Powder Burn

This day, inside the Palace of Justice with Counselor Webb and a retinue of smiling Colombian officials, Glass felt as safe as he had at any time since he’d stepped off his flight from New York, at El Dorado International Airport.

Everyone had settled into chairs around the highly polished conference table. A deputy vice-minister of the interior and justice sat at the table’s head, flanked by deputy commanders of the Policía Nacional de Colombia and the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad. A deputy assistant from La Fiscalía General de la Nación—the attorney general’s office—was also present. All of them had aides with tape recorders, legal pads and pens laid out in front of them. All of them were deputies for higher-ups who couldn’t be bothered to show, or who feared being forced to make a decision on the record before witnesses from rival departments.

“I welcome all of you to this historic meeting,” the vice-minister of the interior and justice said, beaming down the table with artificially whitened teeth. “I know all present share my wish that—”

When the door clicked, somewhere to his left rear, Glass turned toward the sound. He saw a slender, squirrel-faced man decked out in coveralls, bracing a push broom with his left hand. Glass had time to wonder why the coveralls were open nearly to his crotch, before he saw the janitor’s right hand and recognized what it was holding.

“Down!” Glass shouted, lunging at Counselor Webb and dragging the startled diplomat down with him, seeking any cover he could find, as two more doors swung open and all hell broke loose.

The close-range gunfire numbed his ears, as Glass half rolled, half dragged Webb under the broad conference table. Glass drew his pistol, clutching it white-knuckled, and discovered that he didn’t have a shot.

The frag grenade came out of nowhere, bouncing on the table, spinning once on impact with the floor, then wobbling toward him like an odd, green-painted Easter egg.

And in the final seconds of his life, all Otto Glass could do was pray.

1

El Dorado International Airport, Bogotá

Mack Bolan traveled light. His carry-on contained some extra clothes, sparse toiletries, a guidebook to the city and surrounding countryside. Nothing that might alarm security and raise red flags at either end of his long flight from the United States, with a short stopover in Mexico City.

No weapons, for instance, although he’d be needing them soon.

Bolan was early, by design. His contacts were expecting him for early dinner, in the city’s northern quarter known as Chapinero, but he needed solo time before they met, in order to prepare himself.

First up, the wheels. He had a Pontiac G6 reserved with Budget in the main airport terminal. The smiling girl behind the counter photocopied “Matthew Cooper’s” California driver’s license, swiped his credit card—all bills meticulously paid on time, in full—and gave Bolan his keys.

Ten minutes later, he was rolling eastward on Avenida El Dorado, keeping pace with high-speed traffic as he left the airport’s small city behind him. Downtown Bogotá lay nine miles distant from the airport, and he could’ve covered it within five minutes flat, except for a preliminary stop.

He made that stop in Ciudad Kennedy, a district in southwestern Bogotá named for the martyred American president. Bolan’s guidebook told him that the area was Bogotá’s most populous district, home to fourteen percent of the city’s population, but he was only interested in one inhabitant.

The man had a pawn shop two blocks north of Calle Primero de Mayo. He introduced himself as José and accepted Bolan’s nom de guerre without question. José’s shop was a place where money talked, and the merchandise that Bolan sought wasn’t displayed for public scrutiny. A visit to the backroom set him up and took a bite out of his war chest, but the case had been donated by a kiddie pimp in Jacksonville before he shuffled off the mortal coil, and there was always more where that came from.

When Bolan left the shop, he carried two fat duffel bags that might have clanked a bit, if anyone was listening. He also wore a Glock 23 semiauto pistol in a fast-draw sling beneath his left armpit, two extra 13-round magazines pouched on the right for balance. A Benchmade Stryker automatic knife with four-inch Tanto blade was clipped on to his belt, for easy access.

Bolan put the duffels in the Pontiac’s trunk, locked them down and he was good to go.

Traveling naked always made the Executioner uneasy. He could kill a man two dozen ways barehanded, but most shooters wouldn’t close within arm’s reach if they had a choice. And as for tackling more than two or three at once, if they were armed, forget about it.

He was covered for all foreseeable contingencies: two rifles, one for distance and one for assault work; a submachine gun with suppressor for close quarters battle where stealth was required; a combat shotgun, just because; assorted hand grenades, spare ammo for the different weapons, with accessories including jungle camouflage fatigues and hiking boots.

His destination was Chapinero. Bogotá’s most affluent district, and the capital’s banking and financial center, ranged along Calle 72. Bolan wasn’t on a banking mission at the moment, though. No hefty deposits or gunpoint withdrawals. His target was the stylish Andino Mall on Carrera 11 in Bogotá’s Zona Rosa.

The Pink Zone.

He supposed the district had been named for its high concentration of gay bars and other amenities serving the bulk of Bogotá’s LGBT community. There was more to the Pink Zone than gay life, however, including some of Bogotá’s most popular restaurants, nightclubs and stylish hotels.

Still homeless in the city, Bolan didn’t plan on checking into the Victoria Regia, the Andino Royal or any of their posh competitors. His contacts would be waiting for him at a relatively small sidewalk café, where they could watch the street and get to know each other briefly, prior to moving on.

Bolan would recognize his contacts from the photos Hal Brognola had provided, with their dossiers. One agent from DEA and one from the Colombian National Police, teamed to collaborate with Bolan in an atmosphere where trust was hard to come by and the lifespan of an honest law enforcement officer was often short.

Together, Bolan hoped they could accomplish something.

But if necessary, he could soldier on alone.

It wouldn’t be the first time—or, with any luck, the last.

Bolan spotted the Andino Mall and made a drive-by, picking out the open-air café, sighting his contacts at a table set back from the curb ten feet or so. Three chairs, and one still empty. Waiting.

The soldier drove around the block and found a parking garage, grabbed a ticket and parked three floors above street level, overlooking Carrera 11. He locked the Pontiac and pocketed his keys, then found the outer stairwell and descended toward the busy street.

“THIS MAN WE ARE SUPPOSED to meet. What was his name, again?”

Jack Styles resisted the impulse to smile. He knew damned well that his companion hadn’t forgotten the name. Arcelia Pureza never forgot anything.

“Matt Cooper,” Styles replied, adding, “That’s all I’ve got, aside from my HQ’s assurance that he’s pro material, experienced and off-the-books.”

“Clandestine operations,” Pureza said with a pretty frown.

“What else? After the latest…incident,” Styles said, resisting the temptation to say massacre or slaughter, “Washington isn’t about to send another diplomat.”

“You understand my delicate position in this matter,” Pureza said, telling, not asking, him.

“I understand your people have signed off on it,” Styles said. “Or so I was led to believe.”

“In the spirit, of course, they agree,” his companion replied. “But in practice—”

“It’s practice that matters,” Styles told her. “If spirit could win this thing, we’d have had it wrapped up years ago.”

Pureza nodded, toying with her wineglass on the tabletop. “Of course, you’re right. But you must understand the mind-set, Jack. After the killings, it became a matter of machismo, yes? A case of proving that the government cannot be frightened or intimidated.”

“But?”

“But anger fades,” she said. “And resolution, too, verdad?”

“Sadly, that’s true,” Styles granted. “Which is why we’re moving fast, before the brass can get cold feet.”

She nodded, sipped her wine, then said, “It goes beyond that, though. My people may regret what they have set in motion, if the resolution is not swift and sure. If there is…how do you say it? Collateral damage?”

“That’s how we say it.”

“In which case,” Pureza warned him, “the powers that be may attempt to distance themselves from the choice they have made. They may assert deniability, and leave us grabbing the sack.” Styles did smile then. “Holding the bag,” he said, gently correcting her. “And, sure, I’ve seen it done. The trick is to deliver, make it quick and clean—or quick, at least—and then get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Your Wild West, sí,” Pureza said. “Let us hope that your plan does not become our Alamo, eh?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Styles said, and drained his beer mug, flagging down the waiter for a refill. While he waited, Styles scanned the street, checked out the foot traffic, focused on men who fit the soldier profile.

Whatever in hell that might be.