A dozen men sat around an elaborately set table, their eyes wide in shock as the darkly dressed warrior burst into the room. A bald man with a Zapata mustache was in the process of raising a gold-plated goblet, his hand poised halfway between the table and his lips.

  The Executioner's first discharge from the Uzi streaked through the goblet and into the man's face and neck. He then turned the subgun on a drug lord in a light cotton suit. As the man shoved back from the table, he caught a long burst of 9 mm fire in the stomach and chest. His legs kicked out reflexively, striking the table and scattering food and dishes throughout the room.

  The Executioner sensed the movement behind him more than he heard it. He pivoted smoothly, squeezing the trigger as he turned and coughing a stream of fast-flying rounds into a man who'd approached from the kitchen. The gunner's eyes rolled back in his head as he dropped a sawed-off shotgun and collapsed to his knees before falling forward in death.

  As the rest of the men scrambled for cover, Bolan scanned the room for Montoya. The general had disappeared.

  Bolan dived to the floor as a tall man with a full beard fired a Browning BDA .380, the 9 mm rounds sailing over his back as he fell. Twisting around as he hit, the Executioner squeezed the Uzi's trigger and ended the assault.

  The warrior rolled under the dining table where several of the drug lords had taken refuge. He emptied the remainder of the Uzi's magazine, spraying left to right as the crouched bodies toppled to the floor.

  As he ejected the clip, the Executioner saw a hand extend a Taurus .38 under the table and fire blindly. Drawing the Desert Eagle, he fired a .44 Magnum round through the tabletop. The .38 hit the floor a second before a bleeding body.

  Peering through the tangled arms and legs beneath the table, Bolan could see the open doorway that led to the front of the inn. A man entered the foyer from a side room visible from the waist down. Then a woman's white, high-heeled shoes and nylon-hosed calves became visible. The man seemed to be dragging her away.

  Bolan slid from under the table and started to rise, ducking as a burst of automatic fire tore into the Sheetrock behind him.

  He heard the metallic clicks as the gunner ejected his empty magazine and in the short pause between fire, a woman's frightened voice screamed, "Rance!"

  Janie Brewer.

  Bolan rose from cover and the Desert Eagle jumped twice in his hand, the massive .44 rounds punching the last drug lord against the wall before he slumped lifelessly to the ground.

  The Executioner bolted toward the foyer as Montoya raced across the front yard with Janie in tow. He was stopped at the front door by gunfire from the two sentries who were still stationed there. As Bolan dropped to the floor, he saw Montoya grasp a handful of Janie's flaming red hair and throw her into a black Rolls-Royce.

  He shoved a fresh magazine up the Uzi's grip and fired at the guards through the closed screen door. The first man went down with blood jetting from his abdomen and thighs. His partner took cover behind a royal palm in the front yard, the MAC-11 machine pistol he held extended around the mammoth trunk.

  He yanked a fragmentation grenade from his battle harness, pulled the pin and tossed the explosive through the tattered screen. The grenade hit the ground next to the tree and rolled three feet before exploding, driving shrapnel through the guard's body. Bolan rose and peered through the door in time to see the lights of the Rolls turn onto the highway toward Cartagena.

  He hit the floor once more as the first .50-caliber rounds struck the front of the house — the jeep. Montoya's armed escort had stayed behind to eliminate the threat and give his master time to escape.

  The Executioner rolled onto his back, the Uzi barrel aiming upward at the overhead lamp in the foyer. A quick round eliminated the light and Bolan's next shot, back into the dining room, canceled the illumination behind him.

  Bolan crawled to a nearby window as .50-caliber projectiles continued to cut the air over his head, his hand moving instinctively to another of the grenades that hung from his chest.

  No. He'd need the jeep.

  And the big machine gun.

  Reaching into the backpack, Bolan produced a flare gun and aimed it through the window. An eerie red light illuminated the grounds outside as he sent the flare crashing through the glass and over the machine gunner's head.

  The warrior rose to his knees as the man behind the gun stared upward at the flare in surprise.

  Seizing the moment, the Executioner fired a burst through the window into the man's head, neck and chest. He then darted across the lawn, pulled the dead man from behind the gun and jumped into the driver's seat.

  On the highway, far in the distance, Bolan saw the lights of the Rolls-Royce disappear over a ridge. He twisted the key, cranking the jeep's engine to life, and floored the accelerator.

  6

  The ice cubes hit the bottom of the plastic tumbler with a dull clink as Buddy Taylor slammed them into four fingers of Rebel Yell bourbon, splashing half the whisky onto his shirt.

  The whole mess had turned to shit, Taylor thought, as he sat back down at the white kitchen table. It should have been easy. He didn't know squat about dealing drugs — but he was prepared to learn. And why shouldn't he be? How often did a man have over three hundred kilos of uncut cocaine dropped in his lap? He could have been rich.

  He'd been prepared for that, too.

  What he hadn't been prepared for was getting his ass shot off… or his throat slit and his tongue pulled out through the hole.

  He should have been able to turn the coke and retire to some tropical island where the native broads went around with their tits hanging out all the time. But that wasn't what had happened. Things had changed. As soon as word of his pilot's murder had reached him he'd had to discard all those plans. Taylor's mind returned briefly to that first day at the Rodriguez ranch. Washington. He should have killed the son of a bitch as soon as he went down.

  Taylor downed the bourbon and refilled the glass. By the time he'd thought of shooting Washington himself, he'd been too far away to be effective.

  And the bastard had talked. The cartel had discovered who he was, who they all were. The name of the game had become survival.

  Taylor took another gulp of the bourbon and listened to Jackson snoring loudly in the living room. Drunken sot. Fuck him.

  Buddy Taylor had already decided what to do with him.

  Survival, yeah, he thought. Well, it still should have been easy. Give the damn stuff to Brognola and let the Feds provide him with a new face and life. But no, the goody-two-shoes son of a bitch wanted more. Take a Justice agent and show him the sites.

  Shit. There wasn't any sense in that — no money to be made.

  Buddy Taylor shook his head. He'd never understand people like Brognola and Pollock. They were on some quest for the Holy Grail — making the world a better place for women and children.

  Bullshit. The world was the way it was because people wanted it that way. Nothing these clowns in the white hats ever did would change that.

  Taylor stood and walked to the window to gaze out over the plains at the southern Arizona desert.

  It wasn't much, this ranch, but he liked it, dammit. He'd lived here four years, ever since his first big payoff recovering planes.

  Taylor walked out onto the front porch and felt the hot air against his face. He didn't want to leave the ranch. If things went well in the next twenty-four hours, he wouldn't have to.

  The merc returned to the kitchen and refilled the tumbler, then took a seat in the living room by the window. He adjusted the air-conditioning unit so the cool air blew directly against his sweaty face, then turned to stare to Jackson.

  The younger man lay half on, half off the frayed couch, an empty bottle of tequila snuggled under his folded arms. Taylor shook his head.

  Well, things had changed again, and this time it looked like it was for the better. He downed the rest of his bourbon and reflected on the call he'd gotten from Valdez.

  Somewhere along the line the Cuban had picked up the fact that Fidel Castro himself would be providing safe passage for the cartel's drug shipments to the States. Castro's minister of defense, Raul Castillo, was staying at the resort right now, finalizing arrangements. Valdez had taken him bone fishing the last two days.

  The little greaser was in seventh heaven. He had a plan that he believed would return him to the good graces of Alpha 66 and allow him to play devoted-soldier-to-the-cause again.

  Taylor pulled a plug of tobacco from the hip pocket of his khakis and bit off a chunk. He hooked a boot around the brass spittoon at his feet and pulled it between his legs.

  Jackson rolled off the couch and hit the floor, his glazed eyes opening momentarily before closing in sleep once more.

  Valdez's change in plans had altered his own, Taylor thought. He was sick of this whole business and convinced that if Pollock didn't get him killed somewhere along the line, then Brognola would relent on the Witness Protection thing.

  No, he'd been wrong to get into this in the first place. He stood a better chance of surviving on his own.

  Taylor looked at his watch. Valdez should have already kidnapped Castillo. It shouldn't be a hard snatch to make. It would consist merely of getting far enough away from land so that gunshots couldn't be heard. Put a few surprise holes in Raul's bodyguards, feed them to the fish and he'd be home free. Then all he had to do was chart a course across the Gulf of California.

  Valdez was expecting to meet Taylor and Jackson in Mazatlán with the plane that would transport Raul the rest of the way to Florida — to the glorious reception he was sure awaited when he arrived with his captive.

  Taylor spit tobacco juice at the crusty bowl of the spittoon and missed. Valdez had assured him that Alpha 66 would pay handsomely for Raul. He didn't know how much the reward would be, but it would be worth their time and trouble. He and Jackson were welcome to split the money — Valdez would be working not for money but for his homeland.

  Shit.

  Well, Buddy Taylor didn't know how much money they'd receive, either. But he knew it would be twice as much if he didn't have to split it with Jackson. And he knew that it didn't take three men to fly a bound prisoner to Florida.

  Taylor watched the man on the floor from the corner of his eye as tobacco juice dripped from his lips into the spittoon.

  He had just two things left to do before he flew off to Mazatlán and then Florida. Returning the cocaine would have to wait until tomorrow when the cartel representatives arrived, but he could get the other task out of the way right now.

  Taylor thought of Rance Pollock as he crossed the living room to the bedroom and lifted the .45 from the top of the dresser. The cartel had appreciated the tip. That — and his offer to return the coke — was what would keep him alive.

  And Rance Pollock was in for a hell of a surprise when he went after Montoya.

  That was another concession. He'd finally seen the last of this lily-white knight.

  Returning to the living room, Buddy Taylor stood over Jackson, who had rolled facedown on the hardwood floor. He pressed the .45 against the back of the younger merc's head and without a moment of regret pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  Bolan had driven four miles down the winding coastal road when he rounded the curve and saw the roadblock. Spanning the highway, nose-to-nose, were two police cars. Parked in the ditch on both sides were two more. Montoya must have radioed ahead.

  The Executioner reached back and grabbed the grip of the .50 caliber machine gun, positioning the barrel over the windshield. Pressing down with his index finger in this awkward position, he sent a barrage of half-inch missiles over the heads of the eight Colombian cops who had rallied to the cause.

  He smiled grimly as the uniformed officers scampered from the cars to the safety of the ditch.

  Bolan had no intentions of harming either Colombian cops or soldiers — they were acting on orders, and for all they knew, protecting their general. Chances were slim that they were involved in any way with the business of the cartel.

  The warrior pressed down again on the trigger, sending more rounds flying harmlessly toward the men, then dropped the gun and grasped the wheel with both hands as the jeep smashed into the spot where the bumpers of the police cars touched. The two vehicles spun back and away from the jeep, opening like gates, and the Executioner passed through.

  Bolan heard scattered shots behind him as he raced out of there, intent on catching up with Montoya and Janie.

  A mile and a half later he slowed at a fork in the road. The left-hand route led south to the village of Sincelejo, according to the sign. The fork to the right continued on past the airport to Cartagena. Bolan twisted the wheel to the right and stomped hard on the accelerator. For a brief moment, far in the distance, he saw the faint glow of taillights before they disappeared.

  The warrior sped through the night, his right foot alternating between gas pedal and brake as he navigated the bends in the oceanside road.

  He was less than a mile from the airport when he spotted the Rolls-Royce nearing the gate in the airport's perimeter fence. Flooring the gas, his eyes scanned ahead for the resistance he knew he was about to meet.

  He wasn't disappointed.

  A hail of .223s sailed around the jeep like a swarm of bees as the two gate guards caught sight of him.

  Return fire from Bolan's heavy .50-caiiber weapon sent them diving for cover, their M-16s falling to the ground.

  The Rolls charged through the open gate with Bolan in hot pursuit, his hand steady on the machine gun as two more security men swung the gate closed.

  Montoya's car continued onto the runway, and Bolan watched as it turned toward a Boeing 727–100. Even in the distance, the Executioner could hear the roar as the plane's massive engines warmed up.

  Across the runway on the far side of the grounds, Bolan could barely make out more uniformed men as they exited a small building carrying submachine guns and assault rifles.

  One of the guards was trying to secure a heavy chain around the gate as Bolan neared. The Executioner saw his trembling hands and the strain in his face as he fumbled with the padlock. Pressing down on the machine gun's trigger-button, Bolan sent a steady stream of .50-caliber discouragers a foot to his left. The man dived clear a split second before the jeep rammed the gate, the doors bursting open as the vehicle crossed into the airport grounds.

  The collision slowed the jeep. The Executioner downshifted and floored the accelerator to regain speed as he watched Montoya and two other men drag Janie from the Rolls toward the steps of the 727.

  Bolan calculated the distance that separated him from Janie and Montoya.

  He'd never make it in time.

  The hinges of the big machine gun's swivel stand squeaked as Bolan swung the barrel into position once more. He squinted through the darkness at the distant figures, still tiny across the airport grounds.

  There was no way; they were too far away. It would be impossible to use the sights on the big gun and steer the jeep at the same time.

  He'd gotten by "hip shooting" at the roadblock and gate, but in both those situations there had been a wide margin for error. Precise shot placement hadn't been vital.

  If he threw a wild round now, Bolan knew he stood a good chance of sending one of the heavy, half-inch slugs through the body of Janie Brewer.

  Bolan raced desperately across the tarmac, hoping to close the gap so a tire shot could be safely attempted. His fist tightened on the gun's grip as he saw Montoya, Janie and the other two men mount the ramp. Janie's dyed hair shone a fiery crimson in the light over the door before she disappeared inside, followed by Montoya. Then his head shot back through the opening, an evil, mocking grin covering his face before he closed the door behind him.

  Scattered small-arms fire sailed past the Executioner's head from the oncoming convoy of security men. He swung the big machine gun their way, sending short, choppy bursts to the sides and over their heads.

  The vehicles slowed, the men inside evidently not anxious to tackle the big weapon.

  Bolan swung the barrel back over the windshield and pressed lightly on the trigger-button, sending a few tentative rounds toward the taxiing plane. His fire fell short.

  As the gap continued to close, the Executioner altered his angle of trajectory.

  The next burst of automatic fire flew a half-foot high over the Boeing. Turning onto the runway, the plane faced Bolan's oncoming jeep at a forty-five-degree angle and prepared to take off.

  Bolan cut the wheel hard left and bore down on the nose of the aircraft, his finger crushing down the trigger-button and sending a steady stream of .50-caliber projectiles across the runway.

  For a brief moment, it appeared as if the jeep and airplane would collide on the runway, then the giant Boeing rose over Bolan's head, its heavy vacuum jerking the machine gun from his grip and threatening to pull him up in its wake as he clung to the steering wheel.

  The Executioner hit the brake, spinning neatly into a short 180, and Bolan watched the Boeing rise overhead to the east before dipping a wing and heading back toward the airport. In the light of the full moon, he saw a tiny speck descend through the sky as the airplane continued out over the Atlantic.

  The object grew larger as it neared the ground, finally allowing Bolan to distinguish the outlines of a body.

  As the horrifying reality set in, Bolan heard the scream.

  Janie Brewer hit the runway fifty feet in front of the Executioner's jeep.

  * * *

  Felipe Valdez lifted the heavy bucket and let the fish, entrails and heads fall over the rail of the Hatteras 48. He watched as the water around the cartel fishing boat turned pink.

  Moments later the first dorsal fin appeared on the horizon.

  "Seňor Castillo?" he heard the fat bodyguard say behind him. Valdez turned in time to see Raul Castillo accept a stainless steel Ruger Mini-14 from the man. "It's only fitting that the first shark is yours," the fat man finished.

 

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