“I don’t think so,” Guerra finally said. “That limp dick, Smalley, doesn’t have the guts to come face-to-face with us. He has to be from the Feds.”
“This chingada is dangerous, jefe,” said Jocoté Barillas, another lieutenant. “He uses bombs and machine guns.”
Guerra stood, walked to Barillas and gently patted the side of his face with a sardonic chuckle. He then looked at each of them as he said, “So do we. I want you to find this man, you got me? You find him and you bury him. Otherwise, you’ll have to contend with Le Gango Jefe, sí?”
Yes, they understood the threat all too well. Every shot-caller was the leader of his particular unit and any territory they covered. But they in turn answered to the Leader of the Gang—in this case, the nameless entity who controlled every last bit of action from his headquarters in El Salvador. A multijurisdictional force of law agents had attempted many times to bring down Le Gango Jefe, and each time they had failed. Nobody in MS-13, anywhere in the world, operated without this man’s approval. Mara Salvatrucha Trece’s ultimate goal was to be the largest and most powerful gang in the world. That took more than just whipping up a bunch of vatos to do business and pledge their loyalty. It took organization and planning, and that’s what Le Gango Jefe brought to the table.
As a shot-caller, every one of Guerra’s lieutenants knew he had a direct access to the top man. They also knew it wouldn’t bode well for any of them if Guerra had to make a phone call to this man and tell him they had failed in their mission to bring down the federale who had killed ten of their homeboys. Ultimately, Guerra was trying to help them by making it clear that it would look much better for them all if they handled this problem internally with local resources before it got out of control.
“I don’t care what you have to do, homeboys, I want you to bring him down. And do it now.”
“Okay, Mario, we’ll find him,” Maragos promised.
“Then why are you still here?” he said, clapping his hands and then jerking both thumbs toward the door. “Come on, essás. Vámonos!”
Each acknowledged him with the standard gang sign that spelled out MS-13 and then hit the door in a hurry. He watched them go out and then went to the fridge and pulled a fresh beer from the stash there. He took a long pull from the forty-ounce bottle and then looked out his tenement window onto the dusky cityscape. Somewhere out there, he knew, the enemy was searching for him. He’d narrowly escaped confinement for life in prison, and while such things were a part of the risk he took, the idea of spending his youth behind concrete walls and steel bars didn’t hold much appeal.
He needed to keep a cool head and plan his next move. They needed to find this cop or special agent and do him right. He’d spilled the blood of ten homeboys, soldiers operating under Guerra’s orders, and with that single action this pinche had signed his own death warrant. Maragos was good, one of the best, really. He would find the man and do what needed to be done. And then Guerra could bring his son and wife out here where they would be safe. He would be able to protect them here then.
And then he could begin to put his plan in motion. A plan to rule all of the East Coast—a plan to rule a society.
AFTER BOLAN LEFT police headquarters, he drove straight to the MS-13 key operations area Smalley had pointed out to him and booked a room in a run-down motel just two miles south of Dulles Toll Road. The elderly toothless Hispanic woman behind the grimy counter in the motel office had been quite pleased to take Bolan’s nice, crisp hundred-dollar bill for his two-night stay—especially when he advised her to keep the change.
Once the Executioner had settled in, he attached an anti-listening device to the phone and then dialed a long number from memory. There were three beeps, a signal the connection had been rerouted and secured from any type of bugging or other electronic surveillance technologies, and then Aaron Kurtzman’s voice came over the line.
“How’s it going?” Kurtzman said.
“I started with a real bang,” Bolan quipped.
“Well, your man Jack’s been here for a couple of hours now, chomping at the bit. You want to talk to him?”
“Sure.”
“What’s shaking, Sarge?” Jack Grimaldi’s voice greeted him. Grimaldi was Stony Man’s ace pilot and a Bolan ally.
“Hey, Jack,” Bolan replied. “Thanks for being on standby. I know you just got back from a mission.”
“Hey! You know I’m always ready to fly a mission for you, Sarge. You keep things interesting.”
“Don’t I. Hal gave you the rundown of the mission parameters?”
“He did,” Grimaldi said. “I imagined you had your hands full right at the moment, so I figured to get a couple hours’ sleep before heading to Dulles. I’ll be ready by the time you want to leave for Los Angeles.”
“You read my mind, ace. I’ll call when I’m on my way there.”
“Understood. Okay, Hal and Barb are waiting in the ops center for you, so I’ll transfer you now.”
The men said their goodbyes, and then Brognola’s voice came on a moment later. “What happened to that dull roar?”
Bolan couldn’t see Brognola’s expression, but the kidding tone caused him to receive the statement as nothing more than a good-natured jibe. “I only blew up one car.”
Brognola laughed. “That is pretty mild in comparison to most of your fireworks displays.”
“Agreed. I’m sorry to report Mario Guerra wasn’t among them, but then I wouldn’t expect a weasel like that to get his own hands dirty.”
“We heard about your run-in with Smalley,” Price said. “You need us to run some interference?”
“No, we’re good. Smalley’s actually not difficult to handle once you get to talking with the guy. Basically he wants the same thing we do.”
“Peace in the valley?”
“Right.”
“What about the increased gang activity of late?” Brognola asked. “Did he have any explanations?”
“It looks like a matter of sheer numbers. This Northern Virginia Gang Task Force has lost much of the funding they had early on, which tells me once the crackdown started MS-13 chilled out until some of the heat was off. He also said they’ve had a big influx of illegal immigrants into the area lately.”
“What’s lately?” Price inquired.
“Last couple of years or so,” Bolan replied. “My guess is that MS-13 has something to do with that, as well.”
“You think it’s a diversionary tactic?” Brognola asked.
“Possibly, Hal, although I wouldn’t put it past them to use it as a way of subsidizing their more illicit activities. There’s been more focus on illegal immigration down on the border than in any other part of the country. If they flood the market with the poor and hungry masses, they can effectively choke the resources of the system. Before the government knows it, it’s got an epidemic on its hands with insufficient resources to combat such a disaster.”
“And under the scramble and panic, MS-13 can get busy once again with little interference,” Brognola concluded. “And the increased criminal activity would be blamed on the immigration problem.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s ingenious,” Price stated.
“Which tells me Marciano’s theory about someone calling the shots in El Salvador has merit. In fact, I’d be interested to know how many of the immigrants that have been detained by INS or incarcerated for criminal activity are from that region.”
“We