Crisis Nation

“His punkito little brother,” the inspector emphasized. “What’s the matter, Nacho? You don’t look so good.”

Between shock, pain and naked terror, Nacho looked just about ready to soil himself. Bolan jumped to the hood, then down to the street. The sirens were getting closer. “I don’t think your car is going any place.”

“No,” the inspector agreed. “And neither shall I. I will stay here. I will say I was alone and was attacked, then killed my attackers. You and Gustolallo take the punk to your place. If we bring him in, he will only be out on bail tomorrow. I will join you shortly.”

It was as good a plan as any. Bolan nodded and Nacho shrieked as Gustolallo yanked him to his feet. Constante lit a cigarette and leaned against his totaled vehicle to wait, apparently oblivious of the gas pooling everywhere.

Bolan and the detective took Nacho d’Nico for a little walk through the neighborhood. It was going to be a long night.

3

Nacho whimpered, then muttered in rapid Puerto Rican slang. His face was pale and he was sweating bullets. Bolan checked his watch. He’d sweated him for about an hour and he could guess what he was saying. Gustolallo sat across from Nacho at the ratty little kitchen table of Bolan’s flat and stared at him like he was a bug. Bolan had uncuffed him and put his arm in a sling, but Nacho was still very unhappy. He had stopped with the threats about half an hour ago and Bolan expected him to move into the begging phase right on schedule. The big American checked his watch again.

Gustolallo frowned. “I won’t lie to you, Blue. The inspector could be in a lot of trouble.”

Nacho snarled with renewed courage. “The inspector is fucking dead!”

Nacho shrieked as Gustolallo lunged across the table and punched him in the sling. It seemed the women cops in Puerto Rico played as rough as the men. Bolan held up a restraining hand and the detective uncocked her fist and sat back down. Nacho whimpered and cradled his arm. Bolan figured the diminutive young gangster was just about ready. Bolan had stopped at a corner kiosk on the way to the flat and picked up a few interrogation aids. He looked at Nacho and sighed sympathetically. “That hurt?”

“Yeah, it fucking hurts!” Nacho instantly flinched beneath Gustolallo’s glare.

Bolan reached into the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a bottle. He poured a drinking glass half full of clear liquid and slid it within Nacho’s reach. “For the pain. Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”

The younger d’Nico lunged for the 151 proof Don Q rum and gulped it like water. Bolan took out a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. “Cigarette?”

Nacho’s gratitude was almost pathetic as Bolan lit him one and put it between his lips. Bolan refilled his glass. Gustolallo shot him a frosty look and he poured her a shot, as well. Bolan took a fatherly tone. “Nacho, you’re in a lot of trouble.”

“I want a lawyer.”

Bolan shrugged. “Why?”

“This is illegal! You can’t hold me!”

Bolan cocked his head at the punk. “I’ll make things very clear to you. I’m not a cop. I can do anything I want.”

Nacho blanched. He looked desperately at Gustolallo. “She’s a cop!”

The detective popped her gum. “I’m off duty. I’m riding you for the fun of it.”

Nacho hissed. “Puta de—” He howled as Gustolallo’s fist pounded his arm just above his broken elbow. A second jab followed it to his nose.

Bolan poured Nacho another drink. The young man couldn’t have weighed more than a 120 pounds naked and dripping wet. Between shock and an empty stomach, Bolan expected to have a well-lubricated La Neta gangster very shortly.

A voice called out from the street outside in Spanish. “Hello the house!”

Gustolallo nodded. “Ordones and Roldan.”

Bolan still picked up his Thompson and held it low along his side as he unlocked the kitchen door. “Come ahead! Through the kitchen!”

Two men walked into the kitchen. One was as tall as Bebito Jesus and had to stoop to come through the door, but unlike the giant La Neta enforcer, this man was gaunt to the point of emaciation. His tropical white suit hung upon his giant bones like a scarecrow. He had the sad, brown eyes and pale, tired complexion of a man who slept away most days without seeing the sun. He carried something long and bulky wrapped in a brightly patterned native blanket across his broad shoulders. The man behind him was dark-skinned and built like a middleweight. He radiated aggressive energy to the point that Bolan wondered if the short-cropped, tight, metallic-brown coils of hair coming out of his head might be nerve endings. He was carrying a rifle case and instantly shot a suspicious look at Gustolallo and Bolan. The two men took turns kissing Gustolallo in greeting. The giant held out his hand to Bolan. The soldier’s hand disappeared in the tall man’s grip but it was warm and friendly. His voice was a Spanish baritone. “Sergeant Ernesto Ordones, but you may call me Ordones.”

“Cooper.” Bolan said. The younger man in turn gave Bolan the bone crusher, and the two of them pumped vise grips for a moment. The giant sighed. “May I introduce Officer Ruzzo Roldan.”

Roldan released Bolan’s hand but continued to glare at him. His accent was thick enough to cut with a knife. “I heard of you.”

Bolan shrugged. “What did you hear?”

“Word on the street is you busted up a bar. Word is you busted up Bebito Jesus and called out Yotuel d’Nico. Word is you shot up a bunch of d’Nico’s men in La Perla. Word is Inspector Constante is getting grilled at headquarters right now because of your Yanqui cowboy bullshit.” Roldan shook his head as he took in Nacho. “Word on the street is you’re holding the Lion’s little brother. Word is everyone knows this address, and the word is the Lion is pissed. Word is you’re in a lot of trouble.”

Bolan turned to Ordones. “Word is you got a BAR.”

The tall man’s skull nearly hit the ceiling as he threw back his head and laughed and tapped his bundle “Sí, amigo. I just happen to have one.”

Roldan wasn’t amused. “So what’s your plan? Sit here in this shithole and wait for d’Nico to hit this place with an army?”

Bolan nodded. “That’s about it.”

Ordones turned to Gustolallo. “You know? I like this gringo.”

Gustolallo’s smile was predatory. “Me, too.”

Roldan’s anger cooled to something cold and unpleasant. “I’ll tell you something that maybe you won’t think is so funny.”

“What’s that?” Bolan asked.

“Word is moving through the department. Los Macheteros say anyone who helps the gringo, and I’m pretty sure that means you, is a traitor.”

Nacho roared drunkenly. “That’s right! Fucking traitors! Dead fucking traitors!”

Roldan ignored the outburst. “A traitor to Puerto Rico and a traitor to all Boricuas, and I’ll tell you something for nothing, Cooper, a lot of the cops are taking that real seriously. You’re an outsider. The inspector has already been dragged in and lost friends over this. No one wants you here.”

“The inspector is fully on board, and he was laughing when I left him,” Bolan countered. “And you came to LaPerla, off duty.” He nodded at the rifle case. “And you brought your gun.”

“I came to support the inspector. I was a gangbanger back in the day, but I was no La Neta puto.” He shot a scathing look at Nacho and the punk flinched. The officer pounded his chest twice with his fist in the sign of solidarity. “I was Latin Kings and headed straight to jail or the grave. Inspector Constante got me out of that shit. Got me to finish high school. He risked his reputation to sponsor me when I applied to join the force. I came to support him.” Roldan thrust out his jaw. “Not your pretty pink Yanqui ass.”

“Did the inspector tell you to do what I tell you until he gets back from headquarters?” Bolan inquired.

The pained look that crossed Roldan’s face was confirmation.

“Roldan, I’m here to wipe out La Neta, Los Macheteros and anybody else who wants to decide the fate of Puerto Rico with a gun rather than a vote. You in or out?”

“I’m—” Roldan spent several moments controlling his temper “—in.”

“If you boys are done, we got stuff to do,” Gustolallo stated.

Just then Bolan took out his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Kurtzman’s text message scrolled across the screen.

striker, you have company