Missile Intercept

The second floodlight along the fence line exploded and went dark. Bolan figured the marine in the tower was taking them out to cover the advance of his teammates. He had an M-16, which gave him greater range.

Ahead, two more cartel guards appeared around the corner, the red flashes of their firing weapons bright blossoms in the darkness. Bolan veered left as several rounds zipped by him. One of the marines fell.

Bolan brought the MP-5 to his shoulder and fired two three-round bursts at the cartel guards. Both men danced and twisted, silhouetted by the final set of floodlights as they dropped to the ground.

“Front gate and tower secure,” Martinez said over the radio.

Intel had estimated the number of hostiles to be between ten and fifteen, more if one of the cartel bosses was on-site. One could be aboard the incoming plane, in which case Bolan’s team could momentarily be facing a more substantial force. He slowed as they closed in on the front of the building. It was time to take out the remaining floodlights.

The Executioner took aim and shot the last two lights. Despite the ringing in his ears, he heard a mechanical squeal and knew that the big overhead door was rising.

Keying his mic, he checked with Martinez. “You might have trouble coming out the front end.”

“We have the front secured,” Martinez said over the radio, sounding breathless. “The van went inside. We are— Mierda!”

Bolan glanced around the corner and heard the sound of a metal-on-metal ripping crash as the van barreled through the opening, scraping the bottom of the rising door and sideswiping the door frame.

Martinez’s crew began firing at the vehicle. Bolan ducked back, avoiding a cross fire. The blasts of loud automatic fire emanated from the van, which continued toward the front gate. Bolan fired off a burst at it, then realized the futility and ceased.

“Send two of your men after it,” Bolan said into his mic. “The rest of us need to secure the warehouse. Perimeter containment, hold your positions.”

Two marines from Martinez’s team broke off toward the airstrip. Bolan motioned the man next to him to follow, then slipped through the open overhead door and headed to the right. The warehouse was fully lit and he could see three cartel guards running forward, sweeping the area in front of them with autofire.

Bolan stopped behind a section of rooms jutting from the wall. Several rounds pierced the wood and plasterboard. Bolan knew that his position offered only a modicum of cover and little concealment. His adversaries obviously knew where he was. Martinez surged forward, his MP-5 spitting out rounds. The cartel guards switched their aim, giving Bolan the momentary respite he needed to zero in on them with a pair of short bursts of fire. Two fell almost simultaneously, and as the third cartel guard switched his rifle back toward Bolan, Martinez popped up and shot the man.

Aside from the crudely constructed rooms along the eastern wall, the warehouse was basically free of obstructions. Some packaged items were stacked on the opposite side, and four box trucks were parked in the center aisle. Another cartel guard leaned around the corner of one of the trucks and brought up his weapon, but before he could fire, the Executioner sent a zipping stitch of rounds across the man’s chest. He tumbled forward. Across the room, Martinez and his team brought down two more hostiles.

An eerie silence descended over the room. Bolan, Martinez and the rest of the marines continued to clear the warehouse, encountering no apparent resistance.

Grimaldi’s voice sounded in Bolan’s ear mic. “There’s a firefight going on at the airstrip. Looks like that plane is turning around for a takeoff.”

Bolan glanced at Martinez. “There’s trouble at the airstrip.”

“Go! We’ve got this one covered.”

The Executioner nodded and worked his way outside, moving with caution and deliberation toward the airstrip as he inserted a fresh magazine into his weapon. Ahead, he could see flashes of gunfire. The twin propellers of the plane were spinning with increasing power as the aircraft started to move.

“Want me to do a flyover to try to keep them on the ground?” Grimaldi asked.

“Go for it,” Bolan said.

Grimaldi buzzed the airstrip, flying directly in the path of the accelerating plane.

The craft jerked to the left, slowing appreciably. The side door flew open and a figure jumped to the ground. Thin streams of red fire zoomed upward.

Tracer rounds, Bolan figured.

The bodies of two marines lay in the field before him. No time to check them now, he thought. He was almost to the airfield.

“Whoever the hell that guy is,” Grimaldi said over the radio, “he can shoot. I’m taking fire, and it’s coming close.”

Bolan paused, acquired a sight picture of the hostile and squeezed off a quick burst. The man twisted in his direction, and the Executioner saw that he was Asian. Bolan fired again, and his target jerked slightly.

He was hit. The question was, how badly?

Seconds later the Executioner had his answer as red tracer rounds began zipping past him. He ducked, rolled to the left and came up on one knee just as the firing stopped. He acquired a sight picture and saw the hostile leaning back, his right arm extended behind him.

Grenade, Bolan thought, and didn’t hesitate. He shot the man, and seconds later the flash and concussion of an explosion washed over him, accompanied by a second, larger conflagration as the plane went up in a gigantic fireball.

Bolan keyed his mic and asked Martinez for a sitrep.

“We are secure inside,” the sergeant replied. “One prisoner.”

“Casualties?” Bolan asked.

“One of my men wounded. One KIA.” Martinez’s voice cracked when he said the last part. “Captain Ruiz has called for a medevac, and reinforcements to take control.”

Bolan frowned. Too many casualties. This had been a debacle.

He radioed Grimaldi, saying they had a wounded marine, and asking if he could set the chopper on the airstrip.

“No problem,” the pilot said. “You just get that marine over to me and I’ll fly him out.”

Bolan radioed the information to Martinez, who offered his thanks for Grimaldi’s assistance.

After the wounded man had been loaded into the chopper, with another of his comrades to direct the flight, Grimaldi lifted off.

Bolan tagged up with Martinez, who was standing near the rest of the team. A man in a bright orange short-sleeved shirt sat in the middle, his hands fastened behind his back, a briefcase on the floor in front of him. He was whistling softly, and when Martinez told him to shut up, he kept on whistling. Enraged, the sergeant walked over and slapped him across the face.

“Is that the best you can do?” the seated man asked in Spanish, then spit on the floor. “You are the dirt beneath my feet.”

Martinez cocked his hand back to deliver another blow.

“Sounds like he’s trying to get to you,” Bolan said. “He’s trying to bait you.”

“You are American?” the prisoner asked in English, looking at Bolan. “Yeah, you must be. You don’t have a mask on, like these cowards.”

Martinez kept his arm cocked for a few moments more, the expression of fury locked on his face, then he slowly lowered his hand and joined Bolan.

He leaned close and said in English, “I think he’s Cuban, from the sound of him.”

Bolan had the same thought, noticing the Cuban inflection.

“Yeah, you’re right, chief,” the prisoner said. “I am Cuban. And now let me talk to the man in charge.”

“I am in charge here,” Martinez said, turning toward him. “What do you want?”

“Not you,” the Cuban said. “The American. I’ve got information to trade. No way you can give me what I want.”