Rojas and his American partner, Marshal Dembrow. Three days earlier Manners had managed to communicate with his superiors about an incoming arms shipment to the Rojas Cartel. Although he had not managed to pass on the finer details, Manners had reported that, along with conventional weapons, Rojas had negotiated the purchase of a couple of mobile, high-end missile units. There was nothing in Manners’s report that told when and where the consignment was due, but he spoke of a Russian supplier.
The DEA, despite this intel, was still helpless. If the ordnance was coming into Mexico, it was out of their jurisdiction, and they could do nothing except stand by and imagine Rojas taking great pleasure in his latest move against the U.S. authorities.
The report, in full, found its way to Washington, and eventually to the desk of the American President because he had asked to be kept in the loop with anything to do with the drug trade. It held great interest for the President. It was a cause, among many others, that stirred his emotions. Since coming into office, he had made the eradication of the drug tide a priority. Despite his efforts and the responses of the DEA, little headway had been made. The President was far from happy. His hands, though, were tied. The particular items that fueled his mood this time were the savage slaughter of Don Manners and the revelation that Rojas was importing missiles—missiles he’d undoubtedly use in his declared war against the Americans who had destroyed a great deal of his merchandise. Rojas’s response had been to increase the amount of drugs he shipped over the border, while also escalating his unremitting violence against anyone who defied him.
The President had read and reread the report, sitting alone in the Oval Office, his frustration over the situation growing with each passing minute. He hated the thought of more drugs coming into the country, the misery it would cause, and the cruel indifference of men like Rojas and Dembrow. They were defying the might of the U.S., killing at will, and ignoring every law and rule in the book. All the while becoming richer day by day.
It had to stop.
The President reached for the phone on his desk that would connect him with the one man who might be able to assist in resolving the situation.
The phone rang out and was quickly picked up.
“Mr. President.”
“We need to talk, Hal. ASAP. There’s something I need your help with.”
1
Mack Bolan spotted the young woman as she came down the wooden stairs tacked on to the side of the cantina. The stairs led to the two-roomed apartment Don Manners had been using during his time in Texas. The location had come from the file Brognola had given Bolan when he’d accepted the assignment. The file had updated the Executioner on the local situation, and it made frustrating reading. Drug enforcement agencies, well versed in the illegal activities, were stifled because the Rojas Cartel and its Texas chapter, though they didn’t have right, they certainly had might on their side. It was an all too familiar story. The drug organizations were ultimately so powerful they defied any and all attempts at taking them down. The endless wealth they generated from their trade allowed them to buy legal help of the highest order. If any of their people were arrested, the ink was not even dry on the paperwork before lawyers were hammering on the police station doors. Witnesses were either bought off or wiped out. The indifference to law and order was staggering. The authorities understood the situation that forced them to stand off, watching in jurisdictional paralysis while the enemy went about its business with impunity. The busts they did manage to make stick were small victories and something the drug cartels could well afford.
The Manners murder was a direct slap in the face of the DEA task force. An open statement from the drug world.
We can do this because you can’t pin it on us. You have nothing on us. Send in your agents, and we will return them all in a similar way.
The file Brognola had given Bolan during their briefing on the upcoming mission had contained images of Manners—where he had been found and what had been done to him.
“Enough is enough,” Brognola had said. “The President has taken this on board because he’s had it with these sick bastards, Striker. The head of the most powerful nation on Earth and he’s helpless, because he can’t do a damn thing legally.”
Bolan had smiled at the last word—legally—and he understood exactly what was coming next.
