Deep Attack

"El Gato conducts a training school for his sub pilots?"

Mack Bolan pondered Ramirez's words.   It made perfect sense.  The drug lord could hardly advertise for sub drivers in the classifieds.  Quesada would employ one or two experts who would train those who heard of the positions through criminal contacts.

The Executioner swung the binoculars around the perimeter of the lake, noting a cliff pockmarked with caves, the biggest of them at water level.

"Señor!"  Lazalde said urgently.

Bolan gazed across the water.  He didn't need the binoculars to see that the four minisubs had changed direction, that their new heading was taking them straight toward the patrol boat.

Invisible Invader

  The bystanders began screaming.

  Bolan brought up the Remington.   The split second that the crosshairs settled squarely on the killer's chest, the soldier pressed his finger to the trigger.  The stock kicked into his shoulder as he fired.

  The shot scored.  The Argentinean was catapulted backward and landed on his side, his arms and legs askew.

  Alexander Sprague and the rest were nearing the Lincoln.  Sprague had glanced at charata as the bodyguard went down, but he showed no reaction and didn't break stride.  Almost as if Sprague didn't care, as if the lives of his bodyguards were of no consequence.

  Or so bolan thought until the unthinkable happened.  Until he learned the real reason Sprague had been so unconcerned.

  Bartolome Charata wasn't dead.  Incredibly, rearing erect, he swayed slightly, then steadied himself and trained his rifle on Bolan.