Don Pendleton: Extreme Justice

The gringo had surprised them with a shotgun blast from nowhere that had toppled Paco Obregon before they even glimpsed the man they’d come to kill. It was supposed to be an easy job, and now Rodriguez thought maybe he wasn’t being paid enough.

Their target was holed up inside a room no more than twenty feet from where Rodriguez crouched behind a sofa, painfully aware that springs and stuffing would not save him if the gringo kept on shooting. A glimpse had shown Rodriguez books inside the room, perhaps some kind of library. They’d have to rush the gringo soon, behind a wall of lead, and—

What was this?

Madre de díos!

Right before his eyes, Obregon was struggling to his feet, gasping and coughing, one hand pressed against his stomach while the other fumbled for his pistol on the carpet.

White shag carpet, without any stain of blood.

Rodriguez watched as Obregon brushed the rock-salt pellets from his shirt, wincing at contact with the bruised flesh underneath.

It was a trick! The damned gringo had tried to scare them off, as if Rodriguez and his men were children. The warning shot would cost the gringo his life.

Rodriguez was about to order the attack, when Paco Obregon retrieved his pistol, snarled a curse and rushed the door alone. A second, louder shotgun blast rang out, and this time there was blood aplenty, spilling everywhere as Paco vaulted over backward, crumpling in an awkward attitude of death.

Rodriguez crouched lower behind the sofa, all thoughts of rushing the door banished from his mind. Yet he couldn’t simply wait there and allow the gringo to terrorize him into immobility.

He had six more handpicked killers left, against one man who was accustomed to the soft life, swaddled by his money. Not so soft that he’d forgotten how to pull a trigger, obviously, but it would be shameful to retreat.

Worse yet, it would be fatal.

If Rodriguez failed, it wouldn’t be enough to simply return the money. He couldn’t just apologize and take a scolding.

No.

The man who had employed him wanted blood.

Rodriguez flashed hand signals at the two men he could see. The other four had entered through the back door of the mansion and were doubtless waiting for his signal somewhere on the far side of the library.

Frontal assault was the only option that he could think of, and if that meant losing men, so be it. He would be behind them all the way.

Rodriguez flashed another hand sign, and his soldiers nodded in response, both edging forward, clutching weapons tightly. They didn’t look at Obregon, leaking blood on the carpet, but rather focused on their target. Like professionals.

Rodriguez nodded, and they rose together, shoulders hunched into the charge—then started jerking, twisting, lurching through the half steps of some crazy, spastic dance Rodriguez didn’t recognize. It took a heartbeat for his mind to grasp what he was seeing, then he heard the whisper-stutter of an automatic weapon with a silencer attached.

His soldiers fell together, nearly sprawling over Obregon’s limp corpse. Rodriguez spun to face the new and unexpected source of peril, squeezing off a burst with his Ingram before he had a target in his sights.

Diving and rolling, wishing that the parlor’s furniture were made from steel and concrete rather than mere wood and fabric, Rodriquez glimpsed another gringo firing at him with some kind of submachine gun.

Bullets ripped through the upholstery of the stout recliner where he’d come to rest. Rodriguez raised his hand into the gringo’s line of fire, emptied the Ingram’s magazine and hastened to reload.

The target was supposed to be alone, goddamn it! He’d been told that there would be no bodyguards. It was a promise. In and out, with nothing to detain him at his task.

Bastards! Rodriguez vowed that if he made it out of this alive, there would be hell to pay.

Near panic, sweating through his rumpled shirt despite the mansion’s air-conditioning, Rodriguez started barking orders to the four surviving members of his crew. He didn’t know if either of his gringo enemies spoke Spanish, and he didn’t care. It was still five men against two, and Rodriguez could live with those odds.

One of the other soldiers answered him, a grim affirmative. It was enough.

Rodriguez broke from cover, bellowing his rage and firing from the hip with his MAC-10.

A BURST FROM BOLAN’S muffled Uzi dropped the shouting gunman in his tracks. That made four down, and he could hear the other four men of the home-invasion team before he saw them, coming down the hall in a stampede, all firing on the run.

Bolan saw nothing to be gained by waiting until they were visible. The hallway was a killing pen. He held down the Uzi’s trigger, sweeping its muzzle back and forth, vaguely aware of bright spent brass cascading from the SMG’s ejection port.

An instant later, Bolan’s targets stumbled into view, three of the four still firing, but without a focus to their aim. They peppered walls, floor and ceiling as their feet got tangled up and brought them crashing down. Except for all the blood and screaming, it resembled something from a slapstick comedy.

Bolan reloaded, watched the dying shooters long enough to satisfy himself that none of them presented any threat. Gil Favor hadn’t joined the turkey shoot, apparently preferring to remain invisible and bide his time. Bolan edged forward now, conscious of his female companion moving on his flank, her pistol leveled in a fair two-handed grip.

“Favor!” Bolan called out. “We need to talk.”

“So talk,” a strained voice answered. “I’ve already called for the police. Let’s chat until they get here, shall we?”

“That’s a bad idea,” Bolan replied.

“For you, maybe.”

“I didn’t come to hurt you,” Bolan told him.

“Right. I guess you’re with the neighborhood welcoming committee, then.”

“I’m not with these guys. If I was, why would I kill them for you?”

“I don’t give a shit. If you think I’m walking out of here before this place is full of uniforms, you need to have your head examined.”

“The police can’t help you now,” Bolan stated.

“I’ll just take your word for that, shall I?”

“I’d recommend it.”

“Sure you would. Why don’t I shoot myself right now? Spare you the trouble.”

“I was sent to bring you out of here alive.”

“To where?” Favor demanded.

Bolan took a chance. “Back to the States.”

The hidden fugitive barked laughter. “Thanks but no thanks. I don’t fancy serving thirty years.”

Bolan glanced at his watch, frowning. How long until the sirens wailed outside?

“I’d say you’re in a no-win situation, staying here,” Bolan replied. “The cops you bought and paid for won’t be watching when the next hit team shows up to finish this.”

“Who says I’ll be here?” Favor challenged.

“They’ll be waiting for you by the time the uniforms clear out tonight, if they’re not here already.”

“Pull the other one, my friend. I’m sitting tight.”

I don’t think so, Bolan thought, but he said, “Your call.”

“Damned right it is!”

Bolan unclipped the stun grenade and pulled its pin, ignoring Herrera as he moved in closer to the door that stood ajar, concealing Favor from his view. He’d have six seconds from the time he made the pitch, before his canister lit up the library.

“Hey!” Favor called out from the shadows. “You still there?”

I’m here.

The toss was easy, with a rebound from the doorjamb, putting it across the threshold. Favor blurted out a curse and started scrambling, but he had nowhere to go. Bolan dropped to a crouch, closing his eyes and clapping hands over his ears, hoping the lady would be smart enough to do likewise.