Don Pendleton - Powder Burn

“Find him, sir?”

“Not by yourself, of course.” His lord and master smiled at that, the notion’s sheer absurdity. “With help. And when you find him, do what must be done.”

“I will, sir. You can count on it.”

“His life for yours, Jorge. Don’t fail a second time.”

THE SAFEHOUSE WAS AVERAGE size, painted beige, located on a cul-de-sac north of El Lago Park in Barrios Unidos. Bolan turned off Avenida de La Esmeralda and followed Pureza’s directions from there. She unlocked the garage, stood back to let him park the Pontiac, then closed the door from the inside.

They had been lucky with the G6, in the circumstances. It had taken only two hits, one of them a graze along the left front fender that could pass for careless damage from a parking lot, the other low down on the driver’s door. Nothing to raise eyebrows in Bogotá, where mayhem was a daily fact of life.

Pureza led the way inside, through a connecting door that kept the neighbors from observing anyone who came and went around the safehouse. They entered through a laundry room, into a combination kitchen–dining room that smelled of spices slowly going stale.

“You use this place for witnesses?” he asked Pureza.

“That, or for emergencies. I think this qualifies.”

“No clearance needed in advance?”

“If you are asking who knows we are here, the answer would be no one.”

“No drop-ins expected?”

“None.”

“Okay. Who knew about our meeting?” Bolan asked.

“You think someone inside the CNP betrayed us.” The lieutenant didn’t phrase it as a question.

“If the bomb had been a random thing, I wouldn’t ask,” Bolan replied. “But when they follow up with shooters, it’s specific. No one tailed me from the airport, so there has to be a leak.”

“Why must it be on my side?”

“I’d be asking Styles the same thing,” Bolan said, “if he was here. My only contact with the DEA is dead.”

“So you’re stuck on me.”

“The phrase would be ‘stuck with you,’ and that isn’t what I said. You’ve done a good job, so far. I’m impressed, okay? But someone had to tip the other side about our meet.”

“You’re right,” Pureza said, relaxing from her previous defensive posture. “I was assigned by my commander, Captain Rodrigo Celedón. Above him, I can’t say who might have known.”

“You trust your captain?”

“With my life,” she said.

“Be sure of that before you talk to him again. Because it is your life.”

“The DEA may have a leak, as well.”

“It happens,” Bolan granted. “But they’re getting whittled down in Bogotá these days, and I don’t picture Styles setting himself up to be hit.”

“What’s your solution, then?”

“A solo op,” Bolan replied. “Or a duet, if you’re still in.”

“You think I’d leave you at this stage?”

“It wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you ever did,” he told her frankly.

“I must still live with myself,” Pureza said. “One person I can absolutely trust.”

“And you’re on board with what I have to do?”

“That part has been…shall I say vague? I was assigned to help with what is called a ‘special case.’ Beyond that, all I know is that the cartel wants you dead. And me, as well, apparently.”

“That sums it up,” Bolan said. “Naldo Macario wore out his welcome with the massacre at your Palace of Justice. It’s crunch time. I’m the last resort.”

Pureza held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “So, we aren’t building a case for trial,” she said at last.

“The trial’s been held. The verdict’s in. Macario’s outfit is marked.”

“You understand I represent the law?”

“The system’s broken down,” Bolan replied. “We’re trying an alternative.”

“If I refuse?”

“You walk. We try to stay out of each other’s way.”

“And Macario wins.”

“No, he’s done, either way.”

The lieutenant took another moment, making up her mind, then nodded. “Right,” she said. “Where do we start?”

Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.

THE TELEPHONE CAUGHT Hal Brognola reaching for his hat. It was an hour and a half past quitting time, and he was taking more work home, as usual. He might have let the call go through to voice mail if it hadn’t been his private line. Leaving his gray fedora on its wall hook, Brognola snagged the receiver midway through its third insistent ring.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to catch you headed out the door,” the familiar voice said from somewhere warm and far away.

“So you’re into remote viewing now?” Brognola inquired.

“Just safe bets,” Bolan replied. “When was the last time you cleared the office on time?”

“Thirteenth of Never,” Brognola acknowledged. “I forget the year. Aught-something. How’s it going where you are?”

The private line was scrambled, but Brognola took no chances. Paranoia wasn’t just a state of mind in Washington—it was a tried and true survival mechanism.

“Heating up,” Bolan said in reply. “There was an unexpected welcoming committee and we lost our guy from pharmaceuticals.”

Meaning Jack Styles from DEA. Brognola hadn’t known him personally—the agency had something like fifty-five hundred sworn agents, more than twice that many employees in all—but he still felt the sharp pang of loss.

Once a cop, always a cop.

“So, you need a new contact?” he asked.

“Negative, at least for the time being,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got some local help. We’ll try to muddle through.”

“If there’s a problem with the local shop…”

Brognola paused and Bolan filled the gap. “We’ve talked about it. This one’s good, so far. Not sure about the rest.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “If you need any help, I should be able to provide it.”

He slipped in the reference to Able Team, who’d gone to bat with the Executioner more than once, their link preceding Brognola’s promotion at Justice and the creation of Stony Man Farm. Bolan and two of the Able Team warriors had traveled through hell together as outlaws, before they dropped off the grid to help Uncle Sam with his worst dirty jobs.

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Bolan answered, “but I’ve got your number.”

“Right,” Brognola said. “But don’t let the competition get yours.”

“I’m still unlisted,” Bolan said, and the big Fed could almost sense him smiling. “Later.”

“Later,” Brognola agreed, and cradled the receiver.

So the bad news from Colombia continued. The Justice man supposed he’d get a call from Stony Man Farm before too long, reporting details of the “unexpected welcome” Bolan had received in Bogotá. There’d be a call from DEA, as well, likely complaining that they never should have asked for Brognola’s help in the first place.

As if it had been the agency’s idea.

As far as Brognola knew, the DEA’s top brass had no idea that Stony Man existed, much less what it actually did. The program was beyond top secret, authorized and created by a former President of the United States, maintained by that commander in chief’s successors to deal with extraordinary situations.

If and when the program was exposed to public scrutiny, some heads were bound to roll, Brognola’s and the current President’s among them. Nothing in the U.S. Constitution provided for creation of a black-ops force like Stony Man, and while Brognola could defend it till doomsday on moral and practical grounds, the program didn’t have a legal leg to stand on.

Virtually everything his warriors did was criminal, albeit for the classic greater good.

This time, Brognola grabbed his hat and put it on before another phone call could delay him. Stony Man, the DEA, or anybody else who sought a piece of him this night could reach him on his cell phone. He’d take the bad news as it came, meet the complaints head-on, without referring them upstairs. Unless it fell apart completely and his team could not complete a mission—something which, thank God, hadn’t happened yet—he took calls from the Man upstairs, but didn’t dial the hotline for a conversation on his own initiative.