Desert Impact. Don Pendleton

had been dark and confusing. Bolan had underestimated the situation and those involved, and it had cost someone, a good man, his life.

      Rivers was dead, and Bolan had to accept some of the responsibility for that. Owning your mistakes, he knew, was at least as important as owning your successes, maybe even more so. He intended to do everything he could not only to put an end to whatever was really going on, but also to ensure that Rivers hadn’t died in vain. Someone had a bill to pay, and the Executioner intended to collect in full.

      It seemed like a smart bet that he’d been taken into Mexico, though he couldn’t know for sure how far they’d come. He estimated they’d been driving for at least two hours when the truck slowed, turned and then rolled to a stop.

      Bolan heard the tarp covering the back end of the truck get shoved aside, and then his blindfold was ripped off. Several faces peered in at him—every look one of contempt and anticipated violence. Two large men reached in, grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him out into the midday sun. Once he was clear of the tailgate, they hoisted him into the air like a trussed-up turkey and pulled him forward. The toes of his boots trailed dust in his wake.

      Bolan did his best to stay upright and scan his surroundings. They’d obviously brought him into the courtyard of an old hacienda. Many of the buildings were little more than basic adobe structures, with no windows and blankets for doors. He saw the main house at the far end of the courtyard, and it was either much newer than the adobe huts or had been massively renovated. Second-floor balconies overlooked the compound below, and on the roof he spotted heavy air-conditioning units and several satellite dishes.