Cartel Clash

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“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.

Stepping inside brought back the memory of Pilar Trujillo. Sitting in one of the empty booths, waiting for his food and coffee, Bolan ran through that scenario once again: the chatter as she ate; her brief repose shattered by the bullets that had hammered into her, reducing her from a vibrant young woman to a shattered and disfigured corpse on the floor of the diner.

“You okay?”

Bolan glanced up at the concerned face of the waitress. She slid his plate in front of him and stood with a mug of steaming coffee in her hand.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just working on a problem I have to solve.”

She put the mug on the table. “Don’t let it kill you, honey.”

“That’s what I’m working on.”

Bolan ate his meal. He was on his second mug of coffee when his phone rang. It was Price this time.