Killpath Read online

  The big man looked right at Carrillo, giving him a once-over.

  “Que es esto, gordo?” Carrillo challenged.

  The fat guy held up both hands. “No speak-o the Span-o, man!”

  “You see something you like?” Carrillo asked him.

  Fernando glanced at the big man. “Leave him alone, Ramon,” he said tersely.

  The fat man winced. “Sorry. Sorry.”

  Carrillo curled his lip in response to the guy’s weakness. The younger man gave his hand a tug, pulling him away.

  Carrillo snorted at the tourist and continued following Fernando. His bull-like compatriot steered them toward the washroom, and Carrillo paused just outside.

  The big man and his little boyfriend were heading toward him. The fat slob didn’t walk too quickly, and he paused, whispering to the scrawny little shit.

  “Move along, fatso,” Carrillo said.

  Before the words were off his tongue, a punch trapped the second half of his insult under his larynx. The Colombian reached up to his windpipe, trying to swallow. In another instant, the fat guy pressed his palm against Carrillo’s forehead, ramming his head into the wall. Lights flashed in his field of vision, and before he could get his bearings, he felt himself being dragged into the washroom.

  Carrillo heard a door being kicked open, and suddenly he was slammed headfirst into Fernando. A confused, gargling cry filled the air, then Carrillo felt the toe of a shoe connect with his ear. In the next heartbeat, there was a violent crunch.

  Carrillo blinked, trying to regain his senses as his head bounced off the side of the stall.

  “Jesucristo!” he complained.

  A powerful arm slid under his chin and suddenly he was bent backward.

  “Get the rifle off of the other one,” a deep, strong voice said. For a moment, it didn’t seem as if it were the same man who had stepped too close before…. But how could it not be?

  Carrillo’s kidney erupted in a blossom of pain as the man kicked him, then the guy let go and Carrillo fell unceremoniously on to his back. The fat man loomed over him, tearing his linen jacket to get to the Tavor bullpup that hung under one arm, along with the Argentine Browning Hi-Power in a shoulder holster and the spare magazine in his pants pocket.

  Where was Fernando? Why wasn’t he putting up a fight?

  Then the fat man began pulling off his oversized sweatshirt, showing off the rolls of padding that had appeared to be a gut. He was wearing a skintight tee underneath. The man’s true torso was lean and powerful, and the arms that had been hidden underneath the extra-large top were heavily muscled.

  “The holster,” he ordered.

  With little hesitation, Carrillo twisted and writhed on the floor until he’d managed to get the leather harness off his back. The stranger inspected him.

  “Who are you?” Carrillo asked.

  His attacker narrowed his eyes. “The man who thanked you for your guns by allowing you to live. Spread the word. We came here for Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos. If you don’t want to die alongside them, stay out of my way.”

  The skinny guy caught Carrillo’s eye, and in an flash, he knew: this was no scrawny American tourist. It was her. La Brujah.

  Carrillo glanced back at the warrior above him.

  “Sit. Stay,” the man told him. He shrugged into the oversized shirt again, using it to cover the shoulder holster and the compact rifle on its sling.

  With that, the tall stranger and the Witch left the men’s room, armed to the teeth.

  5

  Cooper peered out of the bathroom entrance, then turned back to Rojas. She tugged her hat back over her head, making certain that its bill hung low enough to cover her eyes.

  “All set?” he asked her.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Rojas said, patting the weapons beneath her jacket.

  She had taken the larger man’s M1911 pistol and tucked it into his companion’s shoulder holster. Cooper had taken the big guy’s holster, the Browning and one of the assault rifles, stripping the other of its ammunition and leaving it lying useless on the bathroom tiles. Rojas liked the M1911 because of its small grip; it fit in her hand perfectly.

  As they stepped into the open, Cooper tugged the Browning out, thumbed off the safety and pulled the trigger, aiming at the floor. The noisy report would echo through the terminal, a loud and clear announcement that something was up.

  They were out of sight of the SNC and the other thugs, but the sound was unmistakable, and it would bring trouble running.

  It was time to split up. As they’d stood in the washroom entrance, they’d made certain that the terminal layout matched the floor plan they’d studied. So far, so good. Cooper ducked into a duty-free shop, while Rojas stood just inside of a newsstand, peering over the racks. Though the gunshot had alarmed everyone around them, no one seemed to suspect that either of them had caused it.

  Within moments, the dozen SNC hardmen had caught up to them, and they gathered around the damaged section of floor.

  Rojas heard the apparent leader tell the others to spread out. Rojas gave them a casual glance, but kept her poker face, avoiding eye contact or focusing for too long on any of the men. A couple of the Soldados went back toward the washroom.

  The bloodied thugs in there would let the New Soldiers know that she and Cooper had breezed past them, presumably in disguise. Still, the gunmen likely wouldn’t expect them to linger in the area any longer than necessary, and they’d be focusing on anyone trying to make a quick exit rather than tourists doing some preflight shopping.

  When the Soldados returned from the washroom holding up the smaller of the would-be hit men, Rojas gazed up idly, paid for a soft drink and a magazine, and strolled past them.

  “…and there’s a big bastard, neck broken and nose driven into his skull, sitting on the shitter,” she overheard.

  The man glanced up, and Rojas fought the urge to spin away, to hide her face. Instead, she calmly turned and headed toward the exit. If he had recognized her in the washroom, there was still a chance that he would hold his tongue about her identity.

  A chance. Brunhilde Rojas had not survived this long by trusting the behavior of men sent to kill her. But for the moment, she had to hope the man’s terror of the stranger who had spared his life, as well as the strength of her disguise, would be enough.

  “You don’t see any of your attackers here?” she heard one of the Soldados say behind her.

  “No. N-nowhere,” the hit man stammered.

  “Keep him here,” the leader said, his voice radiating with anger. “I’m going to get on the phone.”

  Rojas knew this was Cooper’s moment. For as much as this guy didn’t give a damn that he and his armed men were in clear view of the rest of the terminal, he obviously didn’t want to be in direct communication with his own commanders where others could eavesdrop.

  As Rojas strode farther away from the group around Carrillo, she spotted Cooper slipping into their wake.

  * * *

  THE EXECUTIONER, HAVING DONE his homework on Los Soldados Nuevos de Cali, recognized Rudolpho Arnaz, a mid-level boss in the crime network. Arnaz had grown up on the rough streets of Cali, where he learned to fight and kill as readily as many young men learned to ride a bicycle. According to his rap sheet, by the time Arnaz was in his late teens, he’d murdered four men. Since joining the SNC, after a short stint with the National Police, he’d become a person of interest in dozens of homicides.

  Bolan wondered what Arnaz would have thought of Villanueva’s presence at the terminal. Bolan trusted the cop, and he was one of the few who was willing to squint and look away when the Executioner came to town. In fact, Villanueva was here to give him and Rojas material support, having deposited a bag full of guns and other assorted gear in an airport locker. Right now, Bolan was good with the Browning Hi-Power, if they could manage to get out of here without a gunfight.

  The assembly of hardmen at the terminal was beyond what he could have anticipated. However, m
ost of the civilians had fled, and there were few left to get caught up in any shooting war that might erupt. But for Mack Bolan, even one innocent person caught in the cross fire was one too many.

  Bolan zeroed in on Arnaz, who was punching a number into his cell phone. His subordinates stood at a respectful distance, keeping an eye out for Brunhilde Rojas and her escort. Arnaz put the phone to his ear, scanning the terminal for anyone suspicious, but the Executioner had lived his life on the edge of oblivion for so long, he could disappear in plain sight.

  Currently, Bolan was pretending to engage in his own call, holding the phone with one hand, clutching the handles of his carry-on with the other. Neck scrunched down, eyes cast on the floor, both hands occupied, he appeared to be in a world all his own. To a casual observer he was just another person on his way to or from a flight. Role camouflage turned him from a finely honed fighting machine to a weary, careless traveler ambling down a corridor.

  Arnaz glanced at him, but his gaze didn’t linger, so skilled was the illusion that Bolan created. Arnaz headed for an empty row of seats in a waiting area. Bolan followed, plunking himself down a few chairs away from Arnaz, murmuring a one-sided conversation into his phone.

  Bolan continued faking his own discussion as he listened in on Arnaz.

  “…found evidence that they were here. And they were ready for us to show. No, no, we’re not the only crew at the airport. In fact, Rojas and her bodyguard took out one member of another gang and disarmed him and his partner.”

  There was silence as Arnaz listened to his boss’s response.

  “Yeah, one guard. And he was in disguise,” Arnaz continued. “He was dressed as a fat man. We found the discarded padding on the washroom floor… No, no shots.”

  Another pause.

  “One man kicked to death. The other looks like his face was bounced off every wall in the place. He didn’t make a sound, though—the only reason we found the disarmed idiots was because the one who took their firepower put a gunshot into the floor. We came running, then spread out, looking for where he might have gone.”

  Arnaz was silent for another moment—likely taking orders—then he hung up. That was Bolan’s cue.

  He stood swiftly, swinging his carry-on around so it smacked Arnaz in the face. The Soldado dropped his cell phone, and before he could recover, Bolan was on top of him. He smashed the heel of his palm into the thug’s nose. The blow was at the wrong angle to drive the bridge of the Colombian’s nose into his brain, but the impact was still sufficient to daze him. Bolan hooked his other hand around the back of the man’s head and dragged it hard into his rising knee. This time, the Executioner felt the nose break, and a spray of crimson splattered the leg of his jeans.

  Arnaz flopped back against the bench, and the soldier had a brief instant to carefully aim his next punch. Bolan speared his knuckle into the Colombian’s windpipe, crushing it with deadly precision. Arnaz reached up with one hand to clutch at his throat, but there was no chance in hell that he’d be able to force a scream for assistance past his lips. Bolan cupped the gurgling man’s chin with one hand and knotted the fingers of his other hand into Arnaz’s hair, tilting his head back.

  The ugly crunch of spinal bones grinding against each other was all the confirmation Bolan needed. He set to work searching for the dead man’s car keys.

  He dialed Rojas. The moment he’d broken off to pursue Arnaz had been her cue to head toward the parking lot.

  “Look for a late model Peugeot,” he said into the phone.

  “There are a couple of them, parked bumper to bumper,” Rojas answered. “And there’s one guy standing alert and edgy.”

  “Anyone else with the Soldados’ vehicles? Any drivers?” Bolan asked.

  “One driver at the ready. No pedestrians in sight.”

  “I’m on my way. Give me thirty seconds and then open up.”

  “Thirty seconds,” Rojas repeated. “Take the guard, take the driver, dump him and hope he has his keys.”

  “Arnaz was paranoid enough to keep his keys with him,” Bolan told her.

  Keys in his pocket, he strode toward the exit.

  His timing was perfect. The moment he stepped through the door, he saw Rojas raise the Tavor. The rifle was on single shot, with twenty rounds in the magazine, but at her range, it shouldn’t be a problem. From a distance of less than one hundred yards, the high-velocity 5.56 mm rounds would cut through all but the toughest body armor. La Brujah was less than twenty feet from the guard and the driver.

  Two sharp cracks preceded the collapse of the Soldado guarding the cars, his face disappearing into a blackish smear of gore as she got him in the side of the head and in the shoulder.

  As soon as the guy hit the ground, a car engine roared to life. The driver’s reflexes were good, and he threw his vehicle into gear to escape a death trap. Even as he did so, Bolan brought his own stolen Tavor to his shoulder, took aim through the windshield, and milked the trigger. With three quick 5.56 mm rounds to his upper chest, the driver slumped forward, releasing his foot from the accelerator. The car sputtered and stalled.

  Rojas rushed to catch up with the stalled car, and Bolan followed. Rojas seemed to have a problem with the door handle, then she sneered and slammed the butt of the bullpup assault rifle into the glass. When the window shattered, she reached in and popped the lock.

  Bolan was at the front bumper within moments, pausing only to fire rounds into the grilles of the other three cars left behind. He was sure that no one could start Arnaz’s car without the keys, but considering the professional skill sets of the Soldados, he wasn’t taking that risk. Damaged engines would slow any pursuit.

  “Get the door on my side,” Bolan told Rojas. “I’ll shoot, you drive.”

  Rojas pulled out the dead SNC driver, dumping him on to the tarmac. She slipped behind the wheel and opened Bolan’s side. “Get in!”

  As Rojas pulled out of the parking lot, Bolan exchanged the partially spent magazine from his Tavor with the bathroom guy’s fully loaded thirty-rounder. Then he connected Arnaz’s cell to his own smartphone.

  He hoped that they would be long gone before the remaining SNC thugs could mount a pursuit. The SNC knew that there was someone in Cali, on the hunt for them. They’d been unprepared for Bolan’s tactics, and he’d made fools of them, which would only draw more of them into battle.

  The gang responsible for the torture and murder of Teresa Blanca had made a date with the Executioner. And now, heads were going to roll.

  6

  Antonio Carbonez heard the crash of Arnaz’s phone as it was knocked from his hand. He listened to the sudden surge of activity on the other end of the line—multiple blows followed by the sickening crack of a breaking neck.

  Then the line went dead; Arnaz’s killer had ended the call.

  But the General of Los Soldados de Cali Nuevos had all the information he needed. The Soldados had been baited with the dangling, juicy worm of Brunhilde Rojas, and in the space of a few moments, the SNC had been compromised. Before he was murdered, Arnaz had told Carbonez that a mysterious stranger, a chameleon who had walked under the noses of his best-trained killers, was actively hunting them.

  Logic dictated that Carbonez circle the wagons, fortifying himself against this stranger’s incursion…

  His phone warbled again. It was Reyes, the driver.

  “Sir! The cars are under attack! They killed the—”

  Gunfire crackled over the connection, Reyes’s headset transmitting the sound of a man releasing his final, ragged breaths. At the same time, the call waiting signal beeped incessantly.

  Carbonez didn’t need to know whatever his men intended to say. Someone had likely discovered Arnaz, or they were reporting on the sudden gunfire outside the terminal. Carbonez’s ire was rising to a boiling point. He squeezed his phone in frustration but continued to listen to the sounds coming from inside Reyes’s car.

  The clatter of a breaking window. A woman shouting in English.


  Something struck Carbonez. There were no alarms going off. The Soldados had forked over sufficient cash to make airport staff and the Cali police look the other way when it came to crossing the security checkpoints with assault rifles. But once things got loud in two locations, the military and the police should have been mobilized and the alarms should have been ringing.

  Things were a mess at the airport, but Carbonez hadn’t risen to the top of the SNC without the ability to connect seemingly unrelated incidents. Rojas shows up in Colombia, accompanied only by a single man? No obvious police present, except for Inspector Villanueva? Someone had made damned certain that there wouldn’t be an honest cop within miles of that terminal, save for Villanueva himself.

  Miguel Villanueva was known to have unimpeachable morals, and his mental and physical toughness kept even the hardest cartels at bay. That he showed up in Cali to be in the same vicinity of the arriving Rojas meant that something was cooking. The appearance of that stranger, that shadowy friend of Villanueva, was a signal that blood would be spilled by the gallons. The stranger’s most recent appearance had led to a battle on a freighter, leaving corpses and a patina of counterfeit money soaking in the harbor.

  Carbonez spent the next few hours stewing as he fielded phone calls from scattered, confused operatives, policemen and journalists whom he had managed to buy off, bribe or threaten into subservience. His tentacles reached far and wide in Cali, throughout Colombia and all the way to Mexico and the United States border.

  Carbonez had two options. Go on the defensive and shut down operations for as long as it took this shit storm to blow over, or, put every man on the street, armed to the teeth, and turn Cali upside down in a hunt for this unwelcome guest. The first choice would cause even more damage to the SNC than the loss of lives, in terms of revenue and reputation. The Soldados couldn’t afford to be seen as cowards who hid at the first hint of a threat. Carbonez knew the score. Those who had tried sheer force before against Villanueva and his mysterious friend often hadn’t lived to tell the tale.