Salvador Strike. Don Pendleton

it, tore open the thick paper wrapping with his teeth and quickly dressed the youth’s wound. He then stripped the kid of belt and shoes, checked him for any hidden weapons and then cleared out of there. Back in the main bar area, all the patrons had vacated the place and Bolan could hear sirens in the distance. He checked his watch, deciding not to hit the club right away. He wanted to give the cops a little time to catch up. For now, he would get a quick bite and then go visit this Tres Hermanos, see what kind of flies he could attract to the web.

      The war had begun and time—for Mario Guerra—was running out.

      BOLAN JUST FINISHED the last bite of his meal when the cellular phone on the seat next to him rang.

      The Executioner wiped his fingers on a napkin before growling a short greeting into the receiver.

      “Cooper, it’s Smalley,” the chief replied.

      “Yeah.”

      “I thought we had a deal, pal.”

      “And what was that?”

      “I thought you weren’t going to start shooting up my town.”

      “I never said that,” Bolan replied. “And besides, it was only one rat hole I shot up in your town. I’m sure nobody will miss the business. You found my little greeting card?”

      “The wounded banger?”

      “That’s the one.”

      “I did,” Smalley said. He let out a sigh and added, “But he lawyered up as soon as we read him his rights, so I don’t think he’s going to be talking to us any time soon.”

      “I didn’t have any trouble getting the information I wanted from him.”

      “Yeah, we heard all about that. First from the punk, then his attorney, and probably from the ACLU and a half-dozen other agencies in time for the early-morning edition of the Washington Post.”

      “I needed to confirm a couple tidbits of intelligence and he was happy to cooperate,” Bolan said. “Now if you’re done, I have some new information. That Hillbanger admitted he was operating under orders from Mario Guerra. He also gave up the main location of this drug operation they’ve been running. And I ran your immigration problem by my own people. We think we’ve got a logical argument that the increased illegal immigrants are actually a pipeline opened by some heavy hitters overseeing MS-13 operations all through this country. I believe they’ve been using the pipeline to divert your attention away from their other activities.”

      “In other words, you think they’ve been just waiting us out,” Smalley concluded.

      “You nailed it.”

      “Damn! I can’t believe we would have fallen for something like that!”

      “Don’t beat up on yourself too much, Smalley,” Bolan replied easily. “There wasn’t any way you could’ve known, and even if you did, there was even less you could do about it. That whole thing falls into INS’s lap, and whoever’s overseeing MS-13 operations at the national level knows how bureaucratically mired that agency is.”

      “So you really think there’s an overboss in this,” Smalley said matter-of-factly. “Like some kind of godfather of the Mara Salvatrucha?”

      “I don’t know for sure yet, but I have some evidence from an operation Marciano was running under the table that strongly suggests it.”

      “So now what?”

      “Now,” Bolan said, his eyes returning to the restaurant’s entrance, “I follow up this lead the Hillbanger gave me on the drug operation. I’m betting it will take me directly to where Mario Guerra’s holed up.”

      “Well, I’ve started deploying every available man to sweep the neighborhoods and get as many Hillbangers off the streets as possible.”

      “Did you get anything from the first prisoner I took from the hit at the park this afternoon?”

      “He’s still in recovery from the surgery. That shot did some major damage to his leg. In fact, doctors say he might lose it altogether. Apparently there was a lot of nerve damage and it was difficult to repair.”

      “Wish I could feel bad, but I don’t,” Bolan replied.

      “I’m sure,” Smalley said. “We’re not shedding any tears, either. We’ve had him up on charges a number of times, but he always managed to beat the rap. Guess he’s not bulletproof, though.”

      “They usually aren’t.”

      “All right, Cooper, I got to go. But just keep in mind that my men are out there trying to help you, so try not to accidentally shoot one of them.”

      “Like I said, I’m very cautious. Just keep them away from Tres Hermanos for the next hour.”

      Bolan killed the call and returned his full attention to the scene before him. While talking to Smalley, he’d watched a number of vehicles park in the lot and produce occupants who didn’t appear to be anything more than legitimate patrons. The Executioner knew looks could be deceiving, and he’d begun to wonder if the MS-13 gangster had sent him on a wild-goose chase, yet something in his gut told him to wait it out. If the restaurant did serve as a front to their drug sales operations, it wasn’t like they would go about advertising the fact to the casual observer.

      As if on cue, Bolan observed a late model BMW pull to the curb in front of the entrance and drop off two men seated in the back. Both of them were dressed in nice clothes and wore lots of jewelry—the dark sunglasses seemed particularly strange for the time of evening. The BMW’s driver then pulled away and turned into the lot to wait while the pair of tough-looking customers made their way inside.

      Bingo.

      The Executioner left the Mustang he’d parked across the street and approached the BMW waiting in its blind spot. When he’d gone half the distance, he saw a spark and flicker through the back window. A moment later, the driver stuck his hand out the side and Bolan could just make out the pinpoint glow of a cigarette cherry. The soldier continued toward the BMW until he was within a few feet and drew the Beretta from shoulder leather. He reached out and grabbed the driver’s wrist while simultaneously sliding his gun hand under the man’s triceps and pulling backward, using the arm as a lever for which he could quite effectively control the driver.