Desert Impact

Chapter 3

The contrast between the stark, icy white of the Antarctic and the brash gold and tan of the desert had been more than a little startling. After a long flight into Phoenix, Bolan had picked up a car and driven east, passing through Tucson, then cutting south through Sierra Vista and finally arriving in Douglas, Arizona. The dry desert winds blew tumbleweeds across the highway as Bolan drove into the outskirts of the small town.

It was a bit eerie—a town with main streets that hadn’t seen much in the way of updating since the seventies. The only modern storefronts he saw were those of a Wal-Mart and a McDonald’s, which he passed without slowing. Douglas was positioned directly on the border with Mexico, and the flow of immigrants—both legal and illegal—was enough to make Caucasian people a minority. On the other side of the border was Agua Prieta, a much larger city, with much bigger problems. Drug trafficking and illegal immigrants were big business in Agua Prieta, and many honest cops on that side were killed with disturbing regularity.

Bolan pulled up to the gas station where he was meeting Rivers and waved off the entrepreneurs selling fresh tamales out of the trunk of their car. Bolan didn’t try to hide the fact that he was carrying, and he kept a wary eye on those milling about. Enough crime occurred in this one little corner of the universe to keep county, state and federal law enforcement busy every day of the year. It wouldn’t do to become a statistic.

Bolan continued to eye the comings and goings when a car pulled up to one of the pumps. The music was blaring loud enough that the bass thrummed through the gas station until the car shut down. Three guys in white tank tops stepped out of the souped-up Malibu from the eighties that looked like it was halfway through its restoration. One guy went into the gas station while the other two lagged behind and went to the old lady selling tamales.

“Hey, grandma, we could use some food.”

“Five dollars for five.”

“No, grandma, we just want the food.”

They moved forward and Bolan felt like he was watching a bad movie as the two men approached her. Their harassment of the old lady wasn’t entertaining at all.

Bolan approached and tapped the closer of the two on the shoulder.

“What do you want?” he asked Bolan.

“You’re going to leave this lady alone.”

He lifted the edge of his T-shirt to reveal the .38 he was carrying in his waistband.

“I think I do what I want.”

“Oh, well, you should have said that from the beginning.”

The thug started to turn when Bolan caught his shoulder and spun him around, using the added momentum to drive his fist into the man’s face, shattering his nose and dropping him to his knees. Bolan whipped the Desert Eagle out of his holster and trained it on the other man before either of them knew what had happened.

“Now, explain to me what it is you want to do. After all, we decided that you get to do what you want. I just thought there should be a little more discussion on what that might be.”

“I’ll leave, I’ll leave.”

Bolan nodded as they scurried to their car. When the third man came back outside, they peeled out of the gas station and sped down the road. He turned to look at the old woman, who reached into her bag and handed him a tamale.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Bolan leaned against his car and munched on his tamale. He didn’t have to wait long for Rivers to pull up in his SUV. The people who’d been milling around recognized the Border Patrol agent and found better things to do with their time. Rivers pulled his tall frame out of the SUV and offered a strong handshake. “Cooper,” he said, a thin smile crossing his face. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

Returning the handshake, Bolan nodded. “No problem. I could use a little sunshine, and I’m happy to help any way that I can.”

“Good,” he said. “Why don’t we drop off your car at the station? No one will bother it there, and then we can take a little ride.”

Bolan agreed, got back into his rental and followed Rivers to the local Border Patrol station. It was a lot larger than many other stations, due in part to the amount of illegal immigrants they had to deal with and to the on-site holding facility. They passed through a heavy security gate, and Bolan parked his car while Rivers picked up a pass from the guard shack and stuck it on his windshield.

After signing back out, they headed north out of Douglas, and Bolan glanced at the man he’d helped before, his gaze asking an unspoken question.

“I have a friend I want you to meet,” Rivers said. “He’s a retired freelancer. Did undercover work for the U.S. Marshals, tracking for the Border Patrol, and if some of the rumors are true, he started his career in the Drug Enforcement Administration. Anyway, he’s been out here forever, knows every nook and cranny between Douglas and Sierra Vista. He also knows all of the local bad guys. All of which make him very useful.”

“Local bad guys?” Bolan asked.

“This part of the world attracts a lot of different types—and one of them is the person looking to disappear. If the Old West still exists anywhere, it’s right here, Cooper. A lot of black hats live in single-wide trailers or old camp shacks and have a record as long as your arm—or longer.”

“What a charming place,” Bolan replied.

“It’s not that bad,” Colton said. “Plenty of good people are here, too. Lot of folks who just want to live their lives in peace.”

Bolan nodded and watched as the desert landscape slipped past his window. The small highway carved a path between small mountain ranges.

A couple of miles before the border with New Mexico, Rivers turned off the highway and onto a dirt road that resembled a dried-out creek bed.

“How far out does this guy live?”

“We’re almost there now. He likes to keep to himself. Has this thing about wanting to see people coming.”

“Well, I get that. I’m just not sure moving to a remote desert is the answer.”

“I don’t know—after all the things you’ve seen and done, don’t the peace and serenity sound good?”

“It sounds good, but even when I’m on the other side of the world they seem to track me down.”

The desert was open around them, and in the distance Bolan could see free-range cattle and some of those trailers Rivers had mentioned. The road itself was filled with divots and holes, rocks, cow pies and at least one turtle basking in the late afternoon sun.

“Tell me more about this man we’re meeting,” Bolan said. “How long have you known him?”

“Most of my life,” Rivers replied. “I grew up in Sierra Vista and Tony and my father worked together. He was to be my godfather, but he didn’t think it was appropriate considering his line of work.”

“Makes sense,” Bolan said. “That kind of life doesn’t lend itself to long life expectancies.”

“Yeah.”

“I see why he’s a resource. He lived long enough to retire, and that’s saying something.”

They pulled into the driveway. Rivers slowed as guinea hens scattered in front of the SUV. The double-wide trailer had been modified with a screened-in porch, and large portions of the property were fenced and cross-fenced for the livestock.

Tony, a stout, silver-haired man, stepped out of the trailer, a woman perhaps ten years younger at his side. The two of them waved.

“That’s his wife, Eleanor,” Rivers said. “I hope you didn’t eat much today because she’ll insist on feeding you and be insulted if you don’t put away enough for two.”

“Is the food any good?” Bolan asked.

“Worth the drive.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

The SUV rolled to a stop and they both climbed out as Tony stepped forward and opened the gate that marked the edge of the small yard around their property. Two dogs, mixed-breed Labs of some kind, barked wildly and Tony snapped at them in Spanish, waving them away.

“Colton,” he said, a broad grin lighting up his face. “Welcome, as always. I see you brought a friend.”

The older man stepped forward, his left hand on his thigh supporting a small limp, but he didn’t falter as he shook hands. His eyes assessed Bolan quickly, and the smile that had lit his face a moment before faded a bit. “A dangerous friend, I think.”

“You’re a fast study,” Bolan said, extending a hand. “Matt Cooper.”

Rivers started to speak, but Tony held up a hand to silence him. “Okay, Matt, though I’m not sure the name fits quite right. If Colton says you’re okay, then I can believe that, but before you come in, we need to have an understanding.”

Bolan kept his silence, waiting.

“I know a man,” Tony continued. “He does mercenary work of one kind or another in parts of the world with names I can’t pronounce and most of which I’ve never heard of. You know the type?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “I do.”

“I figured you would,” he replied. “Anyway, this man is the nicest guy you would ever want to meet. He’s a good man to share a meal with and a better man to share a drink with. I like him a lot.”

“I’m not sure I get your point.”

“My point,” Tony said, “is two things. First, that man I was telling you about? He’s also the most dangerous sonofabitch I know. When it comes to killing, something I guess we both know a little about, there’s maybe no one who does it better.”

“Tony,” Rivers began. “Maybe we should...”

“Second,” the old man continued, “is that you remind me a bit of him. Actually more than a bit. So you’ll understand when I tell you that if you bring trouble to my door, that man I told you about, well, he owes me a favor, and I suspect he’d take it as no hardship to bring trouble to yours, Matt—or whatever your real name is.” He crossed his arms as he finished and stared hard at Bolan.

Bolan felt a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, tried to stop it and then gave up. The old man hadn’t lived an easy life, but his eyes were still damn sharp. Most likely, the threat was an empty one, but when a man reached a certain age, it was the only kind of threat he could really make. “I like you, Tony,” he said. “You’ve got enough brass for any three men on your own, and now you’ve threatened me with sure death if I come bringing trouble. I don’t. Matt may not be a perfect fit, but it seems to work out okay. I won’t bring trouble to you, old timer. On that, you have my word.”

Tony stared at him a minute more, then smiled and stuck out a hand. “Done and done,” he said. “Come on up to the house. Eleanor will want to feed you both, I imagine.”

The woman had waited on the porch, watching the exchange with interest, but now she stepped over to greet them. Bolan offered his hand but was pulled into a short, friendly embrace. Into his ear, she whispered, “Thank you for understanding,” then pulled away again, giving Rivers a hug, too. She smelled like baking apples and corn bread and all the wonderful scents of home, but as they entered the trailer, he noted pictures on the wall of her riding horses and any number of trophies to go with them. She was just as extraordinary as her husband.

“Now you boys get in here, but leave all those guns by the door.”

Rivers was already removing his weapons, and Bolan glanced at Tony.

“Don’t worry, son. There’s nothing to fear here. I have a suspicion that if you wanted it bad enough, you could get it quickly sitting here by the door.”

Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle from the holster and placed it on the table next to the door. He was halfway across the room before Eleanor stopped him.

“You must be as forgetful as Tony,” she scolded, “but you have an excuse. You don’t know that I won’t serve an armed man at my table. You can leave the ankle gun over there, too.”

Rivers and Tony both smiled as they followed Eleanor and left Bolan to pull the small pistol tucked into his ankle holster and place it on the table next to the Desert Eagle.

“Now, you boys sit down and I’ll fix you up something nice while you talk.”

Bolan began to argue, but Rivers shook his head, dissuading him. Bolan took his seat at the table.

Once they were all seated, Tony leaned back in his chair and cocked an eyebrow at Rivers. “So, what brings you, Colton? We love it when you visit, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t bring Mister...Cooper here without a reason.”

“True enough,” he said. “I figured you might have a bead on a situation we ran into a couple of days ago.”

Rivers ran through the fight on the border, showing them photos on his phone of the weapons and the serial nomenclature. Tony nodded a few times but didn’t interrupt until the younger man was finished, ending the story with his call to Bolan. Tony stared at Bolan and then looked at Rivers again. “This hasn’t been in the papers or on the news,” he said thoughtfully.

“We’ve managed to keep it quiet so far,” Rivers replied. “But I don’t think we can keep a lid on it forever—and it will blow sky high if it happens again.”

Tony nodded, turning to Bolan. “What do you think of all of this?”

“The border’s been a mess for years, and it’s getting worse. Without evidence, I can’t be sure of anything.”

“You know, I ran this area for a long time. Nothing came in our out of here without me knowing. Some things we let by to keep the peace and some we laid down the law on. I’ve worked undercover for the worst thugs and then tracked them across half a continent to bring them to justice. I’ve learned to trust my gut, and it tells me your suspicions may be as good as most people’s facts, so please, share them with us.”

Bolan leaned back and pondered the man before him. Few people Bolan met in his life he felt he could trust, but there was something about this man that said he might just make the list. That was a very rare thing in his world.

“Normally, I’d say Mexican Mafia, maybe. They’re a little more organized than most of the drug lords. Still, taking on U.S. military weapons is a little out of their league. On the other hand, with things heating up down here the way they have been, I wouldn’t cross anything off of the list.”

“Ten years ago, maybe even five, I would agree with you,” Tony said. “But as you say, the border here is worse than it has ever been. Mexico can’t keep a handle on any of their cartels and small paramilitary groups are all vying for power. The government is powerless, and they’re basically fighting a civil war with about a dozen different factions wanting a place at the table. We can find out who is responsible on the other side of the border, but the selling of U.S. arms on this side is more concerning.”

“We’re going to poke around in Sierra Vista next,” Bolan said. “A lot goes on at Fort We Gotcha that happens behind the scenes.”

Tony and Rivers both nodded, apparently amused that Bolan knew the more colloquial name for Fort Huachuca.

“In the meantime,” Tony said, “I’ll make a little noise and see who I can roust from their dens south of the border. You boys be careful, though. Something about this feels downright dangerous.”

“I’m always careful,” Bolan said. “It’s a habit.”

“Not too careful to eat, I hope,” Eleanor said, setting a plate piled high with tortillas on the table. “That’s enough business talk. Eat first, solve problems after.” The smells from the kitchen were mouthwatering and all three men dug into the meal with gusto. Sometimes, a good meal before battle was all a man could hope for.

Chapter 4

Fort Huachuca was situated just outside the small town of Sierra Vista and was home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center as well as the 9th Army Signal Command, among other electronic communications and intelligence-driven units.

The gate guard took one look at Bolan’s identification, offered a quick, casual salute and sent him on his way. He’d offered the credentials that would get him access to damn near every military installation he could want: Colonel Brandon Stone.

In the distance, past the manicured lawns of the buildings closest to the heart of the fort, Bolan could see the yellow hangars of Libby Airfield, which was used by both military and civilian aircraft.

The building Bolan was looking for wasn’t hard to find—a quick internet search on his handheld revealed that a civilian company, Kruegor Enterprises, was in charge of the weapon warehousing and storage facilities on the base. Although Kruegor couldn’t actually hand the weapons out, they provided the building maintenance, basic security and administrative personnel, while the armory itself was manned by Army regulars.

Bolan found the main administrative office quite easily. He parked his vehicle, then decided to try something. Instead of entering through the main office doors, he strolled around to the side of the building, where a set of bay doors, large enough for trucks to pass through, were wide open. He entered, whistling to himself. At the moment, no vehicles parked were inside, and other than a bored-looking sergeant at a checkout desk, no one was around. A quick visual inspection showed no weapons in the main area, but a sign on the door behind the sergeant indicated that only authorized military personnel were allowed beyond that point.

Bolan gave a friendly wave to the man and flashed his credentials. When the sergeant waved him through, he continued into the main office. There, another man was bent over a file cabinet, oblivious to Bolan’s presence and muttering to himself about the nuisance of inspections. The man’s white shirt wasn’t quite tucked in on the sides, where it was a little small, and small trickles of sweat had formed on his bald head. He gave the impression of a man who knew a lot more about paperwork than building security.

Bolan pulled the door shut behind him, rocking the picture on the wall, as the man wrenched up from his hunched position. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!” he exclaimed.

Bolan didn’t say anything but eyed the thin wad of papers the man was tucking behind his back.

“Can I help you? I mean...what are you doing here? This is a restricted area.”

“Yeah, I got that from the mountains of security,” Bolan quipped.

“Everything that needs to be secured is, but that’s none of your business anyway. What do you want?”

“That remains to be seen. Either way, I’m looking for Brett Kingston.”

“He’s out of the office right now.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “I’m patient.”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

The main office door opened and a tall man strode inside. Bolan instantly recognized him as Kingston from the personnel file he’d studied earlier. Although he appeared closer to fifty than twenty, he was in excellent shape beneath his black polo and khaki slacks. An Airborne tattoo, along with the insignia from the 7th Special Forces group stood out on his bulging bicep. Bolan took a casual step back, folding his arms. It wouldn’t do to underestimate a man who’d spent time training in guerilla warfare.

The man didn’t seem to notice him right away, snapping, “Hansen, where the hell is that file I need?”

Hansen pulled the papers out from behind his back, clutching them to his chest for a moment before shoving them toward Kingston like they were about to burst into flames. Kingston took them, nodding, then turned his attention to Bolan. A small tic in his face registered how happy he was to see a stranger in his facilities.

“Who’re you, then?”

“Colonel Brandon Stone,” Bolan said, not bothering to offer his hand. “I’m helping out Homeland Security with an issue.” When Kingston didn’t say anything, he offered up his credentials.

Kingston shrugged. “What’s DHS want now? You need more airport screeners?” He laughed.

Bolan considered his response for a moment, then said, “Some things are better done off the books. Surely a man who served in the Seventh knows that.”

Kingston nodded, his face turning serious. “Yeah, all right. What can I do for you, Brandon?”

“That’s Colonel, if you don’t mind.”

Kingston’s jaw clenched again and his lips pursed, keeping something unsaid. “All right, Colonel. What can I do for you?”

“DHS got a confirmed report from Border Patrol of U.S. Army weapons being moved in the desert, northwest of Douglas. Since this is the only Army base in the area, they figured it might be a good place to start asking some questions.” Bolan eyed Kingston for a minute. “Hard questions.”

For a moment, Kingston looked like he’d swallowed a bug—a big, crunchy one—then he shook his head. “Damn it. I don’t believe it. Are you kidding me or something?”

“Wish I were, Mr. Kingston,” Bolan said. “But I’m not.”

Kingston slumped into the chair facing the desk. “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. Then he looked at Bolan. “I’m sorry for how I greeted you, Colonel. Truth is, we were told this morning of a surprise audit and facilities inspection for tomorrow morning, so I’m running around like an idiot and short-tempered on top of it. I didn’t like surprises when I served in the Seventh, and I like them even less now.”

Sensing the man’s attitude changing, Bolan nodded. “Consider it forgotten,” he said. “We all have bad days, and I don’t want to make yours worse. Still, I’ve got a job to do. If those weapons came from this base, we need to know it and we need to know how.”

“You’re completely right,” Kingston said. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll do everything I can to help you—just name it.”