Devil's Playground

Other mafiya goons dived wildly for cover as the Executioner tracked a second Uzi-armed killer and popped another .44 Magnum slug through his rib cage. Eight hundred foot-pounds of energy tore the Russian’s heart in two, killing him instantly. Anibella’s Glock .40 barked off to Bolan’s right, taking down a third gunman with a double-tap to the upper chest.

Three down so far, but a half dozen SMGs ripped out a sheet of return fire that drove them both back behind the protection of concrete garden decorations.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anything heavier…or maybe some grenades, would you?” First Lady Brujillo asked.

“Not right now,” Bolan replied, shifting his position to the end of a long marble bench. Swinging around the side, he tapped off four quick shots that took two of the hit men off guard from their flank. Cut down by the Magnum heartstoppers, he drew the attention of the remaining four shooters. Bolan was letting the marble absorb the fire lancing in his direction, allowing the gunmen to burn up their reserves of ammunition on bulletproof stone. Suddenly, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision.

Anibella’s Glock ripped off several quick shots toward a knot of Russians who were trying to slip up on Bolan’s blind side. The Executioner’s left hand ripped his Beretta from its shoulder holster as he emptied his Desert Eagle toward the mobsters, helping to keep them down. One of the shooters jerked violently, his neck geysering out a fountain of arterial blood as a .44 Magnum round ripped through it. Finally the 93-R machine pistol snapped out at full extension on his left arm. On semiauto, the six-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Beretta spun a 9 mm shot through the face of a second of the newcomers. The 93-R’s extra barrel length gave him enough accuracy to make lethal shots at forty yards, while the 9 mm bullet still had enough velocity to cause major damage.

There was more gunfire in the distance, automatic weapons chattering on an exchange of fire that gave the Executioner pause. From his memorization of the mansion’s layout, none of the other security on the scene would have been in a position to engage in combat with the invaders. Someone else had entered this conflict, and Bolan wasn’t certain exactly who.

“Fall back to the house,” Bolan ordered, capping off a pair of Parabellum rounds into the face of a Russian hitter. A gory splash churned up the assassin’s features, whipping him to the ground like a sack of garbage.

“Why?” Anibella Brujillo asked. Her Glock roared twice more, fat bullets tearing through the shoulder of a second Uzi-packing killer. She bore down and finished off the wounded man with three more shots into his center of mass, 180-grain bullets churning internal organs into pureed slush.

“Do it!” the Executioner growled. He popped the empty magazine from his Desert Eagle, stuffed it into his waistband, slapped in a fresh stick and brought the weapon to bear with one hand, all while punching out two more accurate shots from his Beretta. “I’ll cover you. Go!”

The first lady took off. Bolan rose, both handguns blazing. He was firing to draw the assassins’ attention, but even as he sidestepped along the planters, Beretta and Desert Eagle barking almost in unison, he managed to tag two more of the mafiya gunmen, dropping their corpses to the lawn, leaking from multiple wounds.

The full-auto gunfight around the corner was growing closer, and Bolan didn’t want to have to deal with a mysterious newcomer and the governor’s decisively lethal wife at the same time.

Anibella Brujillo reached the back entrance to the mansion, security team members in the doorway with machine pistols barking. Uzis chattered angrily and one of the Mexican bodyguards let out a gargled cry of pain, collapsing to his knees. Brujillo whirled and hooked the injured Mexican under his arm and pulled him to cover as Bolan ripped out 9 mm and .44 Magnum retribution against the knot of gunmen opening fire on the first lady.

“Hurry up!” Anibella shouted.

“Get him to cover!” Bolan snapped. He stuffed the Desert Eagle into his waistband and dropped behind the concrete planter. His index finger stabbed the release on the Beretta, and the 20-round magazine slid freely to the ground. A spare stick snapped into place, and he released the slide to get the machine pistol into battery. The whole move took a second and a half, and he was up and shooting, 9 mm slugs punching into the heart of a bold Russian gunman rushing his position.

The Executioner swung from the dropped assassin and struck another mafiya thug in the throat. Vertebrae exploded from the back of the gunman’s neck.

He turned and saw an auburn-haired woman step into view at the corner of the mansion. She had an Uzi in her hands, exchanging fire with one of the armed raiders. She stitched him from crotch to throat, dropping the Russian like a sack of laundry. She whirled and was feeding her partially spent machine pistol a fresh magazine, when she saw the Executioner. There was a moment of hesitation on her face.

Bolan recognized the woman instantly. He knew the face of the dead bodyguard from the resort assault, Rosa Asado. But, having read the dead woman’s file, he also knew she was one of a pair of identical twins. This had to be Blanca Asado. He remembered, from his briefing with Hal Brognola, that Blanca was wanted for questioning about her sister’s alleged activities as the mastermind behind the first kill-attempt against the governor’s wife.

If the Asado family wanted the first lady dead, then why in hell was Asado here, shooting it out with Russian hired guns when they could have exacted revenge for the murdered twin?

Brognola had surmised, during the briefing, that the Russians and the murdered Asado had been at cross purposes, both seeking the death of Mrs. Brujillo.

All this flashed in a single moment of recognition, and Bolan left the questions to be asked later when he spotted another mafiya gunman sneaking up on Asado’s blind side. Bolan pulled his Desert Eagle from his waistband and punched out a single 240-grain slug that took the Russian at the V of his collarbone. Windpipe, aorta and spine torn out by the heavyweight bulldozer of lead and copper, the gunman flopped to the ground in a bloody mess.

Asado exchanged a quick, wordless glance with the Executioner before her eyes scanned for other opposition.

“Gracias,” she called.

Bolan scrambled, cutting the distance between the two of them, staying alert for any of the mafiya goons who might have retreated to regroup for another attack. He took advantage of the pause to feed the hungry Desert Eagle again, returning it to his hip holster before transferring the 93-R to his right hand. “Blanca?”

“You have the advantage over me, sir,” Asado returned.

“You out for vengeance for your sister?” Bolan pressed.

“I’d like to know who I’m talking to,” Asado answered, her eyes scanning the grounds.

“Agent Matt Cooper,” Bolan introduced. “You here for blood?”

“I’m here for answers,” Asado stated. She had the Uzi pointed between Bolan’s feet, a gesture not lost on the warrior. She didn’t trust him.

“So am I,” Bolan replied. “The one answer I want is, are you looking for payback for your sister?”

Asado’s eyes narrowed, lightning sparking behind them at the accusation. “Someone framed my sister, and now she’s dead, and the police want to ‘question’ me. And you know how they ask questions in a Mexican jail.”

Bolan’s lips drew into a tight line. “So do you want to stick around and find out the truth?”

Asado glanced toward the mansion. “You think you can pull the fangs on Anibella Brujillo?”

Bolan looked over his shoulder, then back to Asado. He fished a business card out of his pocket and flipped it to her. “Contact me if you can. Use the voice-mail line. It’s secure.”

“You sure about that?” Asado asked.

“It’s ironclad,” Bolan told her. “Get out of here.”

Asado let the Uzi drop to the ground between them. “I’m trusting you for now.”

She took off around the corner, heading for the front gate. Sirens wailed in the distance. Asado was going to have to hoof it to disappear before the law showed up, but with the strides she was taking, she’d have enough time to reach whatever wheels she had stashed away. He’d noticed a vehicle parked not far from the mansion’s entrance, and with her appearance, he realized the occupant of the unknown car. Strewed corpses were testimony to the odds that she’d helped to cut down.

The Executioner was glad for the assistance, but Asado’s presence was worrying. She was on the run, and she was convinced her sister had been set up. That she was willing to hang back and trust Bolan to keep her in the loop was an advantage he possessed now. He looked back to the mansion and saw Anibella Brujillo, packing an MP-5 from the injured bodyguard. Her eyes locked on him with smoldering suspicion, but Bolan knew how to play it cool and close to the vest.

The first lady wanted in on his hunt for the people out to kill her, at least on the surface, but she was getting a little too cozy for Bolan’s tastes. Having someone out from under Anibella Brujillo’s thumb would allow him some wiggle room.

It was going to be tricky, but when he’d been recruited by Brognola for this, he was expecting a maze of deception. For now, he had a string to lead him back out if he wandered in too deeply.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thirty-six hours earlier

“I’m glad you could take this meeting, Striker,” Hal Brognola said as Bolan sat at the end of the polished oak conference table. Monitors displaying satellite-and computer-generated maps flickered, bathing the dimly lit room in a blue glow that conflicted with the low-powered amber bulbs built into the smooth railings around the sides of the conference room, the woodgrain and luster of the rail matching that of the finely made table that Bolan sat at. The two friends were in the operations center beneath Camp David.

“I had a little downtime after my last mission,” the Executioner replied.

“You get damned little enough R and R,” Brognola stated.

Bolan simply shrugged. “I’m no good at relaxing.”

“That’s because you need more practice,” Brognola grumbled. “Unfortunately, this has the makings of a major crisis, and the Mexican president asked for help from ‘Striker.’”

Bolan’s brow furrowed at the memories of what had been dubbed by the press as the Border Fire crisis. It had flavored the more recent dissent against the illegal immigration problem that followed. Bolan had worked almost side by side with the Mexican president, fending off several factions attempting to overthrow him and bring Mexico into open conflict with the United States. Only the combined forces of Stony Man Farm had brought the crisis to an end, battling wildly disparate forces.

The lights built into the oaken rail flared brighter and lines built into the ceiling added to the illumination, dispersing shadow and heralding the approach of the President of the United States and his guest, the Mexican president.

“Striker,” the Man greeted Bolan. “I believe you know my guest.”