Devil's Playground

“I don’t trust the people on the other end of that phone,” Asado told him. “But I met Cooper face-to-face, and he seems like a good man. I’m going to get the stuff.”

She handed him her revolver. “It’s stuffed with .38s, so you can control it with your dumb hand.”

“Thanks,” Diceverde replied.

“I just hope you don’t have to use it,” Asado added, heading out to the car.

“IF WE’RE GOING TO BE WORKING together,” Anibella Brujillo began, putting two cigarettes between her luscious lips and lighting them both, “we’re going to need to be open and honest with each other.”

She took one cigarette out and turned it over to Bolan. He accepted it and could taste her. Bolan shrugged. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

“Your birth name isn’t Matt Cooper,” Anibella cooed.

“It’s the name I go by,” Bolan returned, keeping irritation out of his voice.

Anibella took a deep breath, then sighed. “And who was outside helping us?”

“I exchanged fire with someone in the treeline. I couldn’t get a good look, but whoever it was was interested in taking out the Russians, too.”

“Ah…that’s the thing. Russians,” Anibella replied.

Bolan handed her a printout. “My people pulled the records on a few I got fingerprints on.”

The first lady nodded in approval as she looked at the file. “Your people work quickly.”

“Kind of a necessity in my line of work,” Bolan said. “Quick intelligence can mean the difference between success and death.”

“You seem to have both in droves, Agent Cooper. Quickness and intelligence.”

Bolan nodded, keeping his mind off of the smoldering, seductive stare that the woman burned into him. “I’d rather work independently. Being shackled to a bureaucracy will only limit my ability to hunt down those responsible for your assassination attempts.”

“You think this was round two?” the woman asked.

“Round two of what we know so far. There might have been more attacks foiled by law enforcement that didn’t filter up through your grapevine. These efforts seemed like acts of desperation,” Bolan replied.

Anibella nodded, licking her upper lip. “I am the one who is the figurehead of the antidrug campaign here in Acapulco, Matt.”

Bolan shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”

“I have a sizable dossier on local organizations, including drug processing and distribution centers, which we do not have enough evidence on to constitutionally take action,” Anibella told him, her eyes glimmering. The glimmer sparked an even hotter fire as Bolan realized that his facial expression changed ever so slightly. She’d read him, the flicker of anticipation. She’d been trying, all conversation, to find a chink in his emotional armor to pull him in to her grasp.

A guide to good hunting, just outside of the law, had been the chink she was looking for. Her obvious sensuality hadn’t been enough to bend him toward her, but now that she had the Executioner’s measure, she thought she was in control.

He’d allow her to believe that. A less perceptive man would have been oblivious to her attempts at manipulation.

“I’ll get to work on this. Maybe I’ll shake something loose,” Bolan answered.

Anibella Brujillo smiled, and despite her efforts to make it warm and friendly, Bolan felt a creeping cold sinking into his heart.

CHAPTER FIVE

Locating the locker wasn’t a task of any great difficulty for Blanca Asado. The airport was crowded, and while it could have concealed any one of a dozen hunters, it also provided her with a shield of bodies that would hinder observation. Dressed simply, to avoid being noticed, she weaved through the crowd. She kept an eye out for any cues that would betray organized surveillance, but she saw no enforcement agents with earphones, nobody speaking into a collar.

The airport also had only sporadic video cameras located throughout the terminal. Security was in the form of uniformed manpower, and their attention was locked on nervous travelers who had visible concern on their faces about baggage searches. Police officers passed within a few feet of Asado, but large-framed glasses and a straw sun hat made her just another anonymous person in the crowd. Even if the federales were on the hunt for her, they weren’t looking for her here.

She picked up the key taped to the bottom of one locker complex across the terminal from where she needed to pick up her “care package” as the American woman had called it. The care package was inside an oversize purse. She slid her own, smaller bag, complete with her snub-nosed revolver, into it. The “hobo bag” was stylish despite its plain appearance, meaning it fit in and was ubiquitous, not drawing a second glance. Inside the bottom of the voluminous purse was a hard-cased blue plastic container, probably holding a gun and some spare magazines, judging by the weight. She also noticed a small canvas money belt, and a brand-new cellular phone, with a plastic-bag-wrapped charging cradle.

The cash wasn’t something she needed, but she couldn’t leave it somewhere and trust that it wouldn’t be used to hurt Cooper’s allies back home. If she got to meet with him in person, she’d give him back the money belt.

Getting in her car, she popped open the plastic case. Inside, a stainless-steel Springfield Armory XD-9 stared back at her. A magazine was in the well, and three loaded 15-round magazines were nestled in the case. She took it out and did a quick press check, and partially dumped the mag. All told, she had 61 shots. There would be no fumbling with the slide-mounted catch to get it to fire. It was ready to go with a smooth, crisp 5-pound pull with a lightning-fast reset. Safe, and as sturdy as a bank vault, the stainless-steel XD-9 wasn’t a concealment weapon, but it would pull her through gunfights in environments that would choke anything but an AK-47. Its polymer frame would allow it to weigh lightly in its waistband holster, as well. With the stainless-steel and plastic components of the weapon, the Croatian-designed, American-built pistol was rustproof and needed minimal maintenance.

She was well protected. The cell phone was innocuous, but on opening it, she noticed that it took a direct satellite signal. It had ports to hook to Diceverde’s laptop using the Universal Serial Bus 2.0 hookup now en vogue in electronics. The USB cable would give her a connection at a whim, so if Cooper’s information crew had computer data to send her, she’d get entire files at thousands of kilobytes per second, as fast as the satellite signal fed the phone, and the phone’s processors pumped the data into the laptop, or any computer she needed access to.

She pressed the 1 key and hit Send. The woman who spoke to her before answered immediately.

“You’ve got our package?” she asked.

“Yup,” Asado answered. “This phone’s secure?”

“It would take an encryption program 1300 years to break the security on that thing,” Price answered.

“Then we’d better keep these calls short.”

There was a genuine chuckle on the other end. “I’ll inform Cooper that you have a secure means of contact.”

“He’s hanging around with Anibella Brujillo, lady. She’ll be all over him like flies on caca,” Asado replied. “Especially if she thinks that he might have been in contact with me.”

“Not good news,” Price responded. “We’ll do what we can. I’ve already put your number on his sat-phone directory. If he gets a moment’s freedom, he’ll make direct contact. You can keep it active while it sits in the charger cradle.”

“Thanks,” Asado said. “Over and out.”

“WE JUST GOT IN TOUCH with Blanca Asado,” Barbara Price told Bolan over the phone. “We hooked her up with a secure line of communication with you.”

Bolan replied with an “Uh-huh” over the phone, not providing Anibella Brujillo with any information as to the content of his conversation.

“You have an audience?” Price asked.

“I’m just in conference with the first lady. We’re going over some locations where the cartels might be staging their assassination attempts,” Bolan explained. “Can I get some satellite observation?”

“Absolutely, Striker,” Price responded. “Asado doesn’t think you should trust her, though.”

“Good. I’ll scan and send you the addresses First Lady Brujillo is giving me,” Bolan stated.

“Please,” the governor’s wife said, resting her long, delicate fingers on Bolan’s thigh. “Call me Anibella.”

Bolan raised an eyebrow, pointed to the phone, then shook his head. Anibella winked, her fingernails trailing streaks of sensual fire down the Executioner’s thigh. He couldn’t deny the stirring of her contact, but his face remained a cold, emotionless mask. If anything, Bolan’s emotional resolve only seemed to bring on more smoldering attention from the beautiful ex-singer. Her fingertips trailed off Bolan’s knee and she leaned back, crossing her leg, the hem of her skirt crawling along its smooth, lean length.

“We’ll download real-time satellite imagery to your laptop, Striker,” Price said. “When will you need the data?”