Powder Burn

“You think someone inside the CNP betrayed us.” The lieutenant didn’t phrase it as a question.

“If the bomb had been a random thing, I wouldn’t ask,” Bolan replied. “But when they follow up with shooters, it’s specific. No one tailed me from the airport, so there has to be a leak.”

“Why must it be on my side?”

“I’d be asking Styles the same thing,” Bolan said, “if he was here. My only contact with the DEA is dead.”

“So you’re stuck on me.”

“The phrase would be ‘stuck with you,’ and that isn’t what I said. You’ve done a good job, so far. I’m impressed, okay? But someone had to tip the other side about our meet.”

“You’re right,” Pureza said, relaxing from her previous defensive posture. “I was assigned by my commander, Captain Rodrigo Celedón. Above him, I can’t say who might have known.”

“You trust your captain?”

“With my life,” she said.

“Be sure of that before you talk to him again. Because it is your life.”

“The DEA may have a leak, as well.”

“It happens,” Bolan granted. “But they’re getting whittled down in Bogotá these days, and I don’t picture Styles setting himself up to be hit.”

“What’s your solution, then?”

“A solo op,” Bolan replied. “Or a duet, if you’re still in.”

“You think I’d leave you at this stage?”

“It wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you ever did,” he told her frankly.

“I must still live with myself,” Pureza said. “One person I can absolutely trust.”

“And you’re on board with what I have to do?”

“That part has been…shall I say vague? I was assigned to help with what is called a ‘special case.’ Beyond that, all I know is that the cartel wants you dead. And me, as well, apparently.”

“That sums it up,” Bolan said. “Naldo Macario wore out his welcome with the massacre at your Palace of Justice. It’s crunch time. I’m the last resort.”

Pureza held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “So, we aren’t building a case for trial,” she said at last.

“The trial’s been held. The verdict’s in. Macario’s outfit is marked.”

“You understand I represent the law?”

“The system’s broken down,” Bolan replied. “We’re trying an alternative.”

“If I refuse?”

“You walk. We try to stay out of each other’s way.”

“And Macario wins.”

“No, he’s done, either way.”

The lieutenant took another moment, making up her mind, then nodded. “Right,” she said. “Where do we start?”

Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.

THE TELEPHONE CAUGHT Hal Brognola reaching for his hat. It was an hour and a half past quitting time, and he was taking more work home, as usual. He might have let the call go through to voice mail if it hadn’t been his private line. Leaving his gray fedora on its wall hook, Brognola snagged the receiver midway through its third insistent ring.

“Hello?”

“Sorry to catch you headed out the door,” the familiar voice said from somewhere warm and far away.

“So you’re into remote viewing now?” Brognola inquired.

“Just safe bets,” Bolan replied. “When was the last time you cleared the office on time?”

“Thirteenth of Never,” Brognola acknowledged. “I forget the year. Aught-something. How’s it going where you are?”

The private line was scrambled, but Brognola took no chances. Paranoia wasn’t just a state of mind in Washington—it was a tried and true survival mechanism.

“Heating up,” Bolan said in reply. “There was an unexpected welcoming committee and we lost our guy from pharmaceuticals.”

Meaning Jack Styles from DEA. Brognola hadn’t known him personally—the agency had something like fifty-five hundred sworn agents, more than twice that many employees in all—but he still felt the sharp pang of loss.

Once a cop, always a cop.

“So, you need a new contact?” he asked.

“Negative, at least for the time being,” Bolan replied. “I’ve got some local help. We’ll try to muddle through.”

“If there’s a problem with the local shop…”

Brognola paused and Bolan filled the gap. “We’ve talked about it. This one’s good, so far. Not sure about the rest.”

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “If you need any help, I should be able to provide it.”

He slipped in the reference to Able Team, who’d gone to bat with the Executioner more than once, their link preceding Brognola’s promotion at Justice and the creation of Stony Man Farm. Bolan and two of the Able Team warriors had traveled through hell together as outlaws, before they dropped off the grid to help Uncle Sam with his worst dirty jobs.

“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Bolan answered, “but I’ve got your number.”

“Right,” Brognola said. “But don’t let the competition get yours.”

“I’m still unlisted,” Bolan said, and the big Fed could almost sense him smiling. “Later.”

“Later,” Brognola agreed, and cradled the receiver.