Devil's Playground

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 grid, and alone. Perhaps if you had a trusted operative…”

“I was thinking of having you work with my wife,” Brujillo began.

Bolan raised an eyebrow, glancing to her. “I’m sorry, sir, but…”

Anibella could sense his distrust, and her control over him slipping away.

That was when the Saint of Death tipped her hand, granting the high priestess her advantage back.

BLANCA ASADO RUBBED HER EYES and sighed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep after making certain that Armando Diceverde was patched up and hidden in a safe place. She didn’t want her friend to end up as a statistic or a victim of an overzealous assassin. Asado knew that the men who had struck the night before weren’t federales. Even though she’d engaged in a few “black” SWAT-style operations with the police, they would have had the hotel more tightly sewn up, and wouldn’t have even bothered with grenades through the window. They’d have simply opened up with some powerful rifles, not the relatively weak AK-47s, and just hosed through the walls for thirty seconds, then gone in and policed the corpses. The AKs would have penetrated the hotel walls, but these were gangsters, not working with the best knowledge of what a powerful weapon could do.

Asado’s home was being watched by the police. She recognized the unmarked cars and the stakeout teams, not because she knew the men personally, but because she knew their style. That was all right. Blanca had fresh clothing and some tools in the trunk of her Impala. She’d showered and changed at a public beach. While she had a Remington 12-gauge shotgun and a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine pistol in her trunk, taking the place of her spare tire, she’d left them alone.

Instead, she’d reloaded her stubby little Ruger and pocketed two speedloaders for it. The pocket-size .357 Magnum revolver was a good gun, but she needed something easier to reload and shoot quickly and accurately. For that, she went with Armando’s Colt .38 Super. It was fast and powerful, but much more manageable in the recoil department. She would be able to conceal the flat pistol, as well. Considering that the .38 Super 1911 was one of the most popular handguns in Mexico, due to laws keeping citizens from owning military calibers like .45 auto or 9 mm, it would be easy to get spare ammunition and magazines.

Asado watched the gates of the governor’s mansion, noting the arrival of a man in a rental car. As he waited for the gate to open, he scanned around. Taking a look through a pair of compact binoculars, she caught his face. The blue eyes betrayed him as a North American. He caught sight of her and made eye contact for several moments.

Her hand dropped to the chrome pistol on the seat next to her, lips drawn tightly.

Could Anibella Brujillo have hired an American assassin to clean up her affairs?

No. She saw the badge and Justice Department ID card that he’d flashed. He was here in an official capacity. Of course, that wouldn’t exclude his presence as a CIA assassin sent to silence a potential threat to the first lady. But try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile her paranoia with her instincts and experience.

The rental car went through the gates unhindered, and Asado relaxed. She had a knot of tension balled up between her shoulder blades that sent a spike of pain spearing out through her forehead. She wondered, idly, if it was anything approaching the pain her sister felt when she’d been shot. Blanca had been the skeptic of the pair, doubting Rosa’s so-called psychic flashes. The phantom pain was still there, and Asado couldn’t unkink her shoulders though she had already swallowed half a dozen painkillers.

After several minutes of discomfort, Asado tilted and stretched her neck and as she did so, the pain between her shoulders disappeared with a click. Out of her peripheral vision, she spotted movement and she instantly slouched in her seat.

It was a pair of black vans, quickly rolling up the street. Since this particular road led nowhere, there was no need for speeding. In a heartbeat, her hand flashed to the grips of the chrome Colt resting on the seat, the safety snapped off with a click that echoed the release of her tightened tendons in her neck. If it was a psychic message sent through her pain centers, she wished that she’d been able to tell Rosa about it. Maybe, though, it was her dead twin, warning her from beyond.

The lead van accelerated past her Impala, gunfire flashing out the passenger window. The guard at the gate jerked violently as he was torn crotch to throat by a line of automatic fire. He slammed back into the ground and the front grille of the van connected with wrought-iron bars. Peeled from their frame and their runners, the metal sliding gates hurled out of the path of the speeding vehicle. It jolted and rolled to a halt just beyond. The second van swerved around it as men disgorged from the rear of the stalled lead vehicle.

Asado fired up the ignition, but just before the engine turned over, she heard a shout in what sounded like Russian. Her stomach twisted as she realized that the Juarez Cartel had to have brought in outside muscle, namely the mafiya. The Russian organized crime Families were deadly men, culling the ranks of the Soviet military and intelligence to get their most ruthless soldiers and assassins.

As much as this seemed like an opportunity for the first lady to pay for framing her sister as a drug smuggler, Asado couldn’t ignore the fact that innocent bystanders would be caught and killed in the cross fire.

And then there was that blue-eyed American. He was a mystery in this equation, as was Anibella Brujillo. Joining the conflict would give her a vantage point on the questions popping up in her mind.

She gunned the Impala and aimed for one of the men who had rushed to watch the gate. The man was pasty and blond, an obvious Russian, but the Uzi in his hands spoke its message understandable in any language. A volley of 9 mm bullets deflected off the streamlined hood and windshield of the Chevy before the gunner could compensate his angle of fire. Asado put the pedal to the metal and felt the jarring impact of her front fender against the mafiya thug, bones shattering on impact as he launched into her windshield and smeared torn flesh and gore across the cracked safety glass.

Asado regretted losing the Impala, but lives were at stake. She dived out of the driver’s seat after popping the rear trunk. The MP-5 and a bag of magazines came immediately to hand, and she threw the satchel over her shoulder like a lethal purse.

Only one of the Russians had stayed behind to watch the gate, meaning that the killers had a plan to be in and out before a prolonged firefight could break out.

Thunder crashed in the distance, the deep and throaty bark of a .44 Magnum pistol cracking loudly as a counterpoint to the softer chatter of machine pistols.

The American had come, and he was prepared for a fight.

MACK BOLAN’S CURIOSITY about Anibella Brujillo was put on hold with the distinct rattle of an automatic weapon in the distance. In a heartbeat he had the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle out of its quick-draw leather, safety off, finger resting in register against the trigger guard. It took only a moment of hesitation to call out in Spanish to Governor Emilio Brujillo’s bodyguards to get him to safety immediately.

Anibella pulled a Glock from underneath the breakfast table. She didn’t rack the slide, and her finger was off the trigger, muzzle aimed at the ground.

“That means you, too, ma’am,” Bolan snapped.

Her hazel eyes flashed brightly with indignity. “They are attacking my home, Mr. Cooper, and I have been trained by the best commandos Mexico has.”

“They’re also heavily armed,” Bolan countered. He knew that the first lady hadn’t run at the previous assassination attempt. Indeed, she’d picked up a handgun belonging to one of her fallen bodyguards and proceeded to fight back with savage proficiency. “If you want to help, protect your husband and fall back along with his security detail.”

“But…” Anibella began, but the Executioner had no time to waste in debating with her. He took off in a long, loping run, keeping to the concealment of a row of planter-based hedges. The concrete would provide him with cover and he found a good position where he’d have protected fields of fire to control the rear entrance of the mansion.

A shape crouched beside him and from the smell of Anibella’s perfume, he didn’t even have to look to identify her.

“Not going to yell at me?” the woman asked, finding a notch in the concrete planter she kneeled against.

“It’s too late now, and I’d give away my position,” Bolan returned, containing the urge to growl at her. “It’s your funeral.”

Her wide lips curved upward in a smirk. “I don’t think you’ll allow that—”

“Incoming,” Bolan cut her off. He took careful aim with the Desert Eagle, the front sight cutting across the forehead of a gunman. He was mildly surprised at the Slavic features of the hitter, as well as the Uzi submachine gun in his hands. However, that didn’t slow his pull of the trigger, nor the screaming 240-grain jacketed hollow-point round he punched through the Russian’s skull at more than 1300 feet per second. The dome of bone and scalp that had been the top of the assassin’s head flipped back on strips of stretchy flesh.