Payback. Don Pendleton

      “And Chris managed to infiltrate it?” Bolan asked. He knew full well the dangers of working undercover, especially in something as brutal as the Mexican drug cartels.

      “He did. De la Noval wasn’t only moving drugs into the U.S., he’s become one of the major weapons dealers for the Mexican mafia. Avelia was working on something big, but missed his check-in, and DEA’s worried he’s been compromised.”

      “What was supposed to be going down?” Bolan asked.

      “I’m not sure yet, but I’m working on it.”

      “How long since they heard from him?”

      “Forty-eight hours and counting.”

      The Executioner knew that meant they had to move fast. Brognola gave them the rest of it: the special ops team the government had assembled, the sudden illness of the team leader, the need to act swiftly. “The President asked if Stony Man had anybody in the area, and—”

      “I’m in,” Bolan said, looking at Grimaldi, who nodded. “Jack, too.”

      “Any chance you could arrange to have Dragonslayer transported down here?” Grimaldi asked. “Otherwise, I’ll settle for a fully outfitted Black Hawk with no markings.”

      After a moment of silence, Brognola said, “Thanks, guys.”

      “Thank us when it’s over,” Bolan replied.

      That had been little more than six hours ago. Just time enough for Bolan and Grimaldi to rendezvous with the special ops team and review the plan. Satellite photos of De la Noval’s headquarters looked eerily similar to his brother’s estate—perimeter fence, large house, expansive grounds surrounding the place, one main access road. If the more arid terrain were replaced for the tropical one, it was Colombia all over again. And if he was holding Chris Avelia prisoner, De la Noval had to know someone would be coming sooner or later. Sooner would be better for the mission and for the DEA agent.

      The plan this time was more dynamic: sweep over the compound, fast-rope to the ground, then hit the house with a quick assault. They all had body armor, M-4s, extra magazines, night-vision goggles, and enough pre-set C-4 shaped charges that locked doors weren’t going to slow them. Hit them hard. In and out. Their main goal was to rescue the hostage.

      It bothered Bolan that he hadn’t had much time to get to know his team’s capabilities, but they had supposedly been practicing for this raid as a backup plan for weeks, in the eventuality that they might have to go in at some point in the future. Now that future had arrived, but at least they were prepared. That was a bit of a plus. All of them had seen combat, he’d been told, in various operations in the sandbox and in Afghanistan, and Bolan felt confident they could get the job done. The fast descent from above would give them a bit of surprise, as well. He heard Grimaldi’s voice over his helmet’s comm set. “Uh-oh. I don’t like the looks of this.”

      Bolan immediately got up and moved toward the cockpit. Through the windshield the soldier saw something rustling against the darkened sky in the distance. He flipped down the visor for his night-vision goggles. Three helicopters, UH-60s from the looks of them, were leaving the area.

      What the hell were birds like that doing down here? Bolan wondered.

      Something else caught his eye: a thin trail of dark smoke drifting upward over the trees.

      Grimaldi was right. Something was off. He turned back to his team and pressed the button to activate his throat mike.

      “Something’s up. We saw three helicopters in the vicinity of the target. There’s a smoke trail, too. I’ll need three volunteers to fast-rope down with me to do a recon.”

      All the men raised their hands and Bolan grinned. No shortage of motivation in this group. He chose three at random, motioning them forward, and squatted as he unfolded the paper map of the target.

      “I’ll be Red One,” he said, then tapped each man consecutively. “You’re Red Two, Three and Four. We’ll drop in here.” He pointed to a spot near the corner of big house. “Red Two and I will go left, Red Three and Four right. Move and cover. Remember our primary mission is hostage rescue. We take down any hostiles in our way and search. But it looks like the mission’s been compromised.” He glanced up at the rest of the group. “You all hook up and be ready to deploy should we need help. Be ready. We’ll determine the status of the situation and then either proceed or evacuate.”

      The team members nodded.

      Bolan turned back toward Grimaldi. “You getting this?’

      “Loud and clear,” the pilot said. “Just show me where you want to be dropped off.”

      The Executioner’s uneasiness increased as Grimaldi took the helicopter in for a preliminary fly-by. Normally, they wouldn’t have risked announcing their presence, but the smoke and the departing choppers were a game-changer. Besides, Bolan doubted that De la Noval would have the firepower to take out a Black Hawk. The smoke was emanating from what appeared to be several small fires inside the mansion itself. Yellow flames licked at shattered windows and broken doors. The infrared night-vision goggles showed two prone bodies by the front gate. Several more were scattered over the expansive yard leading to the house. From the lack of movement and the twisted positioning, they appeared to be casualties. The place had already been hit by some kind of tactical assault. Bolan told Grimaldi to keep the chopper in a hover, and he and the other three team members hooked the nylon ropes through their D-rings and backed out of the open doors.

      Zipping downward, Bolan didn’t brake until he was almost to the ground. Once his feet were on solid earth, he unclipped the D-ring and kept his M-4 in the ready position as he advanced. His peripheral vision told him his teammates had made it down safely. They split up, each moving through the darkened yard with practiced ease.

      Thoughts of the failed Cat’s Cradle mission flitted through Bolan’s mind. The similarities of this setup and the one in Colombia screamed for caution. Same general compound design, same trek through an expansive yard, same last name of the bad guy. From what he’d heard, younger brother Jesús was even more treacherous than Vincente had ever been.

      The flickering light from the fires made Bolan’s night-vision goggles practically useless, but nothing seemed to move in the flat, greenish tincture in front of him. No adversaries presented themselves. He kept an eye out for trip wires, scanning the grounds as he went, but it turned out to be a cakewalk. When he got to the side of the building, he saw why.

      Two more bodies were sprawled inside the open patio doors. The interior walls burned with yellow flames, and a slew of bullet-riddled corpses littered the floor. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the scent of burned wood and gunpowder.

      Bolan pressed his throat mike. “Red Three and Four, check for survivors outside. Watch out for booby traps. Red Two, you’re inside with me.”

      Three acknowledgments came over the radio. Bolan stepped inside and tried to move forward, but the thick smoke obscured his vision and made it difficult to breathe. He kept moving quickly, scanning the faces of the dead men. Most had numerous body wounds, but each had been dealt at least one shot to the head, as well. Execution style. Whoever did this had a take-no-prisoners mentality.

      A large bamboo cage sat in the middle of the big lounge area. The thick bars looked strong enough to house a tiger, but the pair of chain shackles was obviously designed to fit a man. The cage was empty. Bolan saw splashes of blood on the solid metal floor. An assortment of knives, bludgeons and what appeared to be a fireplace poker lay next to the cage. The sharp edge of the poker was blackened, as if it’d been heated in a flame. A lot of unpleasant thoughts flashed through Bolan’s mind. He scanned the rest of the room. None of the nearby bodies appeared to be that of Chris Avelia.

      Covering as much of the house as they could, Bolan found no one alive. He pushed into what appeared to be the master bedroom, seeing that several of the bodies in there were young, scantily dressed women. Hookers, probably, judging from their clothes. They, too, had been dealt execution-style gunshots to the head.