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The Cartel Hit
Don Pendleton
BORDER RUNWhen a Mexican national captures the murder of an innocent couple on video, Mack Bolan is tasked with protecting the young man and delivering his evidence to authorities. But then the killer turns out to be a high-powered cartel boss intent on destroying any trace of his crime–including the witness. Suddenly the man with the video is running for his life, and Bolan has no choice but to join the chase.A hired assassin and his army of trained killers outnumber Bolan in the unfamiliar Mexican territory, and he must rely on quick thinking and guerrilla-style tactics to wipe out the enemy and ensure the safety of the one man who can shutter the gang's operations for good. The cartel is fighting dirty, but the Executioner is about to lay down his signature brand of cleansing fire.
BORDER RUN
When a Mexican national captures the murder of an innocent couple on video, Mack Bolan is tasked with protecting the young man and delivering his evidence to authorities. But then the killer turns out to be a high-powered cartel boss intent on destroying any trace of his crime—including the witness. Suddenly the man with the video is running for his life, and Bolan has no choice but to join the chase.
A hired assassin and his army of trained killers outnumber Bolan in the unfamiliar Mexican territory, and he must rely on quick thinking and guerrilla-style tactics to wipe out the enemy and ensure the safety of the one man who can shutter the gang’s operations for good. The cartel is fighting dirty, but the Executioner is about to lay down his signature brand of cleansing fire.
The a la muerte soldier took another step closer accompanied by the clink of metal on metal
The Executioner sprang from his hiding spot, driving his left hand forward to grasp the guy’s throat, striking hard at the exposed torso with his right. The Tanto’s cold blade sliced through clothing and sank in up to the hilt. Bolan felt the man shudder as he slid the knife left to right to extend the wound.
Bolan pulled the weakening man in against the log, leaning on him hard. When all movement ceased, he pulled out the knife and cleaned the steel blade against the man’s shirt, then sheathed it.
He could hear faint noises coming from the headset the man was wearing. Bolan slipped it off the body, held the earpiece close and listened to the transmission.
“Enrico, what is going on? Talk to me. Where are you?”
“I found him,” Bolan said, keeping his voice low. “You want to come and see?”
There was a brief silence.
“Who are you?”
“The one you cannot find. The one who is going to send you to hell.”
The Cartel Hit
Don Pendleton
There is no witness so terrible and no accuser so powerful as the conscience that dwells within us.
—Sophocles
Some men don’t have a conscience, or choose to ignore it. When conscience fails, that’s where I step in. With guns blazing.
—Mack Bolan
THE (#ulink_8df4a64d-b058-509e-9eb6-22939604af60)
MACK BOLAN (#ulink_8df4a64d-b058-509e-9eb6-22939604af60)
LEGEND (#ulink_8df4a64d-b058-509e-9eb6-22939604af60)
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
Cover (#u945491d8-11d5-5191-b254-55db0fc91eab)
Back Cover Text (#uc683979c-a4d9-5fde-b15d-a84cad095337)
Introduction (#uf4fa3cdb-7e17-5bba-9d62-f63a6d230983)
Title Page (#u10ee35d0-7c04-5679-97ce-ec9e399fad81)
Quotes (#ucb004da0-6ddb-57e6-8efb-84cd6670eb56)
The Mack Bolan Legend (#u2f54ce11-0466-5417-af74-ab1471102ca9)
Prologue (#u101d9703-2084-53d0-9a9f-f9bba9079106)
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Prologue (#ulink_7900df1f-7cf7-56bc-85dc-3aa5d185b3f1)
His name was Hermano Escobedo. Mexican by birth. He came from a small village in Chihuahua, where there was little opportunity to further himself. Four years previously he had traveled across the border into Texas, encouraged by a longtime friend who had done the same thing a couple years earlier and found work. When his friend had the means to send money to Escobedo, he’d told him to make the journey. America was where Escobedo could earn a living. He could send cash to his remaining family—his aging grandfather and grandmother. The offer was too good to pass up, and Escobedo finally made the trip.
Initially, things worked out well. Escobedo’s friend helped him get established, pointed him in the right direction to find work. He learned to speak the language. He was smart and had a good ear. It helped. In the Texas town of Broken Tree, the young Mexican showed a willingness to take on a number of jobs.
Escobedo’s background was farming. He had a flair for gardening and built a small but steady number of clients. His touch with flowers and plants gained him more customers. He was able to save a little money and his long-term plan was to provide for his grandparents. He found himself a small apartment in Broken Tree. It was nothing grand, but to Hermano Escobedo it was a step up from the tiny place he had shared with his grandparents. Then, two years into his time in America, he received the news that his grandparents had passed away. The priest in the village handled the funerals, so Escobedo had little incentive to return to Mexico.
When he received an offer to tend the gardens at the out-of-town estate belonging to a man named Seb Jessup, Escobedo accepted. One of his Broken Tree clients had referred him to Jessup. When Escobedo first saw the place, he was overwhelmed. It was huge, a great, sprawling house surrounded by lawns and gardens. There were stables for the many horses the man owned. Barns to house machinery. It was always busy, with people coming and going all the time. Expensive cars. Smiling young women. It could have been all too much for a simple peon from Chihuahua, but Escobedo had a steady head on his shoulders. He pushed the glamorous lifestyle out of his mind and simply took on the work offered.
Everything went well at first. Jessup sent a car for him three days a week, though Escobedo rarely saw his employer. In fact, he had only ever seen the man once to speak to. That had been on the day he accepted the job. The drive from town took just under twenty minutes, and the day began early and ended late. Escobedo was given charge of the operation. There was a fully equipped workshop that contained all the tools he would ever need, and while the workload was heavy, he took it in stride.
After a few weeks, Escobedo became accepted among Jessup’s other employees, to the point that hardly anyone paid him much attention. And Escobedo simply blended in. He was paid at the end of each week by a man named Hatton, who seemed to be Jessup’s right-hand man. Hatton said little.
Escobedo’s friend, being ambitious, had moved on. He had packed his belongings into his car and driven out of Broken Tree, leaving Escobedo to his new life. It didn’t worry him too much. He had always been a solitary person. It was only in the evenings that he felt out of place, but long days of physical labor left him exhausted, and he retired early most nights, knowing his day would start early. When he was not working at the Jessup place, he had his local customers to tend to.
It did not concern Escobedo that there were times when the atmosphere of the Jessup estate changed. Became tense. Agitation seeping in through the calm. Escobedo had learned early on to stick to his own affairs, not to involve himself in matters beyond his purview. He had heard rumors about Seb Jessup, that some of his enterprises were on the risky side. Perhaps even unlawful. Escobedo closed his mind to these rumors. He had steady work. No one bothered him and whatever his employer got up to was none of his business.
That was because he had no idea what was really going on around him. He stayed below the radar. His friend, shortly after Escobedo had arrived in Texas, had explained the facts of life:
“Remember who you are. Do your work. Be humble and do not ask questions. Leave your curiosity at home each day. Be what you are. Invisible. The laborer. Have no shadow. Understand this and you will survive. Make noise and you will pay the price.”
Even though he kept a low profile, Escobedo could not escape hearing the gossip of the other Hispanic employees. Some worked inside the house, others in the body shop where Jessup’s extensive fleet of cars and SUVs were parked. Escobedo picked up murmurs. Tried to remain indifferent, but words stuck. Remained in his memory.
Words like illegals.
Wetbacks.
Transients from across the border.
Once heard, these words became a permanent fixture in Escobedo’s thoughts. He wanted to ask questions, but his friend’s advice made him hold his tongue. So he watched and listened. There was inside him a sense of morality that refused to allow him to ignore those words. And the harder he tried to dispel them, the stronger the need to know more plagued him.
The urge to understand grew, and he watched and listened more intently.
His friend’s advice teased him. Leave your curiosity at home each day. But Escobedo’s need to know would not let him rest.
He understood the regime that exploited Mexican labor. The shadowy businesses that brought in cheap workers, in the same position as he was. People who wanted to work. To enjoy a better quality of life. They all knew it was a risk, that they would be paid only the minimum, yet they still came, because even that was better for many of them than the life they had in Mexico.
Escobedo had been luckier. His friend had obtained a work permit for him, the piece of paper that made him official. Having someone vouch for him had made life easier. At least Escobedo did not have to survive like a criminal. He could walk the streets with impunity. He wished things were better, but at least here in America he felt safer than in Mexico. And if he worked hard he would eventually become an American citizen.
Then the day came when a situation developed and drew Escobedo to it with its addictive power.
He had been on his knees behind the thick shrubs he was pruning, so was unseen by the men who made their way through the gardens and vanished inside one of the large barns. Something in the way they moved caught Escobedo’s interest, and he heard one of them speak as he passed within ten feet of him, seemingly unaware of the Mexican’s presence.
“Damn illegals. Jessup will make them pay this time…”
Escobedo had waited until the men were all inside the barn, then took a roundabout route that brought him to the far side of the building. As he slid against the wall, he heard a voice that was unmistakably Jessup’s. The man was angry, almost ranting. Escobedo eased his way to a side door and slipped through it. The sound of Jessup’s voice filled the interior of the barn. Escobedo snaked his way through the collection of farm implements until he was able to see what was happening.
And wished he hadn’t.
He knew right then that his earlier indifference to the rumors floating around had allowed these things to continue. He had learned things about Jessup that he should have reported, yet his concern for his own safety had forced him to stand back, trying to convince himself he should stay clear.
Leave your curiosity at home.
A half dozen of Jessup’s men were gathered in a loose crowd around a pair of kneeling Mexicans. The man and woman were young, already bleeding from blows to their faces. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Seb Jessup stood over them, his angry words echoing off the rafters.
Escobedo caught fragments of his tirade, which had to do with lost money, betrayal, risking Jessup’s business and threatening his livelihood…
Without thinking, Escobedo pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He trained the camera on Jessup and the kneeling Mexicans. He had no idea how he could help the young couple, but he felt compelled to do something. Anything. Because the terrible feeling sweeping over him told him something bad was about to happen.
One of the men stepped forward and handed something to Jessup.
It was a wooden baseball bat, and without pausing, Jessup swung it, striking first the girl, then the young man.
The sickening sound would stay with Escobedo for a long time. The crunch of the hard wood against weaker skulls. Jessup alternated between his two victims, and their pained cries filled Escobedo’s ears. Terrible sounds. Even when the pair slumped forward, Jessup kept up the barrage. Blood flew in bright sprays. The young couple flopped on the barn floor, bodies jerking and twitching as the estate owner battered them in a frenzy of rage. Jessup was spattered with red, yet he still kept up the attack, until one of his men told him the man and woman were dead. He stepped back, panting from his exertions as he stared at the splintered bone and brain matter oozing from the misshapen skulls.
Jessup threw down the bloodied baseball bat.
“Get rid of them,” he said. “And when you meet with those Mexican traffickers, tell ’em what happened. Put the fear of God into those fuckers…”
Escobedo felt a presence. He turned and looked into the face of one of Jessup’s men.
“Hey, you greaser son of a bitch.” The man reached out to grab hold of him.
