Missile Intercept. Don Pendleton

as he listened to the repetitive instructions from Dr. Phillip McGreagor over the cell phone.

      “Remember,” McGreagor said, “we’re pulling out all the stops on this one. Besides employees, we’ll be hosting investors of all sorts, most of whom are accustomed to having their every whim satisfied. Am I making myself clear?”

      “Absolutely,” Hudson said, watching as his companion plucked ice cubes from the plastic bucket and dropped them, one by one, into the two glasses.

      “And make sure you’ve hired enough local police to maintain security down there,” McGreagor said. “We can’t afford to have anything untoward happen.”

      The hotel was set on the beach, well away from the ramshackle houses of the nearby town. The beach and the grounds were patrolled by uniformed security carrying weapons. Hudson was sure of all this because he had already figured out a way to defeat all the measures. “I’ve gone over everything down here, sir,” he said. “Believe me, it’s tighter than a drum.”

      Hudson heard McGreagor sigh. “And have you made arrangements for the...entertainment? A couple of these high rollers have exotic tastes.”

      Exotic... The word fitted his companion to a T, he thought as she ambled back toward him, a glass of gin in each hand, the open front of the shirt giving him more than an eyeful of her stunning cleavage, her tight abdomen.

      “Did you hear me?” McGreagor asked, his voice imbued with the customary irritation and truculence that set Hudson’s teeth on edge.

      “Yes, Doctor,” Hudson said, figuring that the mention of the man’s PhD would stroke his ego enough to lessen the customary chastisement.

      “Well, then, say something, dammit. You know I hate it when you don’t answer.”

      Hudson frowned as he accepted the drink, so angry at the long-distance criticism that he felt like throwing the glass against the wall. But he didn’t. There would be time, later, to deal with this unctuous, demanding prick of a boss.

      “I’ll make sure the hookers are first-class,” Hudson said.

      “Dammit! Watch what you say. You never know who’s listening.”

      “Sorry, sir.” Hudson felt himself flush. McGreagor had a way of making him feel embarrassed and inadequate even if he was a couple thousand miles away.

      “Use some common sense,” McGreagor snapped. “We’ve got to make this excursion flawless. If we’re going to stay on schedule for our launch, we need to impress the shit out of these investors. We can’t afford any slipups. Got it?”

      “Yes, sir,” Hudson said. “I got it.”

      “Good. Get everything set up and then get your ass back here.”

      Hudson ended the call and took a long gulp of the drink.

      “Your boss is upset?” the woman asked, canting her head slightly.

      He shook his head. “He’s just being his typical, asshole self.”

      “So,” she said, pulling Hudson close. “This will not interfere with our plans, will it?”

      “No, no, of course not. Let’s not worry about him. I can handle it.”

      “All is well, then?” she asked. “The company retreat will remain on schedule?”

      “Everything’s ducky, Kim Soo-Han,” Hudson said, pronouncing each syllable of her name with delicious distinction. “Just ducky. Trust me.”

      Soon, he thought. Soon.

      Café de Luca

      Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

      BOLAN NODDED TO Martinez as the sergeant entered the small cantina and headed to their table. He’d changed into civilian clothes, as had Bolan and Grimaldi, but still hardly looked like a typical citizen out for an early-evening snack. He shook hands with the two Americans, sat, then shook his head.

      “I have just come from telling the families of my fallen marines about the deaths of their loved ones. It was very sad.”

      Bolan nodded in commiseration. He knew the pain of loss.

      The server arrived to take his order. Both Bolan and Grimaldi had bottles of beer on the table in front of them.

      “Beer,” Martinez said.

      The woman left and the big marine leaned forward, his hefty forearms on the tabletop. “Now, what is it that you wished to speak to me about?”

      “I’ve been thinking about the raid,” Bolan said. “The men we lost. It shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. We had the element of surprise.”

      Martinez compressed his lips and nodded, a look of anger in his dark eyes.

      “Sí,” he said. “I agree.”

      “Right before the firefight started, someone shouted and the lights and sirens began.”

      Martinez nodded again. “I remember.”

      “How did they discover we were there? They hadn’t seen us, and we were moving up just like clockwork.”

      “What is it you are saying?”

      “Someone on our team tipped them off during our approach. It’s the only answer.”

      “No,” Martinez said, shaking his head. “No. I will not believe this. I have fought and died beside my men. There is no possibility that one of them is a traitor.”

      “One of the cartel guards used the word marines,” Bolan said. “He knew we were marines and not the police. How did he know that?”

      Martinez looked down at the tabletop. Just as he was about to speak the server returned with his beer. She smiled at them as she set it down and asked if they needed anything else.

      Bolan slipped her some pesos and shook his head. The woman smiled again and moved away.

      “Think about it, Jesus,” Grimaldi said. “I wasn’t down and dirty with you guys, but my partner’s seldom wrong about such things.”

      The sergeant sat in silence for several seconds, not moving.

      “You owe it to your men to check this out,” Bolan said quietly.

      Martinez slowly nodded.

      “We can help you. We have resources we can use outside your agency. Outside the Mexican government.”

      Martinez twisted his lips into a scowl and looked directly into Bolan’s eyes. “Sí, and if this is true, I will kill the traitor myself.”

      “We can worry about that when the time comes,” Bolan said. “The first thing I need to stress is that you tell no one. I’m trusting you, but no one else at the moment.”

      Martinez nodded.

      “Second,” Bolan said, “I’ll need the cell phone numbers of everyone involved, including any of the cartel’s phone numbers on record.”

      Martinez nodded again. He removed his cell phone from the case on his belt and pressed a few numbers. “I will contact Captain Ruiz now, and obtain the information you request.”

      Bolan held up his hand and said, “Wait. I’d prefer to keep this just between us for the time being.”

      “But the captain—”

      “Should only be informed if we are correct in our assumption,” Bolan told him. “There’s no reason to cast aspersions on good marines unless we’re sure.”

      “Of course,” Martinez said, and held his phone toward the Executioner.

      Bolan shook his head and smiled fractionally. “I don’t want yours.”

      “Take it anyway,” Martinez said. “I would never ask or expect my men