Devil's Playground. Don Pendleton

Because I’m not six foot three and two hundred pounds?”

      “Because a face like yours is hard to miss,” Bolan countered.

      She slid on horn-rimmed glasses. Combined with the tautly pulled bun of hair, and a lack of makeup or jewelry, any resemblance between the creature in front of the Executioner and the finely attired beauty he’d met that morning was tenuous. Bolan knew the maneuver well. Role camouflage. He had been able to pass himself off as a harmless reporter to a hardened, desperate thug looking for brute work in the past, blending into underworlds across the globe. Accepted as an Irish terrorist by the Islamic jihad or an Italian businessman in Greece, Bolan had slid through enemy expectations by playing on their perceptions. Disguise was more than makeup and prosthetics, it was body posture, tone of voice, and even gestures.

      Bolan didn’t want Anibella along for the ride, though. She would cramp his style, especially if he picked up a lead. And there was the problem of contacting Blanca Asado, and sorting out the stories of the two women. His gut trusted Asado, but he wasn’t infallible. Anibella’s facility at changing her colors like a chameleon was worrying and concerning, especially how she seemed to try to manipulate him, but until Bolan had solid evidence, he couldn’t really act against her, especially if he wanted to make use of her resources in his crusade to bring cleansing flame to Acapulco.

      “I’ll be behind bullet-resistant glass and armor plate, and can go zero to sixty in 5.6 seconds with the 4WD,” the first lady told him. “They might not miss me, but they won’t be able to punch through.”

      “Why you and not an agent?” Bolan pressed.

      “Because this is the second time that these animals have come close enough to me to shoot me. I’ve been working too hard to clean up this state, and now it’s personal. I want this place to ditch its seedy reputation, and I want to put anyone between me and the perfect paradise in the ground,” the woman stated. “You’ve been shot at. There’s no doubt of that.”

      “It’s my job,” Bolan explained.

      “Job? Or duty?” Anibella asked.

      “So you’re driven?” Bolan asked. “What about earlier? Sharing a shower doesn’t sound like someone on a crusade.”

      Anibella’s hazel eyes narrowed to razor slits. Rage radiated from her in palpable waves.

      “I was just checking to see if you thought with your dick,” she growled. “You blunted some of my best efforts, so you passed my trustworthiness test.”

      “I see. If I’d been weak enough to get naked with you, then I’d be too incompetent to take on the cartel,” Bolan mused.

      “Not incompetent,” Anibella said, softening slightly. “But too easily distracted.”