BORDER RUN

When a Mexican national captures the murder of an innocent couple on video, Mack Bolan is tasked with protecting the young man and delivering his evidence to authorities. But then the killer turns out to be a high-powered cartel boss intent on destroying any trace of his crime—including the witness. Suddenly the man with the video is running for his life, and Bolan has no choice but to join the chase.

A hired assassin and his army of trained killers outnumber Bolan in the unfamiliar Mexican territory, and he must rely on quick thinking and guerrilla-style tactics to wipe out the enemy and ensure the safety of the one man who can shutter the gang’s operations for good. The cartel is fighting dirty, but the Executioner is about to lay down his signature brand of cleansing fire.

The a la muerte soldier took another step closer accompanied by the clink of metal on metal

The Executioner sprang from his hiding spot, driving his left hand forward to grasp the guy’s throat, striking hard at the exposed torso with his right. The Tanto’s cold blade sliced through clothing and sank in up to the hilt. Bolan felt the man shudder as he slid the knife left to right to extend the wound.

Bolan pulled the weakening man in against the log, leaning on him hard. When all movement ceased, he pulled out the knife and cleaned the steel blade against the man’s shirt, then sheathed it.

He could hear faint noises coming from the headset the man was wearing. Bolan slipped it off the body, held the earpiece close and listened to the transmission.

“Enrico, what is going on? Talk to me. Where are you?”

“I found him,” Bolan said, keeping his voice low. “You want to come and see?”

There was a brief silence.

“Who are you?”

“The one you cannot find. The one who is going to send you to hell.”

The Cartel Hit

Don Pendleton

There is no witness so terrible and no accuser so powerful as the conscience that dwells within us.

—Sophocles

Some men don’t have a conscience, or choose to ignore it. When conscience fails, that’s where I step in. With guns blazing.

—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

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

Copyright

Prologue

His name was Hermano Escobedo. Mexican by birth. He came from a small village in Chihuahua, where there was little opportunity to further himself. Four years previously he had traveled across the border into Texas, encouraged by a longtime friend who had done the same thing a couple years earlier and found work. When his friend had the means to send money to Escobedo, he’d told him to make the journey. America was where Escobedo could earn a living. He could send cash to his remaining family—his aging grandfather and grandmother. The offer was too good to pass up, and Escobedo finally made the trip.

Initially, things worked out well. Escobedo’s friend helped him get established, pointed him in the right direction to find work. He learned to speak the language. He was smart and had a good ear. It helped. In the Texas town of Broken Tree, the young Mexican showed a willingness to take on a number of jobs.

Escobedo’s background was farming. He had a flair for gardening and built a small but steady number of clients. His touch with flowers and plants gained him more customers. He was able to save a little money and his long-term plan was to provide for his grandparents. He found himself a small apartment in Broken Tree. It was nothing grand, but to Hermano Escobedo it was a step up from the tiny place he had shared with his grandparents. Then, two years into his time in America, he received the news that his grandparents had passed away. The priest in the village handled the funerals, so Escobedo had little incentive to return to Mexico.

When he received an offer to tend the gardens at the out-of-town estate belonging to a man named Seb Jessup, Escobedo accepted. One of his Broken Tree clients had referred him to Jessup. When Escobedo first saw the place, he was overwhelmed. It was huge, a great, sprawling house surrounded by lawns and gardens. There were stables for the many horses the man owned. Barns to house machinery. It was always busy, with people coming and going all the time. Expensive cars. Smiling young women. It could have been all too much for a simple peon from Chihuahua, but Escobedo had a steady head on his shoulders. He pushed the glamorous lifestyle out of his mind and simply took on the work offered.

Everything went well at first. Jessup sent a car for him three days a week, though Escobedo rarely saw his employer. In fact, he had only ever seen the man once to speak to. That had been on the day he accepted the job. The drive from town took just under twenty minutes, and the day began early and ended late. Escobedo was given charge of the operation. There was a fully equipped workshop that contained all the tools he would ever need, and while the workload was heavy, he took it in stride.

After a few weeks, Escobedo became accepted among Jessup’s other employees, to the point that hardly anyone paid him much attention. And Escobedo simply blended in. He was paid at the end of each week by a man named Hatton, who seemed to be Jessup’s right-hand man. Hatton said little.

Escobedo’s friend, being ambitious, had moved on. He had packed his belongings into his car and driven out of Broken Tree, leaving Escobedo to his new life. It didn’t worry him too much. He had always been a solitary person. It was only in the evenings that he felt out of place, but long days of physical labor left him exhausted, and he retired early most nights, knowing his day would start early. When he was not working at the Jessup place, he had his local customers to tend to.

It did not concern Escobedo that there were times when the atmosphere of the Jessup estate changed. Became tense. Agitation seeping in through the calm. Escobedo had learned early on to stick to his own affairs, not to involve himself in matters beyond his purview. He had heard rumors about Seb Jessup, that some of his enterprises were on the risky side. Perhaps even unlawful. Escobedo closed his mind to these rumors. He had steady work. No one bothered him and whatever his employer got up to was none of his business.

That was because he had no idea what was really going on around him. He stayed below the radar. His friend, shortly after Escobedo had arrived in Texas, had explained the facts of life:

“Remember who you are. Do your work. Be humble and do not ask questions. Leave your curiosity at home each day. Be what you are. Invisible. The laborer. Have no shadow. Understand this and you will survive. Make noise and you will pay the price.”

Even though he kept a low profile, Escobedo could not escape hearing the gossip of the other Hispanic employees. Some worked inside the house, others in the body shop where Jessup’s extensive fleet of cars and SUVs were parked. Escobedo picked up murmurs. Tried to remain indifferent, but words stuck. Remained in his memory.

Words like illegals.

Wetbacks.

Transients from across the border.

Once heard, these words became a permanent fixture in Escobedo’s thoughts. He wanted to ask questions, but his friend’s advice made him hold his tongue. So he watched and listened. There was inside him a sense of morality that refused to allow him to ignore those words. And the harder he tried to dispel them, the stronger the need to know more plagued him.

The urge to understand grew, and he watched and listened more intently.

His friend’s advice teased him. Leave your curiosity at home each day. But Escobedo’s need to know would not let him rest.

He understood the regime that exploited Mexican labor. The shadowy businesses that brought in cheap workers, in the same position as he was. People who wanted to work. To enjoy a better quality of life. They all knew it was a risk, that they would be paid only the minimum, yet they still came, because even that was better for many of them than the life they had in Mexico.

Escobedo had been luckier. His friend had obtained a work permit for him, the piece of paper that made him official. Having someone vouch for him had made life easier. At least Escobedo did not have to survive like a criminal. He could walk the streets with impunity. He wished things were better, but at least here in America he felt safer than in Mexico. And if he worked hard he would eventually become an American citizen.

Then the day came when a situation developed and drew Escobedo to it with its addictive power.

He had been on his knees behind the thick shrubs he was pruning, so was unseen by the men who made their way through the gardens and vanished inside one of the large barns. Something in the way they moved caught Escobedo’s interest, and he heard one of them speak as he passed within ten feet of him, seemingly unaware of the Mexican’s presence.

“Damn illegals. Jessup will make them pay this time…”

Escobedo had waited until the men were all inside the barn, then took a roundabout route that brought him to the far side of the building. As he slid against the wall, he heard a voice that was unmistakably Jessup’s. The man was angry, almost ranting. Escobedo eased his way to a side door and slipped through it. The sound of Jessup’s voice filled the interior of the barn. Escobedo snaked his way through the collection of farm implements until he was able to see what was happening.

And wished he hadn’t.

He knew right then that his earlier indifference to the rumors floating around had allowed these things to continue. He had learned things about Jessup that he should have reported, yet his concern for his own safety had forced him to stand back, trying to convince himself he should stay clear.

Leave your curiosity at home.

A half dozen of Jessup’s men were gathered in a loose crowd around a pair of kneeling Mexicans. The man and woman were young, already bleeding from blows to their faces. Their hands were tied behind their backs. Seb Jessup stood over them, his angry words echoing off the rafters.

Escobedo caught fragments of his tirade, which had to do with lost money, betrayal, risking Jessup’s business and threatening his livelihood…

Without thinking, Escobedo pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He trained the camera on Jessup and the kneeling Mexicans. He had no idea how he could help the young couple, but he felt compelled to do something. Anything. Because the terrible feeling sweeping over him told him something bad was about to happen.

One of the men stepped forward and handed something to Jessup.

It was a wooden baseball bat, and without pausing, Jessup swung it, striking first the girl, then the young man.

The sickening sound would stay with Escobedo for a long time. The crunch of the hard wood against weaker skulls. Jessup alternated between his two victims, and their pained cries filled Escobedo’s ears. Terrible sounds. Even when the pair slumped forward, Jessup kept up the barrage. Blood flew in bright sprays. The young couple flopped on the barn floor, bodies jerking and twitching as the estate owner battered them in a frenzy of rage. Jessup was spattered with red, yet he still kept up the attack, until one of his men told him the man and woman were dead. He stepped back, panting from his exertions as he stared at the splintered bone and brain matter oozing from the misshapen skulls.

Jessup threw down the bloodied baseball bat.

“Get rid of them,” he said. “And when you meet with those Mexican traffickers, tell ’em what happened. Put the fear of God into those fuckers…”

Escobedo felt a presence. He turned and looked into the face of one of Jessup’s men.

“Hey, you greaser son of a bitch.” The man reached out to grab hold of him.

Escobedo swung around and instinctively lashed out with his free hand, more in panic than resistance. His bunched fist slammed against the other man’s jaw. The sound of the blow was loud. The guy spun away from Escobedo, dazed by the strike. His legs gave and he fell to his knees.

Escobedo didn’t stay around to see what else was happening. He understood his position. He had witnessed Seb Jessup commit two brutal murders. There was no way the man could allow that to go unpunished.

Escobedo remembered the baseball bat, dripping with the blood of the two victims. That could be his fate if he didn’t move.

He pushed the cell phone into his pocket, then turned and ran across the barn to the door where he’d entered. He shouldered it open and went through. Legs pumping, driven by pure fear, he ran through the gardens and around to the front of the big house. As he crossed the paved drive, he was confronted by the ever-present collection of vehicles parked there.

His thoughts of escape pressured him to go to the closest vehicle, a heavy Ford 4x4. As he yanked open the driver’s door, he saw the keys hanging from the ignition. Escobedo climbed in, fumbled with the key, then felt the powerful engine burst into life. He dropped the handbrake, yanked the lever into Drive and stepped on the gas pedal. The 4x4 lurched forward, tires burning against the asphalt. Escobedo fought the wheel as the vehicle turned. He felt it slam against the side of one of the other parked cars, then he got control and headed toward the exit.

He had no fixed destination in mind. His only thoughts were to get away from Jessup and his crew. Escobedo knew they would be coming after him. He was not an experienced driver and thanked God that the roads in Texas tended to run straight. The Ford hurtled onward, responding to his foot on the pedal, and the engine roared as the vehicle gathered speed.

Tangled questions fought for space in his mind.

What to do?

Where to go?

Who could he trust?

He glanced in the rearview mirror.

Several vehicles were on his tail. They were still a distance away, but Escobedo knew that would change.

He had made a bad mistake. One that could end with him sprawled out on that barn floor, his body beaten and bloody. Jessup standing over him, rage in his eyes as he battered him to death. Escobedo had gone into the barn without a clear thought in his head, intent on finding out what was happening, not considering the implications.

He had confirmed his suspicions, but had he expected to simply walk out and inform the authorities? Now none of that mattered.

Hermano Escobedo had exposed himself, and his discovery has plunged him into this nightmare.

Stories about traffickers should have warned him. They bought and sold human lives, their only concern the money they made from the business. One more dead Mexican would pass unnoticed.

Unless he could escape from them.

Escobedo stared through the windshield. How would he get away? They were already following him, and he knew they would not give up. He had witnessed the cruel deaths of the two young Mexicans. Jessup needed to make sure the knowledge went no further.

Broken Tree lay before Escobedo. He realized he might not find any kind of salvation in the town. Seb Jessup was well-known here, while he himself was practically a stranger. He couldn’t think of one person he could go to, and a wave of despair washed over him. Violence and death such as this had never featured in his life. It made him think that leaving Mexico had been a mistake. Life in his home village might have been slow and lacking in opportunity, yet there had been no reason to imagine anything like his present situation. Right now, he would welcome his pedestrian existence in Ascensión.

Despite his fear, Escobedo remembered what he had seen. Two young lives wiped out in an instant. Hopes and dreams gone. All because of Jessup’s rage and animal brutality. His own safety suddenly didn’t seem so important.

He failed to see the bend in the otherwise straight road until he reached it. Escobedo tugged on the steering wheel, felt the 4x4 slide, dust streaming up from the tires. The front wheels cleared the edge of the pavement and the vehicle bounced, the hood seeming to rise in front of him. The vehicle hit the drainage ditch and dropped hard, coming to a jarring stop. Escobedo hung on to the wheel, managing to prevent himself from being thrown forward. The engine stalled and he sat in silence for a few seconds.

Move, Hermano, he thought. Before they reach you. Because you will be a dead man if they do.

He snapped out of his frozen state, pushed open the door and half fell from the car. He caught his balance and stared at his surroundings. A scrubby field swept away in front of him, and in the hazy distance he could see the edge of Broken Tree. Without a moment of hesitation, he cut across the field.

When he reached the trash-strewn back lots, Escobedo eased between two stores, emerging on the main street.

Get away from Broken Tree. The thought persisted. It was the sensible thing to do. If he remained in town, Jessup’s people would find him.

He forced himself to walk calmly along the street, his mind creating and rejecting scenarios. He had to do something direct. Simple.

He walked past a bank, then suddenly stopped. To get away he would need money. He took out his wallet and used his card to draw a few hundred dollars from the bank’s ATM; the money he had been saving for his future in America. With the cash in his pocket, he continued down the street.

There was a small coffee shop along the way. Escobedo went inside and ordered a drink, sat down in the farthest booth from the door, where he could still watch the street.

Had he evaded the men pursuing him?

He couldn’t believe they had given up. With the realization that he had proof of Jessup’s crime, they would not let up. They would search Broken Tree end to end. Probably hand out money for information about him.

He needed to do something to protect himself. He thought about going to the local police, but rejected the idea. He had heard about local law enforcement sometimes having connections with organized crime, and now that he understood Jessup’s involvement with human trafficking, he couldn’t fail to think along those lines. Whether it was true or not, he didn’t dare expose himself to it.

Was he becoming paranoid?

He argued with himself over that. He had not imagined the events in the barn. The scene had been real. Too real. He couldn’t afford to underestimate Seb Jessup.

With local law enforcement off the table, that meant going further afield.

His knowledge of the American justice system was limited. Escobedo had stayed well within the law, so had not come into contact with it, but he had heard of the FBI and Justice Department in Washington. Surely they were far enough away not to be affected by someone like Seb Jessup in a small town in Texas.

Escobedo finished his coffee and left. It was late in the afternoon. He walked through town until he came to the municipal library. It took him some time to find what he was looking for, but when he finally left, he had a telephone number written on a piece of paper.

He found a working pay phone on the edge of the park at the center of town. His hand trembled as he lifted the receiver, and he dropped a couple coins before he finally deposited the correct change.

The line was clear and the voice on the other end calm and precise. The words spoken would change Escobedo’s whole life.

“Justice Department. How can I help?”

* * *

IT WAS DARK by the time Escobedo reached the building where he rented his small apartment. He stayed in the shadows, waiting until he was sure no one was watching the place, then he climbed the stairs. He let himself in quietly and used the illumination from the street to guide him around. He was not expecting to stay very long. Just enough time to stuff a few belongings into a backpack.

His instructions from the man he had spoken to in Washington had been clear: “Stay away from contact with anyone you know. Do not speak to anyone. Do exactly what the agents tell you, and cooperate. Try to behave normally, so that you do not arouse suspicions.” The man had described a location, and given a time when two agents would pick him up and take him somewhere secure.

Escobedo left his apartment by the fire escape and strode quickly through the neighborhood to the rendezvous point. It was a long walk, and when he reached the spot and saw the parked SUV blink its lights, he moved faster, relieved that his pickup was waiting as promised.

He was almost at the car when the squeal of tires behind him made him glance over his shoulder. He saw the shadowy bulk of the approaching vehicle as it accelerated.

Everything moved so fast that Escobedo had no time to think of anything except staying alive.

The passenger door of the waiting car opened and an armed figure stepped out. Someone yelled for him to keep coming.

The unknown vehicle was still closing in. As it swerved across the street, automatic weapons began firing. The heavy bursts sent streams of slugs that peppered the waiting SUV and punctured the bodywork, shattering windows. The man who had stepped out of the car went down first; the driver was hit while he was still behind the wheel. Escobedo caught a brief glimpse of a bloodied face behind the windshield. The rattle of automatic fire followed him as he raced for the cover of the SUV. He had barely cleared it when a dull thud was followed by a burst of fire blossoming from the interior. He felt the heat as he swerved away from the vehicle, almost going down. The ball of flame swelled out from the car, flames curling from the bullet-shattered windows.

Escobedo saw a dark alley between two buildings and dashed into it, hiding among the shadows as he negotiated the trash-strewn pavement. When he reached a turn, he followed it and simply kept running, clutching his backpack when it slid from his shoulder.

His chest burning, Escobedo wove his way between buildings, not once looking back. He had no idea where he was going; he was just attempting to gain some distance from the shooters. He twisted around corners, ignoring the shouts of alarm as he pushed by the few people he encountered. He made no attempt to speak to them, because now he couldn’t be sure who to trust.

So he trusted no one.

He was in a race for his life.

Until, exhausted, he was forced to halt. He leaned against a wall, staring around him. Struggling to breathe. Not even sure what part of town he was in. At the mouth of the alley he saw silent, dark storefronts. A deserted street. He heard distant traffic sounds. It took a few moments for him to figure out he was in a part of Broken Tree he seldom visited. Escobedo peered out from behind the building on his left and saw the lighted frontage of the bus depot a few blocks away.

The bus depot.

Could it be the answer to his problem?

Contacting the Justice Department had not worked for him. Escobedo needed another option, and he needed time to think. To plan how he was going to make this thing work. And to do that, he needed to get away from Broken Tree.

He couldn’t erase what he’d seen in Jessup’s barn. Despite the position he had put himself in, he knew he had to follow this through. Seb Jessup had committed murder. Escobedo had witnessed it. Recorded the very act. And his conscience would not allow him to walk away. Jessup had to pay for the brutal crime.

Escobedo also knew he was a marked man. Jessup could not afford to let the matter lie, and he was wealthy enough to pay for Escobedo’s capture. His people would search for him. If Jessup got his hands on Escobedo, he’d suffer the same fate as the couple in the barn—or worse.

And then there were the two agents sent to protect him. Two more murders Escobedo had witnessed, two more dead under his watch.

He needed to get far away. Distance would grant him the time to work out what to do.

Escobedo focused on the bus depot lights again.

He would leave Broken Tree, take a coach across the border.

Into Mexico.

Back to the village where he had come from. Back home.

To Ascensión.

1

“You really believe I’m going to let that cockroach give me up to the cops?” Seb Jessup said. “I will bury that bastard and his evidence.”

Three of his crew members sat in the plush office. Not one of them made any comment. They might have been thinking his outburst was more than a little risky, given that he was already under the close eye of federal authorities who were just waiting for him to step across the line.

But that was Seb Jessup.

A man who had total contempt for the law, society and anyone who dared to cross him. Jessup had a personal mantra: “I go where I want and I do what I want. Get in my way and I will crush you.”

Simple and direct. Jessup believed in being up front with people. They got what they saw. He made no concessions to anyone or anything.

He was in his midthirties, a hard-bodied man who ruled his criminal organization by brute force and cunning. He had a financially successful association with a Mexican cartel over the border, and he traded in weapons and stolen cars. He also had a thriving business in human trafficking. He had no interest in corporate crime. Not for Jessup the sleight of hand in the white-collar world. He was a hands-on racketeer. Jessup liked money. Lots of it. And his territory, which still clung to the well-defined individualism of West Texas, was large enough to accommodate his appetites.

Jessup was entirely a self-made man, and he considered himself a product of his environment. Brought up on a hardscrabble farm, where his family had struggled daily to stay fed, Jessup learned early that a man got what he did only by hard work and grabbing any opportunity that presented itself. He’d made a vow that he would not end up like his folks, worn to a frazzle as they struggled to maintain some kind of life. The land they lived on was hard. The crops they grew were sparse and tended to die off if you turned your back on them.

Jessup’s father was a strong man physically, but less so mentally. Each time he had a setback he would resort to the bottle, becoming surly and downright vicious. The rest of the family was often on the receiving end of Anson Jessup’s hard fists. That went on until Seb’s eighteenth birthday. Tired of being knocked around like a straw-filled dummy, he’d decided to fight back. He drove his bullying father to the ground, his solid fists leaving the man bloody and beaten. For the first time in his life, Jessup’s simmering rage gave him the strength to overcome someone. It would not be the last time that happened.

It was his last day as part of the family. After putting his father down, he went inside the house, packed his few belongings in a bag and walked away. He never looked back.

He spent the next five years in the army. For a boy who had spent long days working the hostile land on a dirt-poor farm, army life was easy. All he had to do was follow orders, and he was given three meals a day, a bed to sleep in and a wage. When he heard other recruits grumbling about the hard life, Jessup had grinned. They knew nothing. He’d kept his head down. He was a quick learner, and he quickly gained promotion. The day he was made corporal was something he was quietly proud of.

He was eventually shipped off to the Middle East and saw a side to life he’d never even thought about back in West Texas. He witnessed killing and destruction. Experienced his first action and found himself facing the possibility of his own death. His training kicked in and he accepted that he either put it to good use or he was going to die right there and then in the midst of the dust and flies and the rattle of gunfire. He was promoted to sergeant.

He met Cole Hatton while he was in the war zone. They clicked from day one. And when the chance arose, they teamed up in a partnership that would follow into civilian life. By the time they were sent back stateside, Jessup and Hatton were considerably wealthier than when they’d first put on uniforms. The army was bringing in vast stores of goods to keep the American forces fed, clothed and armed. It was to be expected that some of those supplies would be diverted. Jessup found a way by bringing in one of the civilian contractors the military was using. Siphoned-off materials were flown back to the States, using the contract aircraft that were coming and going on an almost daily basis. Jessup started small, not wanting to attract attention, and that, coupled with the money he was pulling in from deals with the locals for food and clothing, all added to his growing cash balance.

While Jessup provided the brains, Hatton became the partnership’s muscle and backup. He handled any problems that might interfere with the operations. He did it well. He was direct and dedicated, with a persuasive manner that told anyone getting in the way that it would be extremely advisable to step aside.

They set themselves up back home, building their criminal business with a dedication that would have been the envy of any hardworking entrepreneur. They operated out of a midsize community called Broken Tree, in cattle country. It was a tough town in tough borderlands.

Nine years down the road and they were established as the major player in the region. Jessup had connections across the board. He’d bought and paid for influence in high circles. He ran his organization with a hard hand and took no crap from anyone. His name opened doors, his wealth bought him the rest.

He had his world by the balls. Saw himself as untouchable. Out of reach. A big man in a big piece of country.

One of his most lucrative ventures involved bringing illegal immigrants across the border. Mexico provided plenty of people who were eager to enter the US, lured by the promise of work and money. The promises came true, though they weren’t as clear-cut as the immigrants had been led to believe. Money, yes, but the expenses incurred when they were brought to America were taken from their paychecks. If they protested, they could be exposed to the authorities. That could mean jail, or being sent back to Mexico. There were times when Jessup’s enforcers would hand out physical persuasion. The Mexican laborers were just another product, as far as Jessup was concerned. He bought and sold them. Had the power to make them disappear if the notion came to him. There were plenty of lonely and desolate places in border country where bodies could be, and were, made to vanish.

Jessup believed his most recent enterprise would prove to be even more lucrative. He’d met with Ramon Mariposa, the jefe of A La Muerte, an offshoot of the Sinaloa drug cartel. Ramon Mariposa was looking for a US distributor and Jessup had been interested in growing his presence in the drug trade.

Mariposa had learned Jessup was a solid, well-organized man who ran a thriving business, and the jefe also needed a steady supplier of weapons. The drug cartels were in a violent, ongoing war with competitors and Mexican law enforcement. In a brutal business, A La Muerte was way ahead of its rivals. Mariposa operated with total, unflinching violence. He saw no reason to do otherwise. His need for a reliable supply of quality ordnance was something Seb Jessup could manage easily.

In the end, it was a marriage of convenience. A two-way street. Mariposa and Jessup’s relationship was beneficial to both, workable and problem free.

Until Hermano Escobedo started to rock the boat.

Rocked it with such ferocity that Jessup, for the first time since he’d faced combat, experienced fear.

He maintained his cool in front of his people, while inwardly feeling sick. Not because he was about to cave in under the threat posed by Escobedo, but because he realized for all his power, influence and wealth, he was still vulnerable. Jessup might have been resistant to threats against his security, yet he saw the shadowy possibility that his empire could be badly damaged—even brought down—by the young Mexican. Escobedo was the unexpected threat, the one coming out of left field. And he just might be capable of knocking Jessup off his throne.

Hermano Escobedo obviously felt he had justification, a good reason to strike out. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have placed himself in the firing line. In truth, Jessup could even sympathize with the young man’s motivation. But he still had to stop him.

If Escobedo brought his evidence into the light, Jessup could face life in prison—or even execution. He understood the penalties, and despite his position of power, realized he might conceivably pay the price.

He was going to have to play this one carefully. Hatton had broached the subject, pointing out that Jessup needed to keep his distance. No hands-on punishment this time—which pissed Jessup off. He had always been a hands-on participant. But his partner was insisting he lie low.

“We do this smart,” Hatton said now. “Pull in outside help, give them the details and turn them loose.”

“Not our boys?” Jessup asked.

“Nope. We stay clear. I talk to them, they keep me informed. We fund this with cash. Nothing written down, no computers—only disposable phones. Seb, we can pull this off. Take the bastard down and wipe out the evidence. With nothing to hang on you, the law is going to be pissing in the wind.”

“Trouble with wind, Cole, is that it can change direction.”

Hatton shook his head, a grin on his lips. “You were the only grunt who could make a joke with bullets flying over your head,” he said.

“What can I say, buddy?”

Hatton levered his rangy frame out of his chair, pulling his phone from his pocket. He held it up as he walked to the door. “Today’s burner,” he said. “I’ll make the call. Bring Candy in for a head-to-head. We’ll get him on the case and set him loose on Escobedo.”

“You figure that chili popper is going to make trouble, boss?” one of the remaining two crew members asked.

“He’s going to try,” Jessup said.

The other man said, “If Cole sets Candy on his ass, that boy isn’t going to have another minute of peace. Hell, Seb, you recall when Candy went after that sucker down Nueces way? He had that done and dusted in a couple of days. No one ever found that feller’s body.”

“That’s the way I want it with Escobedo,” Jessup said. “Gone.”

* * *

HATTON STOOD ON the wide porch fronting the big house, speaking into his cell.

“I want you to drop everything, Candy. This is important. Wouldn’t offer it to anyone else. You sort this out for Seb and it’ll be the best payday you ever had.”

“He got himself in a bind?” Candy asked. His voice was low and slow, a homegrown Texas roll.

“Sort of. Candy, this needs clearing real fast. No mistakes.”

“Kind that needs a shovel to finish it?”

“That kind. Dead, buried, forgotten.”

“My specialty.”

“The Meat Wagon in an hour. Okay?”

“Fine,” Candy said, and hung up.

The Meat Wagon was a diner on the west side of Broken Tree that had been there for more than twenty-five years. The aluminum siding had weathered, the metal dull and pitted, but the painted sign had been refurbished recently. The original owner, Hoyt Dembrow, had died a few years back and the diner was managed by his son, Hoyt Dembrow Jr. Junior was over fifty and looked it, so the youthful title didn’t do him any favors. The man liked the food he served in the diner, sampled it every day. His ample size showed that.

As Hatton stepped inside an hour later, the familiar smells of coffee and fried food hit him. He liked that. The Meat Wagon was a piece of stability in a rapidly changing world. It had no offshoot truck franchise, no menu with fancy food catering to dietary needs. It served American food, period, and that was the way Hatton liked it.

He spotted Candy at the back end of the diner, facing him over a raised mug of coffee. At this time of day there were only a few other customers, and Candy had picked the table farthest away, leaving an empty stretch between him and the other eaters. Hatton’s boot heels clicked on the metal floor as he made his way over, stopping to speak to the owner en route.

“Hello, Junior. Coffee?”

“Sure enough, Cole.”

Hatton took the offered cup and joined Candy, dropping his cowboy hat on the table beside him. Candy watched, not saying anything, as he pulled a thick envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table. Candy picked it up and lifted the flap, flipped through the thick wad of bills inside and nodded briefly.

“Down payment,” Hatton said. “Usual terms.”

“You paying for the food, as well?” he asked.

“Don’t I always?”

Candy’s lean, weathered face showed a thin smile. He was a six-foot-three whip of a man who dressed like an out-of-work line rider. He raised his hand and summoned the waitress, ordering a big steak with all the trimmings. Hatton went for his weakness: a stack of pancakes with syrup, bacon and a couple eggs on top. While they waited, Hatton pulled out some photos and showed them to Candy.

“Hermano Escobedo. Son of a bitch is ready to drop the hammer on Jessup. He has evidence that could see Jessup locked up for the rest of his life. Or worse.”

“And Seb, naturally, don’t sit comfortable with that.”

Hatton handed over a folded sheet of paper. “Everything we have on the guy,” he said. “Ain’t much. He came over the border a few years back. He’s legal. Set himself up doing all kinds of hands-on work. We took him on account of he’s got a green thumb and does a tidy job. You know how Seb likes his place looking homey.”

Candy drained his coffee and signaled for a refill. “Jessup want his body delivered—or just vanished?”

Hatton let the question hang for a few seconds.

“Hell, Candy, what would we do with a body messing up the place?”

“Just needed to clarify the situation.”

“Well, it ain’t hard. Find him. Put him out of his misery. Bury him in the desert and keep the shovel for a souvenir.”

Candy smiled. “Hey, why’d you not say it was easy as that?”

Hatton made no comment. He knew the way Candy operated. He might make light of the deal in conversation, but in reality he was a professional who made people disappear. He gave off the impression of being a good old country boy, when he was, in fact, one of the most coldhearted men Hatton had ever come across. Candy took pride in his line of work, employed the very best and never, ever walked away without completing a contract.

They fell into light conversation until their food arrived. Eating became the most important consideration after that, neither man saying very much until they were done.

“When you catch this son of a bitch you need to look for his cell phone. He filmed Jessup. If the law lays its hands on it…”

“I get it,” Candy said. “Don’t you fret. It’s as good as done.”

“You know how to contact me if you need to,” Hatton said. He finished his third coffee, pushed his plate aside and stood up. “While we were deciding how to deal with this, I set a couple of our boys on the job.”

“That’s fine,” Candy said. “Give me the word if they find anything.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.