Don Pendleton - Missile Intercept

Martinez slowly nodded.

“We can help you. We have resources we can use outside your agency. Outside the Mexican government.”

Martinez twisted his lips into a scowl and looked directly into Bolan’s eyes. “Sí, and if this is true, I will kill the traitor myself.”

“We can worry about that when the time comes,” Bolan said. “The first thing I need to stress is that you tell no one. I’m trusting you, but no one else at the moment.”

Martinez nodded.

“Second,” Bolan said, “I’ll need the cell phone numbers of everyone involved, including any of the cartel’s phone numbers on record.”

Martinez nodded again. He removed his cell phone from the case on his belt and pressed a few numbers. “I will contact Captain Ruiz now, and obtain the information you request.”

Bolan held up his hand and said, “Wait. I’d prefer to keep this just between us for the time being.”

“But the captain—”

“Should only be informed if we are correct in our assumption,” Bolan told him. “There’s no reason to cast aspersions on good marines unless we’re sure.”

“Of course,” Martinez said, and held his phone toward the Executioner.

Bolan shook his head and smiled fractionally. “I don’t want yours.”

“Take it anyway,” Martinez said. “I would never ask or expect my men to do something that I am not willing to do, as well.”

Bolan again declined the offer. Before he could say anything more, Martinez’s cell phone flashed and vibrated, signaling an incoming call. He glanced at the number on the screen, his brow furrowing, and answered it.

The Executioner followed the one-sided conversation as best he could. It seemed to contain disconcerting news. Martinez issued a couple of directives, terminated the call and replaced the cell in his belt case.

“One of the prisoners is dead,” he said. “The cartel guard. He was found strangled in his cell. I was told he hanged himself.”

“What about the Cuban?” Bolan asked.

“I gave orders that he be guarded around the clock. Your government is sending agents to conduct an interrogation, right?”

“Right. We’re heading over to the airport in a little while to pick them up. It’s imperative that nothing happens to the Cuban. We need to interview him,” Bolan stated.

Martinez stood, his face set with a grim expression. “I will go to the jail now and personally see to it.”

Bolan and Grimaldi rose in turn, and the Executioner extended his hand. “We appreciate your help.”

As they shook hands, Martinez’s expression did not waver. “And I appreciate yours. If there is a traitor in our midst, we must find him swiftly.”

Abandoned warehouse

Panama City, Panama

YI WATCHED AS the Black Tiger squad went through the various inspections of the weapons the cartel agent had brought. Even though the warehouse was deserted and empty, the lights worked fine. The gangsters had set up a series of flimsy folding tables at various points around the room for the weapons assembly. The guns glistened with oil as the team fieldstripped them, wiped them down and reassembled them with practiced ease. The weapons were all Western and American brands, M-16 rifles, Glock handguns, some Heckler & Koch submachine guns, but that did not matter. His Black Tigers had been trained on all weapons and were very familiar with these. Yi put aside his personal preference for his weapons of choice, the Chinese-made AK-47 and the 9 mm Baek Du San pistol, and smacked the fully loaded magazine into the Glock 17. He inserted the pistol into the low-slug tactical holster on his right thigh and slipped the sound suppressor into his pants pocket. He was a bit dissatisfied with the suppressor. The cylindrical attachment was so large that, once attached to the barrel of the weapon, the cam prevented proper sight alignment. However, the Western weapons would have to suffice for the time being.

The two men, one Mexican and the other Panamanian, who had brought the weapons stood off to the side and watched, each with a smirking expression on his face. The Mexican’s cream-colored sport jacket looked as if it needed cleaning. Half-moons of sweat had soaked through the underarms. Yi could relate. The heat and humidity in this place were so oppressive it was like standing fully clothed in a steam bath.

The gangster from Panama was more sensibly dressed, wearing a loose chambray shirt with the sleeves razored off. He was smaller than the Mexican, but no less unctuous.

“How you like them babies, huh?” he said.

Yi stared at him and replied, “They are far from ideal, but they will suit our purpose. Is there any word from your other men?”

“The ones that went north with yours?” the Panamanian asked. He smiled. “I’m sure they are there by now.”

“I wish you to verify that,” Yi said. “I need to report to my superiors.”

The two gangsters exchanged glances and smirked again.

Yi’s dislike of these men grew, and he considered his options. At this point, he still needed their cooperation, to a degree, so striking down one or both of them might not yet be appropriate. But still, experience had taught him to have little tolerance for disrespect. It could undermine operational effectiveness as quickly as poor planning.

“I think we need to report to ours, as well,” the Mexican said. “And we need to see the money.”

Yi stared at them for a few seconds, then gestured for the Iranian, Basir Farrokhzad, to approach. The man strode forward and set the briefcase on the small card table. As his hands moved to the twin safety catches, Yi stepped between the two gangsters and held his right hand above the briefcase. “No.”

The two gangsters looked at him.

“What you mean, no?” the Mexican snarled. “We gotta see the money now.”

“You see the money,” Yi said, “after you have verified that the Black Dragon and Corporal Wang have arrived at their destination. I want a progress report.”

“The Black Dragon,” the Panamanian gangster said with a laugh. He put his index fingers next to his eyelids and pulled them back, narrowing his gaze. “Does he breathe fire, like Godzilla?”

“It would be wise for you to show me the proper respect,” Yi said.

“Listen, you little prick,” the Mexican said, his finger poking at Yi’s chest. “You’re in our house now. You do like we say, or it could get bad for you.”

Yi kept his hand hovering above the briefcase. Farrokhzad looked nervous.

“Make the call to verify,” Yi said. “Then you can count your money.”

The Mexican and Panamanian exchanged glances and a laugh.

The Mexican muttered something Yi took to be a vulgarity, and reached inside his cream-colored jacket. As he started to withdraw a semiautomatic pistol, Yi shifted his weight, using his left hand to seize the Mexican’s gun hand in a grip of steel, while the palm of his right smashed into the other man’s nose. He pulled the gangster’s arm outward and then chopped his extended elbow with a knife hand blow. The Mexican screamed in pain as Yi stripped the gun from his fingers.

A switchblade knife clicked open in the Panamanian’s right hand, but Yi pivoted, bringing his right foot upward, delivering a quick and powerful crescent kick and knocking the Panamanian’s hand away. Yi’s left hand chopped his adversary’s wrist, causing the knife to drop to the floor. The man grunted in pain as Yi’s foot whipped upward with a hooking back kick, connecting with the rear of the gangster’s head. His eyes rolled upward and he crumpled to the floor. Yi pivoted again, this time delivering a roundhouse kick to the Mexican’s face, and he collapsed, as well. The colonel bent to retrieve the knife, hefting it in his hand to consider the balance and weight.