Don Pendleton - Killpath

“This isn’t a trick?” Rojas asked.

“You’ll find I’m pretty devious when I’m on the hunt,” Cooper said. “But when it comes to making a deal—making an ally—I’m honest. I’m solid. I will go to bat for you.”

“Will you take a bullet for me?” Rojas asked.

Cooper took a deep breath. “If you prove yourself as an ally, sure. But I’m not expecting a miracle.”

“Because I’m a woman? Because I’m Colombian?”

“Because you’ve got over sixty dead bodies to your name,” he answered.

“How many do you have to yours, Cooper?” The tall, dark man smirked.

“How many?” Rojas pressed.

The way Cooper avoided the question made the hairs on the back of Rojas’s neck stand on end.

Rojas and Cooper were sitting in business class together, bound for Cali. The only things in their luggage were the standard clothing and toiletries, and they each had a smartphone in a hard case. Lack of guns, even a hidden boot knife, made Rojas feel very bare, like a raw, exposed nerve ready to be plucked. Cooper didn’t seem as anxious; he simply sat back, studying files on the phone.

Within a day of meeting Cooper and Brognola, Rojas had gotten rid of the accursed sling. Sure, she was chewing ibuprofen tablets as if they were breath mints, but she’d regained full range of motion a day after that, and the kick of an Uzi’s steel folding stock against her shoulder while on full auto was now completely tolerable.

During their training sessions, Cooper had watched over her, his gaze wary but not hostile. That didn’t mean he had many smiles for her. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t here to make friends.

The truth hung over the two of them. Rojas had never been a gentle soul, and while she was still enraged at the deaths of her sons, she’d killed their fathers, killed rivals, killed the wives and children of others who dared oppose her as she ran New York City. Cooper had lowballed the number of dead to her name that day in the office, whether by ignorance or by choice.

Even so, he was obviously aware of her past as a ruthless killer. Not that he seemed afraid of her. He was cautious, alert, but Rojas had the impression that one ounce of antagonism toward him would end with her neck snapped.

In the days that had followed their initial meeting, Cooper had re-familiarized her with shooting skills, but he had also taught her the hand signals they would need to work side by side in the field. If he intended to take her life, he would not be such a completist when it came to going into action.

He had made no bones about their plan.

Hilde Rojas was to be the bait. Once she appeared on the scene in Colombia, the SNC would pick up her scent and come after her.

Los Soldados were from a different group than her, another faction of the splintered Colombian drug scene. The old Cali and Medellin cartels were not friends, and much blood had been spilled at the height of their rivalry. When their boss died in a hail of gunfire from a military and police strike, Medellin collapsed into its own mayhem. Nobody there would consider Rojas anything more than a relic of the past.

That she was out of jail after serving only seven of her twenty years would surprise those bosses in Medellin struggling to build a new power base, but she wouldn’t draw their attention.

Only the SNC would be interested in La Brujah.

“You also have barely touched your drink,” Rojas commented, too restless now to stay silent. “I’ve got you figured out, you know. You’re a professional, and you believe in being in control.”

“In control of my thoughts and body,” Cooper replied. “I prefer to be aware and at the top of my game. True control of events around you is an illusion.”

Rojas thought of her own downfall. For over a decade, she’d smashed all opposition or dissent to her rule with ruthless efficiency. Back then, she’d thought she’d been in total control. The truth was that, eventually, her own people turned against her, flipping on her before she could flip on them. Her wildest caballeros had realized that she’d orchestrated so many deaths for the smallest slights or offenses that they themselves could become her next targets.

That was how the DEA had caught her. Someone in her ranks had snitched, but not wanting to implicate themselves in any killings, they’d fed the DEA information about her drug stashes.

Two years of pretrial maneuverings and her conviction meant that she’d missed out on seven of her youngest son’s twelve years. Her last living son, and she hadn’t been present for more than half of his life.

All because she thought she had more control than she truly did.

“You all right?” Cooper asked.

Rojas nodded. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You wandered off for a moment.”

“Si,” Rojas returned. “I’m fine.”

Cooper frowned. “Just don’t let your attention wander when we get to Colombia.”

Rojas narrowed her eyes. “I was holding my own, naked and unarmed, against three bruiser girls just before you met me. I don’t let my mind wander. I won’t let my mind wander.”

“You’re no good to me dead, so keep on your toes,” Cooper said. He returned to the intel on his smartphone.

She grimaced. Rojas didn’t like being told what to do. One of the reasons why she’d become so powerful was that she lived by her own rules. Yet she realized that part of her craved this man’s approval.

Cooper was a powerful presence, able to convey praise or condemnation with a simple glance. No man had ever made her feel even a flicker of this kind of…what?

Dependence? No. He actually made her want to step up her game, to prove herself.

Awe? Not quite. Nothing he did seemed magical to her, not when she saw the truth behind his tactics and his training.

Rojas downed the last of her bourbon, feeling it burn her throat, then closed her eyes, hoping to drift off to less conflicted thoughts.

When the nightmares of blood and mourning came, however, she wasn’t disappointed.

* * *

RAMON CARRILLO STRUCK a match off the back of his friend Fernando’s head. Fernando wasn’t his real name; it had been bestowed upon him for his thick neck and broad, bull-like physique. Carrillo didn’t even know his real name. Still, it was better than calling him “Toro.”

Fernando didn’t seem to mind that his scalp was being used to light a match. In fact, Carrillo’s gesture made him chuckle.

“How much longer do we have to wait for ’em?” Fernando asked.

Carrillo looked at his watch. “We’ve got another twenty minutes before the passengers disembark from the plane.”

Thanks to bribes, Carrillo, Fernando and a half dozen of their closest friends had managed to avoid metal detectors and security checkpoints at Alfonso Bonilla Aragón International Airport, where Hilde Rojas was supposed to arrive.

Both Carrillo and Fernando, dressed in roomy linen suits, were armed with Brazilian-built knockoffs of Micro Tavor bullpup rifles, 23 inches from nose to butt stock. Thanks to a single point sling, the guns were well-concealed under their loose jackets. When it was time to pull them out, the 5.56 mm NATO rounds would pummel their targets at a rate of seven-hundred to nine-hundred shots per minute.

Hilde Rojas’s presence in Cali was either the stupidest idea the United States government had ever had, or it was an intentional sacrifice of a pain in the ass. Sending her back to Medellin might have given her a better chance at survival, but Rojas’s enemies were numerous in this city.

The woman had been responsible for the deaths of dozens of Carrillo’s friends.

The announcement of her return to Colombia had been practically broadcast over a loudspeaker. She was chum in the water, and Carrillo could see dozens of fellow tiburons patrolling the airport, predatory eyes scanning the gates as they waited for their target to show up.