Missile Intercept

“All is well, then?” she asked. “The company retreat will remain on schedule?”

“Everything’s ducky, Kim Soo-Han,” Hudson said, pronouncing each syllable of her name with delicious distinction. “Just ducky. Trust me.”

Soon, he thought. Soon.

Café de Luca

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

BOLAN NODDED TO Martinez as the sergeant entered the small cantina and headed to their table. He’d changed into civilian clothes, as had Bolan and Grimaldi, but still hardly looked like a typical citizen out for an early-evening snack. He shook hands with the two Americans, sat, then shook his head.

“I have just come from telling the families of my fallen marines about the deaths of their loved ones. It was very sad.”

Bolan nodded in commiseration. He knew the pain of loss.

The server arrived to take his order. Both Bolan and Grimaldi had bottles of beer on the table in front of them.

“Beer,” Martinez said.

The woman left and the big marine leaned forward, his hefty forearms on the tabletop. “Now, what is it that you wished to speak to me about?”

“I’ve been thinking about the raid,” Bolan said. “The men we lost. It shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. We had the element of surprise.”

Martinez compressed his lips and nodded, a look of anger in his dark eyes.

“Sí,” he said. “I agree.”

“Right before the firefight started, someone shouted and the lights and sirens began.”

Martinez nodded again. “I remember.”

“How did they discover we were there? They hadn’t seen us, and we were moving up just like clockwork.”

“What is it you are saying?”

“Someone on our team tipped them off during our approach. It’s the only answer.”

“No,” Martinez said, shaking his head. “No. I will not believe this. I have fought and died beside my men. There is no possibility that one of them is a traitor.”

“One of the cartel guards used the word marines,” Bolan said. “He knew we were marines and not the police. How did he know that?”

Martinez looked down at the tabletop. Just as he was about to speak the server returned with his beer. She smiled at them as she set it down and asked if they needed anything else.

Bolan slipped her some pesos and shook his head. The woman smiled again and moved away.

“Think about it, Jesus,” Grimaldi said. “I wasn’t down and dirty with you guys, but my partner’s seldom wrong about such things.”

The sergeant sat in silence for several seconds, not moving.

“You owe it to your men to check this out,” Bolan said quietly.

Martinez slowly nodded.

“We can help you. We have resources we can use outside your agency. Outside the Mexican government.”

Martinez twisted his lips into a scowl and looked directly into Bolan’s eyes. “Sí, and if this is true, I will kill the traitor myself.”

“We can worry about that when the time comes,” Bolan said. “The first thing I need to stress is that you tell no one. I’m trusting you, but no one else at the moment.”

Martinez nodded.

“Second,” Bolan said, “I’ll need the cell phone numbers of everyone involved, including any of the cartel’s phone numbers on record.”

Martinez nodded again. He removed his cell phone from the case on his belt and pressed a few numbers. “I will contact Captain Ruiz now, and obtain the information you request.”

Bolan held up his hand and said, “Wait. I’d prefer to keep this just between us for the time being.”

“But the captain—”

“Should only be informed if we are correct in our assumption,” Bolan told him. “There’s no reason to cast aspersions on good marines unless we’re sure.”

“Of course,” Martinez said, and held his phone toward the Executioner.

Bolan shook his head and smiled fractionally. “I don’t want yours.”

“Take it anyway,” Martinez said. “I would never ask or expect my men to do something that I am not willing to do, as well.”

Bolan again declined the offer. Before he could say anything more, Martinez’s cell phone flashed and vibrated, signaling an incoming call. He glanced at the number on the screen, his brow furrowing, and answered it.

The Executioner followed the one-sided conversation as best he could. It seemed to contain disconcerting news. Martinez issued a couple of directives, terminated the call and replaced the cell in his belt case.

“One of the prisoners is dead,” he said. “The cartel guard. He was found strangled in his cell. I was told he hanged himself.”

“What about the Cuban?” Bolan asked.

“I gave orders that he be guarded around the clock. Your government is sending agents to conduct an interrogation, right?”

“Right. We’re heading over to the airport in a little while to pick them up. It’s imperative that nothing happens to the Cuban. We need to interview him,” Bolan stated.

Martinez stood, his face set with a grim expression. “I will go to the jail now and personally see to it.”

Bolan and Grimaldi rose in turn, and the Executioner extended his hand. “We appreciate your help.”

As they shook hands, Martinez’s expression did not waver. “And I appreciate yours. If there is a traitor in our midst, we must find him swiftly.”

Abandoned warehouse

Panama City, Panama