Exit Strategy. Don Pendleton

in Texas or California, you might want to bring the trouble to their very own front door.”

      Blancanales looked over the sheet, face torn between a frown of concern and a mirthless grin of malice. “Him? You sure?”

      “It’s only rumors at this point,” Manning stated.

      Lyons took a peek at Manning’s notes and sighed. “Even when he shot a lawyer in the face, he was still a goddamn hero. No wonder this wasn’t a part of the official briefing.”

      “Hal and the Sensitive Operations Group are on thin ice as it is. Going after this guy, with his hooks in the US government and overseas, it’d take a hell of a lot of brass,” Manning stated.

      Lyons ejected a shell from his rifle’s under-barrel shotgun. It gleamed from base of round to the tip. “Brass? I’ve never been accused of being short of that.”

      Grim silence enveloped the cabin as the two teams returned their gear to their cases.

      Nothing less than full-on warfare was going to occupy their thoughts for the next several days.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      From his position operating a small tamale cart near the refrigerated warehouse run by the Caballeros de Durango Cartel, Pedro Guzman was easily able to keep an eye on the US side of the smuggling tunnel and any who’d dare approach it. If something strange showed up on his personal radar, he was in direct walkie-talkie contact with his brethren. So far, his tour of duty as security for the tunnel had been uneventful.

      Few lawmen would ever want to take on Los Lictors, and he and his brothers in arms had dealt with Los Sigmas, the last group of hard-core paramilitary cartel muscle that had obtained control of Nogales and the border crossings into and out of Arizona. Competition and the authorities were set to rout, and anyone who still maintained an interest was left impotent, thanks to friends in high places who had handles on judges and ranking law enforcement officials.

      So, when he saw the two men walking toward the Durango “icehouse,” Guzman’s instincts suddenly went into overdrive. Both wore dark sunglasses and carried the bronzed skin of those who lived in the unflinching sun on the border. He gave a tap of the send button on his communicator; a sort of heads-up that hissed inside the warehouse.

      If this turned out to be trouble, he’d be on the line immediately, but so far the two didn’t appear to be hostile. Both wore oversize button-down shirts as light jackets, nothing out of the ordinary since this was technically winter in Arizona. Even so, Guzman’s gaze was locked on the smaller of the men.

      He was darker than the other, but he walked with a hard authority, arms swinging, ending in fists that swayed to and fro like idling wrecking balls on a gale-force day. The tall man was younger and moved much more casually, arms and legs undulating as if he were straight out of a cartoon. Both looked like legitimate gangsters, though Guzman hadn’t seen them around here before.

      They were making for the icehouse as if they were arrows aimed and fired. The little guy had purpose and a scowl bowing his lips down. He gave Guzman a glare that was hard even through opaque sunglass lenses.

      “We expect any business today?” Guzman asked over his hands-free radio, speaking loud enough for only the walkie-talkie to hear him.

      “Nope” came the response.

      Guzman continued watching the pair. “Well, they look like they’re here on business. And like they don’t give a damn who knows they’re here.”

      “Yeah, we’re watching now. Damned odd,” his partner, Zacco, replied. “But we start shooting, who knows what kind of heat we’ll call in.”

      “So far, things are quiet. Maybe get them inside. You’ll have them outnumbered and outgunned, even if they are strapped,” Guzman noted.

      Zacco chortled. “We kinda figured that plan out already. Just keep watch, in case they’ve got backup.”

      “Keep me posted,” Guzman returned.

      * * *

      RAFAEL ENCIZO WAS hardly a tall man, but his shoulders were broad and powerful, his torso bulky yet tapering to a slender waist. Thanks to this build, the Cuban Phoenix veteran was able to conceal the sleek and compact Heckler & Koch MP-7 machine pistol under his jacket. As backup, the stocky, swarthy professional had his P-30 9 mm autoloader from the same manufacturer as the machine pistol.

      T. J. Hawkins, on the other hand, was not blessed with shoulders or a torso that could snug a foot-long automatic weapon underneath a jacket. The best he could do was a matching pair of Beretta Brigadiers in 9 mm Parabellum. The former Ranger and Delta Force veteran had developed an appreciation for the sleek Beretta handguns in his service, despite the fact that Delta tended to operate with .45s rather than 9s. His time with Phoenix Force and Calvin James had merely reinforced his appreciation for the Italian design, now entering its fourth decade of service with the US Armed Forces.

      The Beretta he wore in his shoulder holster had a stubby suppressor and a rail-mounted gun light, both accessories taking the already negligent recoil of the sleek pistol and turning it into nothing short of a laser beam in his hands. Hawkins’s other Brigadier was clean, meant to operate as a backup should the first somehow jam or get lost in the fury of conflict.

      Behind the two of them, McCarter, Manning and James followed as stealthy ghosts shadowing and guarding them. At this moment McCarter was a whisper in their earbuds.

      “Tamale cart. He’s noticed you and is giving you the hairy eyeball,” the Briton warned.

      “We made him immediately,” Encizo murmured into the hands-free microphone at his collar. “Any response from the icehouse?”

      “Negative,” Manning informed them. “The windows are covered, but my infrared has picked up bodies behind the glass. Normal movement for now.”

      “Awesome,” Hawkins returned. “That means they’re still paranoid.”

      “It’s only paranoia if no one’s out to get them,” Encizo stated. “And since we are out to get ’em...”

      The corner of Hawkins’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Cartel goons didn’t get to be rich by hiring lazy or inattentive soldiers. This’ll be a bit tricky.”

      “Well, you’re the one taking the lead. Granted, I can’t hide much of myself behind your skinny Texas ass, but I’ll still be alive long enough to say ‘I told you so,’” Encizo replied.

      “How about you use that time to shoot back?” Hawkins asked.

      “That’s a good idea. For a moment I thought I was a cable news pundit,” Encizo grunted.

      “Preferring to being ‘proven’ right than to actually solving the damn problem?” Hawkins said.

      “Exactly,” Encizo returned. “Don’t worry, my foolishness has swiftly passed.”

      Manning interrupted the two. “We’ve got two in the window, looking down on you. Both have big dark voids where their hands should be.”

      “Gunmen,” Encizo extrapolated.

      Hawkins cut in. “They aiming at us?”

      “No, they just look curious about why two guys are walking up to their warehouse. Weapons are at low ‘not quite ready,’” Manning answered.

      “Thank goodness for some laziness in this crowd,” Hawkins said.

      McCarter’s gruff voice broke in on the hands-free communicators. “Maybe they just feel like they can handle you. Overconfidence, especially since they’ve likely got rifles and such inside the warehouse.”

      “We can work with overconfidence, esse,” Hawkins returned, settling verbally into his role and flow. His walk already was smoother, rolling, his head bobbing