Don Pendleton - Killpath

The Zetas security force still moved according to the pattern Bolan had observed earlier. Satisfied, Bolan continued his advance, and within a moment, he was at the small enclosure surrounding the garbage bins. Using the structure for cover, he did a quick eyeball of the camera trained on the kitchen entrance. He pulled out a small device, aimed and sent an electromagnetic pulse toward the surveillance equipment, turning the electronics inside of the camera housing into so much useless scrap. With the back of the house no longer under a live eye, Bolan took off for the kitchen door. Along the way, he traded the camera-killer for a SWAT-style pry-knife.

With one hand, Bolan tried the door handle. If it was unlocked, no problem. If it was locked, the chisel-like blade would punch out the latch in a second. The handle caught, so Bolan jammed the pry-knife between the door and the frame until he had sufficient leverage to burst the latch.

There was a loud crack, and then the door swung open. Bolan stepped inside the mansion. The sound was likely to draw attention, but no one would have mistaken it for a gunshot. There would be no sudden, armed response.

This conflict was still contained.

Bolan slid into the shadows of a large pantry as a man entered the kitchen, his eyes on the fridge. The lights were off, and the refrigerator’s glow cast the man in silhouette. This wasn’t a casual homeowner. Not too many homeowners, even in Texas, went to get a midnight snack with a semiautomatic shotgun on a three point sling with a full bandolier of shells.

Bolan moved quickly, clamping a blackened hand over the man’s nose and mouth, causing him to stiffen reflexively. He tried to grab Bolan’s forearm and wrist as the Executioner plunged the flat edge of the pry-knife into the base of the man’s skull. Flesh, tendon and cartilage parted under the force of his stab. Any attempt at struggle on the part of the guard was instantly over.

Bolan lowered the body to the floor, pulling it behind the central counter island. For the moment, the lifeless hardman would be out of sight and out of mind.

Bolan inched toward the kitchen doorway that led to the rest of the house, using a pocket mirror to check the hall in both directions before passing through it. He unholstered the suppressed Beretta and made for the closest staircase. Before he reached it, he heard the sounds of a soccer game and excited but hushed voices wafting from a television nearby.

“Eh, Chuy! Donde estan los cervezas? ” a man said in a stage whisper just before a figure filled the TV room doorway.

The man asking for the beer froze, eyes wide at the sight of the Executioner, ebony from head to toe, bristling with weapons on his battle harness, and a handgun pointed right at him. At once frightened and confused, the man was paralyzed, buying the warrior a precious second.

Bolan stabbed the Beretta and its suppressor between the man’s lips, then grabbed the back of his neck and whisked him away from the TV room and into the empty hallway.

“The girl,” Bolan said softly, his voice full of grim threat.

The Zeta swiveled his eyes and shook his head in the direction of the stairs.

Bolan delivered a powerful knuckle punch just under the Zeta’s ear. Pulling the trigger would have alerted the men watching futbol to the death of their friend, and stabbing the guy could lead to a struggle that would also draw his companions into the hall. A knockout punch, however, would be both silent and disabling. The man’s knees turned to rubber, and Bolan dragged him over to an empty closet at the foot of the stairs, tucking him inside. So far, so good.

Bolan continued to the second floor, feet quiet on the steps and Beretta drawn. It was do-or-die time, and if he needed to pull the trigger, he’d have the high ground in case anyone heard the thump of a silenced 9mm slug erupting from the machine pistol. He’d do whatever it took to defend Blanca.

Or avenge her.

As much as Bolan wanted to dismiss that possibility, Blanca had been a prisoner of the Zetas, as well as the Soldados. These cartels weren’t known for their mercy. They might have tortured and executed her already, but there was a shred of hope. The guard he’d just knocked out hadn’t hesitated when Bolan had asked after the “girl.” Hopefully that meant Blanca was somewhere upstairs. Alive. Unless there was another girl in this house…

A man wearing no shirt but with a gun holstered at his hip emerged from a bedroom and stepped smugly into Bolan’s path. Catching sight of the Executioner, the guy’s smirk faltered, but his reflexes were better than his colleague’s and his hand went to his pistol.

Bolan was faster, though, and the Beretta chugged three times. The slugs penetrated the man’s bare chest, and he crashed into the door, knocking it open as he slithered lifelessly to the ground.

Bolan heard a confused yelp from inside the bedroom and saw a shadow move across the floor.

“ Quién es —”

Bolan charged across the threshold, lunging over the body. The man inside was also half-dressed, but he’d managed to snatch his weapon off the floor and aim it at the intruder. The Executioner sent the man off to his final damnation with a heart-coring second burst. He crumpled against a small desk.

There was a woman curled up on the bed, her shoulders shuddering as she sobbed. Whatever had happened in here before Bolan arrived, she obviously hadn’t been a willing participant.

At least those two sickos couldn’t do her any more harm, Bolan thought grimly.

But this was not Agent Blanca.

Bolan heard movement on the first floor, heading in his direction. He’d given away his presence, and his mission was far from complete. And now he had to figure out how to keep this woman out of the line of fire.

All before his enemies reached the top of the stairs.

With a strong hand, Bolan pulled the crying woman to her feet. Her eyes were red, and her movements were dull and confused, but after an initial squeak of panic, she seemed to realize that Bolan wasn’t going to hurt her.

He pushed her toward the closet.

“Stay in there and tuck yourself into the corner,” Bolan said. She slid inside, then quickly pulled the door closed.

It was time to go loud. Bolan plucked a flash-bang grenade from his combat harness, hurling it into the hallway so it bounced down the steps after a skillful rebound. The canister detonated amidst the group rushing toward him.

After the explosion had subsided, Bolan scooped up a Kalashnikov and a bandolier from the man he’d taken out in the bedroom and darted into the hall to assess the situation. Four men stood on the landing below, each clutching their eyes or ears. At such close range, the blast would have been strong enough to rupture eardrums. Bolan scanned past the staggering guards. Not much movement down there, so he returned his attention to the landing.

The sentries had guns, and soon they’d recover their wits and eyesight enough to open fire.

Bolan shouldered the stock of the Kalashnikov and pumped hot lead at the group, the sharp crack of the rifle informing him that this was a 5.45 mm caliber AK, not the 7.62. Even so, at this range, the high-velocity projectiles slashed through human flesh and shattered bone as they struck.

It was brutal, but these men would overwhelm him with handgun and machine pistol fire in seconds if he let them. And now Bolan wasn’t just looking out for himself. The girl who’d tucked herself into the closet only had drywall for protection, and drywall was poor cover against high-velocity bullets.