State Of War. Don Pendleton

down with half a glass of wine and tried not to vomit at the stench pervading his beach house retreat. It radiated off the visitors sitting on his couch. Through his haze of pain, he was thinking he would have to have the sofa disinfected. He might just have to have the whole house fumigated. He might just have to move.

      Salami’s guest of honor hid his features under a hoodie, hat, sunglasses and a bandanna. A woman who looked like a Latina vampire-stripper who had been buried alive for a hundred years sat beside him. From what little Salami had gleaned, she was Cocosino’s “handler,” and few steps farther from the grave than he was. She wore a black turtleneck sweater despite the heat.

      Salami tossed back the rest of his glass and poured himself another. “So, you saw him? You saw El Hombre?”

      The wraparound dark glasses focused on the amber prescription bottle on the coffee table. Cocosino’s voice was a tuberculotic rasp. “What’s that? Percocet?”

      “Yeah, doctor’s orders.”

      A horrible sound came out from under the bandanna that Salami realized was laughter. “I got something that will make you feel a lot better.”

      Salami cringed in horror. “No, man, I’m good. El Hombre? You saw him?”

      “Saw him. Tagged him. I like him.”

      “You like him?”

      “You know, people think I’m just a degenerate junkie.”

      Salami withheld comment.

      “And I am a degenerate junkie, but I am not just a degenerate junkie.”

      The gangbanger wanted more wine and drugs, but he didn’t want to appear weak. “Oh?”

      “I think about things. I have lots of time to think. I’ve read the newspapers. I watch TV and heard what they’re saying on the street. I’ve listened to what you and others have told me.”

      “Yeah?”

      “There’s an El Hombre who’s rampaged through Mexico on several occasions.”

      “I’ve heard that.”

      Cocosino cocked his masked, rotting head in question. “Did you know the first time I fixed on krokodil, I bought it from you?”

      Salami flinched so hard it hurt his cracked joints.

      “Anyway, this El Hombre, I think he has a real problem with shedding innocent blood. He’s got a code. I watched him and Master Sergeant Kaino. It’s like some bad buddy movie. They have a code.”

      “So what are you saying?”

      “So I want to give them a surprise. Something they’re not going to like. Something they have no answer for.”

      “Yeah?”

      Cocosino turned his mummy-wrapped head. “Delilah.”

      Delilah leaned forward, and the stench coming off her was unbearable. She slid a piece of paper across the coffee table. Salami stared at the laundry list. “¡Madre de Dios!”

      “It’s not too much to ask,” Cocosino rasped. “Considering.”

      “Okay, give me a day or two and—”

      “I need it by tonight.”

      Salami nearly strangled on his wine. “And what are you going to do with all this shit?”

      “I’m going to give El Hombre something that will haunt his dreams, even if he survives it.”

      “And how are you going to find him again?”

      “There’s something in the paint I tagged his car with. Something that satellites can see and people can’t.”

      Salami stared at the rotting killer on his couch. “You have a satellite watching El Hombre?”

      Delilah smiled and spoke for the first time.

      “No, but someone else who wants him dead does.”

      West Miami

      T HE KEY WAS UNDER the gnome.

      Special Agent Savacool could cook. Kaino happily held out his plate for a second chicken-fried steak. “You know, I really like breakfast for dinner.”

      “Most men do,” Savacool agreed. She seemed to appreciate men with hearty appetites. Her great-aunt’s abode was a solid, brick house of Shaker-style built in the housing boom after World War II. Savacool had kept with the clean simple lines of the builder but added all modern appurtenances. The river was close by. A pleasing breeze blew off it and Savacool had opened up the house to receive it. The houses on the winding lane were few and far apart, and none had fences. The streetlights were few, ancient and dim. Spanish moss hung from the huge live oaks in swaths of Southern Gothic glory.

      Savacool smiled as Bolan finished his meal. “You like fried steak?”

      “Haven’t had one since the last time I was in Argentina.”

      Savacool cocked her head. “How do they do it?”

      “Well, there’s no gravy or biscuits. They fry it in oil and squeeze lemons on it. Usually have French fries on the side.”

      Savacool made a noise. “Savages.”

      “They’ll put fried eggs on top if you ask.”

      “Well, at least that’s progress.”

      Kaino suddenly snapped his head up. “You smell that?”

      Bolan snuffed the air. “What?”

      Savacool’s face contracted in disgust. “Oh, yeah, I was in New York in 2010 for the blooming of the corpse flower. It just about knocked me off my feet. Nice nose, Kaino.”

      “I’m a gourmet and a gourmand, man. My nose takes me where I need to go.” Kaino pulled one of his .357s.

      Bolan caught the sent of rotting mammal on the breeze and what lay beneath it. He rose and pulled his Beretta. “Iodine. Cocosino is here.”

      Kaino took out his second .357. “Go for the head. Nothing else will stop him.”

      “No.” It sickened Bolan to say it, but Cocosino was one of their few active leads. “Take his legs off if you can. I want him alive, and if he really is a krokodil addict, twenty-four hours without a fix will leave him willing to tell us anything we want to know.”

      Savacool pulled her .40-caliber FBI-issue Glock and checked the load by reflex. “Hardcore, Cooper.”

      Bolan took in the architecture. “Fuse box in the basement?”

      “Yes.”

      “Let’s kill the lights before he does and call 9-1-1.” Bolan sniffed the air again. The stench was becoming more powerful. It was unfortunate that all the windows and doors were open. “Be careful coming back up. If he’s close enough to smell, he’ll be in the house in moments.”

      Savacool ran at a crouch to kill the lights. Bolan and Kaino stayed low and reached into their gear bags.

      Kaino sniffed the air and nearly gagged. “Jesus, it smells like a dead wildebeest rotting on the savannah!”

      “Didn’t know you were a poet, Kaino.”

      “Yeah, well, you know.” Kaino pulled his NVG on top of his head and nearly gagged again.

      Bolan had been exposed to dead bodies that ranged from fresh to mummified and every shade in between. It had long ago lost any power over his nose or his stomach. But Kaino was right. The stench was so strong it was almost anomalous.

      The lights cut out. Bolan and Kaino pulled down their NVGs. A second later the agent’s voice spoke softly at the top of the stairs. “Savacool.”

      “Clear.”

      Savacool crouched