Don Pendleton: Diplomacy Directive

“Stay right there, hands clear!” Bolan ordered.

The two men complied and Bolan quickly sized them up. Both Hispanic males, about equal in physical size, clean-shaved and with hard expressions that spoke of experience combined with training. If he hadn’t known better, Bolan would have sworn he was looking at a couple of federal agents—maybe FBI or U.S. Marshals—given the way they carried themselves. Well, at least they weren’t extremists, because if they had been Bolan knew his warnings would have gone unheeded. No, these weren’t fanatics; they had too much of a sense of self-preservation to try anything while he had them at gunpoint.

Bolan ignored the honking of angry motorists who had to maneuver around the crash site. He kept his eyes on the pair, watchful for movement while he occasionally scanned the area surrounding them for any sort of backup. Convinced they were operating alone, Bolan approached the driver’s door until the muzzle of the Beretta came within a few yards of the man’s head but still afforded Bolan a clear field of fire in the passenger’s direction.

“Which of you boys would like to explain?” Bolan said.

“We mean you no harm,” the driver replied.

“Could have fooled me. I saw you the moment you picked up my tail. You obviously aren’t interested in me, so that means you’re after the woman. I want to know why.”

“We work for the Internal Security office,” the passenger protested.

“Fonseca sent you?”

He nodded. “We’re just following orders, Colonel.”

Bolan gestured toward the driver. “Show me ID. Slowly.”

The man reached into his jacket pocket. If these guys were legit—and Bolan had the sneaking suspicion they wouldn’t have made up such a ridiculous story on the fly—neither of them would try drawing down on him. The driver held his ID card out the window for inspection. Bolan took it from him, perused it for any hint of forgery, then flipped the holder back through the window, satisfied it was the real thing.

Bolan holstered his pistol. “What’s Fonseca’s interest in the woman?”

“She’s been consorting with known political criminals,” the passenger answered.

Bolan frowned. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

“What way would you put it?”

“That you should drop it,” Bolan replied with a hard edge to his voice.

“Mr. Fonseca—”

“Is out of line sending you to tail her. I’m here operating under the authority of Governor Hernandez. You go back and tell your boss I said to remind him of that. And no more covert ops against the woman.”

“We got orders.”

“Like I said, drop it.”

Bolan didn’t wait for any further arguments. He returned to the SUV, reversed easily from his contact with the sedan and swung into traffic. He checked the side mirror once and caught the pair of stony faces watching him go, glanced again in the rearview to make sure they didn’t follow him and then pointed his vehicle in the direction of the airport. He turned on the wipers as an early-evening rain had begun to fall while the sun dipped toward the horizon.

Something didn’t make sense here. Why would Fonseca tell Bolan about Veda and the Independents and then put a pair of his men on La Costa’s tail when he knew his tip would have to lead Bolan right to her? The soldier didn’t believe for a second that Fonseca didn’t foresee his information would lead the Executioner straight into a hornet’s nest. For one, he could hardly have called Fonseca’s intelligence leads solid. If he knew about Veda already, why not just send Bolan straight to the source? Moreover, why wouldn’t he mention someone like La Costa as a potential lead? No, Bolan was beginning to see a lot more at work here than met the eye.

From this point on, he knew he couldn’t afford to take anything in Puerto Rico at face value. It wouldn’t have been the first time the corruption went deep within the halls of political power. Bolan’s instinct told him somewhere along the way something, or someone, had gone awry inside Governor Hernandez’s political circle. Maybe the tale Veda had spun for him about the disinformation campaign within the present governing body wasn’t such a preposterous idea after all. Well, one way or another he’d get to the bottom of it.

And then Mack Bolan would deal with it in his own unique way.

“ANY IDEA WHY the governor’s security advisor would have an interest in you?” Bolan asked La Costa as the pair stood on the tarmac at Marín International.

“No.”

“Those the cats who were following us?” Grimaldi asked.

Bolan nodded to his friend and then pinned La Costa with a searching gaze. “If there’s something you know and you haven’t told me, it’s time to come clean.”

La Costa’s expression hardened. “I’ve told you everything I know. Okay? I told you about the Independents, I took you to see Veda and I’ve even risked my job, since I’ve been out carousing with you and I’m three hours overdue at the studio. I don’t know what the hell else you want from me.”

“Nothing, not a thing. I appreciate all your help, as does your country.” Bolan handed her a card. “In fact, if you get any trouble with your employer, just tell them to call that number and ask for Hal.”

La Costa stared at it a moment and then looked up. “The U.S. Justice Department?”

Bolan shrugged. “I have a few friends.”

“Yeah.”

“Now I have a plane to catch.”

Grimaldi took the cue and climbed into the requisitioned civilian version of the OH-58 Kiowa on which he’d done a preflight while waiting for the Executioner.

Bolan put out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, La Costa. Good luck with your story.”

“What?” La Costa looked at his hand and blinked. “You mean that’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“I mean, that’s just it?”

“What were you expecting?” Bolan asked.

“Something,” she replied. “Maybe some solid leads on my story, an exclusive…something!”

“Listen, La Costa, if Veda is right about someone high up in the government being dirty, and that same someone’s on to you, that makes you a liability to my mission. I appreciate your help, but I didn’t promise you anything and I don’t have time to be yanking your butt out of harm’s way at every turn.”

Yeah, that was for sure. The numbers were running down, Bolan knew it, and he didn’t have time to explain it to La Costa in detail. He couldn’t allow her to get in any deeper.

“I’m sorry if I’ve somehow affected your sensibilities of fair play,” Bolan told her, “but time is a resource luxury I don’t have. And every minute we stand here arguing could turn into a cost in more human lives. Understand?”

La Costa stared him in the eyes a moment, then nodded. “Oh…yeah. I understand perfectly, Colonel.”

She whirled on her heel and stomped toward her car. Bolan watched her a moment, then turned and boarded the helicopter. He pushed thoughts of the reporter from his mind. He really did feel a twinge of remorse because while he hadn’t made a direct promise, he had implied a potential reward for her cooperation. Now he was taking to the skies and telling her she couldn’t go along like an older brother telling the younger sibling she couldn’t hang out with him.

By the time Bolan dropped into the copilot’s seat and Grimaldi had the helicopter moving, La Costa’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen. He donned the headset so he could communicate with the pilot.

“Whoa, Sarge,” Grimaldi said immediately. “She did not look happy.”

“She wasn’t,” Bolan said.

“Didn’t like the travel arrangements, eh?”

“No.”

“Well, Hal called while I was in preflight. Needs you to contact him ASAP.”