Border Offensive
“I know.” Bolan felt a pang. More than one person had accused him of something similar over the years, and he couldn’t say that they were entirely wrong. A small part of him was looking forward to meeting Ms. Tanzir more and more.
James looked at him. “Yeah, I bet you do,” he said, not unkindly. “I only met her once, really. She wasn’t happy about the situation. Nor was I, for that matter.”
“I bet you weren’t,” Bolan said.
“Neither was her fellow,” James added, chuckling.
“Fellow?” Bolan said, curious despite himself. “As in significant other?”
“Very significant,” James said. “One of the head honchos of the Interpol contingent. Some French guy. Boy-howdy, that guy was not happy about her being there.”
“Worried about her?”
“To be honest, I couldn’t tell...it was either her, or the mission, with even odds as to which. Maybe both, for all I know.” The border patrol agent shook his head. “Guy was all hot and bothered, in a bad way, about her part in things.”
“Speaking of which, if you’re here, where is she? You said something about the back end?” Bolan said, trying to pull them back to the topic at hand.
James grunted. “Interpol has been helping the Mexican authorities with the cartels. They’ve got people on the inside just like the DEA and the Spooks.”
“In my experience the cartels run a tight ship,” Bolan said dubiously. “They cause leaks...they don’t have them themselves.”
“Normally, they do. The Interpol liaison with the Mexican government swears up and down that she hasn’t been made. The cartels are bringing up a load of two-legged cargo as far as the border...”
“And she’ll be coming with them,” Bolan said, catching on quickly. “Just one more face in the crowd.” He had to admit, privately at least, that as far as plans went, it wasn’t bad. Two operatives stood a better chance at succeeding than one, especially in a situation like this, which was bound to go to hell, regardless of the people involved. “This Tuerto... They tracked him here?”
“Not just him. Mexican authorities thought they had identified at least six other terror suspects.” James held up his fingers for emphasis.
“And?” Bolan prodded.
“Undercover Federales got a picture of Sweets meeting with somebody they think is Tuerto in Mexico City. He was arranging a job.”
“And since you were already in place—”
“Two birds, one stone,” James said, holding up two fingers. “I love that saying.” At a look from Bolan, he sped on, his words nearly tripping over one another. “Anyway, Sweets contacted me a day ago. Said he needed drivers for a shipment, and promised equal shares, good money, no questions. He wants me to come to a meeting in some no-account shit hole he’s holed up in. I said yes.”
“Then what was this?” Bolan said, gesturing toward the burning truck.
“I was keeping up appearances.” James shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt, just in case our leak decided to dime me out. A good coyote is greedy, plus, hell, if I’m going to sacrifice my op for somebody else’s. I put too much effort into finding out where Ernesto’s supplies were coming from—”
“Sinaloa—I already took care of it,” Bolan said almost absently. The agent looked at him, mouth open.
“You what?” he said.
“I took care of it, about a day ago.” Bolan smiled. “You’re welcome.” James shook his head, his face a study in conflicting emotions.
“I’ve been looking for that damn field for almost a year now. He’s been shoveling so much pigment into border runners that half of them have been dying on the ground before they get two feet into Tucson. How the hell did you—?”
“Trade secret,” Bolan said, patting his weapon.
“Trade—? You know what? I don’t give a good goddamn, man. I really don’t. You say it’s done, I figure you know what you’re talking about,” James said, motioning toward the burning truck for emphasis.
Bolan was silent for a moment. He examined the man in front of him. James was young, but he had the look in his eye that Bolan had come to associate with professionals of high caliber—a determination to see things done, and done right. He made his decision that instant, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it.
“What now?” Bolan said.
“Now, he asks. Now, Agent Cooper, I try to salvage what I can,” James said. “I get my ass to that meeting, do my shuck-and-jive routine, and get things moving. Hopefully my erstwhile partner is already in place, then we see how shit goes down, you dig?”
“Which means?”
“The plan was to figure out where we were going—what the destination was—and have people waiting. I’d roll them right into custody, with Tanzir riding shotgun. Then, from there, we’d wrap up the rest of them.” James rubbed his temples. “It sounds a lot simpler than it is.”
“You’ll have to get it exactly right,” Bolan said in agreement. James grinned.
“I’m good at my job, man. There’s no one better.”
“But you wouldn’t turn down help,” Bolan said.
“What?” James said, blinking.
“I’m going with you,” Bolan said. Normally, Bolan would have left them to it, but there was too much riding on this, and too much dependent on all the wrong people, in Bolan’s estimation. The more complex a plan, the more likely it was to go wrong at the worst moment.
If even one of Tuerto’s men got through, it could be a disaster of hideous proportions. It only took one man to set off a bomb, after all.
“Whoa, hold up there, chief!” James held up his hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea! You aren’t exactly the subtle type.” He gestured at the burning truck. “If we do it my way there’s no fuss, no muss.”
“But my way, they don’t get near the border,” Bolan said. He hefted his UMP meaningfully. The other man was quiet for a minute, and then he grinned.
“Oh, we’re going to be the best of friends, Agent Cooper. I can see that right now.”
Chapter 3
The town, such as it was, did not exist. It was not on any map, and the roads leading into it and out of it were not paved. It was one of a hundred such towns in the Sonoran Desert that clung to the edge of the map unseen and unclaimed by either of the two nations in a position to do so.
It had no name because such places needed no name. It was simply “the town.”
Tariq Ibn Tumart—also known as Tuerto—had, in his life, been to many such places the world over. They were easy enough to locate, if you knew what you were looking for.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the military-surplus jeep as it rattled and groaned its way across the desert, Tumart contemplated again the twists and trials that had brought him to this point. Money figured heavily in these ruminations, as it always did. He reached up and slid a finger beneath the eye patch covering the gaping socket of his left eye, probing for an itch that was never quite there.
“Is this it?”
Tumart didn’t bother to turn around. He removed his finger from his socket and examined it carefully. Then he said, “No. This is a completely different town. I thought we could sightsee. I hear they have the world’s largest saguaro cactus and I simply must see it.”
“What?”
Tumart sighed. “Of course, this is it. Quiet down.”
“What was that about a cactus?”
“A joke... It was just a little joke, my friend.”
“You joke too much, Berber. We are on a holy mission.”
“Forgive me, Abbas. Now, if you do not kindly shut up, Arab, I will shoot you and our mission—holy or otherwise—will be one man weaker.” Tumart turned then, an H&K USP appearing in his hand as if by magic. He aimed the pistol in a general fashion at the man occupying the seat behind him. Abbas, a thin, long-beaked Saudi, recoiled, his dark eyes widening. Tumart smiled pleasantly and tapped the barrel of the pistol to his eye-patch in a mock-salute.
“Thank you,” he said, turning back around. He allowed himself a moment of petty triumph then returned to his thoughts.
Why was he here again? Ah, yes...money, he remembered.
He smiled bitterly and glanced at the driver. Fahd, he thought his name was. He was less prone to chatter than Abbas, but with altogether worse hygiene.
“You should trim your beard,” Tumart said. Fahd grunted, but kept his eyes on the desert in front of the jeep. Tumart rubbed a palm over his smooth-shaven pate, and focused on their destination.
The town was the first step in an operation designed not to cripple or destroy, but to simply spread fear. An ephemeral goal, but, considering his paymasters, Tumart wasn’t surprised.
He was a good Muslim, when he thought about it, but fanatical devotion to a concept of divinity was not something he indulged in. Abbas and the others, however...
“When we get there, try to keep your mouth shut,” Tumart said, looking at his companions. “These men are not of the Faithful, nor are they likely to be swayed by threats.”
“I will be silent,” Abbas said. “But if they seek to betray us—”
“Then they will. Ma’sa’Allah.” Tumart idly genuflected. “My plan—”
“Our plan,” Abbas said. Tumart let it pass.
“Our plan hinges on this moment. We will not get another.”
“Then you had best see to its success.”
“That is what you are paying me for,” Tumart said.
* * *
IN THE TOWN, men watched the approaching jeep with hooded eyes. “They’re here, Django,” someone said. And the man known as Django Sweets tipped the frayed edge of his cowboy hat up, out of his narrow face, and grinned.
He was a rawboned individual, and, at a distance, easily mistaken for the stereotypical cowboy. He sat up, the worn-down heels of his cowboy boots snapping against the wood of the floor. He adjusted the hang of the shoulder holster he wore under his denim jacket and stepped outside the empty cantina.
“How many?” he said.
“Three.” The man standing nearby turned. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Damn ragheads.”
“Shut up,” Sweets said. “Don’t insult our guests, Franco. We all need this score.”
“So you say,” Franco said.
“So my bank balance says. Yours, too,” Sweets said. “Where’s Digger?”
“He’s, ah, he’s upstairs with that woman he brought,” Franco said hesitantly. Sweets frowned.
“Go get him. I want his ass down here. He should be finished by now anyway.”
“Man...” Franco had turned pale.
“Get him,” Sweets snarled. “Now, Franco!” Franco bobbed his head and moved back into the cantina. Sweets watched him go, then strode out, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. He walked out into the middle of the street and waited as the jeep pulled to a halt a few feet away. Its engine clicked as it cooled.
Tumart stood and leaned over the windshield. “No party? No welcoming committee?”
“Figured you wanted to keep this low key,” Sweets said, spreading his arms. “I got some refreshments, though.”
“We do not drink,” Abbas said, stepping out of the jeep. Sweets looked at him, then at Tumart.
“Means more for me, then. Leave your guns.”
“But—” Abbas began to protest, his hand inching toward the Glock holstered on his hip. Fahd barked at him in Arabic, and the Saudi grimaced. Tumart snatched his pistol out of the holster before he could protest and tossed it into the back of the jeep.
“Our driver will stay here,” Tumart said, handing his own weapon to Fahd. “Are there any objections, Mr. Sweets?”
“It’s your dime, Mr. Tuerto,” Sweets replied, using Tumart’s alias. Tumart smiled.
“Excellent. I may have to add that colloquialism to my repertoire.”
“This way if you please, gen’lmen.” Sweets turned back to the cantina and led the two inside. “We got business to discuss.”
* * *
UPSTAIRS, FRANCO APPROACHED the door to Digger’s room with what he would have hastily denied as trepidation in different company. “Digger? You in there?” Franco said, knocking lightly on the door. The cantina had a second floor with four rooms, one of which had been taken over by the man called Digger earlier in the day.
Such as with all criminals, human traffickers like coyotes had a pecking order. There were those like Sweets, who had some organizational ability and charisma, and those like Franco, who kept their heads down and collected their money.
Then there were those like Digger.
His real name was Philo Sweets though no one ever called him that. He was just...Digger. Not even Grave Digger, which would have made sense given certain rumors. Just Digger. A coyote, like any other, except he was Django’s baby brother and sometimes his cargo didn’t make it where it was supposed to go. Then, accidents did happen and no one wanted to think about it too much. Especially not Franco. Sweets wouldn’t hear a word said against Digger, and he’d buried men who had a mind to take a run at his brother. The door creaked open at the touch of Franco’s knuckles. He hesitated, licking his lips. There was a smell, like spoiled meat, and the whisper of voices. “Digger?”
Bedsprings whined, followed by the sound of bare feet on wood. Franco stepped back. Digger pulled the door open. He was handsome, in a chunky way. Just a tad too much excess weight to be Hollywood pretty, but under the fat was muscle. A lot of it, packed into close to seven feet of height. He smiled childishly, his eyes unfocused.
“Hi, Franco,” he said. His voice was light, like a much younger, smaller man’s. There were dark stains on his cheeks.
“Digger, Sweets wants you downstairs,” Franco said quickly. Digger frowned.
“I’m busy.”
“Now,” Franco said, trying to put some steel in his voice. Digger’s lip wobbled. His fingers, where they clutched the door, were red.
“But I’m busy,” he said again. “Django said I could stay up here. And I’m busy.”
“Yeah, I know. But now he wants you downstairs,” Franco said, trying to ignore the slow trickle of red that slithered down the surface of the door. “The ragheads are here.” Digger shook his head, as if trying to clear it.
“The—” He took a breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m coming. Just need to clean up.” He closed the door in Franco’s face without waiting for a reply. Franco, feeling faintly ill, didn’t wait for him, and started back down the stairs.
As Franco retreated, Digger closed the door and turned to survey the room. It was empty, but for a bed and a bureau and a cracked and rusting sink. And the woman, of course. There was always a woman.
But no black bird.
Digger frowned and looked at his hands. There was a crust beneath his nails, his skin was crimson to the elbow, and his mind felt fuzzy. It was a familiar feeling. He dragged the back of his forearm across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said to the woman on the bed. “I just wanted to see.”
She didn’t reply. Not strange, considering that she had been dead for an hour. What was left of her was hardly recognizable as the woman she had been.
Digger looked at his handiwork, and a flush of shame squirted through him. “I didn’t mean to,” he whined, gathering up his tools and taking them to the sink. He washed them quickly, then his hands. “I just wanted to see the black bird,” he continued. “I have to see it again.”
He wrapped his tools up—his knives and his hooks—and set them gently into his satchel. He gave it a fond, almost guilty pat, and began cleaning himself.
“My mother showed it to me, the first time. The black bird,” he said. “It whispered things to me but I can’t remember them. You understand.” He glanced at the ruin on the bed. “I keep looking for it, but I can’t find it.” He paused. “Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place.”
Cleaned and dressed, he left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.
Downstairs, Franco took a seat at the bar as Digger came down not long after, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sweets nodded to his brother as he led his guests inside and motioned toward a table.
At another table in the corner, two other men sat. Like Franco and Digger, they had the look of rough men. A Mossberg shotgun sat on the table in front of one. The other was spinning the cylinder on a .38. They eyed the newcomers with interest, but otherwise didn’t react.
“So,” Sweets said, plopping himself down in his chair once more. Tumart sat opposite him.
“So.”
Sweets leaned forward. “I’ve talked to several of my, ah, peers. There are niblets of interest.”
“Niblets?” Tumart said, amused.
“Mostly for the money.” Sweets leaned back, fingers interlacing behind his head. He swung his boots up on the table, eliciting a grunt of disgust from Abbas.
“Well. That is good news. How many?” Tumart said, ignoring Abbas.
“Ten. Me, Franco there. Henshaw and Morris.” As Sweets said the latter, he motioned toward the two men in the corner. “My baby brother, there. And four to arrive tomorrow.”
“Ten. And ten men each.” Tumart sat back. He frowned and glanced at Abbas, who nodded. “That will work, I believe.” He looked back at Sweets. “Your men know what to do? What we need them to do?”
“You need us to get them boys across the border at different points, mixed in among the usual assortment of wetbacks. From there, we head into the Yoo-nited States proper,” the man with the .38 said. He popped the cylinder closed and scratched his unshaven cheek with the barrel. “Easy peasy.”
“Yes,” Tumart said, looking at the speaker. The man did not inspire confidence. Still, one worked with what one had. “Fine. You’ll be paid when each group reaches their destination.”
“Nope,” Franco said. “All up front, or we ain’t going nowhere.”
“You—” Abbas rose to his feet, groping for the pistol that wasn’t there. Tumart grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.
“And that’s why we didn’t let you bring weapons,” Sweets said. Tumart inclined his head.
“Wise move. No.”
“No?”
“No. After.” Tumart knocked on the table with his knuckles. Sweets frowned and swung his legs off the table.
“I heard you guys liked to haggle...”
“Us guys?” Tumart said.
“Ragheads,” Franco supplied. Tumart glanced at him. He made a pistol with his fingers and pointed at the man.
“I am starting to dislike you.”
“I’ll live,” Franco grunted.
“The day is yet young,” Tumart said. “No dickering. The agreed-upon offer was after.”
“Maybe we’d like to renegotiate,” Sweets said. Tumart nodded, as if this made sense. Then, smoothly, he was up, over and onto the table before anyone could react, a leaf-shaped blade sliding from his sleeve and dropping into his palm. The tip of the blade poked Sweets’s Adam’s apple, eliciting a thin trickle of blood. The other coyotes reacted slowly, aiming weapons in a general fashion. Tumart ignored them.
“You should have frisked me. Negotiations are closed,” Tumart said, pressing lightly.
“Maybe,” Sweets said. Tumart looked down. Sweets’s hand held an M-9 Parabellum pistol, and it was pressed to the other man’s crotch.
“Ah,” Tumart said. “Well. This is awkward.”
“Yeah, you done made your point,” Sweets said.
“Ha.” Tumart raised the blade slightly and slid back, getting off the table. “Would you settle for half and half?”
“That seems fair.”
Chapter 4
Bolan watched the natural beauty of the Sonoran Desert roll past as James drove. It never failed to amaze the man known as the Executioner that the same world that could produce men like those he fought could also hold sights like this. He wouldn’t go as far as to say that it was life affirming, but it was close enough for him.
“I’m surprised you didn’t want to talk to your own people,” Bolan said without turning around.
James started, as if deep in thought. “What?”
“About me,” Bolan said, turning away from the window.
James laughed. “Yeah, that would have accomplished a lot, wouldn’t it?” he said snarkily.
“I could have been anybody,” Bolan said.
“You’ve got an honest face, my friend.” The agent grinned at him, and then shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I’m just too trusting, right?”
“Maybe,” Bolan said, eyeing the man. He had pegged James right, he knew. Like Bolan, the younger man played fast and loose with proper procedure in favor of getting things done, even if it meant possibly endangering himself. It was for that very reason that Bolan had decided to deal himself in. If things went wrong, at least he would be there to play damage control and maybe keep the feisty young man alive. And if that wasn’t enough...well, bravado aside, there wasn’t much that the Executioner couldn’t handle, one way or another. “Still, your superiors won’t be happy...”
“Ah, Greaves is a good guy, but he’s out of his depth,” James said. “Jim Greaves, I mean, my handler. Dude’s so tight he craps diamonds, you know?” He hesitated. “Not literally, mind.”
“I know,” Bolan said, ignoring the joke. He’d met his fair share of government desk jockeys in his time who had little understanding of how things worked in the field. He’d also met his fair share of men forced into a command position that they were supremely unqualified for. “What about the Interpol contingent?”
James made a rude noise. Bolan laughed. “That bad?” he said.
“Rittermark—or Control, as they call him—is as tight-assed as Greaves, but less pleasant. Stiff-faced German guy, all business. I suppose he’s good at his job...otherwise, he wouldn’t be in charge of this thing, would he?”
“I suppose,” Bolan said. Privately, however, he wondered about that very thing. Too often, men with good connections failed upward, and this sort of assignment would be a plum for any man. “What about the other one...the French guy you mentioned.”
“Right, Tanzir’s guy—Chantecoq,” James said. “Too cool for school, that guy. Top flight detective, with eyes like marbles.”
“Sounds like he made a good impression on you,” Bolan said, curious.
“Yeah...better than his boss, at any rate,” James said, as if embarrassed.
“Django Sweets... What can you tell me about him?” Bolan said, changing the subject.
James cleared his throat and frowned slightly. “Like I said before, he’s a big-time king coyote. Story is he was a gunman for one of the cartels for a while on the red, white and blue side of the border, then he turned smuggler. He’s a cool customer, though. We brought in one of those pop-psych teams the Feebs enjoy so much and they said he was a ‘high-functioning sociopath,’ whatever that means.”
Bolan smiled slightly at the reference to the FBI. While he knew more than a few agents—or former agents in Hal Brognola’s case—he would trust with his life, the organization had its share of annoying bureaucracy the same as any other federal agency. James had obviously run afoul of it at one time or another, the same as any federal agent. “It means he’s dangerous,” Bolan said.
James snorted. “Oh, he is that. I didn’t need some armchair psychologist to tell me that. I’ve known Sweets maybe a month, and it’s been the longest one of my life. Not to mention most tense, too.” He slapped the steering wheel with a palm as he parked the van. “He’s got a mouth. He likes to talk, and he likes to poke and prod. So just play it loose, let it roll off, and don’t flash him any sass. That’s my advice.”
“Not something I’m good at, I’m afraid,” Bolan said.
“Try hard. He’s rattlesnake mean, and fast on the draw. He ain’t playing gunslinger, get me? Guy is the real deal.”
Bolan grinned mirthlessly. “I’ll do my best, Scout’s honor.”
“You don’t strike me as the scouting type, Cooper,” James said. He grimaced. “And anyway, it isn’t just Django you’ve got to worry about. There’s also Digger...”
Bolan blinked at the raw distaste evident in James’s voice. “Digger? Unusual name.”
“Yeah, Django’s baby brother,” the man said, shaking his head. “And I use the term ‘baby’ loosely. He’s seven feet if he’s an inch and he’s all muscle. He looks like an elephant.” James looked straight ahead, his eyes narrowed. “Django is ice, but Digger is something else entirely...he’s crazy, and not in a fun, party-animal sort of way. You hear stories about him...” He shook his head again. “Anyway, he’s Django’s attack dog. If you make a run at Django, Digger will have his teeth in your ass before you take three steps.”