Devil's Playground. Don Pendleton

but with Bolan’s knee shoved into the back of his chair, and hundreds of pounds of leverage hauling on his chin and stressing his spine, the colonel was left helpless and paralyzed with pain. His good hand clawed at the hand over his mouth as he struggled to speak past Bolan’s restraining fingers.

      “You’ve got something to tell me?” Bolan asked, loosening his grip. “Just remember, you call for help, I put one in your stomach, so it’ll take you a long time to die.”

      “Yes, sir,” Munoz whispered, making sure his voice didn’t rise. His windpipe still felt choked off, but this time from fear not physical force. Tears burned down the colonel’s cheeks.

      “I listened to your phone call. Your bosses don’t think very much of your performance tonight,” Bolan taunted softly. “After all, losing nearly a dozen men to one enemy combatant?”

      “You didn’t fight fair…” Munoz protested, his voice a harsh, ragged exhalation.

      “And you did, opening fire on two American lawmen forbidden to return fire against you?” Bolan asked. Munoz’s neck twisted until he was looking at a pair of cold, merciless blue eyes. At first he was going to cry out in pain, but the icy gaze froze his soul.

      “Skip the ‘poor me’ whining, Munoz,” Bolan informed him. “All I want to know is who am I sparing the trouble of mutilating you by putting a bullet in your head?”

      “Roderigo Montoya-Juarez,” Munoz replied.

      “Right,” Bolan returned. “As if Montoya-Juarez would get any of your foul fluids on his fingers. Tell me another joke.”

      “I swear. I swear!” Munoz replied, his voice rising.

      Bolan ground the steel of the barrel hard against Munoz’s cheek, the ridge of the bone crunching against the unyielding metal. His hand clamped tighter over the colonel’s mouth. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that you were trying to make some noise in order to call for help.”

      “I’m not,” Munoz whispered. “I’m not…I just don’t want to die.”

      “You’ve done everything you can to convince me otherwise,” the Executioner informed him. “You know how light the trigger is on these pistols, right?”

      Munoz heard the metallic clink of the safety catch snapping off. His pants grew hot and wet as his bladder cut loose. “Please…”

      “You’re not giving me anything to make me want to spare your life,” Bolan said. “But, considering I just emptied twelve gallons of bleach into what was left of your heroin, I could just spare myself some hearing damage and let Montoya-Juarez have you.”

      Munoz’s dark eyes bulged, irises narrowing to pinpricks in sheer horror.

      Bolan released the colonel and flicked on the Desert Eagle’s safety.

      “Wait…”

      “For what?” Bolan asked.

      “Juarez has competition,” Munoz replied.

      “I know the layout,” Bolan told him. “There are six other cartels sweating Montoya-Juarez right now.”

      “A new player who only popped up recently,” Munoz stated. “I gave Juarez a hookup to make a move the other day.”

      “With who?” Bolan pressed.

      “Army officer by the name of Salvada,” Munoz confessed. “Salvada called in some ex-soldiers to make the hit, but equipped them.”

      The Executioner regarded him coldly as Munoz ran the numbers in his head. Nearly one hundred pints of bleach would completely ruin one hundred pounds of heroin instantly. That was a quarter of the two hundred kilograms he had left. Together with the 150 lost at the border, and even more seepage, Munoz could kiss any chance of making it up to the cartel.

      Bolan dropped the magazine and racked the slide, then lobbed the empty Desert Eagle onto the desk. “All yours, Colonel. I suggest you run like hell. You’ve got a few hours before Montoya-Juarez stops waiting for you.”

      Munoz nodded, looking at the gun.

      “Who knows, maybe you can find mercy with the government and military you betrayed. Or you could trust that the Border Patrol won’t kill you on sight,” Bolan suggested. He lobbed one of the fat .50-caliber bullets to Munoz. “Or, you could find your own way out.”

      The Executioner turned and left the office. He’d gotten halfway down the hall when he heard the solitary roar of the Mexican’s pistol, followed by the thud of a limp body striking the floor.

      He was working his way up the Juarez Cartel, but now he heard about another player in this game.

      One that might have been the reason why the governor of Guerrero State wanted the Executioner to join the conflict.

      He’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Anibella Brujillo looked over the railing of the patio at the tall American who was walking up the marble stone path. Over six feet tall, he had deeply tanned skin and a lean, powerful frame. His denim jacket was tight at the shoulders, but hung loosely enough at the waist to inform her that he had to have concealed at least one large handgun in its folds. Clear, ice-blue eyes looked her over and she smiled softly, her wide, lush lips curving as her eyes narrowed invitingly. Emilio Brujillo didn’t even notice the man walking up the path until she gently cleared her throat.

      “The American is here, darling,” Anibella said, resting her hand on his thigh, delicate fingers giving his linen-sheathed leg a tender scratch.

      Brujillo looked up from his newspaper, nodding absently. “Thank you, darling.”

      Brujillo was about twenty years older than Anibella, but even for being only in his midfifties, he was gray and wrinkled, a worn-down man. His run for the governorship of Guerrero had been long and hard, and his work since being in office had been relentless. It was as if the beautiful Mexican singer had married a withered old grandfather, instead of a vibrant, crusading politician. Physically, he looked a wreck, but he still managed to speak in a strong, forceful timbre. Some of her high-society friends seemed scandalized by her public displays of affection with the shrivelled politician, despite knowing about her dalliances on the side.

      Emilio Brujillo walked toward the man his friend in the U.S. Justice Department had called Agent Matt Cooper. Anibella assumed it wasn’t his real name, more likely a cover for someone who had a far more sinister history. She looked him over, seeing signs of faint scar tissue on the man’s callused hands and the bit of forearm visible under the light, summer-weight denim jacket. He looked at her, and though his face carried an ageless quality, the glance carried the weight of a man who had been through more than one lifetime.

      Brujillo shook Bolan’s hand, and despite the wear and tear on the Mexican governor’s features, his grip was strong, but not challenging. “Welcome to Acapulco, Señor Cooper.”

      “Thank you, sir,” Bolan replied, nodding.

      “This is my wife, Anibella,” Brujillo introduced. “Anything you can say to me, you can say in front of her. She is a part of my government, and is one of my most trusted confidants.”

      Bolan looked at Anibella again, studying her. She reined in her charming, playful nature, instead presenting a curious and innocent facade. The Executioner tensed, watching the change wash over her, and Anibella realized that he was observant, noting the sudden shift in her outward nature. Anibella dropped the charade and simply smiled.

      “A pleasure to meet you,” Bolan said, burying his suspicion out of her sight. He was as facile in controlling his emotions as she had been, which set her on edge.

      “A pleasure to meet such a man who has earned our president’s trust as an ally,” Anibella replied.

      Bolan nodded, looking to Brujillo. “I generally operate off the