Don Pendleton - State Of War

“La Asociación del Ñeta is a cultural organization, Cooper.” Kaino scowled. “And if we were in charge of this lavatory, people would be wiping their asses with toilet paper rather than the walls.”

“You know, I like the way you said that with a straight face. That was good.”

Kaino smiled despite himself. He looked around the lavatory measuringly. “But you’re right. The Netas aren’t well represented. Back in the day the Netas ran the prisons in Florida. Only the Aryans and the Latin Kings dared to give us any static on the inside. On the outside the Colombians ran the drugs and everyone fought for their business. Mexicans were mules for the Colombians. Mexico was just a transshipment point. And El Salvador?” Kaino scoffed. “A mud puddle where they ate guinea pigs. A Central American tragedy you heard about in the news. Now the Mexicans run everything. The Mexican cartels are the alpha predators now. They’re expanding south as well as north. And MS-13 is like a bunch of pit bulls roaming the streets, animals, biting everything that moves, and moving in on whatever they can move in on.”

Bolan was intimately aware of the ebb and flow of gang structure in the Americas. He had spilled blood fighting it. Kaino had obviously lived it, survived it, threaded the eye of the needle and come out a lawman. “Hard times for the old association these days?”

“We aren’t what we were. Netas are still strong on the inside, but out on the streets?” Kaino slowly shook his head. “MS-13 is pushing my people, and they push hard.”

“So why did you bring me to this shithole again?”

“Oh, this is a happening nightspot around here.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, it is. It’s the only gas station for blocks around. The rest all closed their doors. Every gangster’s whip needs gas, and no one wants to start a war over this station and see it close.”

Bolan ran his eyes over the mystery stains streaking the walls. “Like the Highlander, holy ground.”

“That was a good show.” Kaino pointed to the wall over the sinks. All the mirrors had been ripped out, and the wall there was an almost Jackson Pollockian fusion of gangland graffiti tags piled one over the other in such profusion that it was a startlingly profound work of art unto itself. “That’s the message board. That paint has to be at least an inch thick by now.”

“The gangs leave each other messages here.”

“Hey, man, during the cold war even Washington and Moscow had a red phone. Sometimes you have to talk.”

“People come here, check the latest messages and word spreads out,” Bolan concluded.

“That’s it exactly, you saw those benches outside? Sometimes the gangs come here when they need to have an actual parley.”

“So if this is holy ground, how come we have to walk heeled with big steel?”

“Because around here I’m considered dangerous big game,” Kaino told him. “And you? Well, let me tell you something Mr. Blue-Eyed Devil, you would be a genuine trophy. Get it?”

“More than you’ll ever know.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me. I’m really wondering what I’m getting into.”

Bolan nodded. “I get that a lot.”

“I just bet you do.”

Bolan shrugged. “Want to see something cool?”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

The soldier reached into his bag and took out a couple of cans of spray paint.

“No!” Kaino was appalled. “Oh, hell no!”

Bolan had run missions in Mexico and El Salvador. On several occasions he had run roughshod over the organized crime affiliates using the name El Hombre. He wondered if anyone in Florida would have heard of the moniker, and whether it would send any reverberations in the right directions. Bolan had practiced his painting skills before he had come to Florida. He did a credible job of painting El Hombre in bloated, amoebalike letters along with the date and the symbols that said El Hombre was now taking ownership of this men’s room. Bolan finished with a flourish of his own design.

Kaino’s jaw dropped. “Mother of God...”

“You like?”

“You just signed your death warrant,” Kaino stated.

“Fourth one I signed today.”

Kaino’s face went blank. “What?”

“Oh, I painted similar tags in Zeta, Gulf and MS-13 territory earlier.”

“Why...you...” A stream of Puerto Rican invectives poured forth from the master sergeant.

“I didn’t tag any Neta territory.”

“You fuckin better not have, ese, or I’ll kill you myself. Not that I need to, because you just killed us both.” Kaino eyed Bolan scathingly. “You already knew about this place, didn’t you?”

“Knew about it, but I appreciate the guided tour, and the sitrep from a veteran on the ground.” Bolan checked his watch. “They should be coming soon.”

“And that’s another thing. What do you think is going to happen when the Zetas, Gulf and MS-13 all roll up on this little slice of heaven at the same time?”

“Tension, apprehension and dissension?” Bolan suggested.

Kaino was so upset he forgot he was holding revolvers in both hands as he waved his arms up and down in outrage. “It’ll be fucking World War III! And you started it!”

“It’ll be Armageddon, but a focused Armageddon.”

“Oh, and how are you going to focus three rival gangs?”

“We’re going to make them focus on us.”

Kaino simply stared. Bolan’s phone rang. “Hold on, I need to take this.” He checked the caller icon and answered. “What’ve we got, Bear?”

Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman’s voice came across the line from the Computer Room at Stony Man Farm in Virginia. “We have multiple vehicles converging on the filling station from all directions.”

“Give me visual.”

A mile up in space a National Security Agency satellite peered down at Kaino’s corner of Florida and sent its feed to Bolan’s phone. The soldier saw the grid of streets that framed the neighborhood in greens and grays. Well over a dozen automobiles were converging on the station. He held out the phone so Kaino could see. “They’re coming.”

Kaino blinked. “You have a helicopter watching us?”

“Satellite.”

“You have a satellite.”

Bolan grinned. “Cool, isn’t it?”

* * *

T HE E XECUTIONER unzipped his bag and pulled out what appeared to be a pair of assault rifles on steroids.

“Jesus!”

“AA-12 semiautomatic shotgun.” Bolan slapped in a massive drum magazine and racked the action. “I know, you’ve never fired one before. So a buddy of mine installed a laser sight.” He squeezed the grip and a red dot appeared on the closest stall.

“So we’re just going to hose down Zetas, Gulfs and the MS-13 boys in a premeditated and, may I say, arranged act of mass murder?”

“Your weapon holds twenty-four rounds. That drum is loaded with tear gas.” Bolan pulled out a gas mask with night-vision goggles and an armored vest in the master sergeant’s size. He pulled out a second drum. “This one is loaded with rubber buckshot. Keep your shots low.”

Kaino stared at the weapon as if Bolan had handed him a two-headed baby.

“Come on,” Bolan cajoled. “You used to be Neta, tell me you’re not down with laying a little less-than-lethal hurt on these vato interlopers.”

A slow smile spread across Kaino’s face. “You know, this is almost like a wet dream, but I like my job. Plus, can I tell you something, just between you and me?”

“Shoot.”

“I don’t like lifting weights or having sex with men, and that’s all there is to do in prison.”

“Sorry, almost forgot,” Bolan pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. “Here.”

Kaino’s face went slack. Bolan geared up. The cop slowly shook his head. “That is the Seal of the President of the United States.”