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This day, inside the Palace of Justice with Counselor Webb and a retinue of smiling Colombian officials, Glass felt as safe as he had at any time since he’d stepped off his flight from New York, at El Dorado International Airport.
Everyone had settled into chairs around the highly polished conference table. A deputy vice-minister of the interior and justice sat at the table’s head, flanked by deputy commanders of the Policía Nacional de Colombia and the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad. A deputy assistant from La Fiscalía General de la Nación—the attorney general’s office—was also present. All of them had aides with tape recorders, legal pads and pens laid out in front of them. All of them were deputies for higher-ups who couldn’t be bothered to show, or who feared being forced to make a decision on the record before witnesses from rival departments.
“I welcome all of you to this historic meeting,” the vice-minister of the interior and justice said, beaming down the table with artificially whitened teeth. “I know all present share my wish that—”
When the door clicked, somewhere to his left rear, Glass turned toward the sound. He saw a slender, squirrel-faced man decked out in coveralls, bracing a push broom with his left hand. Glass had time to wonder why the coveralls were open nearly to his crotch, before he saw the janitor’s right hand and recognized what it was holding.
“Down!” Glass shouted, lunging at Counselor Webb and dragging the startled diplomat down with him, seeking any cover he could find, as two more doors swung open and all hell broke loose.
The close-range gunfire numbed his ears, as Glass half rolled, half dragged Webb under the broad conference table. Glass drew his pistol, clutching it white-knuckled, and discovered that he didn’t have a shot.
The frag grenade came out of nowhere, bouncing on the table, spinning once on impact with the floor, then wobbling toward him like an odd, green-painted Easter egg.
And in the final seconds of his life, all Otto Glass could do was pray.
1
El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá
Mack Bolan traveled light. His carry-on contained some extra clothes, sparse toiletries, a guidebook to the city and surrounding countryside. Nothing that might alarm security and raise red flags at either end of his long flight from the United States, with a short stopover in Mexico City.
No weapons, for instance, although he’d be needing them soon.
Bolan was early, by design. His contacts were expecting him for early dinner, in the city’s northern quarter known as Chapinero, but he needed solo time before they met, in order to prepare himself.
First up, the wheels. He had a Pontiac G6 reserved with Budget in the main airport terminal. The smiling girl behind the counter photocopied “Matthew Cooper’s” California driver’s license, swiped his credit card—all bills meticulously paid on time, in full—and gave Bolan his keys.
Ten minutes later, he was rolling eastward on Avenida El Dorado, keeping pace with high-speed traffic as he left the airport’s small city behind him. Downtown Bogotá lay nine miles distant from the airport, and he could’ve covered it within five minutes flat, except for a preliminary stop.
He made that stop in Ciudad Kennedy, a district in southwestern Bogotá named for the martyred American president. Bolan’s guidebook told him that the area was Bogotá’s most populous district, home to fourteen percent of the city’s population, but he was only interested in one inhabitant.
The man had a pawn shop two blocks north of Calle Primero de Mayo. He introduced himself as José and accepted Bolan’s nom de guerre without question. José’s shop was a place where money talked, and the merchandise that Bolan sought wasn’t displayed for public scrutiny. A visit to the backroom set him up and took a bite out of his war chest, but the case had been donated by a kiddie pimp in Jacksonville before he shuffled off the mortal coil, and there was always more where that came from.
When Bolan left the shop, he carried two fat duffel bags that might have clanked a bit, if anyone was listening. He also wore a Glock 23 semiauto pistol in a fast-draw sling beneath his left armpit, two extra 13-round magazines pouched on the right for balance. A Benchmade Stryker automatic knife with four-inch Tanto blade was clipped on to his belt, for easy access.
Bolan put the duffels in the Pontiac’s trunk, locked them down and he was good to go.
Traveling naked always made the Executioner uneasy. He could kill a man two dozen ways barehanded, but most shooters wouldn’t close within arm’s reach if they had a choice. And as for tackling more than two or three at once, if they were armed, forget about it.
He was covered for all foreseeable contingencies: two rifles, one for distance and one for assault work; a submachine gun with suppressor for close quarters battle where stealth was required; a combat shotgun, just because; assorted hand grenades, spare ammo for the different weapons, with accessories including jungle camouflage fatigues and hiking boots.
His destination was Chapinero. Bogotá’s most affluent district, and the capital’s banking and financial center, ranged along Calle 72. Bolan wasn’t on a banking mission at the moment, though. No hefty deposits or gunpoint withdrawals. His target was the stylish Andino Mall on Carrera 11 in Bogotá’s Zona Rosa.
The Pink Zone.
He supposed the district had been named for its high concentration of gay bars and other amenities serving the bulk of Bogotá’s LGBT community. There was more to the Pink Zone than gay life, however, including some of Bogotá’s most popular restaurants, nightclubs and stylish hotels.
Still homeless in the city, Bolan didn’t plan on checking into the Victoria Regia, the Andino Royal or any of their posh competitors. His contacts would be waiting for him at a relatively small sidewalk café, where they could watch the street and get to know each other briefly, prior to moving on.
Bolan would recognize his contacts from the photos Hal Brognola had provided, with their dossiers. One agent from DEA and one from the Colombian National Police, teamed to collaborate with Bolan in an atmosphere where trust was hard to come by and the lifespan of an honest law enforcement officer was often short.
Together, Bolan hoped they could accomplish something.
But if necessary, he could soldier on alone.
It wouldn’t be the first time—or, with any luck, the last.
Bolan spotted the Andino Mall and made a drive-by, picking out the open-air café, sighting his contacts at a table set back from the curb ten feet or so. Three chairs, and one still empty. Waiting.
The soldier drove around the block and found a parking garage, grabbed a ticket and parked three floors above street level, overlooking Carrera 11. He locked the Pontiac and pocketed his keys, then found the outer stairwell and descended toward the busy street.
“THIS MAN WE ARE SUPPOSED to meet. What was his name, again?”
Jack Styles resisted the impulse to smile. He knew damned well that his companion hadn’t forgotten the name. Arcelia Pureza never forgot anything.
“Matt Cooper,” Styles replied, adding, “That’s all I’ve got, aside from my HQ’s assurance that he’s pro material, experienced and off-the-books.”
“Clandestine operations,” Pureza said with a pretty frown.
“What else? After the latest…incident,” Styles said, resisting the temptation to say massacre or slaughter, “Washington isn’t about to send another diplomat.”
“You understand my delicate position in this matter,” Pureza said, telling, not asking, him.
“I understand your people have signed off on it,” Styles said. “Or so I was led to believe.”
“In the spirit, of course, they agree,” his companion replied. “But in practice—”
“It’s practice that matters,” Styles told her. “If spirit could win this thing, we’d have had it wrapped up years ago.”
Pureza nodded, toying with her wineglass on the tabletop. “Of course, you’re right. But you must understand the mind-set, Jack. After the killings, it became a matter of machismo, yes? A case of proving that the government cannot be frightened or intimidated.”
“But?”
“But anger fades,” she said. “And resolution, too, verdad?”
“Sadly, that’s true,” Styles granted. “Which is why we’re moving fast, before the brass can get cold feet.”
She nodded, sipped her wine, then said, “It goes beyond that, though. My people may regret what they have set in motion, if the resolution is not swift and sure. If there is…how do you say it? Collateral damage?”
“That’s how we say it.”
“In which case,” Pureza warned him, “the powers that be may attempt to distance themselves from the choice they have made. They may assert deniability, and leave us grabbing the sack.” Styles did smile then. “Holding the bag,” he said, gently correcting her. “And, sure, I’ve seen it done. The trick is to deliver, make it quick and clean—or quick, at least—and then get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Your Wild West, sí,” Pureza said. “Let us hope that your plan does not become our Alamo, eh?”
“I’ll drink to that,” Styles said, and drained his beer mug, flagging down the waiter for a refill. While he waited, Styles scanned the street, checked out the foot traffic, focused on men who fit the soldier profile.
Whatever in hell that might be.
Styles wished he had a photo of Matt Cooper, to confirm ID on sight, but the guy was too hush-hush for that, apparently. Or maybe someone in the States was worried about leaks, a very real concern with any operation undertaken in Colombia.
So Styles was flying blind, with Pureza riding his tailwind on faith.
He hoped they wouldn’t crash and burn.
“What time is it?” Pureza asked. She wore a watch, of course, but obviously had a point to make.
“He’s got five minutes,” Styles replied, after a quick glance at his Timex.
“And then we leave?”
Styles felt his temper fraying. “If you’re getting nervous, you can bail out anytime.”
“And leave you here alone?”
“I’m touched by your concern,” he said, letting the sarcasm leak through, “but I can handle it.”
“Support from my superiors is still conditional—”
“On letting you participate,” Styles interrupted her. “I got the memo. But who are we kidding?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look, I know that your government cares about drugs. The folks on top are pissed about what’s been happening because it makes Colombia look bad. But face it, half the people offering condolences today are on the cartel’s payroll, and they’ll still be picking up their cash next week, next month, next year.”
“Unless we stop them,” Pureza said, with a glint of anger in her striking azure eyes.
“This shit’s been going on, with variations, since the 1970s,” Styles said. “I was in third grade when the Dadeland massacre gave Florida a wakeup call in 1979. You weren’t even born, for Christ’s sake!”
“And your point is?” He thought she looked pretty, even in her anger, trying to pretend she didn’t understand him.
“The names and faces change,” Styles said. “Lehder, Ochoa, Escobar, Londoño, Renteria—and Macario. They come and go, but none of them could operate for two weeks if your leaders really wanted to put them away.”
“And in your own country?” she challenged him.
“Corrupt as hell, no doubt about it,” Styles admitted. “But we don’t build special prisons so that drug lords can maintain their lifestyle in the joint, then give them weekend leave to the Bahamas. We don’t have Mafia bosses running for Congress or blowing up airplanes with a hundred people on board to kill one snitch.”
Pureza aimed a finger at his face. “Listen, Jack—”
But she was interrupted as a shadow fell across their table and a deep voice asked them, “Am I interrupting something?”
“IS THAT HIM?” JAIME Fajardo asked.
“It must be. He’s sitting down,” Germán Mutis replied.
“Let me see him again!”
Fajardo sounded excited, reaching for the compact binoculars Mutis was using to spy on the sidewalk café from two blocks away. Murder always excited Fajardo, but he liked the big, important killings best.
“He’s an American, all right,” Fajardo announced.
“I think so, too,” Mutis agreed.
They’d been expecting an American, another of the endless meddling gringos, but with no description that would help them spot him. Still, it was enough that the stranger would come from nowhere and sit down with two known enemies, Fajardo thought, a gringo DEA man and the cocky bitch from CNP headquarters.
“Shall I give the word?” Fajardo asked.
“Not yet,” Mutis said.
“But—”
“Not yet! Are you deaf?”
Fajardo slumped back into a sulk. Mutis held out an open hand, received the field glasses and raised them to his eyes once more.
There was no rush to give the word. Mutis observed the new arrival, watched him order from a smiling waitress who seemed taken with his looks. Mutis hired women when he wanted them, and didn’t have to ask if they were put off by his many scars.
And yet what was he waiting for? The weapon was in place, with Carlos Mondragón on station, waiting for the order to trigger it by remote control. Mutis was using a mallet to smash a mosquito, but he was a soldier who followed orders. His padrino wanted a message sent back to El Norte, and Mutis was not in the business of second-guessing his masters.
So, why not proceed?
It wasn’t squeamishness. Mutis had built and detonated bigger bombs, inflicting scores of casualties on demand. He cared no more for the men, women and children passing along Carrera 11 than he might for a nest of ants in his yard. They meant less than nothing to Mutis. He was indifferent to their suffering and death.
But the targets intrigued him.
Germán Mutis derived no quasi-erotic pleasure from his work, as did Jaime Fajardo. Beyond the satisfaction of a job well done, he felt nothing when one of his bombs shattered buildings and lives.
He was, however, fascinated by his targets. It soothed him, in some way Mutis could not define, to see them, watch them go about the final moments of their business, and persuade himself that they were worthy of his best efforts.
This day the weapon was a classic ammonium nitrate and fuel oil—ANFO—bomb. It lacked the sophistication of C-4 or Semtex, but it was cheap and easy to make. More to the point, it delivered predictable impact on target.
The bomb, though relatively small by ANFO standards at a mere two hundred pounds, would send the message that El Padrino desired. It was packed in the trunk of a Volvo sedan, surrounded by jars filled with nails and scrap iron. The Volvo itself would provide further shrapnel, along with the flames from its shattered fuel tank. Parked across the street from the Andino Mall, it was well within range of his prey and ready to go.
As soon as Mutis gave the word.
But there was no rush. The gringos and their bitch weren’t going anywhere. Mutis wished he could eavesdrop on their conversation, listen to them scheming, making plans to topple El Padrino unaware that their lives had been measured out in minutes on a ticking clock.
This was the part that Mutis loved, if truth be told. The power to reach out and cancel lives in progress, possibly to change the course of history itself. How many of the strangers whom he killed today might have gone on to greatness or produced child prodigies, if given time? Was a doctor strolling down the pavement who could cure AIDS or cancer? A footballer who was loved by millions—or who might have been, next year?
At such a moment, Germán Mutis felt like God.
And he could well afford to savor it a moment longer.
“YOU’RE COOPER,” THE man from DEA said, as Bolan took his seat.
“I am,” Bolan agreed. “Been waiting long?”
“You’re right on time,” the harried-looking agent said, reaching for Bolan’s hand. “Jack Styles. And this is Lieutenant Arcelia Pureza, of the Colombian National Police.”
