Extreme Justice
San José, Costa Rica
June 19
Mack Bolan held the rented Ford at a nerve-racking fifty miles per hour, staying with the flow of traffic that jammed Avenida Central without ever seeming to slow its pace or stop for red lights. He kept a sharp eye on the drivers around him, many of them seemingly intent on suicide, while flicking hasty glances toward his rearview mirror, watching for police cars.
Bolan didn't even want to think about what local law enforcement might say about a gringo driving through their capital with military hardware piled up in the backseat of his rental car.
"How much farther?" Bolan asked his navigator.
Blanca Herrera was a thirty-something knockout, her angel face framed by a fall of glossy jet-black hair, above a body that could grace a calendar.
Herrera checked the city street map, measuring with slender fingers. "Two kilometers, perhaps," she said at last. "Turn right on Calle Quarenta—or Fortieth Street, you would say—then drive north to Avenida Cinco."
"Right."
Fifth Avenue. Unfortunately, they weren't going to a fashion show at Sachs.
"If I may say again—"
He cut her off. "No calls. No warnings."
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