277 Dirty Mission by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THE DRUG DEALER'S name was Julio Cristos. It was ironic, since the only thing Christ like about him was his hair, worn shoulder length and parted down the middle of his scalp. A closetful of thousand-dollar suits spoiled the effect, along with mirrored sunglasses that definitely weren't the savior's Style. Instead of twelve apostles, Cristos traveled with a woman on each arm and half a dozen bodyguards whose upper-body muscularity was even more exaggerated by the weapons strapped beneath their jackets.

Cristos wasn't the top drug dealer in Colombia, but he may well have ranked among the top fifteen, and his rapprochement with the Medellin cartel allowed him to conduct his trade and life in relative security. The bodyguards weren't for show, of course, since this was still Colombia and life was cheap, but Cristos seemed to have no worries as he stepped from his Mercedes limousine, waited for his blonde bookends to catch up, then swept imperiously past the hotel doorman who had doffed his cap in a salute that went unnoticed.

Dirty money on the hoof.

Mack Bolan allowed the small parade to disappear inside the lobby, gave them time to board an elevator car before he crossed the street. The doorman didn't tip his hat this time, although he eyeballed Bolan long enough to log the unfamiliar face in memory.

No problem.

Doormen, bellhops and assorted other hotel service personnel were educated to remember guests and make them welcome, catering to whims and thereby earning tips. The doorman couldn't tell if Bolan was a guest, just yet, but he would be prepared next time he saw the face.

And since there was no name to go with it, it made no difference to the Executioner if a description later made its way to the police. If all went well, he would be only one of several hundred suspects, not on any register or videocassette, perhaps forgotten in the midst of the confusion he intended to create.

No one appeared to notice Bolan as he crossed the lobby. One of Cristos's men was staked out in a chair, off to the right, thumbing a magazine, and while he took in Bolan at a glance, he made no move to reach his weapon or the cellular phone resting on an end table beside his seat. Bolan passed by without acknowledging the goon's existence, but he had the other's measure. He was five foot ten, twenty-something, muscle-heavy for his height, and with extra weight added by the bulk of hardware beneath his right arm. Something compact but deadly. A mini-Uzi, perhaps, or an MP-5 K.

Bolan moved directly to the bank of elevators and rode the first available car up to nine. He had the floor—the room number, in fact—from Jesus Galatria, part of the information spillage that had failed to save The Monkey's life. A well-dressed woman shared the car with him as far as seven, then he had it to himself.

It stood to reason that the boss would want some privacy with the blondes he had brought back to his suite of rooms.

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