Don Pendleton - Powder Burn

And yet what was he waiting for? The weapon was in place, with Carlos Mondragón on station, waiting for the order to trigger it by remote control. Mutis was using a mallet to smash a mosquito, but he was a soldier who followed orders. His padrino wanted a message sent back to El Norte, and Mutis was not in the business of second-guessing his masters.

So, why not proceed?

It wasn’t squeamishness. Mutis had built and detonated bigger bombs, inflicting scores of casualties on demand. He cared no more for the men, women and children passing along Carrera 11 than he might for a nest of ants in his yard. They meant less than nothing to Mutis. He was indifferent to their suffering and death.

But the targets intrigued him.

Germán Mutis derived no quasi-erotic pleasure from his work, as did Jaime Fajardo. Beyond the satisfaction of a job well done, he felt nothing when one of his bombs shattered buildings and lives.

He was, however, fascinated by his targets. It soothed him, in some way Mutis could not define, to see them, watch them go about the final moments of their business, and persuade himself that they were worthy of his best efforts.

This day the weapon was a classic ammonium nitrate and fuel oil—ANFO—bomb. It lacked the sophistication of C-4 or Semtex, but it was cheap and easy to make. More to the point, it delivered predictable impact on target.

The bomb, though relatively small by ANFO standards at a mere two hundred pounds, would send the message that El Padrino desired. It was packed in the trunk of a Volvo sedan, surrounded by jars filled with nails and scrap iron. The Volvo itself would provide further shrapnel, along with the flames from its shattered fuel tank. Parked across the street from the Andino Mall, it was well within range of his prey and ready to go.

As soon as Mutis gave the word.

But there was no rush. The gringos and their bitch weren’t going anywhere. Mutis wished he could eavesdrop on their conversation, listen to them scheming, making plans to topple El Padrino unaware that their lives had been measured out in minutes on a ticking clock.

This was the part that Mutis loved, if truth be told. The power to reach out and cancel lives in progress, possibly to change the course of history itself. How many of the strangers whom he killed today might have gone on to greatness or produced child prodigies, if given time? Was a doctor strolling down the pavement who could cure AIDS or cancer? A footballer who was loved by millions—or who might have been, next year?

At such a moment, Germán Mutis felt like God.

And he could well afford to savor it a moment longer.

“YOU’RE COOPER,” THE man from DEA said, as Bolan took his seat.

“I am,” Bolan agreed. “Been waiting long?”

“You’re right on time,” the harried-looking agent said, reaching for Bolan’s hand. “Jack Styles. And this is Lieutenant Arcelia Pureza, of the Colombian National Police.”

“Narcotics Division,” the woman added, as she touched Bolan’s hand, there and gone.

“Okay, so everyone’s on board with this?” Bolan asked.

“I think that it would help,” Styles said, “if we could clarify exactly what ‘this’ is.”

Before Bolan could answer that, a waitress appeared at his elbow. He paused, tossed a mental dart at the menu before him and ordered tamales to be on the safe side, with Club Colombia beer for a chaser.

When the waitress wandered out of earshot, Bolan asked, “Which part are you unclear about?”

Styles glanced at his native counterpart, frowning, then turned back to Bolan and said, “The whole thing, I suppose. Look, we took a bad hit at the Palace of Justice, no question about it. I lost my chief of station, not to mention Counselor Webb. The Colombians, Jesus…the whole second tier of their federal law enforcement network was gone in one swoop.”

“And the shooters were political?”

“Supposedly,” Styles said.

“All six were members of the AUC,” Lieutenant Pureza advised him. “That is the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia. The United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia. We have confirmed their records and affiliations.”

“And the AUC’s a right-wing group,” Bolan said.

“As in ultranationalist, pushing neo-Nazi,” Styles replied.

“And you suspect they’re working for Naldo Macario’s cartel?”

“It’s more than mere suspicion,” Pureza said. “We have documented cartel contact and collaboration with the AUC. Macario supports the group with cash and cocaine, which members of the AUC then sell abroad or trade for weapons.”

“And in exchange for that?” Bolan asked.

Frowning, the young lieutenant answered, “Members of the AUC protect his coca crops and his refining plants, harass his competition and dispose of troublesome officials.”

“So, you know all this, and no one’s crushed the operation…why, again?”

“There are complexities,” she said, and glanced away, avoiding Bolan’s gaze.

“Well, there you go,” Bolan said. “I’m the ax that cuts red tape.”

“And what’s involved in that, exactly?” Styles inquired.

The waitress brought his beer. Bolan sipped it, savored it, then set the frosty mug back on the tabletop.

“The law’s not working for you,” he replied. “It really hasn’t worked for decades, right?” Pureza was about to protest, but he raised a hand to silence her. “I understand, it’s relative. Reform follows a cycle, like the weather. People make adjustments and decide how much corruption they can tolerate. But this Macario has thrown the playbook out the window. He’s like Escobar on crank, no better than a rabid animal. While your two agencies are following the rules, playing connect the dots and trying to indict him, he keeps running people through the meat grinder, making Colombia look like a cut-rate slaughterhouse.”

“We’ve done our best,” Pureza said.

“It isn’t good enough,” Bolan replied. “If he was only murdering Colombians, the folks in Washington could hem and haw, debate some kind of sanctions, stall it out and hope he dies from cancer or gets flattened by a bus. But now he’s killing U.S. diplomats and federal agents, reaching out to pull the same crap in the States that he’s been doing here. That’s absolutely unacceptable.”

“We’re with you,” Styles replied. “I’m simply asking what you plan to—”

Bolan never heard the rest of it. A shock wave struck them, billowing across the street as thunder roared and sheets of window glass came crashing down on every side. The air was full of shrapnel, flying furniture and bodies, as he struck the pavement, rolling, covering his head instinctively with upraised arms.

The aftermath of any great explosion was a ringing silence, like the void of outer space. It took a heartbeat, sometimes two or three, before sound filtered back to traumatized eardrums. During the same brief gap, nostrils picked out the intermingled smells of smoke, dust, blood and burning flesh.

Bolan knew he was hit. Something had stung his left biceps and scored his thigh on the same side, but neither wound was serious. He’d leak, but he would live.

Unless there was a follow-up.

Squirming around on pavement strewed with bits of scrap and shattered concrete, Bolan looked for his companions. Styles was laid out on his back, unmoving, with the bright head of a nail protruding from his forehead, just above a glazed left eye. There was no need to check his pulse to verify that he was gone.

Arcelia Pureza was alive and coughing, fingers probing at a raw slice at her jawline. Bolan went to her on hands and knees, clutching her arm.

“Come on,” he said. “We need to move.”

“What? Move? Why move?”

The gunfire started then.