Don Pendleton - Devil's Playground

If the Asado family wanted the first lady dead, then why in hell was Asado here, shooting it out with Russian hired guns when they could have exacted revenge for the murdered twin?

Brognola had surmised, during the briefing, that the Russians and the murdered Asado had been at cross purposes, both seeking the death of Mrs. Brujillo.

All this flashed in a single moment of recognition, and Bolan left the questions to be asked later when he spotted another mafiya gunman sneaking up on Asado’s blind side. Bolan pulled his Desert Eagle from his waistband and punched out a single 240-grain slug that took the Russian at the V of his collarbone. Windpipe, aorta and spine torn out by the heavyweight bulldozer of lead and copper, the gunman flopped to the ground in a bloody mess.

Asado exchanged a quick, wordless glance with the Executioner before her eyes scanned for other opposition.

“Gracias,” she called.

Bolan scrambled, cutting the distance between the two of them, staying alert for any of the mafiya goons who might have retreated to regroup for another attack. He took advantage of the pause to feed the hungry Desert Eagle again, returning it to his hip holster before transferring the 93-R to his right hand. “Blanca?”

“You have the advantage over me, sir,” Asado returned.

“You out for vengeance for your sister?” Bolan pressed.

“I’d like to know who I’m talking to,” Asado answered, her eyes scanning the grounds.

“Agent Matt Cooper,” Bolan introduced. “You here for blood?”

“I’m here for answers,” Asado stated. She had the Uzi pointed between Bolan’s feet, a gesture not lost on the warrior. She didn’t trust him.

“So am I,” Bolan replied. “The one answer I want is, are you looking for payback for your sister?”

Asado’s eyes narrowed, lightning sparking behind them at the accusation. “Someone framed my sister, and now she’s dead, and the police want to ‘question’ me. And you know how they ask questions in a Mexican jail.”

Bolan’s lips drew into a tight line. “So do you want to stick around and find out the truth?”

Asado glanced toward the mansion. “You think you can pull the fangs on Anibella Brujillo?”

Bolan looked over his shoulder, then back to Asado. He fished a business card out of his pocket and flipped it to her. “Contact me if you can. Use the voice-mail line. It’s secure.”

“You sure about that?” Asado asked.

“It’s ironclad,” Bolan told her. “Get out of here.”

Asado let the Uzi drop to the ground between them. “I’m trusting you for now.”

She took off around the corner, heading for the front gate. Sirens wailed in the distance. Asado was going to have to hoof it to disappear before the law showed up, but with the strides she was taking, she’d have enough time to reach whatever wheels she had stashed away. He’d noticed a vehicle parked not far from the mansion’s entrance, and with her appearance, he realized the occupant of the unknown car. Strewed corpses were testimony to the odds that she’d helped to cut down.

The Executioner was glad for the assistance, but Asado’s presence was worrying. She was on the run, and she was convinced her sister had been set up. That she was willing to hang back and trust Bolan to keep her in the loop was an advantage he possessed now. He looked back to the mansion and saw Anibella Brujillo, packing an MP-5 from the injured bodyguard. Her eyes locked on him with smoldering suspicion, but Bolan knew how to play it cool and close to the vest.

The first lady wanted in on his hunt for the people out to kill her, at least on the surface, but she was getting a little too cozy for Bolan’s tastes. Having someone out from under Anibella Brujillo’s thumb would allow him some wiggle room.

It was going to be tricky, but when he’d been recruited by Brognola for this, he was expecting a maze of deception. For now, he had a string to lead him back out if he wandered in too deeply.

Thirty-six hours earlier

“I’m glad you could take this meeting, Striker,” Hal Brognola said as Bolan sat at the end of the polished oak conference table. Monitors displaying satellite-and computer-generated maps flickered, bathing the dimly lit room in a blue glow that conflicted with the low-powered amber bulbs built into the smooth railings around the sides of the conference room, the woodgrain and luster of the rail matching that of the finely made table that Bolan sat at. The two friends were in the operations center beneath Camp David.

“I had a little downtime after my last mission,” the Executioner replied.

“You get damned little enough R and R,” Brognola stated.

Bolan simply shrugged. “I’m no good at relaxing.”

“That’s because you need more practice,” Brognola grumbled. “Unfortunately, this has the makings of a major crisis, and the Mexican president asked for help from ‘Striker.’”

Bolan’s brow furrowed at the memories of what had been dubbed by the press as the Border Fire crisis. It had flavored the more recent dissent against the illegal immigration problem that followed. Bolan had worked almost side by side with the Mexican president, fending off several factions attempting to overthrow him and bring Mexico into open conflict with the United States. Only the combined forces of Stony Man Farm had brought the crisis to an end, battling wildly disparate forces.

The lights built into the oaken rail flared brighter and lines built into the ceiling added to the illumination, dispersing shadow and heralding the approach of the President of the United States and his guest, the Mexican president.

“Striker,” the Man greeted Bolan. “I believe you know my guest.”

“Good to see you in good health, sir,” Bolan greeted the Mexican president.

“I wish that we could have been reunited under more cordial circumstances, my friend,” the Mexican leader replied. “But I am glad to see you are still healthy, as well.”

“I know you’re not one for small talk, so we’ll get down to the basics, Striker,” the President said. “There’s a cartel war going on in the Acapulco area, Guerrero State.”

“And it’s struck uncomfortably close to home with your friend, Governor Brujillo?” Bolan asked.

“You must have your finger on the pulse of my nation,” the Mexican president stated.

“It helps to know where trouble occurs,” Bolan explained. “I put the Acapulco situation in the forefront of my mind.”

“Because of the American singer who was murdered?” the Hispanic official asked.

“Because it appeared that an army unit was involved in trying to murder a government official in a blatant terrorist attack,” Bolan corrected. “First Lady Brujillo is the governor’s face on the war on drugs in the Acapulco area.”

“With Americans going down there for vacations, it’s one of the hotspots that cartels are competing for control of,” the U.S. President noted. “And unfortunately, there’s nothing constitutional that we can do to limit that sort of demand.”

“I’m more interested in containing the violence that the cartels inflict upon people,” Bolan stated. “Unfortunately, between street level control of neighborhood dealers to attempted assassinations of government leaders, that kind of violence can smother nations and continents. Believe me, for all the heads I’ve killed, the body still manages to live on and grow a new one.”

“Sounds like you get discouraged,” the Mexican leader commented.

“It takes more than me burning a cartel to the ground to end your problems,” Bolan returned, no bitterness in his voice. “Treat the disease and forget about picking at the bandage I applied.”