It was time to take his leave

Mack Bolan increased the Mustang’s speed, determined not to let Guerra’s men get away. Inside the large, nylon bag on the seat next to him was an arsenal of assorted weapons for making war.

Bolan raced toward the carnage ahead of him and slammed on the brakes at the last moment, swinging his vehicle around to the outside of the sedan as he reached into the bag and withdrew the MP-5. He depressed the trigger and swept the vehicle. The bodies of the gunners danced under the massive assault. Bolan then yanked an M-67 high-explosive grenade and tossed it casually into the interior, before putting the Mustang in Reverse and backing out.

The blast produced enough force to lift the car an inch or two off its wheels and settle it back to the pavement in a roaring crash.

That would teach Mario Guerra a lesson—make him realize he and his Hillbangers weren’t quite as invincible as they had thought. And Guerra would learn one more thing very soon.…

The Executioner was just getting started.

Salvador Strike
Don Pendleton’s

The Executioner®

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The future of civilization depends on our overcoming the meaninglessness and hopelessness characterized by the thoughts of men today.

—Albert Schweitzer

1875–1965

There are men whose abilities to contribute positive energies on the world are blinded by their greed and lust for power. It is those men who subject the innocent to meaningless and hopeless lives. I shall resist them in every waking moment.

—Mack Bolan

THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Prologue

Herndon, Virginia

Gary Marciano, federal prosecutor for the Attorney General of the United States, studied the early-morning edition of the newspaper with immense satisfaction.

Over his bowl of sliced bananas on oatmeal topped with milk and honey, Marciano reread the bold, front page headline: National Gang Members Charged with RICO Violations. At last! Several key members of MS-13 were in custody and based on the pages of testimony by his key witness—testimony submitted and leading to indictments by a federal grand jury last week—these domestic terror mongers wouldn’t be spreading any more violence or bloodshed for a long time, if ever again. The suburban neighborhoods of Virginia, Florida and California would be safer with those bastards out of the picture.

Marciano thought of Ysidro Perez, the one brave soul who decided to get his life together and make a stand. With no thought for his own safety, Perez voluntarily stepped out on his homeboys in Virginia—a cell dubbed the Hillbangers by local law enforcement—to report on their activities and betray the sacred trust extended to him. Perez’s testimony had eventually led to not only the arrest of his leader, Mario Guerra, but six other high-ranking members from various cells throughout the United States.

And that’s only the beginning, Marciano thought.

The prosecutor dropped the paper on the table and turned to finishing his breakfast. The Bulova watch on his wrist, a Christmas present from his wife, told him he had only a few minutes before he had to leave for his office. Rush-hour traffic had grown worse over the past couple of years, as well as the construction of new homes in what had once been a quiet development, which ultimately tacked more than twenty minutes onto what had once been a ten-minute commute. It took him nearly a half hour to drive barely ten miles.

Sad, that’s what it was.

Marciano finished about half of his breakfast and then rose, scraped the remainder into the garbage can and rinsed out the bowl. He left it in the sink, confident Caroline would take care of it like she always did. Faithful and diligent, his adoring wife had stayed home with their three kids during their early years, but when the youngest finally reached seventh grade, she took a job selling real estate in a booming market. Marciano knew she was a shoo-in for such a position; it suited Caroline’s impeccable tastes and uncanny ability to match the right perspective buyer with the right place.

They didn’t really need the money. Investment proceeds from the sale and dissolution of his private practice with several equal partners in a Washington law firm had provided a more than adequate windfall. But Marciano couldn’t stop practicing law any more than a fish could stop swimming. So with a change in administration at the White House and the appointment of a close friend to Attorney General, Marciano transformed his practice from protecting major corporations from exploitation to going up against those who challenged the law of the land.

“So you view yourself as a crusader?” a member of the press had asked him right after the AG announced his appointment.

“Not at all,” he replied with a smile. “I’m simply a concerned citizen.”

That had brought a titter from the wall-to-wall bodies packing the press room at the Justice Department and a commendation from his boss on the way he’d handled the questioners in such a suave fashion.

Now entering his third year with the Attorney General, Marciano had made a number of influential friends, not least among them a man he’d truly come to admire and respect: Hal Brognola. Marciano had worked with plenty of federal agents in his time, but he’d never met anyone quite like that one. Brognola had an insight and knowledge into the workings of the criminal underworld like it was nobody’s business. Brognola was older—probably much older than he looked—and Marciano had always assumed he was semiretired, since he hardly ever saw the guy. Still, if he needed advice or wanted a fresh approach to a prosecutorial problem, Brognola was the first guy he would go to and that was saying a lot since, to his knowledge, the man had no law degree of any kind other than from the school of hard knocks. Yes, indeed, the guy had been around a very long time.

“Honey, I’m leaving!” Marciano called to his wife as he snatched his leather valise off the side table in the entryway of their two-story home.

Caroline had found the place when it got listed with her agency, and while taking a couple through it she fell in love. Marciano liked their private place by a lake in the foothills of the Shenandoah, but the trip had become impractical when his firm grew in size and clientele base, so Caroline convinced him to move to Herndon. He didn’t really like the additional upkeep required by the neighborhood association, and he wasn’t much for gardening or landscaping, but it did afford him an opportunity to spend quality time with Caroline so he didn’t really mind.

Marciano opened the heavy front door of his house and a loud thumping sound greeted him. The steady beat came from some kind of sound system inside the late-model Lincoln SUV with heavy window tinting parked at the curb. Marciano took a couple of hesitant steps through the doorway and closed it securely behind him. As he proceeded down the flagstone pathway that curved toward the driveway where his BMW sat idling, he noticed the rear-seat window of the SUV roll down.

He instantly recognized the object that protruded from the interior, but just a moment too late to really do anything about it.

Gunfire resounded through the chill morning air as a torrent of hot lead spit from the muzzle of the submachine gun. Slugs ripped through Marciano’s double-breasted pinstripe suit and lodged deep in his flesh, his body dancing under the impact of each round. Some of the bullets hit center mass while others grazed him deeply and in enough volume to actually tear chunks of flesh from the bones of his arms and legs. Marciano never saw his shooter; he also never saw the trio of young Hispanic males in gray hooded sweatshirts marked with the symbol of MS-13 as they emerged from the backseat of the SUV.

The young men made their way up the flagstone path, kicked in the front door and fanned out to scour the house. They would complete their work in short order, gunning down Caroline Marciano with the same butchery as her husband and then set fire to the home. These events would signal the fate of the U.S. Attorney General’s case, as about the same time police units responded to reports of gunfire coming from the area of the Marciano residence, a federal game warden would discover the butchered remains of a headless and handless victim in a wildlife marshland at the edge of Riverbend Regional Park—remains the coroner took several days to identify as those of Ysidro Perez.

1

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“Without a case, the AG was forced to release the gang leaders they had in custody,” Hal Brognola said. “MS-13 had tried to hide the identity of the body, but fortunately we had DNA and blood samples that had been taken when Perez required medical treatment for his diabetes while in federal custody.”

A brooding silence fell on the War Room as the others considered Brognola’s grim announcement. Among that group sat a figure more powerful and imposing than all the rest. Arms folded, Mack Bolan leaned back in his chair and stared at the documents of a file folder arrayed before him. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a new tune but no question remained in his mind that this particular case required his kind of intervention. No matter the enemy, Bolan’s battle plan was always the same—strike terror into the heart of an organization to the point where he destroyed it from the inside out. The time had come to execute that plan against MS-13.

“Tell me more about Marciano,” he told Brognola.

The head Fed’s eyebrows rose. “You mean beside the fact that he was a top-notch prosecutor and good friend?”

Bolan nodded.

Brognola sighed. “I first met him a few years ago when the AG brought him on board. I haven’t known too many like him, Striker. Gary was relentless. He had come from a background in corporate law, but he took to federal prosecution like a duck to water. There are some men who are born for this kind of thing. Just like you were born to do what you do, Gary was the exact same way.”

“He never gave you a reason to think he might have been playing for the other team?”

“Absolutely not.”

Bolan furrowed his brow. “Then we have to assume these gang members had someone inside the Justice Department feeding them intelligence. They knew where and how to hit Marciano’s family, and they knew where this Ysidro Perez had been holed up while he was waiting to testify.”

“That was our initial conclusion, as well,” Barbara Price interjected.

Stony Man’s beautiful mission controller flipped a lock of honey-blond hair behind her ear. Bolan caught the movement and his eyes locked on hers. Through the years, Price had been a steady aid and object of physical comfort to Bolan. They saw each other rarely, but on such occasions they shared a deep connection and intimacy. Price’s background in the NSA qualified her better than anyone else to oversee the daily operations of the Stony Man teams, and they appreciated her. But, she had chosen to reserve her deepest and most personal passions for the Executioner.

Brognola continued. “The thing everyone forgets is that I knew Gary Marciano. I acted mostly as a sounding board and confidant for him, and one thing I know about him for sure is that he tended to play his cards very close to the vest. In the case of MS-13, there were only two other people who knew those kinds of details—me and the Attorney General. And since my personal questioning of the AG in front of the President leads me to conclude he didn’t say anything, the theory that an insider passed sensitive materials to any shot-callers inside MS-13 is damned unlikely.”

“There were two other agents with the BATF who questioned Perez,” Price said. “I had Bear look deeply into both of these guys, and neither of their activities of recent give us any suspicion they leaked intelligence of their dealings to any outside parties.”

“That’s right,” Aaron “the Bear” added. “I dug into their phone records and e-mails. I even scanned their personal financials for large purchases or cash transactions of any kind. They both came back as clean as a whistle.”

That note satisfied Bolan. Kurtzman had repeatedly demonstrated his wizardry in the wide arena of technology. The computer servers installed in the Annex at Stony Man Farm processed and stored massive amounts of information. Kurtzman could hack into just about any secured system in the world. If either of the BATF agents had left a trail of any kind, Kurtzman was the man to find it. If he said they were above reproach, then that was good enough for Bolan.

Price looked toward Brognola, who tendered a curt nod. “Given what we know to this point,” she said, “there’s only one other possibility. One other person did know about Ysidro Perez and Marciano’s case. But nobody outside Marciano or Hal knew that. Not even the Attorney General.”

“I’m listening,” Bolan replied.

“You’re familiar with the history of MS-13?” Brognola asked.

Bolan nodded. Mara Salvatrucha Trece’s could trace its roots back to the early 1980s and the peasant guerrillas that immigrated into the United States, victims of the bloody civil war in El Salvador. While their origins came about in Los Angeles, they had risen in status and numbers exceeding one hundred thousand members. Their operational territory numbered in excess of thirty states. Their platform: become the largest and most powerful gang in the country; their methods: robbery, gunrunning, drug trafficking and murder-for-hire. They had become nothing less than a domestic terrorist group, one that was organized and well equipped, and Bolan knew it was time for him to act in a way law enforcement could not.

“Back in 2001,” Price said, “when the FBI first got involved in this with another witness, this one a pregnant girl who was also killed by members of the gang, they organized themselves and conducted major raids in multiple jurisdictions, including areas in Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador. Because of how much leadership they took down, the Justice Department thought they had effectively crippled the organization and its influence. Unfortunately, they were wrong.”

“You see, one of the things Gary realized after he was first assigned Perez’s case was that while each cell had its own shot-callers,” Brognola said, “the source of the strings being pulled was in El Salvador.”

“Where the gang originated,” Bolan said. “It makes sense. There’s always a bigger fish out there.”

“Well, Gary decided the only way they could bring MS-13 down for certain this time was to send an agent to penetrate the hierarchy. He came to me with his idea, and we agreed for a time to keep it between just ourselves.”

“Why didn’t he want to let the AG in on it?” Bolan asked.

Brognola chuckled. “I know why you ask, and I can assure you now that he didn’t suspect his boss of any wrongdoing. He knew it would be difficult to get the additional funding for such an operation without any hard proof, so he brought the guy in from the outside on temporary duty, a BATF agent named Ignacio Paz. He padded the expense line items and nobody looked too closely, including the AG, since they knew he was building a major case against MS-13 with Perez.”

“So Paz goes undercover in El Salvador to locate the top dog in the organization,” Bolan concluded.

“Right,” Price replied. “And nobody’s heard from him in weeks. We have found information on Marciano’s computer under some secretly encoded files.”

“I’ve ordered Bear to extract and decrypt the files from the computer so nobody at the AG’s office or FBI forensics would find them,” Brognola said. “I didn’t want to risk exposing Paz. Striker, MS-13 has its own intelligence service. They’re in the courts, the police departments, even the jails and prisons. They report on their own members and have even been known to send men out to commit crimes for the sole purpose of circulating them through the prison systems and assassinating deal makers.”

“I’m familiar with these kinds of tactics, Hal,” Bolan said. “From what you’ve told me, I think Marciano was on the right track. The only way to put down a group as organized as this is to chop off the head.”

“That was our feeling exactly,” Brognola replied.

“Okay, I’m in. Where do you want me to begin?”

“Well, Mario Guerra was released yesterday morning,” he replied. “As leader of the Hillbangers cell, we believe Herndon’s the place to start.”

“Your mission has two objectives,” Price said as she slid photographs across the table. “First, eliminate the leaders that were released both here and in Los Angeles. If we can’t prosecute them because their intelligence unit has managed to stay one step ahead of them, maybe your removing their influence entirely will produce the desired effects. Second, pick up the trail on Ignacio Paz, and if you find him alive get the information you need to destroy the hierarchy in El Salvador.”

“I’ll need Jack,” Boland said. “For at least part of the gig, anyway.”

Price smiled. “I figured as much. He’s on his way back from a mission with Able Team. They’ll be landing here within a few hours.”

“Fine. Ask him to be on standby and I’ll touch base as soon as I see what’s what in Herndon.”

“There’s one hitch,” Brognola said a bit sheepishly. “Since the Justice Department was forced to release Guerra, the AG had to call and inform Herndon’s chief of police, a guy named Mike Smalley. Smalley’s kind of old school, Striker.”

“So what you really mean is he’ll be territorial about any federal assistance and try to be in my back pocket every step of the way,” Bolan concluded. “I understand.”

“Just handle any encounters with kid gloves, okay? The President wants this mission executed surreptitiously. He doesn’t like the kind of attention you tend to draw. Not to mention the fact we suspect Herndon’s law enforcement will already have its hands full since we’re hearing reports the Hillbangers plan to retaliate for Guerra’s detainment.”

“I’ll try to keep it to a dull roar.”

BOLAN KNEW his promise would be an empty one.

Stony Man’s intelligence was sound wherein it regarded retaliation by MS-13, and the Executioner sensed the imminence of such an attack. He could feel it in his gut. The thing that most bothered him was the intelligence network of which Brognola had spoken. It was big and complex, to be sure, which meant there would be at least a few “officials” on the payroll. Outside of Stony Man, Bolan knew he couldn’t trust anybody. Worse yet, this mission ran on the proverbial time clock—a man’s life hung in the balance. If the Hillbangers managed to uncover the details of Marciano and his witness, it wouldn’t be long before someone discovered evidence of Paz’s mission into El Salvador and leaked that intelligence back to the hierarchy. Hence, the mission to eliminate their leadership was more about severing lines of communication than much else.

At least it would buy him some time.

Bolan considered his options of where to start, and since it made perfect sense that the Hillbangers would want to make a statement, he knew the memorial service for Marciano would be the most likely place. Bolan glanced at his watch and realized the service had already started, but he could probably make the outdoor reception scheduled to follow. Bolan took his exit into Herndon off the Dulles Toll Road and drove to a downtown men’s shop he remembered.

Forty-five minutes later, the warrior emerged in a midnight blue serge suit, white shirt and pattern-print tie of maroon, blue and teal. The conservative business suit served to provide the look he sought. Except for his height, he didn’t think he’d stand out too much at the memorial service. And only the most trained eye would notice the bulge of the Beretta 93-R that rode in shoulder leather beneath his left armpit. Even an expert might miss it, however, since Bolan had long ago perfected the art of role camouflage, and learned how to walk with a gun in a way that eliminated the telltale signs most looked for on any person carrying concealed.

Bolan drove straight to the outdoor area where they were having the memorial service reception, a small park just a few blocks from the Marciano home. The Executioner took note of the two squads he passed through on the road that ran the circumference of the park, as well as the pair of suited agents wearing sunglasses standing post at the park entrance. One waved him down and he complied, rolled down his window and flashed the Justice Department credentials that identified him as a member of the FBI.

The guy studied the creds carefully, gave Bolan a once-over, then nodded and waved him through. Bolan drove on—he was just another federal cop showing up for some free food and to pay his respects, of course. According to Brognola, Gary Marciano had been a popular man among both his peers and other members of the law-enforcement community. A real friend of cops, Brognola had recalled fondly.

The fact MS-13 would pick this place and time to make its hit might have seemed insane to others—given the sheer number of cops that would be present—but to Bolan it made perfect sense. They would look to make a big and spectacular statement, and wouldn’t it be a great bonus if they could take out a few cops in the process? Bolan understood that psyche all too well; he’d seen it more times than he cared to count. MS-13 had stated in no uncertain terms it desired to be the biggest and baddest gang in America, and their target was suburbia because MS-13 probably felt it would prove harder for the police agencies of smaller communities to combat the gang’s varied and illicit activities.

Bolan had no such limitations, legal, jurisdictional or otherwise. He would hunt down every last one of them, utterly destroying their organization wherever it reared its ugly head.

Bolan left his car and made his way casually to the group of attendees already ensconced beneath the massive white canopies they had erected over row after row of tables and folding chairs. A small buffet and portable wet bar stood at the end of one of the canopies, attendants hovering over the silver trays from which people served themselves. Just to the left of the entry point of the buffet stood about a dozen well-dressed people greeting the attendees: survivors of the Marciano family. Bolan searched his mental files and immediately recalled the faces of their three children, but he didn’t recognize any others. The youngest child stood solemnly between his two older siblings.

Bolan let his gaze rove over the remaining attendees, and he eventually spotted Smalley standing at the table and talking with people. The police chief had shown up dressed in full parade uniform, the gold stars that rode along his collar shimmering almost as if in rhythm with ornate braid on his sleeves and the brim of his cap. Bolan passed over the crowd after a second and marked the faces of several men in suits and sunglasses stationed along the perimeter of the gathering. FBI? BATF or maybe even Secret Service? They didn’t carry themselves like plainclothes detectives, although he wouldn’t have put it past Smalley to keep a loyal man or two on hand as a bit of insurance.

The conversation seemed a bit solemn and reserved, but the sheer number of voices maintained a steady buzz that seemed to grow in volume as Bolan took in the sights. The Executioner didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so he kept moving along the outskirts of the congregation, careful to maintain a casual demeanor. It wouldn’t do to draw anyone’s attention, particularly the security team, as long as he had no reason to do so. For now he would blend in and keep one ear open for any conversations that might give him insight into his mission objectives.

Bolan also kept one eye on the family, as the members of MS-13 might feel the job wouldn’t be completed until they managed to stamp out every member of Marciano’s family. He took special interest in the positions of each man in the security detail, looking for holes or possible weaknesses in their defense. They seemed to have the place pretty well isolated, and unless the gang planned to wade through the crowd and start shooting, it wouldn’t make sense for them to attempt the hit.

The most vulnerable part of the layout was the perimeter itself. Bolan had noticed only a couple of squads positioned on the road that circled the park during his drive. There were no other pedestrians—obviously they had sealed off the park for the services—so that removed any risk to bystanders. No, if the attack came it would have to be from the perimeter.

The flash of sunlight on metal caught Bolan’s eye, and he turned to see a vehicle approaching from the street where it had entered the rotary. It was big, like a Lincoln or Chrysler, painted dark blue and sporting tinted windows. A second vehicle followed it, an SUV that looked similar to the one described in the police reports Bolan had read from witness statements taken after the Marciano hit.

Both vehicles traveled down the road at a high rate of speed. The sedan stopped just short of the curb with a screech of tires and the SUV wound its way around it, increasing speed and jumping the curb to continue onto the grass. Bolan didn’t need any more than that to know he’d called it correctly. He whipped the Beretta from shoulder leather as he dashed from the cover of the tent and charged directly toward a heavy, metal waste container, the fifty-five-gallon drum type, cemented into the ground, with a plastic bag lining its interior.

The Executioner knelt, took up a firing position and prepared to meet his enemy.

Head-on!

2

As the SUV bore down on his position, Bolan moved the selector switch to burst mode, sighted down the slide and took a deep breath.

The vehicle continued on a clear but erratic path in the direction of the clustered canopies. Nobody in the crowd had even seemed to notice the danger yet, which left the Executioner no options. At the rate the truck was closing, it would be on that crowd within fifteen seconds. Bolan’s eyes flicked toward the sedan, from which several occupants had emptied, armed with what looked like machine pistols. He marked their positions and then returned his attention to the SUV, steadied his two-handed grip on the pistol and aimed for the driver’s side of windshield.

Bolan let out half the breath he’d taken and squeezed the trigger. The windshield spiderwebbed even as Bolan delivered another 3-round burst of 9 mm Parabellum rounds, and that second volley rewarded him with a crimson spray erupting in the interior—a clear sign he’d hit the target. The SUV continued on its straight path and then began to shimmy side-to-side as one of the passengers likely attempted to get control of the wheel.

They had reacted a moment too late, though, as the vehicle jumped a sandy play area and caromed off a heavy wooden merry-go-round. The SUV then jounced across a rough patch of play area, fishtailed through a sandbox and finally hit a triplet of fender-high wooden posts connected with a three-inch-thick rope. The makeshift barrier proved effective enough to bring the vehicle to a halt that rocked the occupants violently into one another.

The Executioner didn’t give them a chance to regroup as he burst from cover and charged the vehicle, firing at the SUV on the run. He was careful to remain directly in front of the vehicle, thereby staying clear of the line of fire. The windshield finally collapsed inward, giving Bolan a clear view of the remaining enemy. Bolan assessed the entire situation in a moment.

Driver was down for the count. Ditto for the man seated behind him. Front seat passenger and two remaining backseat occupants were all moving. Bolan slowed as he got near, dropped the pistol’s magazine for a new one and opened up with a fresh salvo. The men in the SUV could do only two things—panic and die—as the Executioner unleashed a fusillade of vengeance on them. Bolan triggered his weapon repeatedly, catching the front seat passenger first as he presented the most immediate threat in bringing his submachine gun to bear. Bolan’s 3-round burst split the gangster’s skull wide open and added to the bloodstained décor of the SUV interior. Another died with two rounds to the chest and a third to the throat.

The lone survivor managed to pull himself together enough to bail from the SUV, but he didn’t get far. As he leveled his SMG in Bolan’s direction, the Executioner got him with twin rounds through his right thigh. The gunner twisted away and his weapon flew from his grasp, arcing through the air and skittering across the wet grass on impact, well out of his grip. He began to writhe on the ground, holding his wounded leg, and Bolan knew he was no longer a threat. The locals could take him into custody for questioning.

Bolan heard the tap-tap-tap of the machine pistols and semiauto guns being fired at him, but from that distance the gunners from the sedan were unlikely to hit him. Bolan heard shouts and turned to see the security detail along with about a half-dozen uniforms reacting to the scene, several with pistols drawn and rushing toward him. It was time to take his leave. Bolan turned and sprinted toward the parking lot where he’d left his car. He had a slim chance of catching the gangsters in the sedan who were still plinking at him with only futile results.

Bolan had nearly reached his car when two plainclothes security officers attempted to stop him. He flashed the badge as he reached the vehicle, disengaged the door locks with the keyless remote and jumped behind the wheel. The two men slid to a halt and watched helplessly as Bolan cranked the engine, dropped into Reverse and backed out of the lot with a spew of dust and gravel from his tires. Bolan continued in reverse until his wheels found pavement and then executed a J-turn that swung the nose of Stony Man’s loaner vehicle in the direction he’d been backing.

The V8 engine of the Mustang GT roared beneath the hood as Bolan slammed the stick into Second gear and blasted out of the lot with a squeal of tires. The Mustang accelerated and Bolan smoothly shifted into Third gear, then Fourth, heading along the circular road that would connect him with the sedan crew. He had no doubt these were Guerra’s people. They didn’t operate like professional hitters. They had intended to do a drive-by on the mourners at the park, plain and simple. Bolan was thankful nobody else had been at the park, particularly children playing in the area of his conflagration with the men in the SUV.

Bolan looked toward the sedan just as it executed a tight turnaround and headed the way it had come. The Executioner increased his speed, determined not to let them get away. He checked his rearview mirror and saw the frantic scrambling of police toward their cars. There was no longer a threat at the park; the threat was now wherever Bolan allowed Guerra’s men to lead him. Surely they would know he was following them, and he couldn’t say he really minded. Inside the large, nylon bag on the seat next to him was an arsenal of assorted weapons for making war.

In addition to the Beretta, Bolan had brought along his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, the standard hand cannon for dispatching bad guys. It was especially handy when he needed decent firepower in a close-quarters situation where automatic weapons would be clumsy and awkward. He’d also procured an MP-5 K machine pistol, an FNC assault rifle by Fabrique Nationale and a dozen or so M-67 hand grenades. In the trunk he carried some additions to round out his rolling armory, which he would bring into use as the occasions arose.

Bolan tried to coax some more speed from the Mustang, slowing only enough to make the curve at the park exit without flipping the high-performance sports car. The sedan hadn’t gone very far and Bolan knew he wouldn’t have trouble catching up. He grit his teeth when flashing lights of several police squads suddenly rounded the corner of a street farther up and headed directly for the fleeing vehicle. Bolan wished he had a police radio so he could warn them the suspects were heavily armed, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. If the profile on Smalley was even remotely accurate, Herndon would put every available resource at law enforcement’s disposal to make sure there was no further bloodshed by MS-13, and Smalley’s men probably wouldn’t be too careful or discriminate about how they did that. Such a fact would only lead to more good men and women dying, this time men and women wearing badges.

Bolan watched helplessly as the sedan ground to a halt and flashes from muzzles protruding from the windows chopped the glass and metal of the squad cars to shreds. One of the squads was still far enough back to escape the onslaught, but the closest two didn’t fare well. While the police were trained to respond to such incidents, they were hardly equipped to go up against fanatic gangbangers armed with machine guns and assault rifles.

On the other hand, Bolan was.

The Executioner raced toward the carnage and slammed on his brakes at the last moment, swinging his vehicle around the outside of the sedan as he reached into the bag and withdrew the MP-5 K. None of the sedan’s occupants had even noticed him, as they were still focused on shooting up the police vehicles. Bolan put the weapon in battery, lowered his window and stuck his left arm out, machine gun in hand. He depressed the trigger and swept the vehicle. The front and rear windows of what the soldier could now see was a Lincoln MKZ shattered under the attack. The bodies of the gunners danced under the massive assault. He yanked an M-67 high explosive grenade and thumbed away the spoon as he raked the sedan. Amid the shouts and curses of those who survived his barrage, Bolan tossed the grenade casually into the interior and then put the Mustang into Reverse and backed away.

The superheated ball of gas filled the interior compartment a moment later, and flames belched from all four window frames. The blast produced enough effect to lift the car an inch or two off its wheels and settle it back to the pavement in a roaring crash. Bolan could feel the heat and shock wave of the explosion pass through the front window of the Mustang, setting his teeth on edge. He shielded his eyes in order not to be blinded by the flash effect of the PETN-fed blast.

“So much for a dull roar,” Bolan muttered to himself.

The Executioner pulled the Mustang to the curb a safe distance from the flaming wreckage of the sedan, burst from his car and rushed to see if he could render aid to any of the wounded officers. For now, he had evened the score between MS-13 and the Marcianos. That would teach Mario Guerra a lesson—make him realize he and his Hillbangers weren’t quite as invincible as they thought. And there was one other thing Guerra would learn very soon.

Bolan was just getting started.

“YOU WANT TO TELL ME just what the hell you thought you were doing, Cooper?” a red-faced Mike Smalley asked. “This is a Herndon police matter, and the Herndon Police will handle it!”

“No, that’s where you’re mistaken, Chief,” Bolan replied calmly. “This is a matter for everyone.”

“Is it now? Okay then—” Smalley leaned forward in his chair and snatched a sheet of paper off the edge of his desk, placing it in front of him “—let’s just see what we have here. I had the contents of that sports car out there inventoried. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I do,” Bolan replied coolly. “You have no right or jurisdiction to search my vehicle.”

Smalley looked at Bolan and raised his eyebrows. “I don’t? Well, that’s funny because I’m almost positive the search warrant I acquired from a D.C. judge just a little while ago said I did.” He turned his attention back to the paper. “So let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes, here we go. One semiautomatic .44 Magnum handgun with no registration record, one 5.56 mm assault rifle of foreign make, one M-16 A-2 assault rifle with M-203 grenade launcher in the trunk, and about one hundred pounds of varied ordnance, military grade.”

Smalley locked eyes with Bolan. “Automatic weapons that aren’t government issued? Military explosives? Just who the hell are you exactly, Cooper—if that’s even your real name? Who do you work for? And don’t hand me any more bullshit about how you’re with the Justice Department. Those creds you’re carrying are a little too clean for my tastes.”

Bolan had been as polite as possible to this point, but Smalley had gone too far now, and the time for niceties was over. Beside, the cat was out of the bag, and he didn’t have any more time to be cheeky. Brognola had said Smalley was old school, which simply meant he was only willing to play hardball with those who were adept at giving back as good as they got. So it was time to change tact.

“All right, Chief,” Bolan said, feigning frustration. “You want the truth, the gloves come off. Quite simply, I’m operating with the full cooperation of the Oval Office. You understand? I don’t answer to you or frankly to anyone else. Gary Marciano’s family and witness were killed because MS-13 has become an epidemic in this country. One I’ve been sent to cure. They warned me you were hard-nosed and by-the-book, which I don’t have any problem with. But my mission is to eradicate this threat to the American public once and for all. Now you’re either into that and willing to cooperate or you’re not. Either way, I don’t really care because I have a job to do, and I’m going to do it. I could have you removed from that chair with one phone call. I’m not interested in doing that, so you’d better decide now if you stand a better chance of focusing on protecting the people of Herndon or standing in my way, all for the sake of protecting your ego.”

Smalley’s face reddened, and the veins bulged from his neck and forehead. His apoplexy at Bolan’s words was obvious, but the soldier also knew Smalley realized he was telling the truth. Herndon was its own municipal entity, to be certain, but it fell under the direct influence of Washington, D.C.—just as all the rest of the capital’s neighboring communities. Smalley served at the pleasure of the mayoral appointment, and the mayor wouldn’t dare refuse a presidential “suggestion” if it came down to it. Still, Bolan liked Smalley for the very reasons Brognola had cautioned him about the police chief, and preferred to have the guy’s cooperation.

Smalley finally calmed down and nodded. “All right, Cooper. You’ve been straight with me, and I guess that’s the best I can ask of any man. And I suppose we owe you a debt, since you saved the lives of a number of cops. Hell, we ought to give you the key to the city for that. But this is still my hometown, understand that. I took an oath to uphold the laws here, and I don’t need some Delta Force cowboy or whatever you are running around this city shooting and blowing up everything in sight.”

“You’ll find I’m a cautious man, Smalley,” Bolan replied easily. “I don’t hit until I’m confident the innocents are well out of the line of fire.”

Smalley shrugged and threw up his hands. “And?”

“And that’s where you come in,” Bolan said. “This is your town, just as you say. So I believe you have a pretty good idea where MS-13 conducts its operations, and the best way to find this Mario Guerra.”

Smalley snorted with a scowl. “Guerra. Yes, he’s a real piece of work that guy. I know he’s personally responsible for at least a dozen crimes, including rape, robbery and murder. I just can’t prove it.”

“You won’t have to prove it,” Bolan said. “The best thing you and your men can do for me is to round up as many of his posse as you can find and keep them on ice. Twenty-four hours, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“Okay…fine, sure, I can do that. But I don’t see how that’s going to help you capture Guerra, or build a case against him that will stick.”

“Building a case against him isn’t my mission objective,” Bolan said.

“Then what do you plan to do?”

The Executioner remained silent, but the cock of his head and steely gaze served as an adequate answer to Smalley’s question.

“I see,” Smalley said.

“Sometimes we can’t play by the rules with a group like MS-13. They’ve terrorized this country long enough, Chief. It’s time for real action, permanent action.”

Smalley nodded slowly with a faraway expression, not even meeting Bolan’s gaze. He could tell the policeman was warring with the idea just presented to him. In the most technical sense, Bolan’s tactics were nothing short of military operations conducted in the civilian sector, a clear violation of a dozen or so federal laws, including one constitutional amendment. Unfortunately, the breaking of such laws was sometimes the only way to combat those who chose to operate outside them. Still, for a guy like Chief Michael Vernon Smalley, it was a damned anachronism to the end purposes of law enforcement and contradictory to everything he knew.

“Though I don’t necessarily agree with your approach,” Smalley said, “I promise you’ll have my support during your efforts.”

“That’s all I would ever ask of you or anyone,” Bolan replied.

“Okay, so how do we do this?”

“First, I need some idea of the core operations area for MS-13.”

Smalley nodded, rose and went to a map of the city hanging on the wall to his right. He pointed to a small area on the south side of the city where it bordered a major road. Smalley traced his finger along that road and said, “This is the Dulles Toll Road, which also marks the border between the city and unincorporated areas of Herndon and Reston. Most of the gang activity has been confined to this region. One of the problems we’ve faced in recent times is the influx of illegal immigrants to this area. We don’t really know why that’s the case, but we do know it’s taxed many of our resources. When we first started to have problems with MS-13 and related gang activity, the Justice Department formed the Northern Virginia Gang Task Force—then NVGTF. There are sixteen communities and law-enforcement agencies now directly involved with the organization, and since 2003 we’ve accomplished much in the cleanup.”

“And then recently you were flooded with a resurgence of activity?” Bolan asked.

Smalley nodded and dropped back into his chair. “Right. We think it’s directly related to the fact we’ve been dealing with this illegal immigration problem. There’s no way for us to combat both problems, and the task force has been suffering from monetary cutbacks since we thought we had the problem licked.”

“Okay. It sounds like the south’s the place for me to start. One other question, though.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you know anything about the case Gary Marciano was building against MS-13 or this witness he had stashed away?”

Smalley shook his head. “I knew Gary Marciano pretty well. Naturally, he was a prominent member of this community. You see, the Town of Herndon numbers about twenty-two thousand people, but we’ve always tried to maintain that sense of a small community. I considered Gary a personal friend, but I didn’t know he was working on a major case. If I had, I might have offered him some protection or assistance. Lord knows, he helped out this department on many occasions. He’ll be missed, though, and you can bet your ass that his family will receive all the resources at my disposal for the future. Whatever they need, they’ll get. I put my personal stamp of guarantee all over that one.”

Bolan nodded as he rose and stuck out his hand. “I’m sure you will. I appreciate the help, Chief.”

Smalley shook the Executioner’s hand and said, “You’ll stay in touch?”

“Count on it.”

As Bolan turned to leave the chief’s office, Smalley called after him. “Hey, Cooper?”

“Yeah.”

“You really think you can fix this problem of ours?”

“I can’t make any promises,” the warrior replied. “But in twenty-four hours when the smoke clears and you see who’s left standing, you’ll have your answer.”

3

“Who is this pinche, homeboys, eh?” Mario Guerra splayed out on the sofa with a forty-ounce bottle of beer in his left hand, banged his right fist against his chest and flashed the younger men surrounding him with a sign of solidarity. “Who is this pinche cabrón you allow to kill our homeboys and dis the one-three?”

“We don’t know who he is, Mario,” replied Louie Maragos, one of Guerra’s lieutenants.

Guerra sneered. “Well, then, you better find out, homeboys. You know what I’m saying? This dude, he kills like what…nine boys?”

“Ten,” another soldier corrected.

“Shut the fuck up!” Guerra said, tossing his half-full beer bottle at the man. “I want to know who he is and how he knew we were going to show up.”

“We can find all that out, jefe,” Maragos replied. “But how do we find out how he knew about our plans to hit the park?”

“What, you some kind of clown or something?” Guerra asked. “Obviously, we still got a snitch on the inside somewhere. We got someone who likes to run their mouth—” he flapped his thumb against his fingers “—the minute that they see a cop. It means that somebody probably had to be helping Ysidro. Maybe it’s even one of you homeboys.”

Maragos bristled at the suggestion. “Hey, listen, homeboy, I know you’re in charge and all, but there ain’t no way I’m going to let you accuse me of something without some proof.” Maragos dropped his hand to where he could easily reach the piece he kept at the small of his back. “Ain’t no way, jefe. Sí?”

“Okay, okay,” Guerra said. He sat back down and shook his head. “I ain’t going to accuse you of nothing. I wasn’t going to do that, homeboy.”

Maragos nodded and relaxed his hand. There were rules in the organization; it was a necessity for the kind of place it was. Every moment a homeboy had to be looking over his shoulder, watching not only for trouble from outsiders but from within the organization. Every member had to prove himself in a grueling initiation that included not only a thirteen second beat down by other members, but also by doing something to prove his loyalty. For the females it might be just taking a beat down, or maybe having sex with a number of the ranking vatos. In other cases it might be doing a strong-arm robbery, selling drugs or even participating in a hit with other members.

Whatever the case, the motto of the gang was simple: Being in MS-13 Will Land You in the Cemetery, the Hospital or Prison. The rules were designed to enhance solidarity and prevent a breakdown in the structure of the gang. This code of conduct included rules for how to deal with defectors and dissidents, rules like “you rat, you die” and “everything belongs to the gang,” and the context of those rules made it just as serious an infraction to accuse someone of being unfaithful to MS-13 without proof, simply because the penalties for betrayal were so severe. It was their code, their creed, and nobody—not even a shot-caller—was above the rules.

“Do any of you homeboys have any idea where this guy came from? Who he’s working for?” Guerra asked more calmly.

“My informant says he might be working with the federales,” Maragos replied. “He might also be a local on loan from the Virgins.”

Guerra smiled at their own internal reference to the gang task force of the state, a unit that had been the bane of the Hillbangers’ existence since its formation. After the death of the traitor in 2001 and subsequent imprisonment of the leader who ordered her execution, Guerra had taken over as shot-caller for the Hillbangers. He ordered them to lie low and let enough time pass so that the task force became convinced it had made a difference. In the meantime, the MS-13 had opened up a brand-new operation—alien smuggling from regions all over Central America. This endeavor had become quite lucrative while they moved drug running and robbery to the status of “last resort,” a sort of subset of secondary operations due to the increased risk since the Virgins started cracking down on them.

“I don’t think so,” Guerra finally said. “That limp dick, Smalley, doesn’t have the guts to come face-to-face with us. He has to be from the Feds.”

“This chingada is dangerous, jefe,” said Jocoté Barillas, another lieutenant. “He uses bombs and machine guns.”

Guerra stood, walked to Barillas and gently patted the side of his face with a sardonic chuckle. He then looked at each of them as he said, “So do we. I want you to find this man, you got me? You find him and you bury him. Otherwise, you’ll have to contend with Le Gango Jefe, sí?”

Yes, they understood the threat all too well. Every shot-caller was the leader of his particular unit and any territory they covered. But they in turn answered to the Leader of the Gang—in this case, the nameless entity who controlled every last bit of action from his headquarters in El Salvador. A multijurisdictional force of law agents had attempted many times to bring down Le Gango Jefe, and each time they had failed. Nobody in MS-13, anywhere in the world, operated without this man’s approval. Mara Salvatrucha Trece’s ultimate goal was to be the largest and most powerful gang in the world. That took more than just whipping up a bunch of vatos to do business and pledge their loyalty. It took organization and planning, and that’s what Le Gango Jefe brought to the table.

As a shot-caller, every one of Guerra’s lieutenants knew he had a direct access to the top man. They also knew it wouldn’t bode well for any of them if Guerra had to make a phone call to this man and tell him they had failed in their mission to bring down the federale who had killed ten of their homeboys. Ultimately, Guerra was trying to help them by making it clear that it would look much better for them all if they handled this problem internally with local resources before it got out of control.

“I don’t care what you have to do, homeboys, I want you to bring him down. And do it now.”

“Okay, Mario, we’ll find him,” Maragos promised.

“Then why are you still here?” he said, clapping his hands and then jerking both thumbs toward the door. “Come on, essás. Vámonos!”

Each acknowledged him with the standard gang sign that spelled out MS-13 and then hit the door in a hurry. He watched them go out and then went to the fridge and pulled a fresh beer from the stash there. He took a long pull from the forty-ounce bottle and then looked out his tenement window onto the dusky cityscape. Somewhere out there, he knew, the enemy was searching for him. He’d narrowly escaped confinement for life in prison, and while such things were a part of the risk he took, the idea of spending his youth behind concrete walls and steel bars didn’t hold much appeal.

He needed to keep a cool head and plan his next move. They needed to find this cop or special agent and do him right. He’d spilled the blood of ten homeboys, soldiers operating under Guerra’s orders, and with that single action this pinche had signed his own death warrant. Maragos was good, one of the best, really. He would find the man and do what needed to be done. And then Guerra could bring his son and wife out here where they would be safe. He would be able to protect them here then.

And then he could begin to put his plan in motion. A plan to rule all of the East Coast—a plan to rule a society.

AFTER BOLAN LEFT police headquarters, he drove straight to the MS-13 key operations area Smalley had pointed out to him and booked a room in a run-down motel just two miles south of Dulles Toll Road. The elderly toothless Hispanic woman behind the grimy counter in the motel office had been quite pleased to take Bolan’s nice, crisp hundred-dollar bill for his two-night stay—especially when he advised her to keep the change.

Once the Executioner had settled in, he attached an anti-listening device to the phone and then dialed a long number from memory. There were three beeps, a signal the connection had been rerouted and secured from any type of bugging or other electronic surveillance technologies, and then Aaron Kurtzman’s voice came over the line.

“How’s it going?” Kurtzman said.

“I started with a real bang,” Bolan quipped.

“Well, your man Jack’s been here for a couple of hours now, chomping at the bit. You want to talk to him?”

“Sure.”

“What’s shaking, Sarge?” Jack Grimaldi’s voice greeted him. Grimaldi was Stony Man’s ace pilot and a Bolan ally.

“Hey, Jack,” Bolan replied. “Thanks for being on standby. I know you just got back from a mission.”

“Hey! You know I’m always ready to fly a mission for you, Sarge. You keep things interesting.”

“Don’t I. Hal gave you the rundown of the mission parameters?”

“He did,” Grimaldi said. “I imagined you had your hands full right at the moment, so I figured to get a couple hours’ sleep before heading to Dulles. I’ll be ready by the time you want to leave for Los Angeles.”

“You read my mind, ace. I’ll call when I’m on my way there.”

“Understood. Okay, Hal and Barb are waiting in the ops center for you, so I’ll transfer you now.”

The men said their goodbyes, and then Brognola’s voice came on a moment later. “What happened to that dull roar?”

Bolan couldn’t see Brognola’s expression, but the kidding tone caused him to receive the statement as nothing more than a good-natured jibe. “I only blew up one car.”

Brognola laughed. “That is pretty mild in comparison to most of your fireworks displays.”

“Agreed. I’m sorry to report Mario Guerra wasn’t among them, but then I wouldn’t expect a weasel like that to get his own hands dirty.”

“We heard about your run-in with Smalley,” Price said. “You need us to run some interference?”

“No, we’re good. Smalley’s actually not difficult to handle once you get to talking with the guy. Basically he wants the same thing we do.”

“Peace in the valley?”

“Right.”

“What about the increased gang activity of late?” Brognola asked. “Did he have any explanations?”

“It looks like a matter of sheer numbers. This Northern Virginia Gang Task Force has lost much of the funding they had early on, which tells me once the crackdown started MS-13 chilled out until some of the heat was off. He also said they’ve had a big influx of illegal immigrants into the area lately.”

“What’s lately?” Price inquired.

“Last couple of years or so,” Bolan replied. “My guess is that MS-13 has something to do with that, as well.”

“You think it’s a diversionary tactic?” Brognola asked.

“Possibly, Hal, although I wouldn’t put it past them to use it as a way of subsidizing their more illicit activities. There’s been more focus on illegal immigration down on the border than in any other part of the country. If they flood the market with the poor and hungry masses, they can effectively choke the resources of the system. Before the government knows it, it’s got an epidemic on its hands with insufficient resources to combat such a disaster.”

“And under the scramble and panic, MS-13 can get busy once again with little interference,” Brognola concluded. “And the increased criminal activity would be blamed on the immigration problem.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s ingenious,” Price stated.

“Which tells me Marciano’s theory about someone calling the shots in El Salvador has merit. In fact, I’d be interested to know how many of the immigrants that have been detained by INS or incarcerated for criminal activity are from that region.”

“We can get Aaron and Barb on that pronto,” Brognola said.

“We’ll get started on it right away,” Price said. “Take care of yourself, Striker.”

“Wilco,” Bolan replied and then continued, “Hal, you might want to pull some strings and see what you can do about getting additional protection assigned to Marciano’s kids. If MS-13 tried to hit them once, they’ll try again and I don’t think Smalley has the manpower or resources to do an effective job of security with all the other things weighing him down right now.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Brognola assured him. “What else do you need?”

“That’s it for now. There’s no rush on the intelligence data regarding the immigration problem here. I’ve picked up some good leads from Smalley about Guerra’s area of operation here, and now I’m going to blitz them and see what I can churn up. Smalley’s agreed to run interference for me in the meantime, take some of the smaller piles off the streets so I can follow the trail of leftovers back to Guerra.”

“Fair enough,” Brognola replied. “We’ll get things happening at this end, and I’ll inform the Man you’re on the path to taking care of business.”

“Roger. Out here.”

Bolan disconnected the call and then set about the task of checking his equipment. Smalley had released the weapons and ordnance back to him without a fight, since his warrant only blanketed him for a search and a number of interagency memorandums of understanding precluded him from seizing anything he found.

Bolan stripped out of his dress clothes into a different kind of suit, one he knew to be most appropriate for the activities he planned over the next twenty-four hours. The skintight blacksuit and combat boots transformed the Executioner into an imposing figure. A military web belt encircled his waist, held in place by a pair of load-bearing suspenders. Various implements of war dangled from the harness, including the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in a hip holster, a garrote, Ka-Bar fighting knife and several M-67 fragmentation grenades. The Beretta 93-R nestled in a shoulder rig, and ammo pouches along the belt with magazines of 9 mm ammo completed the ensemble.

Bolan packed the rest of his belongings into the waterproof equipment bag, which he stowed in the trunk of the Mustang. He climbed behind the wheel—a tight squeeze given all the gear he wore—and then headed for a tavern that the intelligence computers of the NVGTF had advised had a back room where MS-13 conducted illegal gambling operations and sold narcotics.

The Executioner was headed into the den of troublemakers, and he planned to collect a debt.

In full.

4

Bolan seemed like a ghostly specter as he passed through the doorway of the tavern and walked calmly across the grimy floor headed directly for a back door marked Fire Exit ONLY!

Most of the patrons were seated at the door with their backs to him and so, under the din of happy hour, didn’t even notice the wraithlike form that moved past them with instruments of war dangling from every part of its imposing form. The bartender noticed, however, and reached beneath the bar to sound an alarm with one hand while using the other to scoop up a shotgun. Bolan saw the move in his peripheral vision.

In fact, he’d half expected it.

The Executioner whirled to face the threat as he reached for the Desert Eagle at his hip. He leveled the pistol at the bartender’s chest just as the guy brought his shotgun to bear. Bolan waited until he saw the bartender quickly jack the wooden pump on the gun, heard the clack as the motion fed a 12-gauge shell into the breech, before he steadied the muzzle on his target and squeezed the trigger. The slug left the pistol at a muzzle velocity of over 1,300 feet per second. The round punched through the bartender’s sternum, cracked the breast-bone, tore out his lower airway and blew out a part of his spine. The impact sent him crashing into the neat row of bottles behind him as he triggered a harmless round into the ceiling.

Pandemonium erupted inside the bar, with half the patrons dropping to the floor and the other half drawing knives or guns and searching for cover. Bolan didn’t wait to become a target for an overanxious shooter, instead putting his foot to the alleged fire exit door, a scenario he knew to be unlikely, since there was no safety bar or alarm visible. His intuition paid off as the door gave way to his imposing frame.

While the reaction of the gangbanger security force proved admirable, it wasn’t a match for the Executioner—he had surprise on his side.

Bolan took the closest target, a hood in a gray sweatshirt toting a machine pistol, and blew his skull apart with a double tap at the same moment he reached for a grenade on his LBE harness. Bolan found cover behind a large support pole as two other MS-13 soldiers opened on his position with Ingram MAC-10s. Their possession of such arcane weaponry surprised him but he filed it away for later consideration and primed his grenade. He let the spoon fly and counted three seconds of cook-off time before breaking cover and lobbing the bomb in the direction of the enemy gunners. The grenade exploded in midair, giving neither youth time to find cover. The shock wave from the high explosive charge separated an arm and head from one of the gangbangers while the other suffered a mouthful of fractured teeth and third degree burns across most of his upper body.

Bolan swept the muzzle of the Desert Eagle the breadth of the room and tracked on a fourth man who had escaped the full effect of the grenade. The gangbanger looked to be vying for a better position where he could flank Bolan but the room was sealed up tight as a drum, and he had nowhere to go. The crowd that had been inside gambling now rushed past Bolan and headed for the exit door. The Executioner ignored them, focused on neutralizing the threat at hand. The MS-13 gunner leveled his machine pistol at Bolan, but the soldier took him with a single round to the shoulder before the man got a shot off. The impact ripped a large hole through the meaty portion and knocked the weapon loose from the man’s grip.

Bolan swept the room once more with the smoking pistol but no further threats greeted him. He crossed the room where tables were overturned. Chips, cash, liquor and smoldering cigarettes had been strewed across the floor. Bolan vaulted the one table an MS-13 gangster had overturned and aimed the pistol point-blank at the surviving gunner’s forehead. He looked more like a kid than a grown man, with his acne-covered face and full head of slicked back hair, but Bolan marked him in his early twenties; yeah, definitely old enough to know better. He rolled on the floor, one hand covering his wounded shoulder, the blood oozing through his fingers and soaking his shirt sleeve as it left smudges on the floor around him.

“I have two questions for you,” Bolan said. “Answer them both truthfully and you live. Understand?”

The kid merely nodded.

“Question one. You work for Mario Guerra?”

“Sí… yes.”

“Good. Second question, did he order the hit on Gary Marciano?”

This time the kid said nothing. Bolan knew about the rules in the gang, that the penalty for informing on the gang with the cops was death. Frankly, Bolan didn’t see much difference from this kid’s point of view. If he ratted them out, they would surely hunt him down and kill him, and if he didn’t speak he was taking the chance Bolan would put a bullet through his head. While he might believe the latter or not, he could be certain that his homeys would kill him if he betrayed the code of silence.

“Check that,” Bolan said. “That’s not a fair question, so let’s try a different one. Suppose I wanted to buy some drugs. Where would I look?”

“Y-you don’t want to buy drugs.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Bolan replied. “But let’s just pretend that I do for a moment. Let’s say that I’m not asking you to give up anything you wouldn’t give up to some pimp or prostitute or coked up vagrant on the street. Right? Telling me where I can get some drugs isn’t giving anything up. You’d tell one of them, so you can tell me.”

“My homeboys will kill me if I say anything to you, man.”

Bolan put the hot muzzle of the gun against the kid’s cheek and kicked the kid’s hand away and stepped on his shoulder. “Let’s try it again. Where?”

The young man produced a blood-curdling scream and Bolan eased off the pressure. “Okay…okay!” the kid said between labored breaths. “Place is called Tres Hermanos, down on the strip east of here, borders Reston. It’s there…it’s there where you can buy. Now please, please stop!”

Bolan nodded and took his foot off the kid’s shoulder. He then reached to a medical pouch on his harness, withdrew a compress with bandage from it, tore open the thick paper wrapping with his teeth and quickly dressed the youth’s wound. He then stripped the kid of belt and shoes, checked him for any hidden weapons and then cleared out of there. Back in the main bar area, all the patrons had vacated the place and Bolan could hear sirens in the distance. He checked his watch, deciding not to hit the club right away. He wanted to give the cops a little time to catch up. For now, he would get a quick bite and then go visit this Tres Hermanos, see what kind of flies he could attract to the web.

The war had begun and time—for Mario Guerra—was running out.

BOLAN JUST FINISHED the last bite of his meal when the cellular phone on the seat next to him rang.

The Executioner wiped his fingers on a napkin before growling a short greeting into the receiver.

“Cooper, it’s Smalley,” the chief replied.

“Yeah.”

“I thought we had a deal, pal.”

“And what was that?”

“I thought you weren’t going to start shooting up my town.”

“I never said that,” Bolan replied. “And besides, it was only one rat hole I shot up in your town. I’m sure nobody will miss the business. You found my little greeting card?”

“The wounded banger?”

“That’s the one.”

“I did,” Smalley said. He let out a sigh and added, “But he lawyered up as soon as we read him his rights, so I don’t think he’s going to be talking to us any time soon.”

“I didn’t have any trouble getting the information I wanted from him.”

“Yeah, we heard all about that. First from the punk, then his attorney, and probably from the ACLU and a half-dozen other agencies in time for the early-morning edition of the Washington Post.”

“I needed to confirm a couple tidbits of intelligence and he was happy to cooperate,” Bolan said. “Now if you’re done, I have some new information. That Hillbanger admitted he was operating under orders from Mario Guerra. He also gave up the main location of this drug operation they’ve been running. And I ran your immigration problem by my own people. We think we’ve got a logical argument that the increased illegal immigrants are actually a pipeline opened by some heavy hitters overseeing MS-13 operations all through this country. I believe they’ve been using the pipeline to divert your attention away from their other activities.”

“In other words, you think they’ve been just waiting us out,” Smalley concluded.

“You nailed it.”

“Damn! I can’t believe we would have fallen for something like that!”

“Don’t beat up on yourself too much, Smalley,” Bolan replied easily. “There wasn’t any way you could’ve known, and even if you did, there was even less you could do about it. That whole thing falls into INS’s lap, and whoever’s overseeing MS-13 operations at the national level knows how bureaucratically mired that agency is.”

“So you really think there’s an overboss in this,” Smalley said matter-of-factly. “Like some kind of godfather of the Mara Salvatrucha?”

“I don’t know for sure yet, but I have some evidence from an operation Marciano was running under the table that strongly suggests it.”

“So now what?”

“Now,” Bolan said, his eyes returning to the restaurant’s entrance, “I follow up this lead the Hillbanger gave me on the drug operation. I’m betting it will take me directly to where Mario Guerra’s holed up.”

“Well, I’ve started deploying every available man to sweep the neighborhoods and get as many Hillbangers off the streets as possible.”

“Did you get anything from the first prisoner I took from the hit at the park this afternoon?”

“He’s still in recovery from the surgery. That shot did some major damage to his leg. In fact, doctors say he might lose it altogether. Apparently there was a lot of nerve damage and it was difficult to repair.”

“Wish I could feel bad, but I don’t,” Bolan replied.

“I’m sure,” Smalley said. “We’re not shedding any tears, either. We’ve had him up on charges a number of times, but he always managed to beat the rap. Guess he’s not bulletproof, though.”

“They usually aren’t.”

“All right, Cooper, I got to go. But just keep in mind that my men are out there trying to help you, so try not to accidentally shoot one of them.”

“Like I said, I’m very cautious. Just keep them away from Tres Hermanos for the next hour.”

Bolan killed the call and returned his full attention to the scene before him. While talking to Smalley, he’d watched a number of vehicles park in the lot and produce occupants who didn’t appear to be anything more than legitimate patrons. The Executioner knew looks could be deceiving, and he’d begun to wonder if the MS-13 gangster had sent him on a wild-goose chase, yet something in his gut told him to wait it out. If the restaurant did serve as a front to their drug sales operations, it wasn’t like they would go about advertising the fact to the casual observer.

As if on cue, Bolan observed a late model BMW pull to the curb in front of the entrance and drop off two men seated in the back. Both of them were dressed in nice clothes and wore lots of jewelry—the dark sunglasses seemed particularly strange for the time of evening. The BMW’s driver then pulled away and turned into the lot to wait while the pair of tough-looking customers made their way inside.

Bingo.

The Executioner left the Mustang he’d parked across the street and approached the BMW waiting in its blind spot. When he’d gone half the distance, he saw a spark and flicker through the back window. A moment later, the driver stuck his hand out the side and Bolan could just make out the pinpoint glow of a cigarette cherry. The soldier continued toward the BMW until he was within a few feet and drew the Beretta from shoulder leather. He reached out and grabbed the driver’s wrist while simultaneously sliding his gun hand under the man’s triceps and pulling backward, using the arm as a lever for which he could quite effectively control the driver.

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