The second armed Jeep swept into view

The man behind the machine gun hadn’t known what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t to have a friendly gun turned on him. Bolan raked the Jeep from front to back, bullets punching into the hood and windshield. The driver jerked back, his chest and head pulverized by the continuous blast of automatic fire.

The Jeep swerved and ran on for yards before the engine stalled and it rattled to a stop. The Executioner hammered at it until the gas tank’s contents caught a spark and erupted in a boiling surge of flame.

The surviving traffickers had begun to pull themselves together for a concerted rush at Bolan’s vehicle, but the Executioner swung the barrel of his weapon back on line and inflicted more damage. Under his relentless fire, the men went down hard, bodies bloodied and torn.

Bolan’s finger released the trigger and the chatter of the machine gun ceased. All that remained was the moaning of the wounded. The dead held their peace.

The Executioner knew the clock was ticking. Though the numbers were still falling, he knew without a shadow of doubt there would be others.

How long he might hold them back was anyone’s guess.

Cartel Clash

The Executioner®

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

May God have mercy upon my enemies, because I sure as hell won’t.

—George S. Patton

1885–1945

No matter how long and bloody the conflict, the drug war has to be faced head-on. Those engaged in the trafficking of narcotics have no scruples. No conscience. Their victims do not concern these people. All they see are the dollars their foul product earns. If we are to engage, our resolve has to be unshakable and our tactics as ruthless as theirs.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Prologue

Border Country, Texas

“It never ceases to amaze me,” Preacher said, “how ingenious folk can be when it comes to making things that do harm.”

He was fingering a strand of the razor wire that stretched across the tract of land where Texas met Mexico. It ran in an unbroken line east to west, a man-made barrier cutting across the invisible border.

Choirboy, his partner, nodded in agreement, shifting his gaze to the barely moving figure spread-eagled across the wire. The man’s earlier struggles had slowed imperceptibly until he was almost motionless. His initial twisting and turning had caused countless cuts and gashes in his naked flesh, and he was torn and bloody.

“No question it ain’t doin’ him any favors,” he said.

Preacher shaded his eyes as he glanced skyward. The sun was directly overhead. Hot and bright. The man on the wire was unprotected and unable to save himself from what was to come. Preacher didn’t figure on more than a couple of hours.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. “Something cool in a long glass is my choice.”

They turned and walked to the 4x4 parked close by. Choirboy drove, turning the vehicle in the direction of the dirt road roughly two miles away. From there a twenty-minute ride would bring them to the main highway.

Preacher took out his cell phone and hit speed dial. He listened as the number rang out. When it was answered, he recognized the voice immediately.

“She’s done,” Preacher said.

“Fine. The rest of your fee will be transferred by morning.”

“Hell, I wasn’t calling about that. Just to let you know the problem has been resolved.”

“Okay.”

The call over, Preacher put away his phone and turned on the radio. The station was local, playing some country and western.

“Now that is nice,” Choirboy said.

“It is so, too,” Preacher said. “Push that pedal down, son, I’m getting real thirsty.”

THE MAN LEFT BEHIND on the razor wire took another hour to die. The savage beating he had received before being thrown on the barrier had weakened him already. He had two broken arms, broken ribs and a bad fracture in his left leg. The deep wounds inflicted by the steel razor barbs had accelerated his loss of blood, and the dehydrating and burning effect of the overhead sun hastened his death.

It was another full day before the body was discovered by a border patrol team. Hardened though they might have been by the things they had witnessed, the two-man team was shocked at the brutality of the violence that had led to the man’s death. A department chopper was called in, and after the body had been recovered it was flown to the closest medical center where an autopsy was carried out and the task of identifying the dead man was initiated.

It took only a couple of hours for fingerprint and dental ID to confirm who the man was: Don Manners, a six-year veteran of the DEA. During the six months preceding his murder, Manners had been operating undercover, working his way into the drug cartel headed by Benito Rojas and his American partner, Marshal Dembrow. Three days earlier Manners had managed to communicate with his superiors about an incoming arms shipment to the Rojas Cartel. Although he had not managed to pass on the finer details, Manners had reported that, along with conventional weapons, Rojas had negotiated the purchase of a couple of mobile, high-end missile units. There was nothing in Manners’s report that told when and where the consignment was due, but he spoke of a Russian supplier.

The DEA, despite this intel, was still helpless. If the ordnance was coming into Mexico, it was out of their jurisdiction, and they could do nothing except stand by and imagine Rojas taking great pleasure in his latest move against the U.S. authorities.

The report, in full, found its way to Washington, and eventually to the desk of the American President because he had asked to be kept in the loop with anything to do with the drug trade. It held great interest for the President. It was a cause, among many others, that stirred his emotions. Since coming into office, he had made the eradication of the drug tide a priority. Despite his efforts and the responses of the DEA, little headway had been made. The President was far from happy. His hands, though, were tied. The particular items that fueled his mood this time were the savage slaughter of Don Manners and the revelation that Rojas was importing missiles—missiles he’d undoubtedly use in his declared war against the Americans who had destroyed a great deal of his merchandise. Rojas’s response had been to increase the amount of drugs he shipped over the border, while also escalating his unremitting violence against anyone who defied him.

The President had read and reread the report, sitting alone in the Oval Office, his frustration over the situation growing with each passing minute. He hated the thought of more drugs coming into the country, the misery it would cause, and the cruel indifference of men like Rojas and Dembrow. They were defying the might of the U.S., killing at will, and ignoring every law and rule in the book. All the while becoming richer day by day.

It had to stop.

The President reached for the phone on his desk that would connect him with the one man who might be able to assist in resolving the situation.

The phone rang out and was quickly picked up.

“Mr. President.”

“We need to talk, Hal. ASAP. There’s something I need your help with.”

1

Mack Bolan spotted the young woman as she came down the wooden stairs tacked on to the side of the cantina. The stairs led to the two-roomed apartment Don Manners had been using during his time in Texas. The location had come from the file Brognola had given Bolan when he’d accepted the assignment. The file had updated the Executioner on the local situation, and it made frustrating reading. Drug enforcement agencies, well versed in the illegal activities, were stifled because the Rojas Cartel and its Texas chapter, though they didn’t have right, they certainly had might on their side. It was an all too familiar story. The drug organizations were ultimately so powerful they defied any and all attempts at taking them down. The endless wealth they generated from their trade allowed them to buy legal help of the highest order. If any of their people were arrested, the ink was not even dry on the paperwork before lawyers were hammering on the police station doors. Witnesses were either bought off or wiped out. The indifference to law and order was staggering. The authorities understood the situation that forced them to stand off, watching in jurisdictional paralysis while the enemy went about its business with impunity. The busts they did manage to make stick were small victories and something the drug cartels could well afford.

The Manners murder was a direct slap in the face of the DEA task force. An open statement from the drug world.

We can do this because you can’t pin it on us. You have nothing on us. Send in your agents, and we will return them all in a similar way.

The file Brognola had given Bolan during their briefing on the upcoming mission had contained images of Manners—where he had been found and what had been done to him.

“Enough is enough,” Brognola had said. “The President has taken this on board because he’s had it with these sick bastards, Striker. The head of the most powerful nation on Earth and he’s helpless, because he can’t do a damn thing legally.”

Bolan had smiled at the last word—legally—and he understood exactly what was coming next.

“The President, me and you, Striker. We’re the only ones in the loop on this one. He’s asking for your help. The kind of help only you can provide. Nothing on the books. Nothing that connects this mission to him, or the U.S. administration. I’ll provide any logistical assistance you need through Stony Man. No questions asked as to how, or where, or when. He just wants Rojas and Dembrow gone. Their business wiped out. And this incoming special cargo, as well.”

Brognola had waited as Bolan scanned the file. The Executioner was as committed to doing whatever possible to inflict damage on the purveyors of illegal drug trafficking as anyone, and the fact the President was asking for his covert assistance alerted him to the gravity of the situation.

“Well?” Brognola asked after a decent interval.

“I get triple brownie points?” Bolan asked archly.

Brognola only hesitated for effect. “Hell of a request, but okay.”

BOLAN IMMEDIATELY MADE his way to the small Texas town close to the border to make his first contact.

The young woman, dark-haired, slim and pretty, from what Bolan could see, clutched a small cloth bundle, and her cautious manner told Bolan she should not have been in the apartment. His curiosity was aroused. The young woman was his first possible lead to Manners. At the moment he had no idea how important her relationship with the agent might have been, but he had to find out.

His rented Ford 4x4 was parked across the street from the cantina. Bolan watched as his lead walked quickly by the frontage. As Bolan leaned forward to fire up the engine, he saw two figures detach from the shadows of the alley beside the cantina and fall in behind the young woman. It looked as if others were interested in her, too.

Beyond the cantina were a couple of closed and shuttered stores, then an empty lot covered with weeds and refuse. Bolan eased open the truck’s door and stepped out. He crossed the street and trailed the pair following the woman. The men remained at a discreet distance until she turned to cross the empty lot, then they upped their pace. Bolan did the same, his long legs covering the distance with ease. As he rounded the end of the last store, he saw the duo closing in on their mark, heard her startled gasp as one of them reached out to catch hold of one of her arms and jerk her to a stop. One of the men spoke, his Spanish so rapid that Bolan only caught a few words. Understandable or not, the menace in the guy’s tone was unmistakable. The woman replied, her words defiant.

“Puta,” the man yelled, and slapped her across the face. The blow knocked the woman off her feet. “Puta madre.”

The second man leaned down to snatch at the bundle from her arms. She yelled at him, clinging to the package. The guy kicked at her side.

That was when Bolan reached the group. He went for the guy who had kicked the young woman, grabbed a handful of his thick black hair and yanked hard. The man yelled, trying to turn. Bolan slammed a hard fist into the goon’s exposed ribs. He put all of his strength into the blow and heard the faint crack of bone. The man groaned. The Executioner drove the toe of his boot into the back of one knee. The leg buckled, the man losing balance, and as his opponent fell backward the soldier snapped an arm around his lean neck and dragged him close. He stamped down on the man’s calf, breaking the limb. The man screamed as Bolan let go and swiveled to face the first guy, who had produced a knife from his belt. He lunged wildly at his adversary, and from the way he moved it was obvious he was no expert.

“Bastardo.”

The knife had a thick, heavy blade and it slowed the guy’s desperate slashes. Even so, Bolan kept his eye on the weaving length of steel. He was an experienced knife fighter, and even the clumsiest attacker only had to get lucky once.

Bolan avoided the first couple of uncoordinated thrusts, watching the blade as it completed its arc. In the moment it swung at him again, Bolan stepped in, caught the knife arm, turned his body into his opponent’s space and used his free arm to hammer the point of his elbow into the man’s face. The blow was delivered without hesitation and with crippling force. The knife man’s cry of pain was reduced to a choking gurgle as blood from his crushed nose and shattered teeth filled his mouth. When Bolan added pressure, the knife slipped from limp fingers. The soldier reached back and gripped a handful of the guy’s shirt. He yanked forward, bending so that his adversary was pulled over his shoulder. The man slammed onto the hard ground with a solid thud, with Bolan standing over him. He never saw the heavy swing of the Executioner’s boot. It connected with the back of his skull and slammed him into oblivion.

A warning yell from the dark-haired woman drew Bolan’s attention. He turned and saw the first guy reach for something tucked into his belt. He saw the dark outline of an autopistol rise. Stepping to the man’s blind side, Bolan delivered a brutal kick to his head. The hard impact drove him facedown on the dusty ground. Leaning over, the soldier picked up the pistol and jammed it beneath his own belt, under the black leather jacket he was wearing. He checked their pockets but found little except tight rolls of paper money. Bolan took them. Cash was sometimes a handy way of smoothing over complications.

Then he bent over the slim form of the woman, gently grasping a bare arm. She resisted, still dazed from the attack, but there was not a lot of fight left in her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bolan said. “Just want to get you away from here. ¿Entiendes?”

She looked up at him, brushing black hair away from her pale face. A thin line of blood seeped from the corner of her soft mouth.

“Yes, I understand English.”

“Good,” Bolan said, “because my Spanish isn’t always that clear.”

He helped her to her feet. She swayed a little, then steadied herself. She still clutched the bundle to her.

“Let’s go,” Bolan said.

She hesitated, her eyes wide and cautious.

“Go where?”

“Somewhere away from these people.”

She stared at him for long seconds, and Bolan sensed her mind was whirling with thoughts. He understood her suspicions.

“You were a friend of Don Manners?” A quick nod. “Then we’re on the same side. Now let’s get the hell out of here in case those two have backup.”

He took her slim hand in his and led her back toward the street, across to where his 4x4 was parked. Bolan saw her into the passenger seat, then climbed behind the wheel and fired up the engine. He eased along the street, heading for the center of town where there were more people, light and his motel.

The young woman had slumped back in the seat, her face turned away from view, hugging the bundle she carried. The way she held on to it was working on Bolan’s curiosity. He didn’t ask her about it. There was time for that once he had her off the street.

It was close to eleven p.m. The town’s main drag was crowded. The street was busy with traffic, so it took Bolan a while to reach the turn for the motel. He eased through the pedestrians, cleared the town. It was quieter here, the street almost deserted. The motel was a half mile along the strip of road. Bolan drove into the courtyard through the adobe arch, angling the truck to a stop outside his room. He cut the engine and stepped out, then circled the vehicle to open the passenger door.

“Best room in the house,” he said. “I promise.”

The woman climbed out. Bolan guided her to the door and unlocked it. He pushed the door open and stood back to let her go inside. She stood in the center of the room, staring at her surroundings. Bolan quietly closed and locked the door. He shuttered the window blind and put on the main light, leaving her alone while he went into the bathroom and ran warm water in the basin. He chose a small towel and soaked half of it in the water, squeezing out the excess. When he got back in the main room, the woman was sitting on the end of the bed.

“For your face,” Bolan said, holding out the towel.

She took it and held it against her mouth. Bolan noticed she had placed her mysterious package on the bed next to her. He ignored it, crossing to the armchair facing the bed. He sat, giving her time to tend to her injury. A bruise was forming on her lower cheek, discoloring her tawny complexion.

In the room light he could see she was attractive, her face dominated by large brown eyes and softly plump lips. Her shoulder-length black hair was thick and shiny. Beneath the soft cotton shirt and faded jeans, her figure was lithe and feminine.

“I’m Matt Cooper,” he said.

“You are a friend of Don?”

“We never met.”

“But you said…” Her eyes sought the door, her body tensing.

“I said I was on the same side. I came to find out what happened to him.”

“He was killed.”

“And why do you think that happened?”

“If you knew who he was, then you should know why Don was here.”

“He told you?”

“He told me many things.” Her face crumpled as she failed to hold in her feelings. “He was going to take me with him when he was finished here.”

“It was like that?”

She nodded, drew in a breath and regained control.

“We didn’t seek what happened. It just did….”

“Were you helping Don?”

“A little, sí.”

“Against Benito Rojas?”

“Sí. Against Rojas and Dembrow.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“Pilar Trujillo.”

“I told you I came here to find out how Don died. That’s only part of the reason. I’m also here to put a stop to Rojas’s business.” Bolan saw the sudden gleam in her eyes. “You understand that?”

“Yes. Rojas trades in drugs. And other things. But mainly in drugs. I know that is why Don was here. To gather information for the DEA. He had found out Rojas was waiting for an important cargo. Some new weapon he will use to fight the Americans. It was this information that got him killed. He made a slip, and it exposed who he was—an American DEA undercover agent.” Pilar fell silent. Her eyes mirrored the torment she was struggling to contain. She stared directly at Bolan. “Don was exposed and betrayed. That is why they did what they did to him. To show the Americans you cannot stand against the Rojas Cartel.”

“Pilar, do you know how it happened? Who betrayed Don?”

Pilar’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Sí, I know. It was one of Rojas’s lieutenants. His name is Tomas. Tomas Trujillo. He is my brother.”

2

“Your brother works for Rojas?”

“He works for the Rojas Cartel, which also includes Marshal Dembrow. It is something I am not proud of. If our parents were still alive, they would disown him. Tomas is now the head of the family.”

“What about the pair who attacked you?”

“They are Mexicans who are part of Dembrow’s crew. They have been following me for some days, watching me because they believed I had more information Don left behind. I think they were waiting to see if I went to get it. Tomas has gone back to Mexico, to Rojas’s ranch. Since Don’s death, Rojas is suspicious of everyone. Even Dembrow.”

Bolan filed that away. It was an interesting development, maybe something he could play on to give himself some leverage.

“So, do you?” he asked, picking up on Pilar’s earlier remark.

“What?”

“You said Dembrow’s men believed you had information Manners left behind.”

“Sí,” she said.

Bolan pointed at the bundle on the bed. “In there?”

“No. That was simply a distraction. I hoped they would snatch it from me and run. Give me time to get away. Foolish, maybe, but it was all I could think of at the time.”

She unrolled the bundle and showed Bolan the contents, which were personal items from Manners’s room.

“This is what they should have been looking for,” Pilar said, sliding her hand from a pocket of her jeans and showing a much-used silver flint lighter.

Bolan took it from her. Turning it over in his hand he slid the outer casing from the lighter. The wad of absorbent material came free when he tugged at it. Bolan pulled it apart and found a thin, tight roll of clear plastic. He unrolled it and extracted a narrow strip of paper. The strip held a single line of neat writing—figures, and a name. The figures looked like a telephone number: a country code, followed by a local code and the number itself. The name on the paper was Calderon.

“Don told me if anything happened I was to get the lighter and pass it on to his people in El Paso. He had not been able to transmit this last piece of evidence.”

“No other information?”

“Nothing. Do you believe it will help?”

“Maybe.”

Bolan walked over to the other side of the room and took out his sat phone and hit the speed dial for his connection to Stony Man.

“I need a rundown on a possible phone number and a name,” he said when Barbara Price, Stony Man’s mission controller, picked up. He read off the number and the name. “Get back to me ASAP.”

“Will do. How’s it going?”

“Interesting,” Bolan said. And with that he ended the call.

Pilar was watching him closely as he put the phone away.

“I do not suppose it would do me any good to ask who you were talking to?”

Bolan smiled. “No good at all. But I have an idea. There’s a diner just along the road. How about we go get coffee and something to eat. I haven’t had a thing since breakfast.”

Pilar, realizing she was not about to gain any further knowledge, nodded. “Just let me use the bathroom,” she said. “I need to freshen up.”

Finally alone, Bolan checked out the handgun he had acquired. It was a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226, holding a 15-round magazine. His own ordnance was still in a carry-all, secured in the motel room’s closet. The P-226 would serve his needs for the present and conserve his own supply of ammunition. He slid out the clip and saw it was full. Replacing it, he worked the first round into the breech and put the pistol behind his belt, under his shirt.

“Hey, it’s only a diner we’re going to,” Pilar said, exiting the bathroom.

“Well, going by some diners I’ve visited, a gun might come in handy,” Bolan said lightly.

He saw her smile, albeit briefly.

They left the room and walked away from the motel. The diner, on the same side of the wide street, was a few hundred yards away. The place was empty of customers. Bolan chose a booth at the far end of the room that allowed them a clear view of the interior and the door.

Pilar watched Bolan’s actions, and it occurred to her that he was just like Manners—cautious and taking in everything around him, but maintaining an outward facade of calm. Whomever this man was, he struck her as being professional and capable of handling himself. She recalled the swift, efficient way he had dealt with Dembrow’s men. Watching him now, his easy way with the server, she might have been in the company of a totally different man.

“Coffee?” he asked, and it took a couple of seconds before she registered.

Pilar nodded and found herself responding without thinking. “Sí.”

Bolan had observed the way she had slumped against the seat, shoulders down, and he realized she was reacting to what had happened. The unprovoked attack had left its mark and now she was struggling to come to terms with it. He quietly ordered food for both of them. When they were alone again, he saw Pilar’s slim hands on the table. They were trembling visibly. Bolan reached out and placed his big hands over hers, squeezing gently, holding them until the trembling faded. “It’s been a tough night,” he said softly, his voice gentle. “Come morning, I’ll do my best to get you away from here.”

Her soft brown eyes sought his. She stared at him and looked hard into the startling blue and she saw that he meant what he had said. “Gracias. What about you? You must understand how terrible these people are,” she said.

“I know all about Marshal Dembrow and Benito Rojas. It’s why I came here. Believe me, Pilar, their time is coming.”

“For that alone I thank you.”

Their coffee arrived, and while they waited for the food to come Bolan picked up their conversation.

“Let’s talk about Dembrow. What’s the situation here? Does Dembrow have local influence?”

“That was why Don came. His orders were to get inside Dembrow’s organization and collect as much information as he could. He did. At first his mission appeared to be going well. He was very clever at making friends. While he did that he watched and listened, picking up things here and there. Even Dembrow began to like him. Don understood how men like Dembrow worked. With all the drug money coming in, Dembrow was able to buy protection beyond his own people.”

“Police? Border Patrol?”

Pilar nodded. “Don suspected some officials of being on Dembrow’s payroll, those who looked the other way when he ran an operation. It’s why the cartel is able to get their drugs across the border in such quantities.” She brushed stray hair back from her face as she collected her thoughts. “The Rojas Cartel is extremely powerful, but I suppose you know this already. The money they make has given them the ability to become so arrogant they believe they can ignore the law and do what they want. No one dare stand against them. Any who have in the past end up dead in ditches. Or have accidents. Rojas and Dembrow simply give the order, hand over the money and problems disappear. They are above the law.”

“It looks to me,” Bolan said, “that a change is in order.”

Food was brought to the table and placed in front of them. Bolan had ordered steaks with all the trimmings for both of them. Being Texas, the portions were huge.

“Are you hungry?” Bolan asked.

“Let us hope so,” Pilar said, then surprised Bolan by attacking the meal with enthusiasm.

“How did it happen between you and Don?”

“We met because of Tomas. He brought Don home one day. They had become quite close.” Pilar’s cheeks flushed at the memory. “Almost immediately there was a connection. Neither of us expected it, and Don was reluctant to let it happen because of his job. But people sometimes cannot fight these things. I believe Don saw how I hated what Tomas did for Dembrow. After our relationship became more than simple attraction…” She looked Bolan in the eye. “You understand?”

“I understand,” he said. “He was a lucky man, Pilar. I’m sorry it ended the way it did.”

“Don was a very honest person. He told me why he was here and what he was trying to do. He wanted to end our relationship because of Tomas, but I told him how I felt about Dembrow and his operation. That I wanted Tomas to break away. He said he would do what he could, but made no promises.”

“It must have been difficult for you both.”

“Yes. But by then it was too late for Don to simply walk away. He was too deeply involved. Both of us knew that if Dembrow found out he would order us both killed. Don told me he had a final piece of information to collect, then he would call in his people. He had to be careful with what he had found. It was becoming harder for him to pass on his findings to his people. Don suspected there was someone in the local department on Dembrow’s payroll. We had planned to move away after his assignment was over, but I believe Tomas found out about us at the same time he learned who Don really was. Two days after that Don vanished without a word. Tomas came to me and told me what he had done. He said that because we were family he had told Dembrow’s people to leave me alone. But he would be watching in case I did anything foolish. I did not know what I should do.” She shook her head in despair. “My own brother. He has become so involved with the Rojas Cartel that nothing is sacred to him any longer. He has become poisoned by their evil. Now I would not be surprised by anything he does.”

3

“We spotted them,” Dante said into his cell phone. “The guy with her fits the description we got from Lucas when we spoke to him at the hospital. He’s the one who attacked him and Diaz. They’re going into the diner on Avalon. They came out of the motel up the street.”

“Okay. Wait for backup, then deal with them. That son of a bitch could be DEA, picking up where that other bastard left off. We’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. Send one guy around back to deal with the diner staff, then go in the front door and waste them both. I don’t want this fucking mess to get any bigger than it already is. Boss man is pissed enough because of that undercover agent. Right now we’ve got to close this down.”

“Another hit so soon? You don’t figure this will piss him off even more?”

“More than that fuckin’ Mex spilling her guts to a Fed? Wake up, Dante. This needs the door slammin’ on it before it ends up on the news.”

“I guess.”

“Don’t guess. I’ll drop the guys up the block from where you are. Pick them up and hit that diner now. I’ll tell Dembrow to make sure we’re all covered.”

“I’m not so sure I like that,” Dante said.

“What?”

“The thought where you figure we need covering.”

“Dante, just do it, or it’ll be your sorry ass in a sling.”

“JESUS,” DEMBROW YELLED. “I don’t want you going round shooting up the whole goddamn town. When I said find the girl and the guy with her, I meant bring them in alive so we can talk to them.”

“Mr. Dembrow, I figured the best was if they were dead. Then we’re rid of the problem.”

“Peck, you don’t make decisions without passing it by me.” Dembrow slammed his hand down on his desk. “Call Dante. Pull the fuckin’ crew out before this happens. Do it now.”

Dante tapped the cell phone’s keypad. He heard the other phone ring, and keep ringing—and he knew he was too late.

4

Pilar paused, pushing away the remains of her meal. Bolan asked the waitress for more coffee. He felt for the young woman. Her life had been dramatically changed following the death of Manners, and the soldier understood her situation. The man she had loved had been snatched from her, and her own brother had the responsibility for that. He would not have liked to have been in that position.

“Since Tomas has gone across the border to see Rojas, I finally went back to Don’s apartment. It was torn apart. Dembrow’s people had been there. Perhaps they believed Don had left information lying around. They are that stupid. Did they expect he would display his reports for them to find?” She sat upright, thrusting her hands through her dark hair, shaking her head. “I could have cried when I saw what they had done to his apartment. It wasn’t much, but we had spent good times there. Then I found the lighter on the floor where it had been scattered with other things. I took a few personal items and wrapped them in a bundle. It was only as I walked away that those two followed me.”

“And that was when I showed up.”

“Lucky for me.” She smiled, raising her coffee cup. “I want to know how I can help. What can I tell you about Dembrow’s organization? Or Rojas?”

“All you know. Or believe you know.”

A sixth sense made Bolan’s combat senses flair. Something had altered the mood of the diner, and when he glanced beyond Pilar he saw that the diner was deserted. The waitress and the cook from the kitchen had vanished.

Bolan reached behind him and eased out the P-226. As he brought his hand to the front, Pilar’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon.

A moving shadow caught Bolan’s eye. Someone moved into view from the kitchen. The guy cleared the edge of the serving shelf. He carried a shotgun, the muzzle rising.

Bolan’s reaction was pure and simple. He two-fisted the SIG and triggered three fast shots. The 9 mm slugs centered in the guy’s chest, knocking him back. His hands jerked the shotgun up and it fired at the diner’s ceiling. Shots blasted at one of the light fittings, sparks showering as the fluorescent tubes exploded.

The door to the diner burst open, a lean figure stepping inside. The guy carried an SMG and he opened fire as the muzzle tracked in.

Bolan had reached out to grab Pilar and haul her out of the line of fire, but his action was a second too late. In a frozen moment of clarity he saw the coffee cup in her hand explode, the dark liquid shearing into fine drops. The line of slugs traveled along her arm and across her chest, the brutal impact shredding cloth and puncturing flesh. Gouts of blood flew everywhere as she was twisted under the impact. The stunned expression on Pilar’s beautiful face was suddenly obscured as the spray of slugs ripped into her jaw and cheek, taking away bone and tissue. Then her thick mass of black hair swung wildly in the instant before the top of her head exploded, blood and brain matter misting the air.

5

Rage at the wanton destruction of a young life fueled Bolan’s actions. Even as Pilar’s slender body fell back, the Executioner dropped to one knee below the level of the table. He took a single, hard breath, then launched himself from cover, knowing his move had gained him scant seconds. The gunner would be angling away from the door, seeking to regain his target. Bolan wasn’t about to allow him any leeway.

He heard the thump of booted feet on the diner floor and saw the guy’s lower legs in the gap between booths. Bolan snapped the SIG around, extended his right arm and put single shots into the guy’s knees, the 9 mm slugs shattering bone and dropping the shooter to the floor. As he stumbled, yelling in pain, the hardman came face-to-face with his attacker, and the intense look in the Executioner’s eyes told the man his life was at an end. He threw out one hand as if to plead for mercy, but his supplication was ignored. Bolan hit him with a triple volley that caved in his face and cored into his brain.

Bolan powered up off the floor, tucking the SIG back behind his belt and snatching up the abandoned SMG, an H&K MP-5. He noted the taped second magazine as he straightened and, checking the diner’s frontage, saw the black SUV parked at an angle on the diner’s lot, its doors gaping open. Three more armed figures were closing on the eatery, weapons up, confirming they were not stopping in for coffee.

As the lead gunner mounted the steps, Bolan triggered the SMG through the glass of the door. Glittering shards blew out, mingling with the sustained burst of automatic fire. The guy took the full force in his midsection, the volley tearing at his insides. A few 9 mm rounds blew out at the base of his spine, the impact of the burst wrenching him off the steps and depositing his writhing form on the pavement.

Bolan kicked the door, bursting into the open, and immediately engaged the other shooters. His MP-5 stuttered in a harsh rattle, his shots catching the pair before they could react in any substantial way. Bolan put them down with cold efficiency. He coolly changed magazines as the first clicked empty, then raked the bloody pair on the pavement again before turning the SMG on the SUV. The soldier hit the vehicle with the rest of the magazine, shredding tires, shattering windows and puncturing the gleaming bodywork.

When all the gunners had been silenced, he stood for a moment, the SMG’s muzzle pointed at the ground, then he turned and went back inside the diner. He paused briefly beside Pilar’s still form, checking her pulse and finding none, as he had expected.

“I let you down, Pilar Trujillo. Forgive me for that. But I’ll see this through, and that’s a promise.”

He walked behind the counter, through the kitchen and out the rear door. Bolan kept to the shadows, working his way back to the motel, breaking down the SMG as he went, throwing parts in all directions until he had discarded the weapon. His prints weren’t on file—thanks to the cybercrew at the Farm, so he wasn’t worried about that. He picked up the distant wail of sirens, so he stayed on the back lots, finally slipping inside the motel grounds and easing through the shadows to reach the path that led to the rooms. By the time he let himself back into his room, his anger had subsided to a controllable level.

But the sensation of loss hadn’t.

Pilar’s death would be with him for a while. Once again an innocent had died because she had become involved in the soulless determination of Evil to protect itself against exposure. Siding with Manners had drawn the young woman into the line of fire. Her enemies had tracked her, taking her life as casually as flicking off a light switch. Only this time they had not taken into account the response of the man with her. Bolan had already been involved in the matter, but his resolve had been strengthened by her death, a needless, unnecessary, cruel death. A vibrant young woman had been destroyed through greed and the hunger for power.

For Bolan, her death would offer yet another ghost to join the others. Though he had long ago accepted the dreams that sometimes visited him in the long dark nights, each new visitation simply affirmed the commitment he had made when he embarked on his War Everlasting.

The Executioner seldom dreamed about the enemies he had killed. Usually it was those who had been caught up in the violence through no fault of their own. He called them his friendly ghosts.

Bolan checked the motel courtyard through the window shutters. People were emerging from rooms, moving toward the street. He dropped the pistol into his carry-all, then he unbuttoned his shirt and ruffled his hair, opened his door and stepped outside, merging with the curious motel guests.

“What’s going on?” he asked, feigning a sleepy voice.

The young couple he had spoken to shrugged.

“Sounded like shooting,” the man said.

Bolan drifted along with the curious until they were stopped by uniformed police officers.

Standing in the crowd, Bolan cast a keen eye on the scene outside the diner. A number of police cruisers were parked on the street, their lights flashing. More sirens could be heard approaching the area. An ambulance, then a second, rolled in. A couple of minutes later a local TV station mobile unit showed up, and the event turned into a public spectacle. Bolan made sure he remained in the background in case any probing camera was turned in his direction.

Someone demanded to know what was going on.

“All we know, ma’am, is there’s been some shooting,” the lanky cop drawled. “Can’t tell you more ’cause we don’t know anything else.”

A couple of unmarked police cars showed up, plainclothes detectives moving in to take charge. More uniforms arrived, reinforcements to help hold back the crowd that was increasing. Bolan saw the crime scene investigation van roll up. Nothing would happen now until the CSI team had tagged and bagged the scene, outside and inside the diner.

The young couple Bolan had seen from the motel appeared at his side. The woman held herself close to the man.

“Did you see those bodies?” she said. “It looked just awful. We only stopped for overnight, and we’ll be glad to leave in the morning.”

“I heard somebody saying it was most likely something to do with drugs,” the man said. “You reckon it could be so?”

“Maybe,” Bolan said.

He turned away and walked back in the direction of the motel. As he crossed the courtyard the manager stepped out of his office.

“You see what happened?”

“Looks like some shooting at the diner.”

“Oh.”

Bolan made his way to his room and let himself back inside. He quickly packed, conscious of how the situation in town had changed. His closeness to Pilar’s death might easily compromise his presence. If anyone connected him to her, his anonymity might end. He couldn’t afford to come under police scrutiny.

He ran back over his activity since he and Pilar had arrived at the motel. It had already been dark and he had parked in close to the room, letting Pilar slip into the shadows as she left the vehicle. As far as he could recall, no one had been around when they had walked across the courtyard and onto the street. The only individual who might have seen them was the motel manager as they passed his office window. Their short walk to the diner had been along a deserted street due to the lateness of the hour. Bolan remembered the waitress in the diner. She had seen them together, and she might be able to provide the local LEOs with a description. Bolan knew he was going to need to move on, but he was not going to be able to do that so easily. Not with the local law camped just outside along the street.

A sudden thought came to him. Bolan crossed the room and turned on the TV. He used the remote to find the local station and found himself looking at the very scene he had just left. He upped the volume and heard a voice-over describing the scene.

“…have here are multiple killings. Three bodies outside the diner. Inside, the shocking discovery of three more. Two men and a young Latina all shot to death. The diner’s owner and waitress were found locked inside the cold room. I managed a few words with Homicide Detective Clarke Whittington, and he told me that at this moment the police cannot say what lies behind this tragedy. It is too early in the investigation to offer a reason…”

Bolan clicked off the TV, took out his cell phone and called Stony Man Farm. Brognola answered, admitting he had been watching the incident unfold on TV.

“Looks like you got trouble down there, Striker. Yeah, we’ve been monitoring the local TV station seeing that you were in the area. I have to admit they’re sometimes faster at reporting events than our sources.”

Bolan gave a short review of the night’s occurrences.

“I’m not off the hook yet,” he added. “Especially if anyone recalls seeing me in Pilar’s company. I’m going to have to relocate, but I can’t do much about it until morning. The diner’s a short walk from my motel, and the place is overrun by the local cops at the moment.”

“We’ll do what we can to scupper any potential threat,” Brognola said. “Aaron’s team will monitor all police frequencies, and the genius himself is trying to access the local computer system even as we speak.” The big Fed was referring to Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the cyberteam at Stony Man Farm.

“Any result from that intel I queried earlier?”

“Yeah,” Brognola growled. “And you’re going to love this. It’s a Moscow telephone number. The Bear couldn’t get much joy apart from the location, so he made a call to your OCD pal, Valentine Seminov. It seems the number belongs to someone Seminov has been chasing for some time. A guy called Vash Bondarchik. He’s a big-time arms dealer, who’s well connected. Russian Mafia. He has clients worldwide. Seminov asked if he could help, and I said I would pass his request on.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. What about the name on the slip? Calderon?”

“Hermano Calderon. He works for Benito Rojas, handling technical matters. Weapons and such. Our friends at the DEA have a nice fat file on him, and the Bear somehow managed some cyber sleight-of-hand and downloaded it. Could be the guy to work these missiles for Rojas. Calderon is a little careless with his cell phone calls. Bear got into his call list and it appears he’s made a few to Bondarchik over the past few weeks. Also to the cell phone used by one Tibor Danko. Danko is Bondarchik’s SIC. Seminov knows the guy and says he’s a smart piece of work, which was the closest translation he could offer without resorting to really bad language.”

“Hell of a mix there,” Bolan said. “Something I can work on. Listen, I’ll move in the morning and make some distance from here. Monitor the situation and update me.”

“Yeah. Striker. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Sorry about the young woman.”

“Not as sorry as the bastards who put out the hit are going to be,” Bolan said.

6

Marshal Dembrow was in top form, his powerful voice at full pitch as he berated the members of his local crew. Physically he was an impressive figure, topping the six-foot mark by a good three inches, his broad, less than handsome face darkened with his fury. The rest of his body was in proportion to his height. He was a fitness fanatic, working out every day in the expensively equipped gym attached to his spacious house. He also trained in martial arts, so the concept of being able to break bones was well within his ability. Not that he needed to use physical force—he paid people to do that for him. But he had done the deed himself on occasion.

At the moment, the thunder of his voice had the crew members subdued. They were all tough, but they might as well have been children as they stood ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. They were his men. He paid them well—very well—and provided whatever they needed. All he asked for in return was loyalty and a commitment to the business they were in. He got it. His people were in for the duration. As ruthless as they were in the pursuit of the Rojas Cartel’s needs, they were cowed as Dembrow ranted at them for turning a simple expedition into a total disaster.

As his rage subsided and the invective he spewed began to slow, Dembrow felt his control returning. He ran a hand through his collar-length blond hair and fixed his crew with a hard stare, delivering his concluding words.

“This isn’t what I pay you sons of bitches for. One guy. One fucking guy and he’s making all of you look like a bunch of mouth-breathin’ peckerwoods. This guy is smart, and he can handle himself. Just look what he did to Dante’s crew at the diner. One man, and he put them all down. Now I’m going to say it one more time. Nothing gets done until I give the say-so. Understand? I give the orders—you carry them out. For the moment walk easy. I don’t want the town getting too jumpy. If that happens, the cops will have to start rousting us, and I have enough to worry about. I’ll have this mother dealt with my way.”

The moment Dembrow stopped ranting the subdued group turned and left the study, the last man out closing the door.

Dembrow leaned on his hands, his head hanging. Willing himself to calm down, he took deep breaths, sucking air deep into his lungs and exhaling slowly. His anger finally contained, he stood and crossed to the well-stocked wet bar in the corner of the expansive, richly furnished room. He opened the glass-fronted cooler and took out a chilled bottle of beer, removed the cap and enjoyed a long swallow. The cold liquid didn’t satisfy him as it usually did, a sure sign that Dembrow was far from happy. He took out a second bottle and returned to slump behind his desk.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He drained the first bottle and opened the second.

The silent figure in the high-backed deep leather recliner facing the room’s big window slowly eased it around so he could see Dembrow. He had remained unheard and unseen during Dembrow’s bawling out of his crew. He stood and crossed to the bar, helping himself to a large tumbler of vintage bourbon.

Tall, lean, his thick dark hair framing a hollow-cheeked face, he wore all black and moved with a languorous grace. He sat down again, swirling the bourbon in the tumbler, breathing in the fumes.

His name was Billy Joe Rankin. He was Dembrow’s closest adviser, a thinker who viewed a problem from all angles before he offered any kind of advice.

“You want my opinion, Marshal? Get on the phone and call in Preacher and Choirboy. Turn those homicidal maniacs loose. This is their kind of work.”

“Dammit, Billy Joe, I don’t need this right now.”

“Marshal, this is a bad patch you’re going through. It’ll pass. Hey, you’ve gone through times like this before.”

“Oh, sure. This time I let a damned Fed into my organization. He skims off information they can maybe use against me and almost walks away with it.”

“But he didn’t. Manners is dead, and the Feds still don’t have any kind of case against you. Let that ride. If anything does rise to the surface, we’ll let the lawyers handle it. Believe me, Marshal, this is going away.”

“Not until I know who this bastard is.”

“That’s something we all want to know.”

“Is he a damn Fed? A cop? Some psycho on a mission from God?”

“You want to find out?”

“Well, yeah, that seems to be a good idea.”

“Then do what I say. Let your boys run around making noises, but sic Preacher and Choirboy on him. Toss them a contract and let them run.”

Dembrow reached for one of the phones on his desk, tapped in a number and waited while it rang out. The voice on the other end was immediately recognizable.

“Preacher. You want to take a run over? I got a proposition for you two. Big payday. Huge payday. Well, hell, of course the usual. Half down if you come on board. The rest when you deliver. Sure, I’ll be here.”

Rankin poured himself another drink. He stood at the big window overlooking the grounds of Dembrow’s large property.

“It’s time you put that swimming pool in, Marshal. It’ll make a nice addition to the place. We can cut a good deal with Jack Templeton.”

“You think?”

“Big pool. Patio surround. Spot for a barbecue. Damn good way to entertain business clients. Have a few pretty girls running around in bikinis. Or no bikinis.”

Dembrow laughed. “Hey, you could be right, Billy Joe. What the hell, like you said, we got the cash. Give Templeton a call. Set it up.”

Rankin sipped his bourbon, his mission accomplished. Dembrow’s mind had been diverted from his current problems. His employer was a hard man when it came to his business dealings, but he had a failing that caused him to worry overly when problems came his way. If Dembrow allowed himself to be drawn away from his main concerns, the drug business might suffer, and no one in the organization wanted that. Especially Rankin. He enjoyed the success of Dembrow’s dealings and the material gains that he enjoyed. He wanted it to stay that way, so it was part of his job to keep Dembrow on a linear path, fielding off anything that might rock the boat.

PREACHER AND CHOIRBOY showed up an hour later. They parked a gleaming 1986 Lincoln Continental in the drive and stepped out, clad in tailored Western-style suits, complete with leather boots and wide brimmed Stetson hats. They were every inch Texan boys, down to the expensive aviator shades and string ties. The Mexican houseman let them in and escorted them through the house. Dembrow was in his office, alone, Rankin attending to other business. The pair settled into the big armchairs ranged in front of Dembrow’s desk. The houseman took their hats. Dembrow handed them ice-cold bottles of beer, then settled back in his own chair.

“Nice job you boys did on that Fed. I think we got the message across.”

“Take a man’s money, it’s only right you give him value,” Preacher said.

Reaching down behind his desk Dembrow lifted a tan leather carry-all. He placed it on the desk and slid it in Preacher’s direction.

“Well, guys, it’s time for you to do it again.”

Preacher took the bag and placed it on the floor between the armchairs.

“You heard about the shooting at the diner?” Dembrow asked.

Choirboy nodded. “Kind of ended up messy.”

“That was a local fuckup,” Dembrow said. “Some of the hired help decided to think for themselves and take out the girl the undercover Fed had been bedding. Figured they were doing me a big favor. All they did was screw up and make the situation worse.”

“The way we heard it, the girl had some protection,” Preacher said.

“Damn right. He spread my crew all over the scene and walked away. “

“He our target?”

“I’ve run some checks, and no one seems to know who this bastard is.”

“Nothing from the local law-enforcement agencies?”

“I had a word with my contacts at local and State. Not a whisper. If this guy is undercover, he’s so deep he’s invisible.”

Preacher drained his beer. “If the Feds have put in another agent so soon after the last one, he won’t be making himself known. And he isn’t about to make any new friends. That means he’s working in the cold. He’ll be a stranger. That could work for us. Folks around these parts don’t buddy up so fast. They tend to be suspicious if you’re not a native.” He pushed to his feet. “You leave it to us, Mr. Dembrow. We’ll find your boy and retire him.”

Choirboy picked up the money bag.

“I’ll keep you posted,” he said.

7

Choirboy placed the leather bag in the Lincoln’s trunk. When he climbed into the car, Preacher had the vehicle running, the powerful engine softly purring. Choirboy sank back in the soft seat, tipping his hat forward over his face.

“When you reckon you have the strength,” Preacher said, “give me some thoughts.”

“If we’re goin’ to find this boy, we need a starting point. How about the diner? He was there. He took out Dembrow’s crew. Somebody had to have seen him.”

“Good thinking, son. It’s the diner, then.”

They waited until dark. At 11:15 p.m., the parking lot was empty. The staff parked up at the rear of the establishment. Preacher coasted onto the lot, the Lincoln’s lights already turned off. Choirboy followed him out of the car and they walked down the side of the building, looking for the back entrance. The kitchen door was ajar against the night heat. There were two cars parked in back.

“Let’s do it, son,” Preacher said, leading the way in.

The diner’s kitchen hung on to the day’s cooking smells. A wall air conditioner pushed out barely chilled air, rattling as it worked. The owner, middle-aged and thickset, hunched over a deep fat fryer as he cleaned it. The back of his T-shirt clung to his skin, patches of sweat darkening the cotton.

“They say industrial kitchens can be dangerous places,” Preacher said conversationally as he moved up behind the man.

The man straightened and looked at Preacher and Choirboy. There was no mistaking the implicit threat in Preacher’s voice, so the man simply stood there.

Choirboy walked directly past, skirting the edge of the kitchen and emerging in the dining area to confront the waitress, who was clearing tables. She froze when she saw Choirboy, her eyes suddenly wide, swiveling toward the diner’s entrance. The damaged door had already been replaced since the shooting.

As Choirboy shook his head at her, he crossed to the door and locked it, then stood with his back to it as Preacher and the owner appeared.

“Both of you sit down,” Preacher said. “This ain’t gonna take long.”

“If this is about the shooting, we already told the cops everything we know,” the owner said.

“Let’s make this quick, then. You were both here that night?”

“Yes,” the woman said. She was in her early forties, not unattractive, but starting to show her age. She kept brushing loose strands of hair back from her cheek.

“The man and woman who came in—did you know them?”

“No, sir. Both were strangers to me,” she said, and the owner nodded his agreement.

“Tell me about the man.”

“Tall. Black hair and blue eyes. Handsome looking guy in a rugged sort of way. And he looked like he would be able to handle himself. Polite, too.”

“See, that wasn’t hard,” Preacher said. “And you gave a good description, ma’am.”

“Something that comes with the job,” she said. “You get to check people over. Try to spot potential problem customers. I guess it’s a habit.”

“Did they drive onto the lot?”

“No. I only noticed that after they’d already ordered, because two of our regulars left and drove away and the lot was empty. I didn’t have time to think about it, what with everything that happened.”

“So the guy and the girl must have walked here?”

“I guess so.”

“Unusual,” Preacher said. “Folk don’t make a habit of walking the streets around here.”

“So where did they come from?” Choirboy asked.

“Likely the motel,” the owner suggested. “Motel?”

“Out of the parking lot, make a left and it’s a couple hundred yards on the same side of the street.”

The waitress nodded in agreement. “That’s right. We get folks staying there coming in to eat. Hardly worth driving, it being so close.”

“You tell the cops that?”

“Ed and me told them nothing. The way they treated us, the hell with them,” the woman said.

Preacher glanced at his partner. Choirboy smiled.

“How did the shooting go down?” Preacher asked out of professional curiosity.

“We didn’t see it,” the woman said. “An armed man came in through the kitchen door. He pushed Ed and me into the big cold room and locked the door. Said if we raised any fuss he’d shoot us.”

“Next thing we heard,” Ed said, “was like a war had broken out. Lots of gunfire.”

“After that it just went real quiet. We didn’t know what was going on, so we stayed quiet, too.”

“When the cops came and started shouting, we hollered and they let us out. Bastards treated us like we were part of it,” Ed grumbled, obviously still resenting the treatment he’d received at the hands of the local police. “Questioned us half the damn night, and us still shivering from that cold room.”

“Is that all you wanted?” the waitress asked.

Preacher could see she was trembling.

“That’s all, ma’am. Hope we haven’t upset you too much. We’re going now.” He turned away, then paused to look back. “That thing you mentioned?”

“What?”

“Being able to remember details about customers and all?”

The waitress managed a thin smile. “It doesn’t seem to be working tonight,” she said, understanding the reasoning behind Preacher’s question. “Could be because I’m at the end of my shift.”

Preacher raised his hands. “Lucky for us then.”

BACK IN THE CAR Choirboy said, “Nice folks.”

“Yep.”

Preacher turned onto the street and coasted along until he saw the lights of the motel. He made a left and rolled the Lincoln across the courtyard, coming to stop outside the manager’s office. Through the window he could see the guy on duty watching TV.

“Come in the back way,” he said. “I’ll go talk to the guy.”

The motel manager didn’t even look up from his TV as Preacher entered the airless office. He simply waved a hand.

“You want a room?”

“Just some information.”

Now the man glanced up, irritation on his face.

“Do I look like a fucking tourist guide?”

Preacher smiled. “Remember I asked politely.”

“I’ll put you down for an award. If you don’t want a room, I’m busy.”

“This could have gone a lot easier, son,” Preacher said.

“Just get the hell out of here ’fore I—”

“Before you what, boy?” Choirboy asked.

He had walked around to the rear of the office, coming in through the screen door and had moved up beside the manager. He pressed the muzzle of his handgun against the guy’s skull.

“I asked nicely,” Preacher said, “but this cocky son of a bitch decided to get lippy.”

He turned and locked the door, closing the blind.

“You know what?” Choirboy said. “I recognize this bird. He used to work for Harry Lyle out of Dallas. You recall that place Lyle had downtown? This guy used to work behind the bar, but Harry caught him shortchanging customers. Had him worked over and run out of town. They called him Hatcher. Nick Hatcher.”

“I do believe you’re right there, son.” Preacher leaned against the desk. “He was a lippy bastard then. No grace in him at all.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t work for Lyle anymore,” Hatcher said. “But I do work for someone a damn sight harder, so you better lay off me.”

Preacher’s eyes raised to Choirboy’s face and smiled. No words were needed. Choirboy used his pistol to remind Hatcher he was in no position to make threats. The meaty slam of the steel against Hatcher’s head delivered the message. Hatcher grunted, sliding from his seat after the third blow and landed on his knees, his head hanging. Blood ran down his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. More dripped to the floor. Preacher joined Choirboy behind the desk, and together they hauled the dazed Hatcher back into his seat. Hatcher stared up into Preacher’s face, still defiant. The killer sighed, then without warning he punched Hatcher in the face a few times, rocking the man’s head back. Blood spattered Hatcher’s features, and he would have slid out of the chair again if Choirboy hadn’t caught hold of his shoulders and pulled him back.

“Don’t make the mistake of believing I give a rat’s ass who you work for,” Preacher said after a while. “Anything that even smells of a threat kind of gets me all upset, son.”

“Take heed of that,” Choirboy said from behind Hatcher. “He gets kind of unstable if someone threatens him.” He slapped Hatcher on the shoulder. “You should have been nice to the man. We would have been long gone by now, and you could be back watching your movie.”

“So what is it you want?” Hatcher asked. His words were muffled due to the bloody state of his lips and a couple of loose teeth. Blood dribbled from his mouth as he spoke.

“Night of the diner shooting. You had a guest here. Big guy.

Tall. Black hair. Blue eyes. He could have walked to the diner. Had a girl with him. Pretty. Mexican. She was the one who got shot and killed. You recall?”

Hatcher considered the question, sucking air noisily into his battered mouth. He seemed to be having trouble focusing on Preacher’s face, but he eventually nodded.

“Only stayed a couple of nights. Left the day after the shooting. I never seen him with no girl. I don’t notice everyone who walks by.”

“Now that wasn’t hard, was it?” Choirboy asked.

Hatcher pushed to his feet, wobbling unsteadily, and made his way to the file box on the desk. He rifled through the cards until he found the one he wanted, passed it to Preacher, then sank back into his seat. Preacher slid the card into his pocket after a quick look.

“His vehicle? What was the make and model?”

“Late model Ford 4x4. Dark red. License number’s on the card. The guy calls himself Matt Cooper.”

“Been a pleasure doing business with you, Nick,” Preacher said. “We’ll go now. Leave you to your business. Here’s a word of advice. Don’t even consider bringing the cops in. It wouldn’t do you any good. Tell your boss what happened if you feel you need to.” Preacher smoothed down his jacket. “If you do, tell him Preacher said hello. He’ll understand.”

Hatcher watched them leave, his eyes already glazing over, sliding back down in his seat.

Choirboy led the way out through the back door. They walked around to the waiting Lincoln. Choirboy got behind the wheel and Preacher settled beside him.

“Which way?” Choirboy asked.

“You choose, son. I got a few calls to make.” Preacher took out the registration card and held it up. “We got some tracking to do, but first I need to get us a little direction.”

While Choirboy cruised, Preacher tapped in a number and held his cell phone to his ear.

“Clarence, I need you to check out a license-plate number for me.” He read out the details. “Soon as, son. This is urgent. Call me.” Preacher redialed and asked to speak to Dembrow. “His name is Matt Cooper. That’s all we got up to now, but it’ll do.”

He ended the call.

“If this yahoo ain’t an undercover cop,” Choirboy said, “who the hell is he?”

Preacher considered. “Good question, son. I’ll ask when we find him.”

“Maybe he’s some covert military specialist. Delta Force. SEAL. Sent in by the government so he don’t have to be answerable to anyone.”

“Son, you amaze me sometimes,” Preacher said. “It could be you’ve lit on the right number. DEA and the like don’t have those kind of skills. They ain’t trained in such business. But the military teach their special forces just the way our boy acts.”

“Likely then he won’t be easy to find.”

“Oh, hell, son, it wouldn’t be fun if it was easy.”

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