“Eh, Chuy! Donde estan los cervezas?” a man said in a stage whisper just before a figure filled the TV room doorway.
The man asking for the beer froze, eyes wide at the sight of the Executioner, ebony from head to toe, bristling with weapons on his battle harness, and a handgun pointed right at him. At once frightened and confused, the man was paralyzed, buying the warrior a precious second.
Bolan stabbed the Beretta and its suppressor between the man’s lips, then grabbed the back of his neck and whisked him away from the TV room and into the empty hallway.
“The girl,” Bolan said softly, his voice full of grim threat.
The Zeta swiveled his eyes and shook his head in the direction of the stairs.
Bolan delivered a powerful knuckle punch just under the Zeta’s ear. Pulling the trigger would have alerted the men watching futbol to the death of their friend, and stabbing the guy could lead to a struggle that would also draw his companions into the hall. A knockout punch, however, would be both silent and disabling. The man’s knees turned to rubber, and Bolan dragged him over to an empty closet at the foot of the stairs, tucking him inside. So far, so good.
Bolan continued to the second floor, feet quiet on the steps and Beretta drawn. It was do-or-die time, and if he needed to pull the trigger, he’d have the high ground in case anyone heard the thump of a silenced 9mm slug erupting from the machine pistol. He’d do whatever it took to defend Blanca.
Or avenge her.
As much as Bolan wanted to dismiss that possibility, Blanca had been a prisoner of the Zetas, as well as the Soldados. These cartels weren’t known for their mercy. They might have tortured and executed her already, but there was a shred of hope. The guard he’d just knocked out hadn’t hesitated when Bolan had asked after the “girl.” Hopefully that meant Blanca was somewhere upstairs. Alive. Unless there was another girl in this house…
A man wearing no shirt but with a gun holstered at his hip emerged from a bedroom and stepped smugly into Bolan’s path. Catching sight of the Executioner, the guy’s smirk faltered, but his reflexes were better than his colleague’s and his hand went to his pistol.
Bolan was faster, though, and the Beretta chugged three times. The slugs penetrated the man’s bare chest, and he crashed into the door, knocking it open as he slithered lifelessly to the ground.
Bolan heard a confused yelp from inside the bedroom and saw a shadow move across the floor.
“Quién es—”
Bolan charged across the threshold, lunging over the body. The man inside was also half-dressed, but he’d managed to snatch his weapon off the floor and aim it at the intruder. The Executioner sent the man off to his final damnation with a heart-coring second burst. He crumpled against a small desk.
There was a woman curled up on the bed, her shoulders shuddering as she sobbed. Whatever had happened in here before Bolan arrived, she obviously hadn’t been a willing participant.
At least those two sickos couldn’t do her any more harm, Bolan thought grimly.
But this was not Agent Blanca.
Bolan heard movement on the first floor, heading in his direction. He’d given away his presence, and his mission was far from complete. And now he had to figure out how to keep this woman out of the line of fire.
All before his enemies reached the top of the stairs.
2
With a strong hand, Bolan pulled the crying woman to her feet. Her eyes were red, and her movements were dull and confused, but after an initial squeak of panic, she seemed to realize that Bolan wasn’t going to hurt her.
He pushed her toward the closet.
“Stay in there and tuck yourself into the corner,” Bolan said. She slid inside, then quickly pulled the door closed.
It was time to go loud. Bolan plucked a flash-bang grenade from his combat harness, hurling it into the hallway so it bounced down the steps after a skillful rebound. The canister detonated amidst the group rushing toward him.
After the explosion had subsided, Bolan scooped up a Kalashnikov and a bandolier from the man he’d taken out in the bedroom and darted into the hall to assess the situation. Four men stood on the landing below, each clutching their eyes or ears. At such close range, the blast would have been strong enough to rupture eardrums. Bolan scanned past the staggering guards. Not much movement down there, so he returned his attention to the landing.
The sentries had guns, and soon they’d recover their wits and eyesight enough to open fire.
Bolan shouldered the stock of the Kalashnikov and pumped hot lead at the group, the sharp crack of the rifle informing him that this was a 5.45 mm caliber AK, not the 7.62. Even so, at this range, the high-velocity projectiles slashed through human flesh and shattered bone as they struck.
It was brutal, but these men would overwhelm him with handgun and machine pistol fire in seconds if he let them. And now Bolan wasn’t just looking out for himself. The girl who’d tucked herself into the closet only had drywall for protection, and drywall was poor cover against high-velocity bullets.
With half of the magazine from the AK used, Bolan slapped out the spent box, picking up another from a bandolier that the dead man in the doorway wore. Once the firearm was fully loaded, then the Executioner spent a moment tugging the belt of spare mags off of the corpse. Bolan paused to reload. By his estimation, the guard force outside the house would have heard the gunfire, and it would take them about half a minute to enter the building, if that. The most aggressive men would be bursting through the doors now, but cooler heads would not want to rush into a building with an unknown enemy inside.
That meant he could expect two waves, one full of hot-blooded young bucks, the second a more cautious and experienced group. Bolan kept his ears open for the initial approach, which would be anything but quiet. Now, he had precious seconds to look through the other rooms along this corridor before returning to the bottleneck at the top of the stairs.
Bolan swept into each bedroom, scanning for any sign of Teresa Blanca. He got to the end of the hallway without finding her, then the sound of men climbing the stairs forced him to direct his attention back to the enemy. The warrior took cover behind a doorjamb, making himself as small a target as possible. He had a clear line of fire against his opposition, as long as they poked their heads over the top of the stairs.
The first of the gunmen rose up, and Bolan let him go for a few moments. Another guy popped up behind him and covered his partner. The Executioner cut them both down, short tri-bursts punching their bodies sideways.
Screams resounded from behind and below them as their corpses toppled on to others. Bolan continued shooting, raking the air just over the top step. High-velocity slugs smashed through the faces that popped into view.
Curses filled the air, and, as if on cue, a wave of gunfire whipped down the hall toward Bolan. Bullets tore into the ceiling and walls, but none came close to touching him. Still, he wasn’t about to sit back and watch the proceedings. Bolan threw a flash-bang grenade off the far wall, and it rebounded down the corridor in a well-planned trajectory.
Instants later, the distraction device detonated with the force of a thunderbolt. Bolan exploded into the hall, keeping low and covering distance quickly with long strides. He’d reloaded the AK with a fresh magazine, and now he hammered a swath of death and destruction into the Zetas on the stairs.
Bodies writhed as 5.45 mm rounds cartwheeled through flesh. The hapless gunmen fell backward on to the landing in a gory heap.