Mission: Apocalypse. Don Pendleton

is still considered the old alma mater of Mexican crime and being acknowledged as boss there has prestige. On top of that Amilcar wasn’t popular. No one is crying over him.”

      “What’s the situation on the coast like?”

      “The Mexican Navy and Coast Guard are watching for Varjo’s boat, but they figured whoever stole it went out to sea and are burning north. They’re putting up a cordon around Baja.”

      “No mention of Memo officially or otherwise?”

      “You caught a break on that one. Anyone who recognized him during your raid on Amilcar’s place is currently deceased. The police are looking for two suspects, a yanqui vaguely matching your description, a man described as little more than a Mexican national, and unfortunately Señora Najelli Busto is wanted by name for questioning.”

      Bolan had been afraid of that. Amilcar had undoubtedly bragged about his impending conquest and there had been survivors in the battle on the river. “She and her family are going to need asylum in the United States.”

      “We’re already putting in the paperwork, Striker.”

      “Thanks, Bear.”

      “What have you got on your end?”

      “Somehow Amilcar got a hold of all of Memo’s old routes and contacts. How is still a mystery. Apparently Dominico took pains to cover his tracks when he got out of the life. He says he doesn’t know how this could happen.”

      Kurtzman frowned on the video link. “You think Dominico is lying?”

      “If I was reading this in a report I’d say yes, but I’ve been hanging with him for three days now. He’s had his chances to turn on me or make a break for it, and unless he’s one hell of an actor he is genuinely mystified and appalled at what’s happened to his old machine. He sure as hell wasn’t faking his reaction to the men with radiation sickness at Camp One.”

      Kurtzman sighed unhappily. “We’ve heard from Dr. Corso. The surviving radiation victims have died.”

      Bolan shook his head. “I don’t suppose they got any information out of them?”

      “Sorry, Striker. They never woke up.”

      “What did the interrogation team get out of Pinto Salcido?”

      “Not much more than he already told you. Whoever is behind all this kept him pretty ignorant. We’re going to have to figure they have cutouts all the way up the chain. The good news is the team did work up some pretty decent police sketches from his descriptions of the men who took the material off his hands. I’m sending them now.”

      Bolan clicked on the jpeg files and three police sketches appeared on the screen. The first was Caucasian. His receding hair, beard and mustache had all been trimmed to a matching one-millimeter of stubble. His nose was broken and he had a lateral scar going through his left eyebrow. The stats read six feet and two hundred pounds and he smelled like muscle to Bolan. The second sketch was of a Mexican man sporting dark glasses, a short mullet, sideburns and a Vandyke beard. He was two inches shorter and twenty pounds heavier than the first suspect. The third man was thin-faced, with a long nose and curly black hair pulled into a short ponytail. Bolan had to agree with Pinto Salcido’s initial impression. The two Caucasians definitely smelled Euro. “We get anything on the descriptions?”

      “No, but we’re distributing them to the border patrol and posting them at all U.S. checkpoints. Homeland Security is sending them to all the airports. We can expect full distribution within forty-eight hours.”

      It wasn’t enough. The material could switch hands anytime before the attempt was made to smuggle it into the United States, and it was anyone’s guess whether that would be by land, sea or air. The opposition would have to be complete idiots to have the same three men try to ride the material all the way, and Bolan had the feeling he wasn’t dealing with stupid men. At the moment the suspects were most likely bribing their way across Mexico, where they didn’t already have complicit help from the authorities.

      Kurtzman read Bolan’s mind. “Speaking of the authorities, we’ve been getting increasingly urgent messages from Colonel Llosa. He wants to know where you are and what information you’ve acquired.”

      Bolan had weighing that option. Colonel Cesar Llosa was a Mexican Special Forces commander and a twenty-year veteran of the war on drugs. The Mexican cartels had a five-million-dollar bounty on his head and numerous attempts to collect had been made. He had surrounded himself with a cadre of men personally loyal to him. Bolan trusted the colonel, and if Bolan needed helicopters and Mexican Military assistance Llosa would be the man to go through. The problem was that Mexico was riddled with corruption from top to bottom, including the police and the military. The minute Colonel Llosa and his strike teams left Camp One in force, everyone would know it, and any move Bolan made in coordination risked being leaked somewhere along the line.

      At the end of the day? The best chance Bolan had was to continue acting independently and try to make the intercept happen in Mexico.

      “Tell Colonel Llosa I’m operating in the field and I’ll send him a full report ASAP.”

      “Okay, but he won’t like it. What’s your next move?”

      “Memo took a bullet and lost some blood. As soon as he wakes up, we’re going to figure the most likely route the materials would have taken based on his old smuggling machine and what we know about Amilcar. I need extraction out of Altata, and I want to avoid any roadblocks or checkpoints. I need a plane with a legit flight plan in and out of here. Oh, and there isn’t landing strip anywhere nearby.”

      “Way ahead of you, Striker. Jack is on his way to your position in a floatplane as we speak. ETA is two and half to three hours. Sit tight. Get some rest. He should be there right around dawn.”

      “Thanks, Bear. Striker out.”

      Bolan stepped out onto the patio. Dominico was blissfully snoring away. Busto was smoking and staring out at the lagoon. She turned and gave him a smile out of her battered face. “We leaving?”

      “Not yet. I have a friend bringing a plane. We have an ETA of about two hours.” Bolan stretched and grabbed a bottle of water from the bucket. “I’ll watch if you want to go in and grab some shut-eye.”

      “You know, I would rather go stick my feet in the water.” Busto gave Bolan a sad, mutilated smile. “Culiacán is only fifty-five meters above sea level, and only eighty kilometers from the sea, but most people there have never seen the Pacific. I love the water, but like most people in the city I almost never go.”

      Bolan dropped his water back in the bucket and grabbed two bottles of beer. “Whatever baby wants, baby gets.”

      “You say all the right things.”

      Bolan kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, and he and Busto walked down to the water. The night breeze off the Pacific was the best thing that had happened to either of them in the last twenty-four hours. “Najelli is a beautiful name,” Bolan mused. “Is it Aztec?”

      “Very good. It is Aztec.” Busto beamed at Bolan. “You even pronounced it correctly.”

      “What does it mean?”

      “Love.”

      “Nice.” Bolan stepped into the surf and the waters of the Pacific lapped around his ankles. Busto followed him into the water. They walked a few dozen yards until they came upon a hump of rock sticking up out the water and sat down. They spent long moments silently sipping beer and looking up at the stars. Busto spoke very quietly. “I can’t go back home, can I?”

      “No, there are too many people who know you were at Amilcar’s when he was killed. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity in Culiacán, but Varjo was a made man. Now he’s dead and the cartels know you were involved.”

      “So, what happens to me and my family?”

      “Witness protection. I’ll set you up.”