Lethal Vengeance by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2019-06-19T19:38:07+00:00

* * *

Bolan approached his fifth target: a small but very active bank owned by Kuno Carillo in the upscale Burórata district. It was closed at night, but he intended to break in, demolish what he could before police arrived, then phone Carillo and ask if he’d made any progress on retrieving Brognola, without using his friend’s name.

A phone call changed all that as he closed in on his mark. Miguel Vergara had been on the line, telling him, “I’ve found something you should see, señor.”

“What’s that?” Bolan inquired.

“Captain Prieto’s right-hand man, with two dead FIA sergeants.”

Bolan frowned and asked him, “Who else is on the scene?”

“Just me. He hasn’t called for any backup.”

“Oh?”

“Did I forget to mention that he murdered them himself?” Vergara asked.

Bolan revised his plans without a second thought. “What’s the address?”

Vergara told him, Bolan plotting it approximately on a mental map of Ciudad Juárez he’d memorized after receiving it from Tim Ross of the CIA. “I’m on my way,” he said.

“Park around back when you get here,” Vergara said and killed the link.

Arriving at the address he’d received, Bolan saw three cars parked in front of an abandoned automotive shop. Both had Chihuahua license plates, neither of them issued by a law enforcement agency.

Easing the Glock out of its shoulder rig, he drove around behind the building, nosing in beside Miguel Vergara’s Volkswagen. When no one opened fire on him immediately, Bolan stepped out of the SUV and made his cautious way inside, the back door open to receive him.

He had barely crossed the threshold when Vergara met him, holstering his own pistol and saying, “This way, por favor.”

The service bay, long idle and deserted, offered Bolan a tableau of recent death. Three other men were present, only one of them alive and sitting on the concrete floor, legs twisted awkwardly before him in a semblance of the classic lotus pose. The other men had died from close-range head shots, which explained small specks of blood on the survivor’s shirt and jacket. The glum-looking captive would be faced with a dry-cleaning bill if he got through the night alive.

“What’s this one’s name?” Bolan asked, speaking to Vergara.

“Lieutenant Silvio Bernal. He’s known by reputation as Captain Prieto’s lacayo. What you call a flunky?”

“That’s the word,” Bolan agreed.

Bernal muttered something that sounded like profanity. Vergara retaliated with “Murdering bastard!”

“You say these two are FIA sergeants?” Bolan asked, nodding at the corpses handcuffed to their chairs.

“They were. Esteban Allende’s on the left. The other was Pedro Solana, his partner.”

“And he capped them?”

“After torture,” Vergara said. “Not just the cuts and bruises, but also burns from some kind of electric prod.”

“That doesn’t sound like normal discipline.”

“He claims Captain Prieto used the prod.” Vergara moved to stand over the seated officer as he demanded, “Tell him what you said to me.”

Bernal sneered at Vergara. “I’ll say nothing, asshole.”

Vergara kicked his captive in the ribs, causing a pained grimace. “You’re done, Bernal,” he said. “I have you with the officers you killed, and when they test your pistol for ballistics, that means sixty years twice over.

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