Recovery Force

“I can’t tell you, so let’s leave it alone. What I can tell you is that when I do hear about Casco’s retaliation, it will come from the same place I heard your men were walking into a trap at that raid.”

“Well, that particular bit of information saved my life and those of about six good men. I guess it’ll have to be enough—but only for now.”

“I understand the position you’re in, Hall. I have a suggestion for you if you’d like to hear it.”

“Shoot.”

“Call the Department of Justice in Washington. Ask to talk to a guy named Brognola. Just explain your situation and ask him what he might be able to do to get some of the heat off your back. I can promise your troubles will abate by sundown.”

“Brognola, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Hall sighed again. “Okay, I’ll give that a shot.”

“As soon as I have something for you, I’ll call back.”

Bolan disconnected the call, field-stripped his cigarette and returned to his car. He couldn’t have risked making that call on his phone. The warrior didn’t doubt for a moment that one or more of Casco’s people monitored the airways. The Los Negros network was larger and more powerful than even Joseph Hall would have admitted, and Bolan couldn’t see risking his demise over sloppy tactics. Such decisions had saved his life many times before.

As he got behind the wheel, Bolan’s cell phone vibrated, demanding attention. He saw the number, recognized it and answered. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Can you meet me?” Vince Gagliardi’s voice inquired.

“Where and when?”

“I’ll get back to you within an hour.”

Dead air followed and Bolan realized Gagliardi had hung up. He pushed the disconnect button, stared a moment at the screen and then tucked the phone in his shirt pocket. The call had all of Bolan’s senses on alert. The Executioner and Gagliardi had agreed that if the DEA agent sensed he might be in trouble or his cover blown, he’d contact Bolan with those words so that Bolan would know to stay clear. Their agreement was if something like that went down, no calls and no meetings.

Okay, so the heat was already ramping up. Bolan had figured that his assault on Casco’s three underbosses at the club might generate quite a bit of suspicion. After all, the police wouldn’t have conducted such an attack, which narrowed the possible source of information regarding Los Negros’s use of the club as an official meeting place for Casco’s people. That left either the hitters coming from Los Zetas or a traitor inside Los Negros. The search for a leak would eventually work its way into Los Zetas, as well, and that would put Gagliardi at risk irrespective of the fact he was still pretty low in the ranks.

Bolan had prepared for such an eventuality. He knew he’d have to tap some alternate sources of information. His first concern had to be Gagliardi, however. He didn’t want to blow the DEA agent’s cover but he also owed the guy a hell of a lot. He couldn’t just take the risk that Gagliardi would be discovered, never mind the fact that if Gagliardi got blown, Casco’s people would force him to talk. The DEA trained their undercover agents to resist many forms of torture, but every man had a breaking point: Gagliardi couldn’t hold out forever.

Bolan keyed in a number by heart and the voice of Aaron Kurtzman answered on the first ring. Affectionately known as “Bear” among his close friends and allies, Kurtzman served as Stony Man’s chief technical wizard. He was a specialist at computer programs, data manipulation and retrieval and cybersecurity; he commanded a team of some of the greatest technical minds ever assembled. The skills of his team rivaled even those in places like NASA, DARPA and the NSA.

“Striker, how are you?” Kurtzman greeted his friend.

“Doing good, Bear.” Bolan hadn’t planned to enlist his Stony Man friends but with the life of a DEA agent and good man on the line, he didn’t see much choice. “I need your help.”

“Name it.”

“I need to get a location on a DEA agent named Gagliardi, first name of Vincent. He’s currently working an undercover narco op here in Phoenix. His probable location should be recorded in the files of his case officer.”

“And you need me to crack it.”

“You mind?”

Kurtzman let out a booming laugh. “You kidding? Been looking for a little excitement since I got back from leave. How soon you need it?”

“Yesterday,” Bolan replied. “This guy’s in trouble, and I need to find him before his cover’s blown.”

“Give me a quarter-hour and I’ll call you back.”

“Roger that. And thanks, Bear.”

“Don’t mention it.”

True to his word, Kurtzman called fifteen minutes later with a location. Bolan hadn’t even bothered changing out of his blacksuit. He barely had time to return to his hotel and retrieve his equipment bag, where his full arsenal was stowed. There might not be another chance. The mission had gone into high gear. The stakes were up and the numbers were running down. A totality of the circumstances had dictated the parameters of the mission this time, and Bolan found little choice but to follow the trail Fate had laid ahead of him. Either way, it didn’t matter to Bolan. If he could create more chaos for Casco by hitting Los Zetas while buying Gagliardi time to break away from whatever mess he’d stepped in, so much the better.

Bolan had become an expert in improvisation long ago. From jungle hell-grounds to battlefields littered with Mafioso vermin, the Executioner forged a new kind of warfare. He’d learned to hit the enemy hard and fast, give them no corner. He continued his War Everlasting with the maintenance of one primal goal: put the enemy down and keep them there. And that’s what Bolan had come to Phoenix to do.

Yeah, the Sun City blitz had begun.

4

“I’m telling you, Rumaldo, this cabrón was no damned Zeta. This dude was some kind of soldier or something.”

Rumaldo Salto, enforcer and head of Hector Casco’s personal guard, folded his meaty arms and leaned against a pillar of the portico outside Casco’s home. “A soldier, eh?”

“Yeah,” Claudia Pacorbo said. “Like a commando, see. Dressed all in black. Big and mean. And he had some kind of special gun, you know, like an automatic gun.”

The story was too wild to make up and yet Salto had serious trouble believing her. For one thing, Pacorbo was known to do a little too much nose candy and that kind of habit didn’t promote clear thinking. Second, the boss had assigned him to stay put and watch the house and grounds while he sent his spies to the streets to get the full story. But nearly an hour before dawn, Pacorbo showed up at the front gate in a taxi cab without a dime to her name—Salto had to fork out nearly a hundred bucks for Pacorbo’s twenty-mile ride from south-central Phoenix to the east side of Scottsdale—with a cockamamie story about a commando dressed all in black and toting a machine gun.

Then again, Salto had already heard the first reports coming back as evidence that supported Pacorbo’s wild story. First, two of the guys assigned to protect Casco’s chief shot-callers were dead and riddled with too many bullets to have come from one or two guns. Second, the other girls had gotten into the truck this alleged commando had been driving under the promise he was going to “take them home.” That most definitely smelled of serious trouble. The only thing Salto wondered was if the trouble was coming from the cops, Los Zetas, or a freelance troublemaker looking to score some action.

“Okay…okay, chica. I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to the boss and see if he’ll meet with you. But I’m telling you, girl, if you’re pulling my leg just to score some money for smack, you’re going to get a smack. And it won’t be the kind you’re thinking.”

“Fine,” Pacorbo said, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder with smug indifference. She folded her arms and added, “You go talk to Hector.”

Salto shot her a dirty look before turning to head inside. The cool air felt good against his face. Barely morning out there and it was already muggy and hot. Salto wasn’t much for the heat, a surprising twist of fate for a native-born Mexican raised near Juárez on the American-Mexican border. Before joining Los Negros, Salto had trained quite a while in the Sonoran Desert and resided for some time in Hermosillo. Eventually, like so many of his Los Negros brothers, Salto entered the U.S. illegally for the sole purpose of working in the employ of Hector Casco.

The honor was all Salto’s, no doubts there. Casco turned out to be one who ruled with a firm but fair hand, and while he didn’t pay that well, he treated each man with dignity. In fact, most wouldn’t have looked at a guy like Casco and marked him as the second ranking overseer of the Sinaloa cartel. Casco was known among certain circles as a man of distinct tastes who prepossessed a classic air of style and dignity. Additionally, Casco donated to a number of worthwhile charities—anonymously, of course, since it wouldn’t do for his enemies to know his true identity—while rubbing elbows with the social elite in Scottsdale under an assumed identity.

It was Casco’s ability to continue his charade of identity that amazed Salto most. The fact nobody had yet betrayed him spoke to his skill in this area. Actually no one, with the exception of the heads of the Sinaloa cartel, even knew the details of Casco’s alternate alias. They were not allowed to accompany him to the various social events in which he engaged, save for his driver, And neither Salto nor any of the house protection team were permitted to leave the grounds except when off duty.

Salto had once considered following Casco but decided against it as too risky. If he were discovered they would most certainly mark him as a cop or a traitor, and a traitor’s mark was not something he wanted to acquire while inside Los Negros. Not only could it mean death, but even if he were to explain it as mere curiosity he would also be ostracized and no longer enjoy the freedoms and protection of the organization. Salto had worked too hard, come too far, to ever let that happen.

Salto rapped on the slightly ajar door to Casco’s study, and then poked his head through the opening at a grunt of acknowledgement. Casco sat at his desk scribbling furiously on a notepad. There wasn’t a phone or computer in sight; Casco didn’t believe in such things as they could be traced back to him. There was a house phone but that was all. Any correspondence was either handwritten, output via a thermal typewriter or delivered in-person between Casco’s couriers.

A courier had been Salto’s first job after coming into Casco’s employ. The job was tough and extremely dangerous given the list of Casco’s innumerable enemies. A courier was nothing more than an information mule. He carried nothing of material value, but the knowledge a courier possessed was priceless to rival gangs, and particularly to Los Zetas. None of Casco’s enemies had ever caught a courier, which is probably why Casco continued to operate with the freedom he did. Still, he knew that luck wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, they’d get to a courier and the guy would spill his guts, and then Salto would have to start earning his money for real.

“What is it, Maldo?” Casco demanded, using a shortened form of Salto’s name. Nobody else but Hector called him that.

“Boss, the Pacorbo chick demands to see you.”

“I’m busy,” Casco snapped. “And I’m not about to give that bitch any more money. You tell her to go suck it off Julio or one of the clubbers. She ain’t going to get change from me. I know what a gold-hopping whore she is.”

“Uh, sure, boss…but—”