Mind Bomb. Don Pendleton
wasn’t supposed to. The giant SUV swerved blindly and rammed a telephone pole.
Lyons yawned to clear his ears and took aim at the Titan. The 12 gauge kicked him like a mule as he put two quick shots through the pickup’s grille. The Titan fishtailed wildly and came on. Lyons raised an eyebrow. “Nissans, who knew?” He flipped his selector to full-auto and let her rip slightly left. Three rounds tore through the grille and hood, the last two walking up the driver’s-side windshield. The Titan went from fishtail into full spin and rolled.
Blancanales stood on the brakes. Gears ground as he rammed the car into Reverse and hit the gas. The Renault actually had a little torque in reverse and shot backward. “Carl, I want at least one in talking shape and we need to get out of here fast.”
Lyons snapped out his empty magazine and snapped in a 24-round drum. He leaped out and strode toward the crashed Lincoln, steam shooting out of its radiator.
Mexican cartel muscle often deactivated the air bags on their usually stolen vehicles so they could ram, crowd and pin their targets without pause. And since they might have to jump out, they never wore their seat belts. Mexican cartel muscle spilled out the doors of the SUV like broken drunks.
The Able Team leader tenderized them. He’d snapped in a drum Dutch-loaded with rubber slug baton rounds and rubber buckshot. Lyons proceeded to give each cartel man a 2-round burst—first a slug, followed by buck. The killers deflated beneath the brutal double blows and collapsed to the pavement.
An assassin popped up out of the sunroof screaming and trying to bring an Uzi in either hand to bear. Lyons squeezed off a round. The buckshot was rubber but the fist-size cloud pulverized an eye and smashed out teeth. The multiple blows to the skull probably hadn’t helped, either. The killer flopped back boneless over the luggage rack.
As sirens wailed in the distance, Lyons ran a practiced eye over his fallen opponents. He watched as one man emerged from the flipped Titan. His face was a bloody mess and he moved as though he was swimming in molasses. Nevertheless he was making a very determined effort to crawl away. “That one has spirit,” he grumbled.
Lyons walked up upon his man. The crawler screamed as the Able Team leader gave him a rubber round in each arm and leg. The killer twitched like a landed squid. Lyons scooped him up into a fireman’s carry and carried him to the Renault. “Fat moron...” He potato-sacked him through the blown-out back window and dived in. “Go!”
The Safe House
Carl Lyons lifted his head from cleaning his shotgun and sniffed the air. Schwarz’s hand went to his pistol. “What?”
“I smell coffee and doughnuts.”
Schwarz rolled his eyes at the former cop. “You smell them in your sleep.” Nonetheless, Schwarz rose and took up his pistol. Lyons clicked a fresh drum into his shotgun as Schwarz hit the buzzer and the door clicked.
Blancanales walked into the little patio and set a cardboard tray of café con leches and churros on the wrought-iron table between the guns. “You know? I’m a confirmed Starbucks man, but I am really liking the Cielito Querido coffee.”
Lyons inhaled several ounces of espresso and scalded milk without swallowing and grabbed a banana-size, sugar-rolled pastry. “Tell me you got us a new car.”
Blancanales gave Lyons a look of mock hurt. “Of course.”
“What kind?”
“Another thirty-five-year-old station wagon.”
“No damn—”
Blancanales gestured like a professional hand model at the door he’d left open. Lyons leaned out to stare at the big, boxy, ancient beast parked outside. The original ox-blood paint job had faded to a dull brown. The fake wood paneling on the doors now looked like very well-weathered bamboo where it wasn’t peeling.
Schwarz’s brows bunched. “Ford Granada?”
“Indeed, a GL, with a rebuilt 302 V8. She runs like a top. Someone had the good taste to remove the electric rev limiter—over 300 horsepower under the hood. She handles like a tank. But, should we step on the gas—” Blancanales tossed Lyons the keys “—the girl will go.”
Lyons caught the key ring. “I take back all those things I said about you.”
“I should hope so. What do we have on our prisoner?”
Schwarz had been chatting to the Farm on his laptop. “We have one Señor Oribe ‘BolaBolo’ Uribe.”
Blancanales shook his head at what was to come. “Bowling ball?”
“Yeah, it’s some kind of Mexican slang contraction of bola de bolos. You’d know better than me. Depending on whether you are a man or a woman, sometimes regardless, Uribe takes a bowling pin and inserts it into a body cavity. Which orifice? That depends on what you’ve done and how angry he is with you.”
Blancanales set down his coffee. “Is it too late to say too much information?”
“Then, while you contemplate this intrusion he takes a ten-pound ball and starts pulverizing fingers and toes with an overhand no release. He’s famous for going from frame to frame to get answers. We have a video of him playing a ‘ten frame’ game on an informer. It ain’t pretty.”
Blancanales made a determined effort to go back to enjoying his coffee. “Don’t need to see it.”
“Yeah, you don’t want to.” Lyons jerked his head toward the safe house basement stairs. “He’s wearing a luchador mask in the video, but the idiot took off his shirt during the proceedings. His physique and tattoos are a lock.”
“A wrestling mask?” Blancanales scoffed.
Schwarz handed Blancanales a tablet. Blancanales scanned Uribe’s jacket and mug shots. “That does appear to be our boy.”
Able Team was of a mind.
“They went for a pin,” Schwarz observed.
Lyons nodded. “Didn’t shoot at us much.”
“And they brought along a cartel torturer and interrogator,” Pol concluded.
“So why would the cartels be involved in seemingly random suicide bombings, much less any after-the-fact gringo investigations?” Schwarz asked.
“Dunno.” Lyons looked to Blancanales. “Let’s ask him.”
“Good idea.” Blancanales smiled. “Give me the keys. Finish your coffee. I’ll be back in about an hour.”
Lyons tossed him the keys. “Where you going?”
“Shopping.”
* * *
URIBE SAT IN the cellar in his underwear, handcuffed to a pipe. Despite the massive blunt trauma on his arms and legs, his wrists were bruised and abraded from trying to pull the pipe free of the wall. Neither the cast-iron drainpipe nor Uribe was going anywhere. Uribe was built like a middleweight who had given up boxing and taken up hot-dog eating competitions. His shoulders, chest and arms were still muscled but he had a gut that looked as though he’d swallowed one of his bowling balls, and he was bowlegged. Religious tattoos that the Catholic church would frown upon intertwined with Juárez cartel symbols that crawled down his arms, chest and stomach. He had a face like an Aztec statue with a crew cut.
Lyons sat in a chair opposite, giving him the hard stare over a folding card table. To Uribe’s credit he hadn’t started blubbering and spilling.
Blancanales came down the steep steps with a duffel bag over his shoulder, followed by Schwarz. Able Team was fairly sure Uribe had not gotten any kind of look at Blancanales. Uribe proved it by looking Blancanales up and down and spitting on him. “¡Raza traidor!”