If they didn't come to the ranch itself, then the Executioner would follow Taylor to them. Taylor might know where Montoya was hiding. Then again, he might not. But there was a good chance the cartel men would know where to find their boss.

  Far in the distance, Bolan heard grinding gears straining against the bumpy trails. A few minutes later a battered Winnebago pulled into the clearing. The cartel henchmen had known it would take a large vehicle to transport that amount of cocaine. But they hadn't counted on the rough terrain.

  Buddy Taylor took several steps off the porch and waited, his hand resting on the grip of the holstered .45.

  Two men exited the vehicle, and in the stillness of the canyon, Bolan could make out the faint sound of angry voices. The Winnebago's tall driver gestured dramatically at the dent in the right front bumper.

  Taylor shrugged.

  More unintelligible words filtered across the canyon as the driver calmed down. Bolan watched as Taylor walked to a jeep, opened the door and motioned for the men to follow. The tall man shook his head as he and his partner returned to their vehicle. Through the binoculars, Bolan saw Taylor frown.

  They were obviously on their way to get the cocaine from wherever the merc had hidden it. Why didn't the two gunners want to ride with Taylor and spare their own vehicle further abuse over the rugged southern Arizona wasteland?

  The Executioner knew the answer.

  He wondered if Taylor did.

  The Colombians didn't intend to drive Taylor's jeep back to pick up their vehicle after they got the cocaine. And as soon as they learned the location of the stash, Buddy Taylor would be in no condition to drive it himself.

  Or to do anything else.

  Bolan grabbed the Weatherby and sprinted to the Land Rover on the trail behind the ridge. He threw off the emergency brake, pushed the stick into neutral and let the vehicle coast silently down the mountain.

  An eighth of a mile from the lone road that led to the house, the warrior pulled behind a clump of sagebrush and waited. A few seconds later, Taylor's jeep passed, followed closely by the Winnebago.

  Bolan gave them a two-minute head start before he cranked the key in his vehicle's ignition. It would be slow going over these winding trails, and the Executioner had no intention of rounding a curve to find himself bumper-to-bumper with the large recreational vehicle.

  As he topped a hill, Bolan spotted the other two vehicles on high ground ahead. Hitting the brake, he waited until they disappeared on the other side.

  He crested the next hill and came to a fork in the road. There was no sign of either the jeep or Winnebago.

  Bolan parked the Land Rover and jogged back to the top of the hill. Pressing the binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the peaks and gulches in front of him. Just off the left fork, a mile ahead, he saw the dust of the two vehicles as they pulled from the road into a small ravine. A half mile to the right was a tall rise overlooking the area.

  There was little chance that they'd see or hear him now, and Bolan's tires spun as he left the road and took off across open country toward the slope.

  Circling out of sight behind the hill, he was forced to slow as the grade steepened. Halfway up, he grabbed the Weatherby and abandoned the Land Rover, making his way over rocks and bristly shrubs to the top.

  The Executioner squeezed between two jagged boulders on the edge of the ridge. Far below he could see tiny figures. He uncapped the Bausch & Lomb 6×24 target scope atop the Weatherby and pressed the side of the rifle stock against his cheek.

  Beyond the cross hairs, he saw Taylor and the two Colombians standing at the mouth of a cave.

  The warrior bracketed the taller Colombian between the horizontal lines of the Prismatic Rangefinder and the yardage appeared on the screen: 521. He dialed the bullet-drop knob accordingly as the three men disappeared into the cave. Thirty seconds later they came out, arms loaded with brown packages.

  Bolan waited while they made several more trips in and out of the cave before the Colombian driver closed the door and turned to Taylor.

  The red-faced mercenary was leaning against his Jeep lighting a cigarette when the short Colombian swung a sling-mounted Ingram MAC-10 from under his jacket. The taller Colombian had circled around the vehicle and now stood behind Taylor, his own gun drawn, ready to take the man in a cross fire.

  The merc's mouth dropped open, the cigarette falling to the ground.

  Bolan held the cross hair dead on the gunner with the machine pistol and squeezed the rifle's trigger. The heavy Weatherby Magnum echoed throughout the ravine, the recoil pushing the Executioner's shoulder slightly back as he watched through the scope.

  The short man's face exploded.

  With practiced hands, Bolan worked the bolt, chambering another of the giant rounds.

  He swung the cross hairs onto the second gunner, who had turned in the direction of the explosion. The man held his weapon in both hands, jerking first one way and then another as he searched frantically for the sniper.

  The Executioner squeezed the trigger once more and another 500-grain projectile left the barrel and found its mark, entering the chest of the Colombian and throwing him backward onto the ground.

  Bolan sighted through the scope at Buddy Taylor.

  The petrified merc stared wild-eyed in his direction, his mouth still open in surprise.

  8

  Bolan slid the Weatherby back in its soft case as Buddy Taylor sprinted across the open terrain between his Jeep and the Winnebago, his fat stomach flopping with every step.

  The fact that the man was willing to expose himself to more fire from an unknown sniper to reclaim the cocaine, rather than take cover, further confirmed Bolan's belief that Taylor would always play both ends against the middle.

  Taylor jumped behind the wheel, spinning the tires in the sand as he headed for the mouth of the canyon.

  Bolan knew that the man would flee the ranch if he had any sense at all, but he'd have to pass within a quarter of a mile of the house to get back to the highway. The warrior had no doubt that the man would take the opportunity to trade the Winnebago for one of the faster, less conspicuous vehicles in front of his house.

  The Executioner could catch up to him there.

  Bolan made his way back to the Land Rover and drove down the hillside, circling into the canyon to the cave's entrance. He stuck his head inside, confirming that the stash had been totally cleared out.

  As he knelt to check the chest-shot Colombian, Bolan saw a twitch. He leaned forward and pressed a forefinger against the man's carotid artery.

  The pulse was faint.

  He squeezed the dying man's face slightly and the eyes opened, glazed over and unblinking against the sun.

  "Where did Montoya go?" Bolan asked.

  The man coughed, blood from his penetrated lung spewing forward.

  "Tell me where Montoya's hiding."

  "Coo…" the gunner exhaled softly. "Coo…" With a jerk, he closed his eyes in death.

  Bolan rose and walked back to the Land Rover. Coo? It could have been nothing. But then again the Colombian might have been trying to answer. Coo. Colombia? It hadn't sounded that way. Besides, the phone call to the presidential palace that Bolan had forced the captain to make had confirmed that Montoya wasn't expected for several days.

  The warrior slid behind the wheel of the Land Rover and pulled through the pass to the road. It was possible that Montoya was still there. The palace could have been ordered to falsely report the general's absence. Montoya might have returned to Bogotá and put out the story, figuring home to be the safest place to ride out the storm.

  But somehow Bolan's instincts couldn't buy that. No, Montoya was somewhere else. Somewhere he felt safe — where he could hide until the heat blew over, where he could stay until the Executioner gave up or got killed.

  Bolan smiled grimly as he neared Taylor's ranch. He might get killed. That was always a distinct possibility. But the chairman of the board of the cartel didn't know him very well if he thought the Executioner would just get tired and go away.

  He parked the Land Rover a quarter mile from the ranch house and scrambled through the rocks and brush.

  As he neared the clearing where the house stood, Bolan caught sight of the battered RV parked in front. The expensive rec vehicle had blown a tire, and the tracks behind it indicated Taylor must have limped in on the rim.

  Bolan concealed himself behind the stack of firewood on the front porch and looked through the bedroom window. An open suitcase lay on the bed, and from somewhere out of vision, he saw shirts and underwear fly through the air to land in or near the suitcase.

  Drawing the Desert Eagle, he crept to the back of the building, eased the screen door open and stepped inside. He heard movement down the hall and made his way silently toward the noise. As Bolan neared the bedroom, he heard labored breathing. Taylor cursed.

  Peering around the corner, he saw the merc kneeling in the closet, his back to the hall.

  Bolan crept softly until he stood directly behind the man. Taylor was furiously twirling the tumblers of a safe that was dropped into the closet floor.

  "Goddamned combination shit…" Taylor panted. "Twenty-six left, dammit…"

  Bolan pressed the muzzle of the .44 into the back of Taylor's neck and reached down, yanking the .45 from the merc's holster. "Go ahead, Taylor," he said. "Open it."

  "Pollock? I… there's nothing in there. I just…"

  "Go ahead. I'd like to see what's inside." Bolan cocked the big automag's hammer, the click sounding thunderous in the small closet. "But you'd better pray there's no gun under the lid."

  Taylor spun the combination lock, his shaking fingers failing twice before the door finally opened.

  Bolan pressed the Desert Eagle harder into Taylor's spine. "Reach in with two fingers and lift the gun out."

  The merc obliged, gingerly setting a Browning .25 auto on the floor next to his knees.

  The Executioner swept the gun behind him with a boot. "Now, let's see what else you've got."

  Taylor pulled several stacks of paper-wrapped bills from the safe and handed them behind him.

  Bolan backed into the living room, shoving the money down the front of his shirt.

  The merc turned to face him. "What… There's over a hundred grand there, Pollock. That's my entire savings." The man's eyes narrowed. "You ripping me off?"

  The warrior shook his head in disgust. "No, Taylor. Not everybody thinks like you do. I'm helping you pay a debt. Janie Brewer had a sister. But I doubt you knew that. This money goes to her — not that it comes close to evening the score."

  Taylor's eyes widened in fear. "Listen, it's not my fault. Those guys held guns on me. They forced me to take them to the dope. I didn't…"

  "Save it. I saw the whole thing." Bolan leveled the automag at Taylor's forehead.

  "No! Wait!" the merc pleaded. "I've got something you'll want to know."

  "Go ahead."

  "You haven't talked to Valdez since you got back, have you?" Taylor said quickly. "Let me give it to you fast. Don't shoot me… you're gonna need me." The man's fear-stricken face cracked a nervous grin, and Bolan could see that Taylor thought he had yet another ace up his sleeve.

  "Valdez has been a busy little son of a bitch," Taylor told him.

  Bolan listened while the guy filled him in on Valdez's plan to reunite with Alpha 66.

  And as soon as the double-dealing mercenary mentioned Raul Castillo, the Executioner had his answer as to Montoya's whereabouts.

  The words of the dying Colombian. "Coo."

  Cuba — only pronounced the Latin way.

  Montoya had mentioned Castro in the moments before the Executioner had struck the country inn. Raul Castillo was at the resort working out details for Cuban protection.

  It left only one possible answer.

  Montoya was probably in Fidel Castro's office right now, planning to saturate the United States with drugs.

  "And what were you supposed to get for providing the plane?" Bolan asked. "Somehow, I don't think patriotism was your motive for getting involved."

  "Simple. Jackson and…" Taylor paused, a nervous frown replacing the grin. Then he smiled again. "I was going to get whatever reward Alpha was willing to pay. That's all."

  Bolan thought of the shallow hole Taylor had been filling that morning. "Where's Jackson?" he asked.

  "Oh, he left for a few days. Went to… Vegas."

  "Right. Shall we dig up the hole you were filling this morning and make sure he didn't lose his way."

  Taylor blew air from between his lips. "Okay. I killed him, dammit. I had to… he wanted the whole reward for himself."

  "Uh-huh." The Executioner didn't buy it for a minute. Jackson didn't have the brains or initiative to carry it out. He had been a mindless killer, capable only of following. On the other hand, Taylor might be cowardly and dishonest, but he had proved to be shrewd, as well. The man wasn't stupid.

  And that was what made him all the more dangerous.

  "Take me with you, Pollock. You need me," Taylor pleaded. "I haven't told you where I'm meeting Valdez, and I won't. I won't lie… I'm scared shitless of you. But I swear to God, there's no way I'll tell you without you killing me — and then you'll never get it."

  Bolan mulled it over quickly in his mind. He could make Taylor talk, but he didn't have the time.

  The Executioner not only didn't know the location of the meeting, he didn't know when Valdez would arrive there. But when he did, the little Cuban would find other transportation to Florida if the plane wasn't waiting.

  And there was always the possibility that the cartel hit men at the La Paz would track him down. If they got to Valdez first, the Executioner could kiss the plan that had already begun formulating in his mind goodbye.

  No, time was of the essence. He had to let Taylor lead him to Valdez and Raul Castillo.

  Bolan stepped forward and rested the muzzle of the Desert Eagle on Taylor's forehead. "You take me to Valdez," he said. "But make one false move, do one thing wrong, Taylor, and I'll put one right here." He tapped the barrel on the bridge of the man's nose.

  Sweat broke out on the grimy mercenary's forehead. "You got it. No problem. This one's for Uncle Sam."

  Bolan didn't honor the statement with an answering comment.

  He motioned Taylor toward a chair, picked up the telephone next to the bed and dialed. A moment later a voice answered, "Justice Department."

  "Hal Brognola," the Executioner growled.

  Bolan kept his eyes and the automag on Taylor while he filled Brognola in on the situation.

  "You know we don't have diplomatic relations with Cuba," the Justice man said when he'd finished.

  The warrior thought a moment, then said, "Get someone to act as liaison. The Swiss or whoever. We've got to act fast, Hal. I've got to reach Valdez before the Colombians do." He paused. "Or before Alpha gets their hands on Raul Castillo."

  "You need Grimaldi?" he asked.

  Bolan thought for a moment. They were already working toward countdown. Even if the pilot took off now, it would be several hours before he arrived from Stony Man. He turned toward Taylor. "Where's the Cessna?"

  "North a few miles, stashed in an old barn on the flatlands. But, hey, I'm no pilot. I can't fly the damn thing."

  "We'll find our own way," Bolan told Brognola and hung up.

  He marched Taylor into the front yard toward the Winnebago. "Open the door," he commanded.

  The merc fished the keys from his pocket and slid open the panel. Bolan yanked a fragmentation grenade from his combat harness and pulled the pin, gripping the lever firmly.

  "What the hell…" Taylor's voice faded away as he ran for cover.

  Bolan lobbed the grenade through the door and raced back to the front porch, ducking behind the stacked firewood as the grenade detonated. He raised his head in time to see flaming pieces of brown paper explode out the opening accompanied by gusts of white powder.

  "Shit," he heard Taylor call from the corner of the house.

  Bolan pushed the merc in the direction of the Land Rover. "Let's go. You're about to start working for your country, all right. Like it or not."

  The Executioner started off over the bush to the Land Rover with Buddy Taylor trudging in front of him.

  He turned back for a moment as the Winnebago's gas tank exploded, the roaring flames consuming any cocaine that might have survived the grenade.

  * * *

  Bolan dipped the wing of the Cessna and banked south. He switched the control to auto and leaned back in the seat. From the corner of his eye, he saw Taylor pull a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket.

  "Don't light it."

  "Huh?""

  "I said don't light it. I don't intend to spend this flight cramped in here, breathing your smoke."

  Taylor laughed and pulled a lighter from his pants.

  Without speaking, Bolan reached over and yanked the Camel from Taylor's mouth. He crumbled the cigarette in his hand and dropped the remnants into the ashtray.

  Taylor's face reddened, and the angry merc blew air from his lips in disgust. He mumbled unintelligibly under his breath.

  They flew on in silence until Taylor turned in his seat. "You know, Pollock, we could be handling this a lot better."

  "Is that right?"

  "Yeah. Look, this is crazy. Who gives a shit what happens to Castro's best friend? I mean, he is the enemy, right?" A grin crossed Taylor's face. Bolan could see the man believed he'd found common ground on which to base whatever argument he was about to pitch. Bolan sighed. Taylor would never understand that there was no common ground. There never could be between men such as themselves.

  "I got a proposal."

  The warrior shrugged. "It's a long flight, Taylor. Go ahead."

  "Okay. Montoya won't stay in Cuba forever. I mean, he's got an army to run." Taylor waited for an answer. When none came, he continued, "He's bound to think it's all blown over in a few days and go home. You can get him then, right?"

  "That's one approach," Bolan agreed. "In fact, it's the one I'd take — if there wasn't a better one."

 

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