Powder Burn by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2011-01-25T05:00:00+00:00

THE AIRSTRIP LAY OUTSIDE of Villa Isabel, a southern suburb in the Usme District of Bogotá. On paper it was owned by something called Usminia Unida Limited, one of a hundred corporations run by front men for Naldo Macario. The field’s sole purpose was to transport and receive whatever El Padrino bought or sold—including drugs, black market weapons, human cargo, or selected luxuries imported for his personal amusement.

And this morning, in the darkness prior to sunrise, it was going out of business.

Bolan parked and killed his headlights when the Pontiac G6 was still a mile out from the landing field, then left the car a quarter-mile short of his goal. No camouflage was necessary in the open countryside, but he had donned a black windbreaker for the hike, while Pureza went with a charcoal-gray hoodie. She took the Benelli 12-gauge; Bolan, his M-4. Suppressors were superfluous for what he had in mind.

Scorched earth.

The airstrip was dark, but a pale quarter moon showed Bolan three planes on the ground, ranged before a fair-sized building that would double as control tower and maintenance garage. A jet-black Lincoln Navigator sat beside the building. Dim lights from within suggested that the structure was occupied.

By whom?

Identifying targets was his first priority. Bolan approached from the bungalow’s blind side, scanning left and right for any signs of movement on the field, trusting Pureza to double-check the ground. When no one opened fire or called for them to halt, he crept around the building to the nearest window, paused, then risked a look inside.

He found three swarthy soldiers playing cards around a standard metal desk, identical to those he’d seen in schools and lower-budget offices around the world. The only decorations in the place were maps tacked to the walls. No pesos had been spent to make this house a home.

All three of the cardplayers wore sidearms, and they had automatic weapons planted here and there, within arm’s reach. Security, no doubt, but it was just as clear they didn’t take the mission seriously. They’d assigned no one to watch and wait outside.

Strike one.

The last thing Bolan noted on his visual recon was that they’d left the building’s one and only door wide-open to the night, presumably so they could hear if anyone approached. It made sense, to a point, but obviously they were counting on a noisy vehicle to tip them off, rather than infiltrators creeping up on foot.

Strike two.

He signaled for Pureza to remain in place beside the window, while he edged around the bungalow to reach the open door. Bolan heard the gamblers kibitzing and laughing, negating any benefit they might have garnered from the open door.

Strike three.

He stepped into the doorway, M-4 carbine at his shoulder, with the fire-selector switch set for 3-round bursts. The soldier facing Bolan from the far side of the desk glanced up and saw him, dropped his cards and died before he had a chance to speak.

The first shots roused his comrades, sent them breaking off to right and left, respectively.

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