Don Pendleton - Cartel Clash

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.”

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.

“The President, me and you, Striker. We’re the only ones in the loop on this one. He’s asking for your help. The kind of help only you can provide. Nothing on the books. Nothing that connects this mission to him, or the U.S. administration. I’ll provide any logistical assistance you need through Stony Man. No questions asked as to how, or where, or when. He just wants Rojas and Dembrow gone. Their business wiped out. And this incoming special cargo, as well.”

Brognola had waited as Bolan scanned the file. The Executioner was as committed to doing whatever possible to inflict damage on the purveyors of illegal drug trafficking as anyone, and the fact the President was asking for his covert assistance alerted him to the gravity of the situation.

“Well?” Brognola asked after a decent interval.

“I get triple brownie points?” Bolan asked archly.

Brognola only hesitated for effect. “Hell of a request, but okay.”

BOLAN IMMEDIATELY MADE his way to the small Texas town close to the border to make his first contact.

The young woman, dark-haired, slim and pretty, from what Bolan could see, clutched a small cloth bundle, and her cautious manner told Bolan she should not have been in the apartment. His curiosity was aroused. The young woman was his first possible lead to Manners. At the moment he had no idea how important her relationship with the agent might have been, but he had to find out.

His rented Ford 4x4 was parked across the street from the cantina. Bolan watched as his lead walked quickly by the frontage. As Bolan leaned forward to fire up the engine, he saw two figures detach from the shadows of the alley beside the cantina and fall in behind the young woman. It looked as if others were interested in her, too.

Beyond the cantina were a couple of closed and shuttered stores, then an empty lot covered with weeds and refuse. Bolan eased open the truck’s door and stepped out. He crossed the street and trailed the pair following the woman. The men remained at a discreet distance until she turned to cross the empty lot, then they upped their pace. Bolan did the same, his long legs covering the distance with ease. As he rounded the end of the last store, he saw the duo closing in on their mark, heard her startled gasp as one of them reached out to catch hold of one of her arms and jerk her to a stop. One of the men spoke, his Spanish so rapid that Bolan only caught a few words. Understandable or not, the menace in the guy’s tone was unmistakable. The woman replied, her words defiant.

“Puta,” the man yelled, and slapped her across the face. The blow knocked the woman off her feet. “Puta madre.”

The second man leaned down to snatch at the bundle from her arms. She yelled at him, clinging to the package. The guy kicked at her side.

That was when Bolan reached the group. He went for the guy who had kicked the young woman, grabbed a handful of his thick black hair and yanked hard. The man yelled, trying to turn. Bolan slammed a hard fist into the goon’s exposed ribs. He put all of his strength into the blow and heard the faint crack of bone. The man groaned. The Executioner drove the toe of his boot into the back of one knee. The leg buckled, the man losing balance, and as his opponent fell backward the soldier snapped an arm around his lean neck and dragged him close. He stamped down on the man’s calf, breaking the limb. The man screamed as Bolan let go and swiveled to face the first guy, who had produced a knife from his belt. He lunged wildly at his adversary, and from the way he moved it was obvious he was no expert.

“Bastardo.”

The knife had a thick, heavy blade and it slowed the guy’s desperate slashes. Even so, Bolan kept his eye on the weaving length of steel. He was an experienced knife fighter, and even the clumsiest attacker only had to get lucky once.

Bolan avoided the first couple of uncoordinated thrusts, watching the blade as it completed its arc. In the moment it swung at him again, Bolan stepped in, caught the knife arm, turned his body into his opponent’s space and used his free arm to hammer the point of his elbow into the man’s face. The blow was delivered without hesitation and with crippling force. The knife man’s cry of pain was reduced to a choking gurgle as blood from his crushed nose and shattered teeth filled his mouth. When Bolan added pressure, the knife slipped from limp fingers. The soldier reached back and gripped a handful of the guy’s shirt. He yanked forward, bending so that his adversary was pulled over his shoulder. The man slammed onto the hard ground with a solid thud, with Bolan standing over him. He never saw the heavy swing of the Executioner’s boot. It connected with the back of his skull and slammed him into oblivion.