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  The Executioner climbed the rocky gradient, staying close to the surface until he reached the top. He peered over the lip of the slope. A rough patch of ground stretched into the distance, three hundred yards of exposed terrain that broke where it reached the stone wall marking the border of Rojas land. The solid wall stood about three feet high, not actually intended as a barrier but more of a statement that warned interlopers that beyond this point was Benito Rojas’s kingdom.

  On the far side of the wall Bolan made out the long building he had seen from the boat. The area around the building was lit by floodlights on high poles that were bright enough to dispel any shadows. Farther back, maybe a quarter of a mile, was the Rojas house, floodlit as well.

  Bolan spent some time checking out the area, covering as much as he could from his restricted position. He was looking for, and found, the armed sentries patrolling the grounds. Some were on their own, and others were in pairs. A couple of teams cruised back and forth in open jeeps, each of which had swivel-mounted 7.62 mm machine guns in place behind the driver.

  Every ten minutes a lone sentry moved along the wall, past the Executioner, then turned around and strolled back in the opposite direction. Bolan timed him on two walks. Approximately ten minutes.

  He let the man complete his walk, then rolled over the top of the slope and made a run for the cover of the stone wall. Bolan hugged the base of the wall, lowering the heavy items to the grass and freeing his combat knife from its sheath. He waited out the minutes until the sentry came back in his direction. The big American crouched, his back to the wall, and waited as the sentry approached. Once the man passed by, he rose like a black shadow. Leaning across the top of the wall, Bolan caught hold of the back of the guard’s shirt collar and dragged him backward across the barrier. The sentry struggled, trying to pull his SMG into play, but Bolan had put a great deal of energy into his move. He pulled the guy over the wall and dropped him facedown on the ground. The man wrestled fiercely, but he was hampered by the hard knee Bolan slammed into his spine. Taking a handful of the Mexican’s long dark hair, the Executioner pulled back. The sentry felt a cold sensation as the combat knife cut deep. His throat opened, and the rich flood of his lifeblood emptied itself onto the ground.

  Sheathing the knife, Bolan picked up the SMG the sentry had dropped. It was a matte black FN P90, an expensive piece of hardware. As the sentry ceased shuddering, Bolan spotted the compact digital walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. Rojas had equipped his people with up-to-date gear. Bolan was going to have to stay well alert.

  Picking up his weapons, the soldier moved quickly. There was no way of him knowing if the sentry had been instructed to call in regularly, or whether a command center contacted him. Either way, the Executioner sensed he was on borrowed time. Vaulting the wall, he checked out the way ahead, then cut off in the direction of the floodlit building, his first port of call.

  He flattened against the outside wall, aware of the floodlights casting stark, bright light over the area. A rattle of sound alerted him. Bolan turned, crouching, and saw a side door opening outward. A single figure emerged, SMG dangling from his shoulder. His back was to Bolan as he pushed the door shut.

  The Executioner reached up and slid the Beretta from its holster. He brought the pistol on track and hit the sentry with two fast 9 mm slugs through the back of his skull. The guy buckled forward, a burst of bloody spray erupting from his forehead, as he thudded to the ground without a sound. Bolan moved to the door and cracked it open. Peering inside he saw no movement in the dimmed light. He reached down and caught hold of the guard, dragging the limp form through the door. Bolan rolled the body against the inside wall and pulled the door closed.

  To Bolan’s left a raised three-foot-high concrete walkway looked out across the interior of the building. A quick glance showed him an extensive collection of vehicles. At the end of the walkway, about thirty feet away, was a glass-fronted control room. Bolan could see people inside, their backs turned as they checked out some operation. The Executioner broke into a fast run and headed directly for the control-room door. The thought crossed his mind that the men were trying to raise the sentry he had taken down. He didn’t dwell on the thought, just powered ahead, still holding the 93-R.

  Bolan was ten feet from the access door when one of the men turned, reaching for a wall-mounted phone. The man’s gaze fell on the black-clad, heavily armed intruder running toward the control room. The guy yelled a warning and clawed at his holstered pistol.

  Bolan came to a dead stop. Tracking in with the Beretta, he thumbed the selector switch to 3-round burst and triggered the 93-R. The trio of 9 mm slugs smashed through the glass, one of them staying on target and hitting the would-be shooter in the left shoulder.

  What the hell, Bolan thought. The time for discretion was over.

  The soldier triggered a pair of bursts at the other two men as they turned to face him. He put one down in a flurry of spraying blood. The third guy ducked to one side, placing himself directly in line with the control-room door. Seconds later Bolan hit the door head-on, slamming it open. It hit the guy inside and sent him stumbling backward. As the man tried to regain his balance, the Executioner dropped him with a 3-round burst, then spun and targeted the first guy he had winged. The Mexican, ignoring his bloody shoulder, clawed for his pistol when Bolan shattered his skull with another triburst.

  The Executioner took a breath, replaced his partially used magazine for a fresh one and took a long look around the control room. There were TV monitors relaying pictures from cameras placed around the area, a number of telephones on a desk and a rack of SMGs.

  Bolan scanned the monitors. They covered the house from different angles on four cameras, the image panning from left to right, then back again. One showed the landing strip and the BBJ2 Boeing Business Jet on the concrete apron. Even in the glare of the powerful floodlights Bolan could make out the jet’s cream and blue colors. The size of the aircraft reminded him of the one he had seen coming in for a landing earlier. He was about to turn away when something about the aircraft drew his attention, and he decided to take a closer look to satisfy his curiosity.

  Bolan studied the control layout. He had a good grasp of the Spanish language and was able to find out which switches controlled the lights. He managed to kill some of the site spotlights, watching monitor screens go dark as the illumination was cut.

  But he had no more time to complete his actions.

  Raised voices reached him through the shattered window of the control room. Bolan snatched up the SMG he had put aside and moved away from the exposed window area. As he dropped into a crouch, automatic fire sent a volley of shots into the room, the slugs slamming into the rear wall, blowing chunks from the plaster. A second burst hit the door, penetrating the wood panels and filling the air with splinters. Bolan realized the shooters had to be on the concrete walkway, which left them vulnerable. Staying low, he edged the door open and slid his own SMG around the edge of the frame. As the door swung wide, Bolan spotted the crouching forms of three sentries moving along the walkways. He stroked the trigger of the SMG and sent a long, searching volley in the direction of the trio.

  The hail of slugs tore through flesh and bone, kicking the men off their feet. Bolan kept firing, the SMG’s muzzle cutting back and forth as it delivered its hot load. The lead man took a substantial number of slugs, half-rising as the pain kicked in. He misstepped and tumbled off the edge of the walkway, his body curving as he fell. He landed hard, blood fanning out across the concrete floor.

  His companions, caught in the stream of slugs from Bolan’s weapon, had nowhere to go. Jerking and twisting, they spilled their blood on the walkway as they fell, and the Executioner maintained his steady fire until the SMG clicked empty. He threw it aside and slid the Uzi into his hands. On his feet, Bolan moved to the short flight of steps leading to the floor of the building.

  29

  Bolan looked out across the large garage housing Rojas’s fleet of vehicle
s. It was impressive—cars, SUVs and a collection of panel trucks and tractor units. Quite a setup, Bolan thought, and very useful for ferrying around drug cargoes. He moved to the front of the facility, peered through the side-door window and checked out the dock. He counted a half-dozen powerful speedboats moored there, and saw a number of gunners converging on the building he was in. More of Rojas’s security detail. One of the jeeps swung into view, close to the front of the building. The vehicle jerked to a stop, the guy behind the 7.62 mm machine gun swinging the weapon to cover the main roll-up door.

  Bolan eased the catch on the side door, yanked it wide and stepped through. The machine gunner yelled a warning, alerting the driver. Bolan’s Uzi stuttered, a volley of 9 mm slugs blowing the driver out of his seat and sending the gunner tumbling to the concrete.

  Letting the Uzi hang by its strap, Bolan took command of the machine gun as he jumped into the rear of the jeep. He swiveled the weapon and tracked in on the advancing hardmen. His finger eased back on the trigger and held it there. The gun crackled to life, sending a stream of slugs into the running men. Clothing shredded and flesh burst open as the relentless streams of fire cut into the enemy gunners. Staggering, bleeding, moaning they fell in bloody poses. Any shots they fired were either from jerking fingers, or out of panic.

  Out the corner of his eye Bolan saw the second gun-mounted jeep sweep into view around the side of the building. The guy behind the machine gun hadn’t known what to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t to have a supposedly friendly gun turned on him. Bolan raked the jeep from front to rear, rounds punching into the hood and windshield. The driver jerked back, his chest and head pulverized by the continuous blast of automatic fire, his skull split in a bloody fantail of bone and brains. Shell casings littered the floor of the jeep around Bolan’s feet as he hammered the other vehicle, keeping up his relentless rate of fire. His heavy bursts riddled the hapless gunner before the guy had a chance to retaliate. Bloody gouts of flesh and blood erupted from his torso as Bolan brought him down. The driverless jeep swerved aside and drove on for yards before the engine stalled and it rattled to a stop. The Executioner hammered 7.62 mm shells at the lower rear until the riddled gas tank’s contents caught a spark and erupted in a boiling surge of flame.

  The surviving hardmen had watched the demolition of the jeep, and they began to pull themselves together for a concerted rush for Bolan’s vehicle. But the Executioner, not forgetting their presence, swung the barrel of his machine gun back on-line and fed them more 7.62 mm damage. Under the hammerlike fire from his machine gun, men went down hard, bodies bloodied and torn. Bone gleamed in glistening pulped wounds.

  Bolan’s finger let go of the trigger, and the chatter of the 7.62 mm machine gun ceased. The only sound remaining was the moaning of the wounded. The dead held their peace.

  In the Executioner’s head the clock was ticking. Though the numbers were falling, he knew without a shadow of a doubt there would be other hardmen, such as the security force at the house. How long he might hold them back was anyone’s guess.

  He stepped from the jeep and turned in the direction of the dock, where his demolition began. Stepping along the timber walk, he reached the line of speedboats. Jumping into the first one, he located the signal locker and took out a flare pistol. Bolan loaded it, then stepped back onto the dock. He moved up to the fuel pump, lifted the hose, flipped the lever and walked along the line, dousing each vessel with raw fuel. Then he backtracked, letting raw fuel soak the wooden dock. Finished, he dropped the gushing hose and returned to dry land, where he fired the loaded flare into the fuel pooling on the dock. The flame rose quickly, raced along the dock, then spilled out onto the speedboats.

  Bolan sprinted to the garage and unzipped the satchel carrying the magnetic mines. As he stepped back inside, pausing to pick up any indication he was not alone, the dull thump of exploding fuel tanks reached his ears. Glancing back through the side window, he saw the dock and the speedboats fully enveloped in flames.

  Bolan moved quickly along the rows of parked vehicles, randomly placing the timed mines to the steel undersides. He had a ten-minute window. He emptied the satchel and dropped it on the floor as he attached the final mine to a row of high-octane fuel drums.

  The Executioner made his way back to the communications room, watching for any Rojas reinforcements. Inside he decided to cut the power to everything he could get his hands on.

  He could still hear muffled explosions coming from the distant dock. Bolan felt some satisfaction in that.

  The faint sound of a voice caught his ear. It was coming from the handset of the phone on the communications desk. Bolan picked it up. Someone was yelling in rapid, agitated Spanish.

  Bolan recognized the voice of Benito Rojas.

  “ENGLISH ONLY TODAY,” Bolan said.

  A pause. Then, “Who is this?”

  “Don’t you remember me, Rojas? From Cooter’s Crossing and the late Marshal Dembrow? At this moment I’m the guy who just made sure your insurance premiums are headed skyward.”

  He placed the phone back on the desk and returned to the exit door along the walkway, turning as he armed one of the LAWs. He launched the missile at the control room, ducking through the door a second before the explosion. Around him all the security lights dimmed, plunging the whole site into near darkness.

  Bolan was beyond the perimeter wall when the planted charges detonated. As the multiple explosions ripped through the garage, destroying Rojas’s fleet, the fuel drums blew as well, and a raging fireball swelled through the shredded roof, throwing flame and smoke into the night sky. The rumble of the blasts rolled out like heavy thunder.

  Death and destruction, Executioner-style, had just visited Rojas’s world, and it was not over yet.

  BOLAN SLIPPED his cell phone from its pocket and selected a speed-dial number. He thumbed the button, heard the click as the signal connected, then picked up the ring tone. He waited.

  “Da?”

  “Valentine, I think you’ve been expecting my call.”

  “Tovarich, where are you?”

  “Mexico.”

  “Is the hospitality as good as it is told?”

  “Let’s say it’s hotter than I anticipated.”

  “And are you safe?” Seminov asked.

  “For the moment. Time for a fast question. Does Bondarchik own an aircraft? One capable of flying as far as Mexico?”

  Seminov didn’t even have to think before he answered. “During our investigations into anything relating to him, we assessed his properties and ownership of vehicles and such. He owns a Boeing BBJ2 executive jet.”

  “Cream and blue? With Cyrillic writing on the tail?”

  “Da. How do you know this?”

  “Because it landed here earlier this evening,” Bolan said. “Right now it’s sitting on Rojas’s airstrip. And I’m guessing Vash Bondarchik was the passenger on board.”

  “My God, I wish I was there with you. But I would settle with Bondarchik once and for all. If you have the chance, say hello to him. Wait, on second thoughts—say goodbye for me.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed, Valentine. Bondarchik might find it isn’t as easy to leave Mexico as it was to enter.”

  30

  Bondarchik’s reception was formal. Tomas Trujillo, who seemed to be standing in for his employer, was polite, offering the Russian the best in hospitality. He informed Bondarchik that his flight crew would be brought from the Boeing and given rooms in a guest wing of the house.

  Since hearing the news from Danko about the death of Marshal Dembrow and the breakup of the American’s organization, Bondarchik had been prepared for a less than enthusiastic greeting from his Mexican client. On that score he was not disappointed. Rojas was not even at the door to his large home when the car rolled to a stop. It seemed it was up to Trujillo to keep the guests entertained. He kept up a stream of lighthearted chatter, and arranged for both men’s luggage to be taken to their rooms.

  In the open
concept living room, stretching the full width of the house, Bondarchik and Litvenko were offered cool drinks to offset the hot evening.

  “If you need food, please ask,” Trujillo said. “We can offer most anything you would like.”

  “Two things I would like,” Bondarchik said. “One is to see Rojas, and the other is to meet the one chosen to be instructed in the use of the Spyker.”

  “Hermano Calderon will be here shortly,” Trujillo said. “He’s looking forward to meeting Señor Litvenko.”

  Litvenko had already taken one of the offered drinks and found himself somewhere to sit. He never allowed anyone, or any situation to disturb him. He made sure his briefcase stayed close.

  Rojas appeared a half hour later, informally dressed and despite his attempts to remain outwardly calm, Bondarchik became quickly aware of the man’s mood.

  “DO YOU HAVE better news on the shipment?” Rojas asked with little grace.

  “When I left Moscow my information was that the ship was on time. It should dock later tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, Litvenko can take your man through the first stages of the training procedure.”

  Rojas thought about that, obviously not entirely satisfied, but resigning himself to the facts as they were. He helped himself to a large whisky from the wet bar and drank with the earnest dedication of a thirsty man just returned from the desert. He refilled his glass and beckoned to Bondarchik. They walked through to the open French doors and out onto the wide, stone-flagged patio.