Don Pendleton - Missile Intercept

The Mexican rolled onto his back, glaring up at Yi. The colonel’s arm cocked back and thrust forward with a blur. Seconds later, the knife vibrated, stuck in the wooden floor a few inches from the Mexican’s groin. The gangster’s face sagged.

“As I told you, show proper respect,” Yi said in a low, guttural voice. “Now make the call.” He racked back the slide on the Mexican’s weapon, a flashy chrome Beretta 92F, ejecting the round in the chamber. Yi then dropped the magazine and hurled it toward the far wall of the warehouse. He then gripped the barrel and disassembled the pistol, flinging the parts in different directions. “Then you may count your money.”

The Mexican nodded, took out his cell phone and hastily scrolled through the numbers. His lips twisted into a quick, nervous smile and he nodded, a look of fear in his eyes. Yi knew he would have no more trouble with this man.

The colonel allowed himself to be imbued with a slight sense of satisfaction as he glanced at the other gangster, who was still unconscious on the floor. It had been some time since he had taken out an adversary with a single kick. It was good to know that his practice had kept him sharp.

Force, and the judicious use of it, Yi thought, always commanded respect.

The vision of one of the great Yi Sun-Shin’s all-powerful armored dragon ships coursing through the ocean waters in ages past flashed in his mind’s eye.

Force, he thought. The universal language.

Culiacán International Airport

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN AND GRIMALDI waited in the long hallway outside the international arrivals section. At the American Embassy they had been given brief descriptions of what the two FBI agents looked like, one Asian male, one Hispanic female, as well as photos. The male, Henry Chong, was Korean-American, and fluent in several languages including Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Farsi and Arabic. The female, Teresa Stevenson, was of Cuban descent and fluent in a host of languages, as well.

As they stood watching and waiting for the two federal agents, Bolan mentally reviewed the case. A lot would depend on what the Cuban prisoner had to say. If he could corroborate that the cartel guards had been tipped off just prior to the raid, it might help the Executioner ferret out the traitor.

No one seemed to be moving on the other side of the glass partition where the customs agents waited for incoming arrivals.

“I’m going to check in with Hal,” Bolan said, taking out his sat phone.

He strolled through the series of glass doors and watched the flow of people entering and exiting the airport. A line of taxis waited off to the left. Behind him, far out on the runways, Bolan could hear the revving of a powerful jet engine getting ready for takeoff. He stood by one of the round concrete pillars, took one last look around the area as he raised the sat phone and punched in the number of Brognola’s direct line.

The big Fed answered on the first ring. “I figured you’d call,” he said. “Have Chong and Stevenson shown up yet?”

“We’re still waiting.”

“Aaron’s been checking into those cell phone numbers you gave us and comparing them to recorded calls we’ve been able to pinpoint in the area. There’s the number of a burner phone that called one of the cartel’s cells shortly before you guys hit them, if we’ve got the timing right. Then the cartel phone called one of the guys at the warehouse.”

Bolan knew the chances of identifying someone from the number of a disposable cell phone was nearly impossible, even for an expert as adept at hacking as Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman.

“Where was it purchased?”

Brognola uttered a short, hard laugh. “Mexico City. So that narrows your suspect list down to what, around twenty million?”

“Did the Bear find anything else?”

“Whoever was using the burner was in regular contact with the cartel. The number’s still in use. In fact, we found a few more calls took place earlier today, to guess what?” Brognola waited a beat and then said, “A couple more burner phones, one purchased in Mexico City, and the other one in Hong Kong.”

“That fits with the Asian connection,” Bolan said. He glanced at his watch. “You said the FBI agents’ flight was supposed to land at 1925?”

“Roger that.”

It was now 1930. “Well, they should be clearing customs soon. I’d better get back.”

Brognola told him to stay safe.

“Will do,” Bolan said. “And, Hal, email those burner phone numbers when you get a chance.”

Bolan ended the call and rejoined Grimaldi by the exits, watching as a new throng of people began moving through the doors. The Executioner kept scanning the crowd and caught a glimpse of a familiar face. He moved on an intercept course and stepped in front of Captain Ruiz and another man.

Ruiz blinked in surprise, then seemed to recognize Bolan. The other man, small and slightly built, wearing a blue suit and glasses, smiled under a bushy mustache and said in Spanish, “Excuse us, sir, but we are in a hurry.”

“Sí,” Bolan said, adding in English, “I just wanted to say hello to Captain Ruiz.”

Ruiz spoke rapidly to the other man in Spanish, then added in halting English, “These are...American agents who assisted on raid against cartel.”

The bespectacled man smiled and nodded. “Ah, you are American? The captain tells me you are very brave men. You are meeting some friends here, no?”

Bolan and Grimaldi nodded.

“Bueno. We are meeting some people as well, but perhaps we can assist you,” the man said. “Captain Ruiz brought me along to act as his official translator.”

“The people you’re meeting are from the United States?” Bolan asked.

“What?” the bespectacled man said, then turned to Ruiz and fired off a quick sentence in Spanish.

Ruiz smiled and shook his head. His companion turned back to Bolan and Grimaldi and smiled in turn. “I am sorry, but it is a private matter. It has to do with his family.”

Bolan nodded and said, “I understand. By the way, I heard that one of the prisoners we took on the raid was killed.”

Again the bespectacled man did a rapid-fire translation, after which Ruiz nodded, lifting an eyebrow and giving a sigh of regret. “Very bad thing.”

“We have made arrangements,” the shorter man said, “to safeguard the remaining prisoner so that nothing unfortunate happens to him. He has been placed in a secure location.”

“I appreciate that,” Bolan said. He glanced at Ruiz, who seemed calm. “Captain, I know I can speak for my friend when I say that we look forward to our next meeting.”

Ruiz nodded and smiled. “Thank you very much.”

Beyond them, Chong and Stevenson walked through the customs’ doors, each pulling a small carry-on.

“Looks like our friends are here now,” Grimaldi stated.

The bespectacled man whispered something to Ruiz, who turned toward the approaching special agents. “Welcome to Mexico,” he said in English, punctuating it with a wide smile.

Stevenson replied in Spanish, as did Chong. Ruiz raised his eyebrows, and mumbled something to the bespectacled man, who then said, “The captain is impressed that you speak our language so well. He hopes you both have a fortuitous stay in our country.”

Ruiz held out a card bearing his name, title and cell phone number. Bolan took it with a nod of thanks.

“Please let us know,” the translator said, “if there is any way we can be of further assistance.”

“We certainly will,” Grimaldi replied jovially.

The captain and his assistant walked off in the direction of domestic arrivals.

“I’m Henry Chong. You must be Matt Cooper and Jack White,” the agent said, extending his hand toward Bolan, then Grimaldi. Chong nodded toward Ruiz and the other man. “Looks like a friendly bunch down here.”