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Missile Intercept
Don Pendleton
Within Striking DistanceIt’s no coincidence that Cuban missiles disappear at the same time two scientists are kidnapped from a conference in Mexico. And all the clues lead to North Korea. The country already has atomic bombs, and now they’ve got everything they need to perfect long-range missile technology. Unless Mack Bolan can stop them.Determined to save the scientists and prevent a world war, Bolan learns he’s not the only one with his sights set on retrieving the missiles. The Iranians are also after the technology, along with a North Korean army colonel and his ruthless assistant. With a killer on his tail, the Executioner has to eliminate the international threat…or die trying.


WITHIN STRIKING DISTANCE
It’s no coincidence that Cuban missiles disappear at the same time two scientists are kidnapped from a conference in Mexico. And all the clues lead to North Korea. The country already has atomic bombs, and now they’ve got everything they need to perfect long-range missile technology. Unless Mack Bolan can stop them.
Determined to save the scientists and prevent a world war, Bolan learns he’s not the only one with his sights set on retrieving the missiles. The Iranians are also after the technology, along with a North Korean army colonel and his ruthless assistant. With a killer on his tail, the Executioner has to eliminate the international threat...or die trying.
Grimaldi buzzed the airstrip, diving at the accelerating plane.
The aircraft jerked to the left, slowing. The side door flew open and a figure jumped to the ground. Thin streams of red tracer rounds zoomed upward.
“Whoever the hell that guy is,” Grimaldi said over the radio, “I’m taking fire, and it’s coming close!”
Bolan paused, sighted the hostile gunner and squeezed off a quick burst. The man twisted in Bolan’s direction, and the Executioner fired again. His target jerked slightly. He was hit—but how badly?
Seconds later he had his answer as the red tracer rounds began zipping past him. He ducked, rolled to the left and came up on one knee just as the firing stopped. He saw the hostile leaning back, his right arm extended behind him.
Bolan fired another burst, and seconds later the flash and concussion of an explosion washed over him, accompanied by a second, larger conflagration as the plane went up in a gigantic fireball.

Missile Intercept
Don Pendletons


It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation.
—William Tecumseh Sherman
There is nothing pretty about a nuclear conflagration. Yet the insanity continues. Images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki should serve to stay the hand of all leaders. But they don’t. We must stand strong and protect the innocents.
—Mack Bolan


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 (#ucdddb0a2-2030-5a5e-ba6f-f2bead912b44)
Back Cover Text (#u48fa5e3e-7bbc-532f-956d-1f67e5eb2226)
Introduction (#ucb0aa5b6-8e94-5a77-9594-157f7a25adb3)
Title Page (#u2edd3215-6985-5527-9a58-29c0d7a306ab)
Quote (#ua3e4ad56-caff-577d-af0e-ec3db7d445b3)
Legend (#u95e3e8d8-7caf-5940-b879-3ba4eab3dbe3)
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
Epilogue
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u8d998da3-5e3c-58aa-abea-86d8e08d6e59)
Palatial Garden near Kim Il Sung Square
Pyongyang, North Korea
Colonel Yi Sun-Shin of the Korean People’s Army of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea watched as Gumon Yoong, the Black Dragon, stalked his last two opponents. Ten bodies littered the ground between them. The Dragon, clad in his dark special forces military fatigues, had dispatched the others with a series of deft blows, punches, whirling kicks and chopping strikes with the edge of his hand.
At least these executions were more entertaining than the last batch, Yi thought. Those had been carried out with an antiaircraft gun, leaving the hapless general and his assistant little more than misshapen piles of bones and flesh on the firing range. It was like using a sledgehammer to smash a mouse.
One of the Dragon’s remaining opponents assumed a fighting stance, his fists outstretched.
The Dragon smirked, continuing his steady advance.
His opponent lurched forward and threw a high roundhouse kick, which the Dragon brushed away with a casual flick of his hand.
The man twisted, executing a spinning back kick.
Instead of blocking the blow, the Dragon stepped inside the arc of the kick, letting his opponent’s leg curl around him. The Dragon’s hands were a blur as they struck the man’s exposed neck, the tandem blows leaving his head flopping like a broken doll’s. He slipped to the ground, a trail of blood leaking from a corner of his mouth, his eyes open and sightless.
The Dragon’s last opponent glanced around nervously, but the stone walls of the garden were high. There was no place to flee, yet he tried, turning and running away at full speed. The Dragon pursued him, closing the gap easily and then leaping into the air, his left leg tucked, the right cocked and ready. The Dragon’s right foot shot out, clipping the back of the running man’s neck. He fell face-first onto the hard ground as the Dragon landed lightly on his feet.
After grunts of approval, the country’s leader and his entourage stood and filed out of the garden without so much as a word, heading to the front of the building for the commencement of the Victory Day parade.
Yi surveyed the carnage. The last remaining members of the freighter that had been seized in the Panama Canal now lay dead. Such was the price of failure in the march toward victory. Yi glanced at his watch. It had taken the Dragon just over three minutes to dispatch them all.
The colonel knew his fate would be similar if he failed in his mission. It had been a warning as well as an example. “The bungling incompetents have disgraced us with their failure,” his immediate supervisor, General Song Hai-Son, had said. “They will be dealt with immediately prior to the parade, and then our supreme commander will be informed of your coming mission.”
The juxtaposition of the two events was not lost on Yi. Mission failure was not an option. Any outcome except total and complete success would be considered an affront to their leader’s authority, and whether the transgression was real or imagined did not matter. To fail was a death sentence.
“Colonel Yi,” a voice called from the arched doorway.
He turned and saw General Song standing by the ornately fashioned arch. Yi approached him, stopped, came to attention and saluted.
“Yes, General.”
Song snapped his fingers at the soldier standing beside him. The man remained at attention, motionless.
“Go tell our supreme commander we will soon be on our way,” the general ordered.
The soldier saluted, replied in the affirmative and left with crack precision.
“The Black Dragon looks ready for the coming task,” Song said.
“He is always ready, sir,” Yi replied. “As am I.”
Song nodded and grunted his approval. “Good. Come, let us proceed to the balcony. The Victory Day parade is about to begin.”
He began walking slowly down the long hallway toward the elevators.
“I have gone over your plan,” the general said. “I have some concerns.” His face puckered into an expression of displeasure. “It seems overly complicated.”
Yi had expected as much. Their current leader, like those before him, had surrounded himself with men essentially lacking in both cunning and guile, in an apparent attempt to minimize disloyalty and the possibility of deceit. Thus, military tactics had been degraded to the most basic. Such limited imagination engendered incompetence.
The colonel knew if he were to say that to Song, it would be tantamount to holding a pistol to his own temple. Instead, he applied a bit of deference.
“I agree, General, that it is complicated, but may I remind you that it is as you have said in the past. The clever warrior uses subterfuge and deception to minimize his expenditures and maximize his strengths.”
The general lifted an eyebrow, appeared to contemplate, and then smiled fractionally.
Yi had fictitiously attributed the dictum to Song, but also knew the false attribution would be welcomed and accepted by the vain officer. Yi’s father, who had fought the Americans decades before, had taught his son the lessons of war and of mastering an opponent. Deception was imperative in both instances.
“When I was a young boy,” Yi continued, “growing up in the military camp near the DMZ, there was an old man who would amuse the soldiers with a game using three walnut half shells. A shell game.”
Song’s eyes narrowed. He said nothing.
“The man would place a dried pea under one of the shells, then move them around. The soldiers would try to guess under which one they would find the pea. They would wager on it.”
The general’s visage twisted into a scowl. “They were gambling?”
“Only with cigarettes.” That was basically true, because none of the soldiers had any money, but Yi left that part out. “But the man with the walnut shells would never lose.” Yi paused. “The dried pea was concealed in his hand the entire time, and was never truly placed under one of the shells.”
The general’s eyes widened. “Deception.”
“The principle is the same in this instance,” Yi said. “The three ships are under way.”
“And the other?” Song asked. “The Iranian?”
“Some of our agents are with it now. Soon the Black Dragon and I will be under way, as well.”
“I do not trust these Iranians,” Song said, his face puckering again. “Such religious fanaticism hardly inspires trust or reliability.”
“They hate the Americans,” Yi replied. “And as the saying goes, the enemy of our enemy is our friend.” He knew the deal of appearing to share their nuclear capabilities with Iran was a necessary evil. For all their failings as a culture, they had the one redeeming feature that made the association necessary: money.
The two men reached an elevator and entered. The doors closed and the elevator car ascended. As they rode upward, Yi wondered if his story had achieved its purpose. Seconds later, he knew it had.
“Subterfuge and deception,” the general repeated, smiling now.
Yi smiled, too. He had assuaged Song’s doubts about the plan. All that remained now was the implementation, and the new era would begin.
“I trust that your travels will be both expeditious and fruitful,” Song said.
The elevator doors opened, and Yi could hear the cheers from the crowd below through the portals of the balconies. He could not help but feel a swell of pride as he anticipated the procession of marching soldiers, the lines of tanks and the massive array of intercontinental ballistic missiles. The people’s army, his army, was ready to fight to the death on command, each man’s leg kicking outward in precise unison with the others, their AK-47s held at port arms without deviance, their faces turning as they passed the buildings. Yi felt the surge of pride in his army, his country...
Another set of missiles passed, and Yi knew that soon the Americans would be driven off the lower peninsula forever, once the ICBMs were transformed into the new dragon ships, once they had the technology capable of maintaining the missile trajectory upon reentry to the atmosphere.
Soon, he thought, the world would bow before North Korea’s might. The puppets in the South would be overthrown, and not even the Chinese, who had for so long cast their dominant shadow over the Korean peninsula, would be an equal.
He closed his eyes and pictured the long-ago sea vessels, a huge dragon’s head rising from the armored bow of each, striking fear into the hearts of the hated Japanese and Chinese. These vessels, once the most powerful ships to roam the seas, had been conceived and piloted by his ancient namesake, Yi Sun-Shin. Soon these new dragon ships would restore his country to its proper place of prominence. It would be one Korea, unified and under Communist rule, no longer a small fish dominated by whales.
Soon...


1 (#u8d998da3-5e3c-58aa-abea-86d8e08d6e59)
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, and his team were spread out in the darkness along the tree line, about thirty yards from the high cyclone fence that surrounded the facility. The remote grounds, once the site of a Jesuit monastery, now housed a warehouse for the Sinaloa Cartel. Just outside the fence were the crumbling ruins of the old church.
The Executioner gently tapped the bottom of the magazine inserted into his Heckler & Koch MP-5 to make sure it was properly seated, then checked the tape that secured the inverted second magazine to the first. His weapon was ready.
Aerial photos had given them the layout of the place, a metal, prefab building approximately one hundred yards in length, set on a concrete slab and surrounded by the cyclone fence. A short, curving road led to a paved airstrip on the west side of the compound. Once Bolan and his team were through the fence, they would have to cross a wide courtyard with little cover to get to the warehouse.
An informant had told the authorities that trucks would be loaded that night with marijuana, cocaine and brown heroin. The green light for the raid had been given less than an hour earlier, and the team had been hustled to the airstrip to be transported to the remote site. The highway was a scant quarter mile from the compound, and they’d double-timed it all the way to the tree line.
Bolan glanced at his watch: 0252. It was as good a time as any for a raid, he thought, and keyed his mic to Jack Grimaldi’s frequency. “Jack, do you copy?”
“Your eye in the sky is waiting for the show to start, Sarge,” the Stony Man pilot replied from the helicopter high above. “I’ve got your back.”
“We’re almost in position,” Bolan said.
“Roger that. Want me to do another flyover?”
Before Bolan could answer he heard the drone of an aircraft engine. He looked upward, but was unable to see the sky through the thick canopy.
“Sounds like a plane approaching,” he said. “See anything?”
It took Grimaldi a few seconds to reply. “Roger. Looks like a twin-engine craft coming in from the east. I’d better drop back and down for a bit.”
Bolan knew that Grimaldi was blacked out and now positioning his helicopter to minimize the chance of being spotted by anyone in the plane. It was a reasonable assumption that the aircraft was going to land on the airstrip located on the other side of the building.
Bolan clicked his mic in reply just as Sergeant Jesus Martinez, the team leader of the Mexican marines, tapped him on the shoulder.
“What does your friend in the helicopter say?” he asked. The dark camo paint on his face was shiny with sweat.
“An aircraft is coming. Un...avión, ah, viene,” Bolan said in broken Spanish, for the benefit of Captain Ruiz, who was next to Martinez and had a limited knowledge of English.
The two men could not have appeared more different physically. Ruiz was handsome and lean, while the bulky Martinez looked like an aging heavyweight past his prime and gone to seed. The two bent close and whispered together, their words too soft for Bolan to discern, even though he had deliberately kept his fluency in Spanish to himself.
Martinez smiled and nodded. “Bueno.” He whispered again to Ruiz, then turned back to Bolan. “Perhaps we will catch some fish this time, eh, my friend?”
Bolan assessed the most prudent move, considering the unexpected development of the approaching plane. He and Grimaldi had been assigned as “civilian assistants” to the Mexican marines for this raid. US government personnel had been regularly assisting the Mexican authorities with raids on the cartel locations, but an FBI agent had been wounded during the last one, sending up a red flag in Washington. US participation was supposed to be covert, their agents not directly involved in hazardous situations without official sanction, but things were moving at such a fast pace that clandestine ops had been ordered to cut through the miles of red tape. Now, while the various agencies braced for a full and transparent hearing and investigation on the Hill, the President had contacted Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations Group based at Stony Man Farm, to assist in this latest interdiction effort.
So here they were, Grimaldi dropping off the assault team in the vicinity and playing guardian angel in an old beat-up Huey, without armament, and Bolan on the ground with an unfamiliar group of Mexican marines.
“Looks like they’re lighting up for a landing,” Grimaldi’s voice said in Bolan’s ear mic. “A van just exited the front gate, heading toward the strip.”
The Executioner turned to Martinez and suggested they move into the old ruins and send two men to cut a hole in the fence during the distraction of the plane landing. Martinez agreed and dispatched the men. It took them less than five minutes to accomplish the task, and in the interim Bolan heard the sound of the plane’s tires touching down.
Grimaldi confirmed the landing and said he was still blacked out, but ascending to a better vantage point.
“Jack, stay far enough out so they don’t hear you,” Bolan said, keying his mic.
“Roger.”
Bolan and Martinez took cover by a dilapidated wall that had long ago been the front of the church as the rest of the twelve-man team filtered through the ruins, taking up their positions. Bolan flipped down his night-vision goggles and surveyed the scene. Everything looked clear at the rear of the compound. He knew at least one man was stationed at the guard post by the front gate, and two others in watchtowers strategically placed at the far corners.
“The plane’s on the ground,” Grimaldi said over the radio. “Several subjects getting out. The van’s picking them up... I’m counting five total.”
“We move now,” Bolan said.
Martinez keyed his mic and issued the order. After pausing to cross himself, he pulled his mask up to cover the lower portion of his face, then moved to the door.
Ruiz nodded to both of them. His mask hung loosely around his neck, and he had declined camo paint, indicating that he was not going to be an active participant in the raid.
Bolan ducked through the opening, then sprinted toward the gaping hole in the fence. The two cutters had done an excellent job. The Executioner veered left, as was their plan. He knew Martinez would go right, each man alternating until they were at the corners of the prefab building, Bolan crouched and took a quick look around the corner.
Two guards kicked a soccer ball back and forth. Their rifles, AR-15s from the look of them, were slung casually across their bodies.
Hopefully, these guys were into their game, Bolan thought. The prospect of facing automatic-rifle fire made the situation a bit more problematic.
At least the watchtower on this side appeared empty. Bolan sent two men to verify. After checking the location of the soccer-playing guards, the two marines raced across the expanse to the bottom of the guard tower. One man climbed its ladder as the other one covered him. Moments later, the one at the top signaled that it was clear.
Mistake number one for the bad guys, Bolan thought. He relayed the information to Martinez.
“Looks like the van’s heading away from the airstrip and back toward the main gate,” Grimaldi said over the radio.
Bolan acknowledged and relayed that information to Martinez, as well. The original plan called for covert infiltration and possibly taking prisoners for interrogation, but Bolan wasn’t hopeful on that count. They were going into the belly of the beast. Resistance and gunplay were almost always a given. These weren’t the kind of men who surrendered without a fight. If they did, they’d surely face the wrath of the cartel bosses afterward.
“The tower on this side looks deserted,” Martinez said.
That seemed exceptionally lax, which was great news for the marines, if their good fortune was to be believed.
“I am sending two men to check the front tower and secure the corner,” Martinez whispered over the radio.
“Roger,” Bolan answered.
With the watchtower positions neutralized, and two men positioned at the front of the building, the rest of the raid should go like clockwork, Bolan thought. He tested the fit of the sound suppressor on his MP-5 and got ready to round the corner and take out the two sentries on his side.
Grimaldi’s voice was a whisper in Bolan’s ear mic. “The van’s coming in the gate. The overhead door’s going up in front.”
The Executioner informed Martinez.
Almost time, Bolan thought. Let them start to disembark from the vehicle and then we can hit them hard.
“The van’s inside,” Grimaldi’s voice said over the radio. “The big door’s closing.”
Bolan keyed his mic. “Is everybody in position?” After hearing the affirmative clicks, he said, “Get ready to move.”
The soccer ball suddenly bounced past him, and the labored breathing of a man running became audible.
As the guard ran past, chasing the errant ball, Bolan reached out in the darkness and grabbed him, slamming him to the ground. He grunted and started to yell, but the Executioner brought down two hammer-fist blows on the fallen man’s temple. Satisfied he was out cold, Bolan told one of the marines to secure him, and stood, just as a voice from the other side of the building called out in Spanish, “The marines are here! The marines are here!”
Seconds later a siren began to wail, followed by staccato bursts of gunfire. It had to be the cartel guards firing, as Bolan and all the marines had sound suppressors attached to their weapons. Floodlights positioned along the fence blazed on, illuminating the night.
Bolan closed his eyes briefly and ripped off his night-vision goggles to avoid being temporarily blinded. He took another quick look around the corner. The fallen guard’s soccer partner, his rifle at the ready, was running toward Bolan’s position. The Executioner brought up the barrel of the MP-5, poked it around the building and squeezed off a three-round burst. The running guard jerked spasmodically, then crumpled to the ground.
The Executioner raced forward, shooting out the closest floodlight. The marine under the guard tower joined him, and Bolan knew Martinez and his three men were advancing on the other side. They had to get to the front of the building and take control of the situation.
The second floodlight along the fence line exploded and went dark. Bolan figured the marine in the tower was taking them out to cover the advance of his teammates. He had an M-16, which gave him greater range.
Ahead, two more cartel guards appeared around the corner, the red flashes of their firing weapons bright blossoms in the darkness. Bolan veered left as several rounds zipped by him. One of the marines fell.
Bolan brought the MP-5 to his shoulder and fired two three-round bursts at the cartel guards. Both men danced and twisted, silhouetted by the final set of floodlights as they dropped to the ground.
“Front gate and tower secure,” Martinez said over the radio.
Intel had estimated the number of hostiles to be between ten and fifteen, more if one of the cartel bosses was on-site. One could be aboard the incoming plane, in which case Bolan’s team could momentarily be facing a more substantial force. He slowed as they closed in on the front of the building. It was time to take out the remaining floodlights.
The Executioner took aim and shot the last two lights. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a mechanical squeal and knew that the big overhead door was rising.
Keying his mic, he checked with Martinez. “You might have trouble coming out the front end.”
“We have the front secured,” Martinez said over the radio, sounding breathless. “The van went inside. We are— Mierda!”
Bolan glanced around the corner and heard the sound of a metal-on-metal ripping crash as the van barreled through the opening, scraping the bottom of the rising door and sideswiping the door frame.
Martinez’s crew began firing at the vehicle. Bolan ducked back, avoiding a cross fire. The blasts of loud automatic fire emanated from the van, which continued toward the front gate. Bolan fired off a burst at it, then realized the futility and ceased.
“Send two of your men after it,” Bolan said into his mic. “The rest of us need to secure the warehouse. Perimeter containment, hold your positions.”
Two marines from Martinez’s team broke off toward the airstrip. Bolan motioned the man next to him to follow, then slipped through the open overhead door and headed to the right. The warehouse was fully lit and he could see three cartel guards running forward, sweeping the area in front of them with autofire.
Bolan stopped behind a section of rooms jutting from the wall. Several rounds pierced the wood and plasterboard. Bolan knew that his position offered only a modicum of cover and little concealment. His adversaries obviously knew where he was. Martinez surged forward, his MP-5 spitting out rounds. The cartel guards switched their aim, giving Bolan the momentary respite he needed to zero in on them with a pair of short bursts of fire. Two fell almost simultaneously, and as the third cartel guard switched his rifle back toward Bolan, Martinez popped up and shot the man.
Aside from the crudely constructed rooms along the eastern wall, the warehouse was basically free of obstructions. Some packaged items were stacked on the opposite side, and four box trucks were parked in the center aisle. Another cartel guard leaned around the corner of one of the trucks and brought up his weapon, but before he could fire, the Executioner sent a zipping stitch of rounds across the man’s chest. He tumbled forward. Across the room, Martinez and his team brought down two more hostiles.
An eerie silence descended over the room. Bolan, Martinez and the rest of the marines continued to clear the warehouse, encountering no apparent resistance.
Grimaldi’s voice sounded in Bolan’s ear mic. “There’s a firefight going on at the airstrip. Looks like that plane is turning around for a takeoff.”
Bolan glanced at Martinez. “There’s trouble at the airstrip.”
“Go! We’ve got this one covered.”
The Executioner nodded and worked his way outside, moving with caution and deliberation toward the airstrip as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. Ahead, he could see flashes of gunfire. The twin propellers of the plane were spinning with increasing power as the aircraft started to move.
“Want me to do a flyover to try to keep them on the ground?” Grimaldi asked.
“Go for it,” Bolan said.
Grimaldi buzzed the airstrip, flying directly in the path of the accelerating plane.
The craft jerked to the left, slowing appreciably. The side door flew open and a figure jumped to the ground. Thin streams of red fire zoomed upward.
Tracer rounds, Bolan figured.
The bodies of two marines lay in the field before him. No time to check them now, he thought. He was almost to the airfield.
“Whoever the hell that guy is,” Grimaldi said over the radio, “he can shoot. I’m taking fire, and it’s coming close.”
Bolan paused, acquired a sight picture of the hostile and squeezed off a quick burst. The man twisted in his direction, and the Executioner saw that he was Asian. Bolan fired again, and his target jerked slightly.
He was hit. The question was, how badly?
Seconds later the Executioner had his answer as red tracer rounds began zipping past him. He ducked, rolled to the left and came up on one knee just as the firing stopped. He acquired a sight picture and saw the hostile leaning back, his right arm extended behind him.
Grenade, Bolan thought, and didn’t hesitate. He shot the man, and seconds later the flash and concussion of an explosion washed over him, accompanied by a second, larger conflagration as the plane went up in a gigantic fireball.
Bolan keyed his mic and asked Martinez for a sitrep.
“We are secure inside,” the sergeant replied. “One prisoner.”
“Casualties?” Bolan asked.
“One of my men wounded. One KIA.” Martinez’s voice cracked when he said the last part. “Captain Ruiz has called for a medevac, and reinforcements to take control.”
Bolan frowned. Too many casualties. This had been a debacle.
He radioed Grimaldi, saying they had a wounded marine, and asking if he could set the chopper on the airstrip.
“No problem,” the pilot said. “You just get that marine over to me and I’ll fly him out.”
Bolan radioed the information to Martinez, who offered his thanks for Grimaldi’s assistance.
After the wounded man had been loaded into the chopper, with another of his comrades to direct the flight, Grimaldi lifted off.
Bolan tagged up with Martinez, who was standing near the rest of the team. A man in a bright orange short-sleeved shirt sat in the middle, his hands fastened behind his back, a briefcase on the floor in front of him. He was whistling softly, and when Martinez told him to shut up, he kept on whistling. Enraged, the sergeant walked over and slapped him across the face.
“Is that the best you can do?” the seated man asked in Spanish, then spit on the floor. “You are the dirt beneath my feet.”
Martinez cocked his hand back to deliver another blow.
“Sounds like he’s trying to get to you,” Bolan said. “He’s trying to bait you.”
“You are American?” the prisoner asked in English, looking at Bolan. “Yeah, you must be. You don’t have a mask on, like these cowards.”
Martinez kept his arm cocked for a few moments more, the expression of fury locked on his face, then he slowly lowered his hand and joined Bolan.
He leaned close and said in English, “I think he’s Cuban, from the sound of him.”
Bolan had the same thought, noticing the Cuban inflection.
“Yeah, you’re right, chief,” the prisoner said. “I am Cuban. And now let me talk to the man in charge.”
“I am in charge here,” Martinez said, turning toward him. “What do you want?”
“Not you,” the Cuban said. “The American. I’ve got information to trade. No way you can give me what I want.”
“And what might that be?” Bolan asked.
The Cuban leaned back and smirked. “A condo in Miami for starters.” He laughed. “You’re gonna be interested in what I’ve got to say.”
Bolan said nothing.
The Cuban smirked again. “American, you’re not gonna believe what I’ve got. No way. But it’s big. Real big.”
Bolan watched the man sitting there smiling, a look of total confidence on his face.
This could be interesting, he thought.
NIISA Headquarters
Adobe Flats, New Mexico
JAMES HUDSON WATCHED from the back of the auditorium. Dr. Phillip McGreagor, as he liked to be called, stood on the stage holding the microphone like a rock star, gesturing toward the ceiling-to-floor screen behind him as it depicted the white, streamlined rocket on the launchpad, braced by the accompanying assemblage. McGreagor had used every means at his disposal, from liposuction to Botox, to maintain his lean-and-mean, youthful appearance, and now he strode around shaking the dark crown of his expertly woven hairpiece.
“This, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said, extending his hand toward the image, “is the future.”
Hudson thought it looked like an insignificant Roman candle waiting to blow, in contrast to the bleak mesquite-covered hills and distant mountains. He continued to watch as his boss spoke about the upcoming planned launch to his movie star friends, rich investors and a small, select group of reporters. Several professional photographers scurried around unobtrusively, snapping pictures, while others panned back and forth with cameras mounted on tripods. It was McGreagor’s show, and Hudson wondered which turned the rich son of a bitch on more, the spectacle or the actual thought of space travel.
“This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor continued, “to be part of the future. To make what we see in the movies a reality.” He paused and milked the silence for all it was worth before adding, “You can get tickets for the first civilian, commercial trip into outer space, and have a time share in our fully inhabited station on the moon by the end of the decade.”
A murmur of excitement snaked through the audience. Hudson watched and listened as the images changed on the big screen behind McGreagor, first showing the previously depicted rocket blasting off and coasting comfortably in orbit. The computer-generated image alternated for a while with shots of Earth obviously borrowed from one of the actual space shuttle flights, then the sleek rocket was shown reentering the atmosphere and landing on a desert airstrip with the ease of a descending 747.
“We’re on track to have our first test flight in a few months,” McGreagor said, moving to the edge of the stage as the screen behind him filled with more images of the spaceship maneuvering through the skies and landing again and again. “Our reentry technology is this close—” he held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart “—to being completed. Thanks to the efforts of two of the greatest scientific minds of the past and current centuries.” He smiled and extended his arm toward the two older men, Terry Turner and Vassili Nabokovski, seated on the far side of the stage.
The audience applauded.
“This is your chance, ladies and gentlemen,” McGreagor said on the tail end of the fading applause. “Your chance to be part of the greatest adventure of our era. Your chance to be part of the New International Independent Space Agency, NIISA.”
More applause filled the auditorium.
The old son of a bitch has them eating out of the palm of his hand, Hudson thought. He’s already got more money than the US Mint, and these rich bastards are going to be lining up to give him more. Hudson shook his head. Too bad it would soon be time to rain on this little parade. But any regrets he might have had were vastly overshadowed by the thoughts of how rich he himself was going to be. All he had to do was play his hand right, and make sure everything went according to the plan.
He pressed his left arm against his side, feeling the comforting reassurance of the Smith & Wesson M&P 40L. It was a bit bigger than he needed, but it was a mean-looking piece of steel and polymer. Hudson never knew when McGreagor would pull him aside, in one of his braggadocio moments, and urge Hudson to show one of the movie-star idiots what “a real weapon” looked like. Thus, the larger frame .40-caliber pistol was an appropriate choice.
Everything McGreagor did was based more on image and speculation than on results. And Hudson, as the chief of security, was expected to be part of the program, just like the two new rocket scientists his boss had recruited, Turner and Nabokovski. One American, one Russian, and both experts in the field of old ICBMs from another era, Turner from NASA and Nabokovski from the Soviet space program. If anyone could lick the puzzle of how to achieve a successful atmospheric reentry, it was those two. But Hudson knew the New International Independent Space Agency would never see the first civilian commercial space travel, much less build that station on the moon. Especially after Hudson made good on his delivery to the North Koreans: the proposed telemetry for NIISA’s reentry system and two slightly worn nuclear physicists.
American Embassy
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
BOLAN AND GRIMALDI sat in the darkened room as the full-screen Skype image of Hal Brognola came into view. Seeing Brognola’s scowling face as he set his ceramic mug on the desk before him let them know all was not well at Stony Man Farm.
“What’s up?” Bolan asked. “Is your scowl a reflection on the results of the raid?”
“I just got off the phone with the White House.”
“How’d that go?” Bolan asked.
Brognola sighed. “About as good as could be expected, considering the circumstances.”
Bolan compressed his lips. More than just a few things about the ill-fated raid bothered him, but something indefinable danced through the inner recesses of his memory... Something out of place, but so far, he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.
“What about it, Striker? Is there any way to put lipstick on this pig?” the big Fed asked.
Instead of the mother lode they’d hoped for, they had recovered a small, rather disappointing amount of unprocessed coca plants and other drugs from the warehouse, and lost three Mexican marines, all good men, in the process.
“The drug seizure wasn’t that impressive,” Bolan said. “Which probably means that the full shipment was still being picked up and hadn’t been deposited in the warehouse yet.”
“It was bad intel from the get-go,” Grimaldi said.
“What about the plane?” Brognola asked.
“It was destroyed,” Bolan said. “Apparently, the guy who engaged me in the firefight dropped the grenade he was about to throw. It detonated and then set off the fuel tanks. The plane was a complete loss. They’re going through the shell now. Preliminary reports showed five bodies inside. Six, if you include the grenadier.”
“We recovered a briefcase loaded with American currency and euros,” Grimaldi said. “Somebody was about to make a purchase.”
“Which brings up the matter of our special prisoner,” Brognola said. “The Cuban national. You got any idea what his angle is?”
“He’s playing it close to his vest,” Bolan said. “We’ll know more once we can interrogate him.”
“The Bureau’s sending a pair of special agents down there to do just that.” Hal sat back in his chair and held his coffee mug in both hands. “I know that look, Striker. Is something else bothering you?”
“Somebody tipped them,” he answered.
“You think they were tipped off in advance?”
“Not in advance,” Bolan said. “Otherwise they would have set up an ambush. This was more like a last-minute notification. If they’d known we were coming, that plane wouldn’t have landed, either.” The events of the raid were running through his mind like a movie at double speed. The approach, the interdiction, the firefight... Then it hit him. Someone inside the warehouse had yelled that the marines had arrived, not the police. How did the person know it was the marines?
“I need to have a talk with Sergeant Martinez,” Bolan said. “I think he’s got a traitor in his group. Someone on the raid team tipped them as we were making the final approach.”
Brognola raised his eyebrows. “That’s not going to go over well with the administration, either here or in Mexico City. Do you have any hard proof?”
“Just a feeling,” Bolan said.
“But when he gets a feeling,” Grimaldi broke in, “you can pretty much take it to the bank.”
“I don’t know,” Brognola said, shaking his head. “One of the reasons the marines were sent in was to prevent leaks to informants.”
“This had to have been a last-minute tip-off. We were in close proximity up until the execution. Somebody must have had a cell phone and made a quick call, maybe contacting someone to call the compound and warn them.”
Brognola heaved a sigh. “Okay, I’ll pursue it from this end, too. See if Bear can pull some cell phone transmission records. So are you sure you can trust that Martinez guy?”
Bolan considered that, then nodded. “As sure as I can be. He was right there alongside us when it all went down. And he was pretty upset about losing his men. You can’t fake that kind of emotion.”
Brognola nodded. “Keep me posted.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there something else?”
“Another inconsistency. One of the hostiles down there, the guy from the plane who tried to take us out... I got a glimpse of his face before the grenade detonated. He looked Asian. Just thought I’d pass that along.”
“Thanks. As I said, the FBI’s sending a team to Mexico to interview the Cuban. I thought maybe you two could stick around and give them a hand.”
“Give them a hand?” Grimaldi repeated with an exaggerated groan. “What does that mean?”
“See if the guy’s legit, for one thing,” Brognola said. “We know the Cubans have been working hand in hand with the cartels for years, smuggling drugs. With these new normalized relations with Havana, we’re going to need all the intel we can gather to keep on top of things.”
“We’ll need a better cover,” Bolan stated. “We were down here as ‘civilian contractors’ assisting the marines, remember?”
“I’ll have your usual DOJ credentials flown down to the embassy tonight.”


2 (#u8d998da3-5e3c-58aa-abea-86d8e08d6e59)
Tocumen International Airport
Panama City, Panama
Colonel Yi flipped shut the fake Chinese passport and placed it into his pocket as he waited for his luggage to clear customs. The rest of the Black Tiger team was going through customs, as well. Yi directed one of his men to take charge of the bags and strolled leisurely outside to stand in the nighttime air. He scanned his surroundings, looking for any possible foreign agents or police who might be suspicious of an arriving group of Asians. Their passports listed them as Chinese, a Hong Kong acrobatic team, which explained their elaborate equipment. And to the untrained eyes of the Panamanians, the distinctions between Koreans and Chinese would be indistinguishable.
Seeing no telltale prying eyes, Yi removed a cigarette pack from his pocket. He shook one out, placed it between his lips and lit it as he moved to a position of modest seclusion under a high concrete arch. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Yi casually took out his satellite phone and called Song.
“We have arrived in Panama,” Yi said in Chinese, to maintain his team’s cover.
“Did you encounter any problems?” General Song asked, also in Chinese.
“None so far. We are clearing customs and waiting for our local contact to pick us up. We will then obtain the rest of our equipment. Are the ships in position?”
“Their arrival is imminent.” Song cleared his throat, which Yi knew was a bad sign. “However, there has been an unforeseen complication. The meeting in Mexico did not go well. Apparently, the Americans and some of their Mexican puppets interceded.”
Yi considered that. “How much damage was done?”
“Sergeant Kwon acquitted himself most admirably, from what I’ve been told. He fought back gallantly and blew up the plane containing the others before the majority of the principles could be identified or captured.”
“So the Iranians were not discovered?”
“Apparently not,” Song said. “But the briefcase with the money was.”
Yi knew that the Iranians had plenty of money to spend, so that was of little concern to him so long as the Americans did not link the money to Iran. It was, however, yet another reminder of the complexity of the plan—so many individual moving parts each dependent upon the other for the proper execution of purpose.
“Two prisoners were taken,” Song said. “One is a simpleton guard, who has already been dealt with.” He paused and exhaled loudly. “The other is one of the Cubans.”
This information concerned Yi. He said nothing, awaiting further information.
“It seems,” Song continued, “that this Cuban is withholding information at this time, so he can negotiate with the Americans. I have the information as to where he is being held. You must send the Black Dragon to silence him immediately.”
Yi was not thrilled about sending his best man to effect an assassination in an unfamiliar land, but still, the Dragon had accomplished such difficult tasks before on foreign soil. Yi decided he would send a Black Tiger with the Dragon. It would impinge upon the operational effectiveness of his own assignment in Panama, but two men would assure success. While it wasn’t certain how much the Cuban knew, or even if any early disclosure about the missiles would upset the delicate timetable, it was far better to leave nothing to chance.
“It will be done, sir,” Yi said. “And what of Kim Soo-Han? All goes well with the American?”
The other man chuckled. “Of course. That part of the plan is my least concern.”
Punta de las Sueños
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
JAMES HUDSON STOOD by the bed with the phone, watching the woman stroll around the room in her high heels and one of his white shirts, unbuttoned. The sight delighted him, even as he listened to the repetitive instructions from Dr. Phillip McGreagor over the cell phone.
“Remember,” McGreagor said, “we’re pulling out all the stops on this one. Besides employees, we’ll be hosting investors of all sorts, most of whom are accustomed to having their every whim satisfied. Am I making myself clear?”
“Absolutely,” Hudson said, watching as his companion plucked ice cubes from the plastic bucket and dropped them, one by one, into the two glasses.
“And make sure you’ve hired enough local police to maintain security down there,” McGreagor said. “We can’t afford to have anything untoward happen.”
The hotel was set on the beach, well away from the ramshackle houses of the nearby town. The beach and the grounds were patrolled by uniformed security carrying weapons. Hudson was sure of all this because he had already figured out a way to defeat all the measures. “I’ve gone over everything down here, sir,” he said. “Believe me, it’s tighter than a drum.”
Hudson heard McGreagor sigh. “And have you made arrangements for the...entertainment? A couple of these high rollers have exotic tastes.”
Exotic... The word fitted his companion to a T, he thought as she ambled back toward him, a glass of gin in each hand, the open front of the shirt giving him more than an eyeful of her stunning cleavage, her tight abdomen.
“Did you hear me?” McGreagor asked, his voice imbued with the customary irritation and truculence that set Hudson’s teeth on edge.
“Yes, Doctor,” Hudson said, figuring that the mention of the man’s PhD would stroke his ego enough to lessen the customary chastisement.
“Well, then, say something, dammit. You know I hate it when you don’t answer.”
Hudson frowned as he accepted the drink, so angry at the long-distance criticism that he felt like throwing the glass against the wall. But he didn’t. There would be time, later, to deal with this unctuous, demanding prick of a boss.
“I’ll make sure the hookers are first-class,” Hudson said.
“Dammit! Watch what you say. You never know who’s listening.”
“Sorry, sir.” Hudson felt himself flush. McGreagor had a way of making him feel embarrassed and inadequate even if he was a couple thousand miles away.
“Use some common sense,” McGreagor snapped. “We’ve got to make this excursion flawless. If we’re going to stay on schedule for our launch, we need to impress the shit out of these investors. We can’t afford any slipups. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Hudson said. “I got it.”
“Good. Get everything set up and then get your ass back here.”
Hudson ended the call and took a long gulp of the drink.
“Your boss is upset?” the woman asked, canting her head slightly.
He shook his head. “He’s just being his typical, asshole self.”
“So,” she said, pulling Hudson close. “This will not interfere with our plans, will it?”
“No, no, of course not. Let’s not worry about him. I can handle it.”
“All is well, then?” she asked. “The company retreat will remain on schedule?”
“Everything’s ducky, Kim Soo-Han,” Hudson said, pronouncing each syllable of her name with delicious distinction. “Just ducky. Trust me.”
Soon, he thought. Soon.
Café de Luca
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
BOLAN NODDED TO Martinez as the sergeant entered the small cantina and headed to their table. He’d changed into civilian clothes, as had Bolan and Grimaldi, but still hardly looked like a typical citizen out for an early-evening snack. He shook hands with the two Americans, sat, then shook his head.
“I have just come from telling the families of my fallen marines about the deaths of their loved ones. It was very sad.”
Bolan nodded in commiseration. He knew the pain of loss.
The server arrived to take his order. Both Bolan and Grimaldi had bottles of beer on the table in front of them.
“Beer,” Martinez said.
The woman left and the big marine leaned forward, his hefty forearms on the tabletop. “Now, what is it that you wished to speak to me about?”
“I’ve been thinking about the raid,” Bolan said. “The men we lost. It shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. We had the element of surprise.”
Martinez compressed his lips and nodded, a look of anger in his dark eyes.
“Sí,” he said. “I agree.”
“Right before the firefight started, someone shouted and the lights and sirens began.”
Martinez nodded again. “I remember.”
“How did they discover we were there? They hadn’t seen us, and we were moving up just like clockwork.”
“What is it you are saying?”
“Someone on our team tipped them off during our approach. It’s the only answer.”
“No,” Martinez said, shaking his head. “No. I will not believe this. I have fought and died beside my men. There is no possibility that one of them is a traitor.”
“One of the cartel guards used the word marines,” Bolan said. “He knew we were marines and not the police. How did he know that?”
Martinez looked down at the tabletop. Just as he was about to speak the server returned with his beer. She smiled at them as she set it down and asked if they needed anything else.
Bolan slipped her some pesos and shook his head. The woman smiled again and moved away.
“Think about it, Jesus,” Grimaldi said. “I wasn’t down and dirty with you guys, but my partner’s seldom wrong about such things.”
The sergeant sat in silence for several seconds, not moving.
“You owe it to your men to check this out,” Bolan said quietly.
Martinez slowly nodded.
“We can help you. We have resources we can use outside your agency. Outside the Mexican government.”
Martinez twisted his lips into a scowl and looked directly into Bolan’s eyes. “Sí, and if this is true, I will kill the traitor myself.”
“We can worry about that when the time comes,” Bolan said. “The first thing I need to stress is that you tell no one. I’m trusting you, but no one else at the moment.”
Martinez nodded.
“Second,” Bolan said, “I’ll need the cell phone numbers of everyone involved, including any of the cartel’s phone numbers on record.”
Martinez nodded again. He removed his cell phone from the case on his belt and pressed a few numbers. “I will contact Captain Ruiz now, and obtain the information you request.”
Bolan held up his hand and said, “Wait. I’d prefer to keep this just between us for the time being.”
“But the captain—”
“Should only be informed if we are correct in our assumption,” Bolan told him. “There’s no reason to cast aspersions on good marines unless we’re sure.”
“Of course,” Martinez said, and held his phone toward the Executioner.
Bolan shook his head and smiled fractionally. “I don’t want yours.”
“Take it anyway,” Martinez said. “I would never ask or expect my men to do something that I am not willing to do, as well.”
Bolan again declined the offer. Before he could say anything more, Martinez’s cell phone flashed and vibrated, signaling an incoming call. He glanced at the number on the screen, his brow furrowing, and answered it.
The Executioner followed the one-sided conversation as best he could. It seemed to contain disconcerting news. Martinez issued a couple of directives, terminated the call and replaced the cell in his belt case.
“One of the prisoners is dead,” he said. “The cartel guard. He was found strangled in his cell. I was told he hanged himself.”
“What about the Cuban?” Bolan asked.
“I gave orders that he be guarded around the clock. Your government is sending agents to conduct an interrogation, right?”
“Right. We’re heading over to the airport in a little while to pick them up. It’s imperative that nothing happens to the Cuban. We need to interview him,” Bolan stated.
Martinez stood, his face set with a grim expression. “I will go to the jail now and personally see to it.”
Bolan and Grimaldi rose in turn, and the Executioner extended his hand. “We appreciate your help.”
As they shook hands, Martinez’s expression did not waver. “And I appreciate yours. If there is a traitor in our midst, we must find him swiftly.”
Abandoned warehouse
Panama City, Panama
YI WATCHED AS the Black Tiger squad went through the various inspections of the weapons the cartel agent had brought. Even though the warehouse was deserted and empty, the lights worked fine. The gangsters had set up a series of flimsy folding tables at various points around the room for the weapons assembly. The guns glistened with oil as the team fieldstripped them, wiped them down and reassembled them with practiced ease. The weapons were all Western and American brands, M-16 rifles, Glock handguns, some Heckler & Koch submachine guns, but that did not matter. His Black Tigers had been trained on all weapons and were very familiar with these. Yi put aside his personal preference for his weapons of choice, the Chinese-made AK-47 and the 9 mm Baek Du San pistol, and smacked the fully loaded magazine into the Glock 17. He inserted the pistol into the low-slug tactical holster on his right thigh and slipped the sound suppressor into his pants pocket. He was a bit dissatisfied with the suppressor. The cylindrical attachment was so large that, once attached to the barrel of the weapon, the cam prevented proper sight alignment. However, the Western weapons would have to suffice for the time being.
The two men, one Mexican and the other Panamanian, who had brought the weapons stood off to the side and watched, each with a smirking expression on his face. The Mexican’s cream-colored sport jacket looked as if it needed cleaning. Half-moons of sweat had soaked through the underarms. Yi could relate. The heat and humidity in this place were so oppressive it was like standing fully clothed in a steam bath.
The gangster from Panama was more sensibly dressed, wearing a loose chambray shirt with the sleeves razored off. He was smaller than the Mexican, but no less unctuous.
“How you like them babies, huh?” he said.
Yi stared at him and replied, “They are far from ideal, but they will suit our purpose. Is there any word from your other men?”
“The ones that went north with yours?” the Panamanian asked. He smiled. “I’m sure they are there by now.”
“I wish you to verify that,” Yi said. “I need to report to my superiors.”
The two gangsters exchanged glances and smirked again.
Yi’s dislike of these men grew, and he considered his options. At this point, he still needed their cooperation, to a degree, so striking down one or both of them might not yet be appropriate. But still, experience had taught him to have little tolerance for disrespect. It could undermine operational effectiveness as quickly as poor planning.
“I think we need to report to ours, as well,” the Mexican said. “And we need to see the money.”
Yi stared at them for a few seconds, then gestured for the Iranian, Basir Farrokhzad, to approach. The man strode forward and set the briefcase on the small card table. As his hands moved to the twin safety catches, Yi stepped between the two gangsters and held his right hand above the briefcase. “No.”
The two gangsters looked at him.
“What you mean, no?” the Mexican snarled. “We gotta see the money now.”
“You see the money,” Yi said, “after you have verified that the Black Dragon and Corporal Wang have arrived at their destination. I want a progress report.”
“The Black Dragon,” the Panamanian gangster said with a laugh. He put his index fingers next to his eyelids and pulled them back, narrowing his gaze. “Does he breathe fire, like Godzilla?”
“It would be wise for you to show me the proper respect,” Yi said.
“Listen, you little prick,” the Mexican said, his finger poking at Yi’s chest. “You’re in our house now. You do like we say, or it could get bad for you.”
Yi kept his hand hovering above the briefcase. Farrokhzad looked nervous.
“Make the call to verify,” Yi said. “Then you can count your money.”
The Mexican and Panamanian exchanged glances and a laugh.
The Mexican muttered something Yi took to be a vulgarity, and reached inside his cream-colored jacket. As he started to withdraw a semiautomatic pistol, Yi shifted his weight, using his left hand to seize the Mexican’s gun hand in a grip of steel, while the palm of his right smashed into the other man’s nose. He pulled the gangster’s arm outward and then chopped his extended elbow with a knife hand blow. The Mexican screamed in pain as Yi stripped the gun from his fingers.
A switchblade knife clicked open in the Panamanian’s right hand, but Yi pivoted, bringing his right foot upward, delivering a quick and powerful crescent kick and knocking the Panamanian’s hand away. Yi’s left hand chopped his adversary’s wrist, causing the knife to drop to the floor. The man grunted in pain as Yi’s foot whipped upward with a hooking back kick, connecting with the rear of the gangster’s head. His eyes rolled upward and he crumpled to the floor. Yi pivoted again, this time delivering a roundhouse kick to the Mexican’s face, and he collapsed, as well. The colonel bent to retrieve the knife, hefting it in his hand to consider the balance and weight.
The Mexican rolled onto his back, glaring up at Yi. The colonel’s arm cocked back and thrust forward with a blur. Seconds later, the knife vibrated, stuck in the wooden floor a few inches from the Mexican’s groin. The gangster’s face sagged.
“As I told you, show proper respect,” Yi said in a low, guttural voice. “Now make the call.” He racked back the slide on the Mexican’s weapon, a flashy chrome Beretta 92F, ejecting the round in the chamber. Yi then dropped the magazine and hurled it toward the far wall of the warehouse. He then gripped the barrel and disassembled the pistol, flinging the parts in different directions. “Then you may count your money.”
The Mexican nodded, took out his cell phone and hastily scrolled through the numbers. His lips twisted into a quick, nervous smile and he nodded, a look of fear in his eyes. Yi knew he would have no more trouble with this man.
The colonel allowed himself to be imbued with a slight sense of satisfaction as he glanced at the other gangster, who was still unconscious on the floor. It had been some time since he had taken out an adversary with a single kick. It was good to know that his practice had kept him sharp.
Force, and the judicious use of it, Yi thought, always commanded respect.
The vision of one of the great Yi Sun-Shin’s all-powerful armored dragon ships coursing through the ocean waters in ages past flashed in his mind’s eye.
Force, he thought. The universal language.
Culiacán International Airport
Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
BOLAN AND GRIMALDI waited in the long hallway outside the international arrivals section. At the American Embassy they had been given brief descriptions of what the two FBI agents looked like, one Asian male, one Hispanic female, as well as photos. The male, Henry Chong, was Korean-American, and fluent in several languages including Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Farsi and Arabic. The female, Teresa Stevenson, was of Cuban descent and fluent in a host of languages, as well.
As they stood watching and waiting for the two federal agents, Bolan mentally reviewed the case. A lot would depend on what the Cuban prisoner had to say. If he could corroborate that the cartel guards had been tipped off just prior to the raid, it might help the Executioner ferret out the traitor.
No one seemed to be moving on the other side of the glass partition where the customs agents waited for incoming arrivals.
“I’m going to check in with Hal,” Bolan said, taking out his sat phone.
He strolled through the series of glass doors and watched the flow of people entering and exiting the airport. A line of taxis waited off to the left. Behind him, far out on the runways, Bolan could hear the revving of a powerful jet engine getting ready for takeoff. He stood by one of the round concrete pillars, took one last look around the area as he raised the sat phone and punched in the number of Brognola’s direct line.
The big Fed answered on the first ring. “I figured you’d call,” he said. “Have Chong and Stevenson shown up yet?”
“We’re still waiting.”
“Aaron’s been checking into those cell phone numbers you gave us and comparing them to recorded calls we’ve been able to pinpoint in the area. There’s the number of a burner phone that called one of the cartel’s cells shortly before you guys hit them, if we’ve got the timing right. Then the cartel phone called one of the guys at the warehouse.”
Bolan knew the chances of identifying someone from the number of a disposable cell phone was nearly impossible, even for an expert as adept at hacking as Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman.
“Where was it purchased?”
Brognola uttered a short, hard laugh. “Mexico City. So that narrows your suspect list down to what, around twenty million?”
“Did the Bear find anything else?”
“Whoever was using the burner was in regular contact with the cartel. The number’s still in use. In fact, we found a few more calls took place earlier today, to guess what?” Brognola waited a beat and then said, “A couple more burner phones, one purchased in Mexico City, and the other one in Hong Kong.”
“That fits with the Asian connection,” Bolan said. He glanced at his watch. “You said the FBI agents’ flight was supposed to land at 1925?”
“Roger that.”
It was now 1930. “Well, they should be clearing customs soon. I’d better get back.”
Brognola told him to stay safe.
“Will do,” Bolan said. “And, Hal, email those burner phone numbers when you get a chance.”
Bolan ended the call and rejoined Grimaldi by the exits, watching as a new throng of people began moving through the doors. The Executioner kept scanning the crowd and caught a glimpse of a familiar face. He moved on an intercept course and stepped in front of Captain Ruiz and another man.
Ruiz blinked in surprise, then seemed to recognize Bolan. The other man, small and slightly built, wearing a blue suit and glasses, smiled under a bushy mustache and said in Spanish, “Excuse us, sir, but we are in a hurry.”
“Sí,” Bolan said, adding in English, “I just wanted to say hello to Captain Ruiz.”
Ruiz spoke rapidly to the other man in Spanish, then added in halting English, “These are...American agents who assisted on raid against cartel.”
The bespectacled man smiled and nodded. “Ah, you are American? The captain tells me you are very brave men. You are meeting some friends here, no?”
Bolan and Grimaldi nodded.
“Bueno. We are meeting some people as well, but perhaps we can assist you,” the man said. “Captain Ruiz brought me along to act as his official translator.”
“The people you’re meeting are from the United States?” Bolan asked.
“What?” the bespectacled man said, then turned to Ruiz and fired off a quick sentence in Spanish.
Ruiz smiled and shook his head. His companion turned back to Bolan and Grimaldi and smiled in turn. “I am sorry, but it is a private matter. It has to do with his family.”
Bolan nodded and said, “I understand. By the way, I heard that one of the prisoners we took on the raid was killed.”
Again the bespectacled man did a rapid-fire translation, after which Ruiz nodded, lifting an eyebrow and giving a sigh of regret. “Very bad thing.”
“We have made arrangements,” the shorter man said, “to safeguard the remaining prisoner so that nothing unfortunate happens to him. He has been placed in a secure location.”
“I appreciate that,” Bolan said. He glanced at Ruiz, who seemed calm. “Captain, I know I can speak for my friend when I say that we look forward to our next meeting.”
Ruiz nodded and smiled. “Thank you very much.”
Beyond them, Chong and Stevenson walked through the customs’ doors, each pulling a small carry-on.
“Looks like our friends are here now,” Grimaldi stated.
The bespectacled man whispered something to Ruiz, who turned toward the approaching special agents. “Welcome to Mexico,” he said in English, punctuating it with a wide smile.
Stevenson replied in Spanish, as did Chong. Ruiz raised his eyebrows, and mumbled something to the bespectacled man, who then said, “The captain is impressed that you speak our language so well. He hopes you both have a fortuitous stay in our country.”
Ruiz held out a card bearing his name, title and cell phone number. Bolan took it with a nod of thanks.
“Please let us know,” the translator said, “if there is any way we can be of further assistance.”
“We certainly will,” Grimaldi replied jovially.
The captain and his assistant walked off in the direction of domestic arrivals.
“I’m Henry Chong. You must be Matt Cooper and Jack White,” the agent said, extending his hand toward Bolan, then Grimaldi. Chong nodded toward Ruiz and the other man. “Looks like a friendly bunch down here.”
“Looks like,” Bolan said. He turned to the female agent. “Welcome to Mexico, Agent Stevenson.”
She smiled and shook his hand.
Grimaldi thrust his hand toward Stevenson in turn. “I second that. Anything you need, just ask ole Jack.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bolan suggested. “Time’s wasting.”


3 (#u8d998da3-5e3c-58aa-abea-86d8e08d6e59)
National Police Warehouse Number 7
Panama Canal Zone
From their vantage point within the dense forest, the industrial center spread out before them like a lit-up shopping mall. The trees and shrubbery had been cleared for approximately thirty meters around the warehouses, and a metal fence surrounded the compound, topped by concertina wire.
These were pathetic safeguards. The task seemed almost too easy, and Yi did not want his men to be lulled into a false sense of security. Eventually, they were bound to meet stiffer resistance, but a wise man gratefully accepted good fortune when it was presented to him.
Yi ordered Lieutenant Yoon to have the Black Tigers spread out and remain undercover while the scouts cut through the fence and reconnoitered. He then turned to the Panamanian gangster, who was bound with his hands behind his back. The Mexican, also bound, was next to him. After the confrontation at the warehouse during the acquisition of the weapons, Yi felt it was prudent not to trust either man any longer, and to treat them as captured collaborators.

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