Devil's Playground. Don Pendleton

out of the cab. The Mexican riding shotgun with him was slumped, coughing up blood from lethal injuries. There was no way that Bolan could treat the horrific wounds inflicted by the powerful rifle. He unleathered the Desert Eagle and ended the gunman’s suffering with a 240-grain skull smasher. He pushed the corpse out of the cab and started the truck.

      The Border Patrol agents, hundreds of yards away, had gotten out of their vehicle, watching in consternation. They’d just seen nearly a dozen men who’d tried to kill them left dead or wounded on the desert sand, their black-clad savior commandeering the Mexican truck to take up pursuit.

      Bolan hated to leave the patrolmen in the lurch, their vehicle destroyed. He opened his satellite phone, linking up to Stony Man Farm.

      “Bear, send a recovery team. We have two Border Patrol agents who’ll have a long walk unless they get a new ride,” the Executioner said. He slipped on a pair of night-vision goggles so that he could watch the road without resorting to headlights, which would betray to the escaping enemy that they were being hunted.

      “We’re on it. Satellite imagery is following the remaining truck, if you should lose it,” Aaron Kurtzman responded.

      “Not likely,” Bolan returned. “I put the fear of hell itself into them. The enemy driver is plowing up countryside as if there were no tomorrow.”

      “ETA for the pickup on your agents is about five minutes. Satellite imagery shows that they’re unharmed. Both are moving around normally.”

      “Great news,” Bolan said. “I hated to blow the element of surprise, but I couldn’t just stand by and let two lawmen be murdered.”

      “Now we get to see where the rabbits hole up,” Kurtzman told him. “You were right, though, Striker. They couldn’t be easier to track if they had a neon sign on them.”

      The Mexicans’ truck bounced and charged across the terrain several hundred yards away from Bolan’s vehicle. Finally, the two-and-a-half-ton truck swerved. It almost tipped again, two wheels rising a couple of feet into the air, but the driver recovered the vehicle’s balance.

      “They’re on a road now, Striker,” Kurtzman informed him.

      Bolan eased his “borrowed” ride onto the road with far more grace than his quarry. Though the road was paved, there were no lights along it, or even rails on either side, just soft, gravel-filled shoulders. The fewer lights, the better. He didn’t need his terrorized prey to realize that he was still with them. As it was, he let off the gas enough to increase the gap.

      Judging by the speed and distance traveled, they’d already gone twenty miles past the Arizona-Mexico border. The G3 and the powerful Barret M-98 rested on the bloody seat, in case he was being drawn into a trap. It was hours from dawn. Hopefully, he’d arrive at his intended destination before sunrise so that he could make a covert insertion.

      If not, Bolan would do the best he could, even in broad daylight, though he doubted that his quarry had much farther to go. Already, they had dropped from nearly eighty miles an hour to half that. Bolan matched their speed, and saw them turn onto another road. There was a sign at the intersection. The Executioner paused long enough to read that the road led to an Army base.

      “What’s the status on this base?” Bolan asked, reading off the name to Kurtzman.

      “It’s fully active, Striker. It’s mostly a supply and transport depot, and according to reports, it’s been on the bubble as far as closing. There isn’t enough money to keep it going, with rising gasoline prices and the Mexican government just barely out of the red,” Kurtzman explained.

      “So they’re taking odd jobs to keep the gates open?” Bolan asked.

      Kurtzman sighed. “Sounds like it. A little dilemma.”

      “No dilemma at all,” Bolan replied. “They tried to kill American lawmen. I’ve fought enough top-secret U.S. groups funded by drug money who murdered anyone in their way and shut them down. Slaughtering people and selling addictive poison isn’t a valid option for any group to fund itself.”

      “Not everyone on the base is in on the cocaine cowboy rodeo,” Kurtzman stated.

      “I’ve got a face and a voice,” Bolan returned. “When I cut off the head, the rest will die. I’m closing this connection now, Bear. Places to go. Things to break. Catch you later.”

      He turned off the sat phone and pulled the truck off the road as he saw the supply depot’s lights in the distance.

      The rest of this trip was going to be on foot.

      BLANCA ASADO PUSHED HER auburn hair off of her forehead, kneading the skin below her hairline as she looked at the photograph of her twin sister lying on the morgue table. She squeezed her brow until it felt as if her skull was going to crack under the pressure, her eyes burning with tears. A swirl of sickness spun in her guts and air in the room felt unbreathable, despite the open window and the fact that Armando Diceverde wasn’t smoking.

      “Blanca…” Diceverde began. “Blanca, are you okay?”

      “I don’t know,” Asado replied. Rosa’s eyes had been closed, but she could tell by the way they had been shut that the force of a .38 Super slug to the brain had nearly disgorged the orbs from their sockets.

      Diceverde wasn’t a tall man, and he only came up to Blanca Asado’s shoulder. The fact that Blanca was looking at the remains of her sister and best friend only made him feel spiritually smaller. A choked sob escaped Asado’s lips and she shook her head.

      “Rosa wasn’t into making money with drugs. We’ve both seen what that shit does to good people,” Asado explained.

      “You’re preaching to the choir, Blanca,” Diceverde replied. “She’d been flagging things for me to look at. We’ve both noticed something new burrowing into Acapulco’s drug scene. Someone has been giving the Juarez Cartel a real knocking.”

      “And this is why Rosa was killed? Brujillo and his wife have been working hard together to end the hold that the cartels have over Acapulco. Rosa told me that she was investigating all forms of threats detected against Madame Brujillo.”

      “And on the surface, they seemed to be antigovernment attacks, but Rosa was curious about the sheer ferocity levied against the first lady,” Diceverde replied. “She sent me copies of her research into a new player on the drug scene, organized around a Santa Muerte cult.”

      Blanca wrinkled her nose at the mention of the death cult, a popular subreligion that had sprung up in the underworld. Loosely based on Santería, Santa Muerte was a more ethically flexible religion, its morality open enough to allow drug dealers and murderers with faith issues to make amends for their wrongdoing with prayer and sacrifice, without hindering their more bloodthirsty and highly profitable activities. Suddenly the sins of dealing poison or mowing down another human being could be washed away with a moment’s contrition without renunciation of their previous crimes. Congregations sprung up in destitute slums and prison blocks across Mexico, and followers came from every walk of life, from the lowest gutter urchin to the most powerful drug baron.

      “So if Rosa was picking up leads about Santa Muerte cultists taking over the state’s drug scene and trying to kill the governor and his wife…” Blanca began.

      “The cultists have never made an attempt against Señora Brujillo,” Diceverde countered. “They have been hitting the Juarez Cartel and the smaller organizations hard, so much so that the Juarez group has been importing help from overseas.”

      “So why would they accuse my sister of being part of this Santa Muerte cult and its takeover bid?” Asado asked. “Or of trying to murder the first lady?”

      “We might never know,” Diceverde answered. “Maybe she saw something during the hit. There was a sighting of two men escaping the resort after the gunfight. An evidence technician I know also told me, off the record, that he was ordered to eliminate evidence of two 9 mm submachine guns from the battle scene.”

      “Two