Don Pendleton: Salvador Strike

The V8 engine of the Mustang GT roared beneath the hood as Bolan slammed the stick into Second gear and blasted out of the lot with a squeal of tires. The Mustang accelerated and Bolan smoothly shifted into Third gear, then Fourth, heading along the circular road that would connect him with the sedan crew. He had no doubt these were Guerra’s people. They didn’t operate like professional hitters. They had intended to do a drive-by on the mourners at the park, plain and simple. Bolan was thankful nobody else had been at the park, particularly children playing in the area of his conflagration with the men in the SUV.

Bolan looked toward the sedan just as it executed a tight turnaround and headed the way it had come. The Executioner increased his speed, determined not to let them get away. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the frantic scrambling of police toward their cars. There was no longer a threat at the park; the threat was now wherever Bolan allowed Guerra’s men to lead him. Surely they would know he was following them, and he couldn’t say he really minded. Inside the large, nylon bag on the seat next to him was an arsenal of assorted weapons for making war.

In addition to the Beretta, Bolan had brought along his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, the standard hand cannon for dispatching bad guys. It was especially handy when he needed decent firepower in a close-quarters situation where automatic weapons would be clumsy and awkward. He’d also procured an MP-5 K machine pistol, an FNC assault rifle by Fabrique Nationale and a dozen or so M-67 hand grenades. In the trunk he carried some additions to round out his rolling armory, which he would bring into use as the occasions arose.

Bolan tried to coax some more speed from the Mustang, slowing only enough to make the curve at the park exit without flipping the high-performance sports car. The sedan hadn’t gone very far and Bolan knew he wouldn’t have trouble catching up. He grit his teeth when flashing lights of several police squads suddenly rounded the corner of a street farther up and headed directly for the fleeing vehicle. Bolan wished he had a police radio so he could warn them the suspects were heavily armed, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. If the profile on Smalley was even remotely accurate, Herndon would put every available resource at law enforcement’s disposal to make sure there was no further bloodshed by MS-13, and Smalley’s men probably wouldn’t be too careful or discriminate about how they did that. Such a fact would only lead to more good men and women dying, this time men and women wearing badges.

Bolan watched helplessly as the sedan ground to a halt and flashes from muzzles protruding from the windows chopped the glass and metal of the squad cars to shreds. One of the squads was still far enough back to escape the onslaught, but the closest two didn’t fare well. While the police were trained to respond to such incidents, they were hardly equipped to go up against fanatic gangbangers armed with machine guns and assault rifles.

On the other hand, Bolan was.

The Executioner raced toward the carnage and slammed on his brakes at the last moment, swinging his vehicle around the outside of the sedan as he reached into the bag and withdrew the MP-5 K. None of the sedan’s occupants had even noticed him, as they were still focused on shooting up the police vehicles. Bolan put the weapon in battery, lowered his window and stuck his left arm out, machine gun in hand. He depressed the trigger and swept the vehicle. The front and rear windows of what the soldier could now see was a Lincoln MKZ shattered under the attack. The bodies of the gunners danced under the massive assault. He yanked an M-67 high explosive grenade and thumbed away the spoon as he raked the sedan. Amid the shouts and curses of those who survived his barrage, Bolan tossed the grenade casually into the interior and then put the Mustang into Reverse and backed away.

The superheated ball of gas filled the interior compartment a moment later, and flames belched from all four window frames. The blast produced enough effect to lift the car an inch or two off its wheels and settle it back to the pavement in a roaring crash. Bolan could feel the heat and shock wave of the explosion pass through the front window of the Mustang, setting his teeth on edge. He shielded his eyes in order not to be blinded by the flash effect of the PETN-fed blast.

“So much for a dull roar,” Bolan muttered to himself.

The Executioner pulled the Mustang to the curb a safe distance from the flaming wreckage of the sedan, burst from his car and rushed to see if he could render aid to any of the wounded officers. For now, he had evened the score between MS-13 and the Marcianos. That would teach Mario Guerra a lesson—make him realize he and his Hillbangers weren’t quite as invincible as they thought. And there was one other thing Guerra would learn very soon.

Bolan was just getting started.

“YOU WANT TO TELL ME just what the hell you thought you were doing, Cooper?” a red-faced Mike Smalley asked. “This is a Herndon police matter, and the Herndon Police will handle it!”

“No, that’s where you’re mistaken, Chief,” Bolan replied calmly. “This is a matter for everyone.”

“Is it now? Okay then—” Smalley leaned forward in his chair and snatched a sheet of paper off the edge of his desk, placing it in front of him “—let’s just see what we have here. I had the contents of that sports car out there inventoried. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I do,” Bolan replied coolly. “You have no right or jurisdiction to search my vehicle.”

Smalley looked at Bolan and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t? Well, that’s funny because I’m almost positive the search warrant I acquired from a D.C. judge just a little while ago said I did.” He turned his attention back to the paper. “So let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, here we go. One semiautomatic .44 Magnum handgun with no registration record, one 5.56 mm assault rifle of foreign make, one M-16 A-2 assault rifle with M-203 grenade launcher in the trunk, and about one hundred pounds of varied ordnance, military grade.”

Smalley locked eyes with Bolan. “Automatic weapons that aren’t government issued? Military explosives? Just who the hell are you exactly, Cooper—if that’s even your real name? Who do you work for? And don’t hand me any more bullshit about how you’re with the Justice Department. Those creds you’re carrying are a little too clean for my tastes.”

Bolan had been as polite as possible to this point, but Smalley had gone too far now, and the time for niceties was over. Beside, the cat was out of the bag, and he didn’t have any more time to be cheeky. Brognola had said Smalley was old school, which simply meant he was only willing to play hardball with those who were adept at giving back as good as they got. So it was time to change tact.

“All right, Chief,” Bolan said, feigning frustration. “You want the truth, the gloves come off. Quite simply, I’m operating with the full cooperation of the Oval Office. You understand? I don’t answer to you or frankly to anyone else. Gary Marciano’s family and witness were killed because MS-13 has become an epidemic in this country. One I’ve been sent to cure. They warned me you were hard-nosed and by-the-book, which I don’t have any problem with. But my mission is to eradicate this threat to the American public once and for all. Now you’re either into that and willing to cooperate or you’re not. Either way, I don’t really care because I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it. I could have you removed from that chair with one phone call. I’m not interested in doing that, so you’d better decide now if you stand a better chance of focusing on protecting the people of Herndon or standing in my way, all for the sake of protecting your ego.”