Diplomacy Directive. Don Pendleton

entrance and through the gloom ahead he could see a wood-and-barbed-wire gate positioned between thick, makeshift posts. The soldier poured on the speed and would have crashed through the gate, but was stopped short by the sudden appearance of the vehicle that had tailed him.

      Bolan swung the wheel to the right to avoid crashing into the side of the car, but the move put him on a collision course with a massive tree trunk. He leaned on the brakes, but the tires found no purchase on the slick, mossy ground and the front end of the SUV slammed into the tree hard enough to deploy the air bags. Bolan snatched the FNC off the seat and exited the vehicle at the same time as the other driver bailed. He turned the weapon in the driver’s direction.

      The Executioner took in the entire scene within a heartbeat and his combat senses negated the petite, dark-haired woman as a threat. The half-dozen armed men approaching from the opposite side of the gate, however, were another matter entirely. Bolan managed to reach the young beauty just in time to drag her down behind the cover of her sedan. The air around them came alive with a metal storm of rounds that whizzed overhead like a horde of angry bees.

      “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

      Bolan grimaced. “Later. Now get in.”

      She tensed at first, standing her ground, but let Bolan haul her into the front seat. The woman got her legs in under her own power before Bolan slid behind the wheel and whipped the nose of the sedan into a collision course with the gate. As he picked up speed, Bolan stuck the FNC out the driver’s window and triggered it one-handed to keep the gunners’ heads down. The sedan, while small, did a fair job of smashing into the makeshift gate and ripping the pine frame from the uprights, which were obviously dry-rotted from the elements.

      Bolan rammed into one of the gunmen who didn’t get out of his path quite fast enough. The guy’s head connected hard with the windshield at an awkward angle and produced an audible crack. Bolan swung the muzzle of the FNC into acquisition on two more targets and snapped off a few short bursts. Brass shells ejected from the weapon and tinkled against the metal body of the sedan, followed by screams of agony as the pair fell under the Executioner’s marksmanship.

      The soldier ordered the woman to keep her head down as he rolled out of the seat and away from the vehicle. He landed on his feet, pivoted in the direction of the remaining trio of shooters and swept them with a sustained volley. One man took three rounds to the pelvis and another took two rounds to the abdomen. The remainder of the 5.56 mm slugs cut through the chest, neck and head of the last target, and a gory, crimson mess exploded through midair as the man’s corpse folded to the jungle floor.

      Shouts and the sounds of booted feet approaching signaled it was time for the Executioner to make his exit. Under normal circumstances he would have stayed to fight, but he now had a bystander to consider, one who obviously had no idea upon what sort of mess she’d stumbled, and he couldn’t risk getting her killed. There would be another place and time, another battleground on his terms. Bolan entered the SUV, grabbed the weapons bag and sprinted for the sedan.

      The woman had taken her place behind the wheel now, and Bolan managed to leap through the open window of the passenger door just as she jammed the stick shift into Reverse and hauled out of there. His head ended up in her lap, but she seemed oblivious, apparently more intent on getting out of there as fast as the four-cylinder engine could take them. By the time Bolan had righted himself in the seat, the woman had cleared the tree line and picked up speed as she struggled to keep the wheels on the slick, dusty surface of the road. Twice she almost lost it, and Bolan finally looked over his shoulder to verify they weren’t being followed before he spoke to her.

      “You can ease off. We’re in the clear.”

      “You want to tell me who you are now?” she demanded. “And what the hell all that was about?”

      “It depends,” Bolan replied easily. “You want to tell me why you were following me?”

      “I didn’t know I was following you,” she snapped. Then she looked at him, noticed his easy smile and added, “I mean…at least until I realized you were following the guys on the motorcycles.”

      “What’s your business with them?” Bolan asked.

      “Uh-uh,” she countered. “I’ve given you something, now you tell me what you’re doing here and what your beef is with those men.”

      “I’m afraid that’s classified.”

      “So you’re with the American government.” She smacked the steering wheel. “Hot damn! I knew I was onto a scoop!”

      “You’re a reporter?”

      She nodded. “Guadalupe La Costa, AP out of Miami. I’m here on temporary assignment for a couple of years.”

      “Let me guess. You were at the rally the other night.”

      “You’re damn skippy we were,” she said.

      “We?”

      “My cameraman and I. We were right smack-dab in the middle of that shooting gallery. Hell, my producer even added a few gray hairs being down there. Oh, Julio’s going to pass a rainbow-colored Twinkie when he finds out I went on this excursion without him.” She patted a digital camera on the seat next to her. “Boy, did I get some good shots.”

      Bolan reached down, popped open the camera’s flash drive compartment and removed the memory card.

      “Hey!”

      “The name’s Stone,” he said.

      “What the fu—?”

      “And I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to have my mug splattered all over the front page. You can have whatever’s left back once I’ve removed any images of me. I promise.”

      “Ever hear of freedom of the press?”

      Bolan’s voice took an edge. “Not when it interferes with my op, La Costa. And this is too important to let you screw it up so early in the game.”

      “How about giving me the scoop?”

      “If there’s one to give, I’ll see what I can do,” Bolan said. “Why not tell me what you know about our friends back there? Are they part of the Independents?”

      La Costa expressed suspicion. “What makes you think those animals were part of Los Independientes?”

      “That’s a question, not an answer. Try again.”

      “Look, I’m not sure who they are, but I’m positive they’re not with the Independents.”

      “My intelligence contacts say otherwise,” Bolan replied.

      La Costa shrugged. “You asked my opinion, I’m giving it to you. Those guys are bad, no doubt, but they aren’t part of the Independents. I’ve been following up on a whole lot of leads since the other night, and everything I can come up with says they’re not part of any political party in the country, official or unofficial.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “I don’t know yet,” La Costa replied. “I was trying to find out when you got in the middle of investigation.”

      “There is no investigation,” Bolan said flatly. “Not anymore. It ends now. Whoever’s behind this attack has created a political and social firestorm, one that could turn ugly for everyone in Puerto Rico. The situation is too hot for me to allow you or anyone else to get in the way.”

      “How do you propose to stop me?”

      “Tie you up, if necessary.”

      “Sounds kinky,” La Costa replied. “But it’ll have to wait.”

      “Fine with me. But you still haven’t explained where you came up with the idea someone on the outside is behind this.”

      “Because neither of the radical politicos in this region operates this way,” she said. “They’ve protested, even turned riotous