Devil's Playground. Don Pendleton

it. The care package was inside an oversize purse. She slid her own, smaller bag, complete with her snub-nosed revolver, into it. The “hobo bag” was stylish despite its plain appearance, meaning it fit in and was ubiquitous, not drawing a second glance. Inside the bottom of the voluminous purse was a hard-cased blue plastic container, probably holding a gun and some spare magazines, judging by the weight. She also noticed a small canvas money belt, and a brand-new cellular phone, with a plastic-bag-wrapped charging cradle.

      The cash wasn’t something she needed, but she couldn’t leave it somewhere and trust that it wouldn’t be used to hurt Cooper’s allies back home. If she got to meet with him in person, she’d give him back the money belt.

      Getting in her car, she popped open the plastic case. Inside, a stainless-steel Springfield Armory XD-9 stared back at her. A magazine was in the well, and three loaded 15-round magazines were nestled in the case. She took it out and did a quick press check, and partially dumped the mag. All told, she had 61 shots. There would be no fumbling with the slide-mounted catch to get it to fire. It was ready to go with a smooth, crisp 5-pound pull with a lightning-fast reset. Safe, and as sturdy as a bank vault, the stainless-steel XD-9 wasn’t a concealment weapon, but it would pull her through gunfights in environments that would choke anything but an AK-47. Its polymer frame would allow it to weigh lightly in its waistband holster, as well. With the stainless-steel and plastic components of the weapon, the Croatian-designed, American-built pistol was rustproof and needed minimal maintenance.

      She was well protected. The cell phone was innocuous, but on opening it, she noticed that it took a direct satellite signal. It had ports to hook to Diceverde’s laptop using the Universal Serial Bus 2.0 hookup now en vogue in electronics. The USB cable would give her a connection at a whim, so if Cooper’s information crew had computer data to send her, she’d get entire files at thousands of kilobytes per second, as fast as the satellite signal fed the phone, and the phone’s processors pumped the data into the laptop, or any computer she needed access to.

      She pressed the 1 key and hit Send. The woman who spoke to her before answered immediately.

      “You’ve got our package?” she asked.

      “Yup,” Asado answered. “This phone’s secure?”

      “It would take an encryption program 1300 years to break the security on that thing,” Price answered.

      “Then we’d better keep these calls short.”

      There was a genuine chuckle on the other end. “I’ll inform Cooper that you have a secure means of contact.”

      “He’s hanging around with Anibella Brujillo, lady. She’ll be all over him like flies on caca,” Asado replied. “Especially if she thinks that he might have been in contact with me.”

      “Not good news,” Price responded. “We’ll do what we can. I’ve already put your number on his sat-phone directory. If he gets a moment’s freedom, he’ll make direct contact. You can keep it active while it sits in the charger cradle.”

      “Thanks,” Asado said. “Over and out.”

      “WE JUST GOT IN TOUCH with Blanca Asado,” Barbara Price told Bolan over the phone. “We hooked her up with a secure line of communication with you.”

      Bolan replied with an “Uh-huh” over the phone, not providing Anibella Brujillo with any information as to the content of his conversation.

      “You have an audience?” Price asked.

      “I’m just in conference with the first lady. We’re going over some locations where the cartels might be staging their assassination attempts,” Bolan explained. “Can I get some satellite observation?”

      “Absolutely, Striker,” Price responded. “Asado doesn’t think you should trust her, though.”

      “Good. I’ll scan and send you the addresses First Lady Brujillo is giving me,” Bolan stated.

      “Please,” the governor’s wife said, resting her long, delicate fingers on Bolan’s thigh. “Call me Anibella.”

      Bolan raised an eyebrow, pointed to the phone, then shook his head. Anibella winked, her fingernails trailing streaks of sensual fire down the Executioner’s thigh. He couldn’t deny the stirring of her contact, but his face remained a cold, emotionless mask. If anything, Bolan’s emotional resolve only seemed to bring on more smoldering attention from the beautiful ex-singer. Her fingertips trailed off Bolan’s knee and she leaned back, crossing her leg, the hem of her skirt crawling along its smooth, lean length.

      “We’ll download real-time satellite imagery to your laptop, Striker,” Price said. “When will you need the data?”

      “Give me a few hours to rest and recuperate,” Bolan responded. “I’ll make my move at sundown.”

      That elicited a few fractions of an inch more from the first lady. Her middle finger glided across the neckline of her blouse, exposing a half inch more of her tanned, soft breasts.

      “Just be careful, Striker,” Price responded. Though she didn’t have a video feed through Bolan’s cell phone, she could hear Anibella Brujillo’s come-on over the sensitive microphone, and the cold professionalism in his voice. There was a battle of wills going on, the first lady and the Executioner feeling each other out in conversation, innuendo, and perhaps even physical contact. “We don’t need the governor upset with you.”

      Bolan hung up on Price. He didn’t need to dignify her last remark. It was less a catty jab at his ego than it was an admonition of concern for the deadly waters he was wading in.

      “Rest and recuperation?” Anibella asked, her eyebrow rising over one hazel jewel of an iris.

      “It’s what I mean it to be. I’ve been up all night and have been involved in several combative actions since last night,” Bolan replied. He pocketed the cell phone. “Do you have any quarters for me to wash up and take a short nap? All I need is a spigot and a comfortable chair.”

      Anibella’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly, but she chuckled to hide her disappointment. “This is the governor’s mansion, Señor Cooper.”

      She extended her hand to him and he took it tentatively. She guided him, launching into a practiced tour-guide speech, talking about the guest rooms and facilities that the grand home had for visitors and residents alike.

      “I personally have gone to great lengths to ensure that guest accommodations are the equal of the highest-rated hotels on the beach,” Anibella stated, her arm now crooked with his. She was tall, and her shoulder came up to the bottom peak of muscle that slid between Bolan’s biceps and triceps muscles. She was only a fist’s height shorter than the big American, wearing three-inch heels that she walked on with the grace and deliberation of a black widow. “Your quarters will not only have full high-speed satellite Internet connection to run a full office out of, but all the comforts of home.”

      She lowered her voice, thick-lashed lids drooping seductively over her eyes. “Wherever that may be.”

      Bolan shrugged, loosening her grip on his forearm. “I have a couple of places, but they’re strictly utilitarian. I’m on the road too much to lay down roots.”

      Anibella grinned. “You’re always welcome in Casa Brujillo.”

      Bolan stopped at the door. His laptop case and war bag hung from his left hand, and he disentangled his right arm from Anibella’s to open the guest room. “Send me horchata and a burrito, carne asada.”

      “Legitimate or North American fast-food style?” Brujillo asked.

      “Legitimate. I’ll take a shower while I wait.”

      “Would you care for some company?” Anibella asked.

      “I’m a man who usually stays away from married women.”

      Anibella Brujillo smiled widely. “I’ll have to work on that ‘usually.’”

      “I’m