“You’ve had a bad day,” his master said. “It shows on your face. May I offer you something? Tequila? Cerveza?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“So, direct to business then.” Macario approached him, smiling underneath a thick moustache, hair glistening with oil and combed back from his chiseled face. “You failed me, yes?”
Serna could see no point in lying. “That is true, Godfather.”
“I send five men to perform a simple task, and four are dead. The job is still unfinished. Only you remain, Jorge.”
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
Apologies were clearly pointless, but what else could he say? He had failed and survived, the worst combination of all.
“I know you’re sorry,” Macario said. “I see it in your eyes. But failure must have consequences, yes?”
Serna’s voice failed him, refused to pronounce his own death sentence, but he gave a jerky little nod.
“Of course you understand,” Macario went on. “Under normal circumstances, I would have you taken to the basement, and perhaps even filmed your punishment as an example to my other soldiers.”
Serna felt his knees go weak. It was a challenge to remain upright.
“But these,” El Padrino said, “are not normal circumstances, eh? For all your failings, it appears that I still need your help.”
“My help, sir?”
“You saw the American, yes? Before he killed the others and escaped, you saw his face?”
“I did, sir.”
“And you would recognize him if you met again?”
“I would.” He nodded to emphasize the point, seeing a small, faint gleam of hope.
“Then it appears that you must live…for the moment,” Macario replied. “Correct your error, find this gringo for me, and you may yet be redeemed.”
“Find him, sir?”
“Not by yourself, of course.” His lord and master smiled at that, the notion’s sheer absurdity. “With help. And when you find him, do what must be done.”
“I will, sir. You can count on it.”
“His life for yours, Jorge. Don’t fail a second time.”
THE SAFEHOUSE WAS AVERAGE size, painted beige, located on a cul-de-sac north of El Lago Park in Barrios Unidos. Bolan turned off Avenida de La Esmeralda and followed Pureza’s directions from there. She unlocked the garage, stood back to let him park the Pontiac, then closed the door from the inside.
They had been lucky with the G6, in the circumstances. It had taken only two hits, one of them a graze along the left front fender that could pass for careless damage from a parking lot, the other low down on the driver’s door. Nothing to raise eyebrows in Bogotá, where mayhem was a daily fact of life.
Pureza led the way inside, through a connecting door that kept the neighbors from observing anyone who came and went around the safehouse. They entered through a laundry room, into a combination kitchen–dining room that smelled of spices slowly going stale.
“You use this place for witnesses?” he asked Pureza.
“That, or for emergencies. I think this qualifies.”
“No clearance needed in advance?”
“If you are asking who knows we are here, the answer would be no one.”
“No drop-ins expected?”
“None.”
“Okay. Who knew about our meeting?” Bolan asked.
“You think someone inside the CNP betrayed us.” The lieutenant didn’t phrase it as a question.
“If the bomb had been a random thing, I wouldn’t ask,” Bolan replied. “But when they follow up with shooters, it’s specific. No one tailed me from the airport, so there has to be a leak.”
“Why must it be on my side?”
“I’d be asking Styles the same thing,” Bolan said, “if he was here. My only contact with the DEA is dead.”
“So you’re stuck on me.”
“The phrase would be ‘stuck with you,’ and that isn’t what I said. You’ve done a good job, so far. I’m impressed, okay? But someone had to tip the other side about our meet.”
“You’re right,” Pureza said, relaxing from her previous defensive posture. “I was assigned by my commander, Captain Rodrigo Celedón. Above him, I can’t say who might have known.”
“You trust your captain?”
“With my life,” she said.
“Be sure of that before you talk to him again. Because it is your life.”
“The DEA may have a leak, as well.”
“It happens,” Bolan granted. “But they’re getting whittled down in Bogotá these days, and I don’t picture Styles setting himself up to be hit.”
“What’s your solution, then?”
“A solo op,” Bolan replied. “Or a duet, if you’re still in.”
“You think I’d leave you at this stage?”
“It wouldn’t be the dumbest thing you ever did,” he told her frankly.
“I must still live with myself,” Pureza said. “One person I can absolutely trust.”
“And you’re on board with what I have to do?”
“That part has been…shall I say vague? I was assigned to help with what is called a ‘special case.’ Beyond that, all I know is that the cartel wants you dead. And me, as well, apparently.”
“That sums it up,” Bolan said. “Naldo Macario wore out his welcome with the massacre at your Palace of Justice. It’s crunch time. I’m the last resort.”
Pureza held his gaze for a long moment before speaking. “So, we aren’t building a case for trial,” she said at last.
“The trial’s been held. The verdict’s in. Macario’s outfit is marked.”
“You understand I represent the law?”
“The system’s broken down,” Bolan replied. “We’re trying an alternative.”
“If I refuse?”
“You walk. We try to stay out of each other’s way.”
“And Macario wins.”
“No, he’s done, either way.”
The lieutenant took another moment, making up her mind, then nodded. “Right,” she said. “Where do we start?”
Department of Justice, Washington, D.C.
THE TELEPHONE CAUGHT Hal Brognola reaching for his hat. It was an hour and a half past quitting time, and he was taking more work home, as usual. He might have let the call go through to voice mail if it hadn’t been his private line. Leaving his gray fedora on its wall hook, Brognola snagged the receiver midway through its third insistent ring.
“Hello?”
“Sorry to catch you headed out the door,” the familiar voice said from somewhere warm and far away.
“So you’re into remote viewing now?” Brognola inquired.
“Just safe bets,” Bolan replied. “When was the last time you cleared the office on time?”
“Thirteenth