BLOOD TOLL

American smugglers intent on running terrorists across the Mexican border don’t realize that the extra man they’ve picked up en route is working undercover to stop them. Or that the man is Mack Bolan and he’s dedicated to preventing their treacherous human cargo from ever reaching the U.S.

Partnered with a border patrol agent, Bolan needs to come up with a Plan B fast when their covers are blown...or risk the country coming under a devastating terror attack. The Executioner is setting up his own form of border patrol and no one is crossing without his permission.

The smell of blood had gotten the jaguar’s attention

The Executioner turned slowly as the cat circled him, never quite letting itself be seen by its intended prey. Bolan’s grip on the tire iron tightened as he swung it, trying to loosen his protesting muscles.

“Walk away, pal,” Bolan said. “Go look for dinner elsewhere.”

The only reply he got was the sound of the animal moving through the brush. He caught the flash of a tail out of the corner of his eye. Green eyes met his and Bolan froze. He was very aware of his blood dripping onto the thirsty soil, and of the pounding of his heart.

Bolan let the tire iron slide through his fingers until he was gripping the end. He’d get one swing, just one. “So it had better be good, right?”

The jaguar snarled.

“Come on then. You want me? I’m not going anywhere.”

The jaguar paused, then its muscles bunched and its tail went rigid. Bolan tensed. The cat sprang.

And the Executioner—his body honed into a weapon second-to-none—lunged to meet it.

Border Offensive

Don Pendleton

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This is not a battle between the United States of America and terrorism, but between the free and democratic world and terrorism.

—Tony Blair,

British Prime Minister

There are no borders for terrorism—no lines it won’t cross. But wherever innocent lives are threatened, I will go there and wage my war. Whether it’s here at home or on soils abroad, I will fight strong.

—Mack Bolan

The Mack Bolan Legend

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Special thanks and acknowledgment to

Joshua Reynolds for his contribution to this work.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 1

The Mexican border

The truck was military surplus, but any insignia hinting at its origins had long since faded beneath the glare of the Mexican sun. Inside the truck, beneath a reinforced tarp, rested a minor, if profitable, amount of death in posse—black tar heroin. On top of the truck, a substantially larger amount of death in esse clung to the tarp, pressing his long frame as flat as it could go. Mack Bolan blinked, trying to eject the grit from his eyes, and shifted his weight for the hundredth time in as many minutes.

It had been the task of moments getting on the truck, but the ride had been a test to his patience. The heat, the dust and the uncomfortable realities of his position were wearing down his normally stoic outlook about such things. His skin itched with dirt beneath his fatigues, and the body armor felt more and more constrictive as time wore on. He had taken numerous wounds in his long and bloody war—knives, bullets and bombs had each taken a ferryman’s toll from his flesh at some point. At this moment, it seemed as if he could feel every single one of those old wounds.

Bolan bobbed his head, risking a glance at his surroundings. Buildings swept past at a lazy speed. Clapboard affairs with broken, filthy windows and signs that were no longer legible.

In other words, perfect.

A dead-end town, situated on the edge of the Sonoran Desert, caught between national boundaries. There were a hundred just like it scattered along the length of the United States’ southern border—invisible, forgotten places. Some inhabited, others not, but all perfect places to do business for drug traffickers of either nationality. Like leaks in a levee, they excreted trickles of narcotics from Mexico into Texas, Arizona and California.

Bolan had been tracking the current shipment for days, hoping to plug this particular leak. He’d taken out a poppy field in Sinaloa earlier in the week, and then caught up with the shipment as it approached the Arizona border. Getting onto the truck had been interesting and had used up his quota of luck for the week. From here on out, he was playing it careful.

The truck rumbled over a pothole and Bolan gritted his teeth as he was rattled down to his bones. He tried to stretch, to work out the kinks in his limbs, knowing he’d need every iota of agility in the coming minutes. When you were dealing with a bullet, even a fraction of an inch could be a useful distance, and the difference between life and death.

According to his sources, there shouldn’t be more than a dozen men all told at the rendezvous, but that was plenty. The odds were always the same once you crept up into double digits—namely, bad.

He smiled, baring his teeth. Bad odds only meant that he’d have to work fast to even them. And he was in the mood for “fast.”

The truck gave a depressed growl as it came to a halt behind a two-story building that had seen better decades. Voices, speaking Spanish and English in equal measure, rose to audibility. Bolan tensed and prepared to make his move. He pushed himself up an inch, balancing on the struts holding up the tarp, and switched his grip on the Heckler & Koch UMP-45 strapped across his chest. There was a van parked nearby. It had once been white, but presently it was the color of nicotine, and it was occupied. Bolan counted eight heads, plus the man sitting in the van. The odds were better than he’d thought.

The van door slammed. “It’s about damn time, Ernesto. I got places to be.”

Bolan pulled himself slowly toward the edge of the truck facing away from the voices.

“Oh? Better places than this, Jorge?” someone—Ernesto, Bolan assumed—said. “I feel hurt. Here, in the heart.”

“You have a heart?”

“Well, it’s not mine.” Laughter. Bolan hunched, rising into a slight crouch. His finger tapped the trigger guard of the submachine gun.

“Yeah, that’s funny,” Jorge said in a voice that implied it wasn’t. “Look, get the stuff loaded. I got to go.”

“Something I should know about?” Ernesto said before barking orders in Spanish. Bolan heard the tailgate of the truck come open. Metal scraped against metal.

“Sweets needs drivers.”

The truck sank slightly as someone—several someones—climbed aboard. Bolan took a breath and gripped the end of a wire sticking out of the tarp. Earlier, while the truck was in motion, he’d used the KA-BAR knife strapped to his leg to cut a thin hole in the tarp. From there, he’d attached an M-18 smoke grenade—its pull ring connected to the wire in his hand—to the inside of the tarp with a strip of nonreflective tape. The men sitting in the back hadn’t noticed. They would in a minute.

Gripping the wire, he prepared to roll off the edge of the roof.

“Drivers? For what? He outsourcing now?” Ernesto said.

“Not quite. He’s got a hundred units need to be over the border yesterday.”

Bolan froze. Units? Did they mean weapons? Other than drugs, weapons were often smuggled to inner city gangs in the Southwest. He listened.

“A hundred. Huh. That’s more than usual.” Ernesto grunted.

“That’s what I said. Know what he said?”

“Sweets?”

“Yeah. He said, money can roll back the most stubborn of tides,” Jorge said.

Ernesto snorted and said, “Maybe my English is not so good. That makes no sense.”

“I speak English perfectly. It makes no damn sense to me, either. Goddamn Zen cowboy shit.”

The truck bounced under Bolan as the merchandise was moved out. He had to act while the majority of the smugglers were in the truck, but he wanted to hear the rest of the conversation.

Decisions, decisions.

Moments later, his choice was made for him. He heard a muffled question in Spanish. Something jostled the wire in his hand. Bolan moved instantly. He rolled off the edge of the truck, hauling the wire with him. Something went ping even as he hit the ground.

The gas canister hit the bed of the truck and vomited dark smoke with a serpentine hiss. Cries of alarm echoed from within. Bolan let off a burst through the tarp, then rose into a crouch and swung around the edge of the tailgate, the UMP-45 cradled in both hands. A smuggler, tall, dressed in surplus fatigues and wild-eyed, half fell out of the truck. Bolan pulled back on the trigger, sending the man’s body jerking and whirling away.

“Shit! What—” A tall Mexican that Bolan figured was Ernesto dug for a large pistol holstered beneath one arm. He was dressed well, in a thin suit, his dark shirt open nearly to his navel. Bolan caught sight of a gaudy tattoo as the smuggler dived behind the other side of the truck.

A machine gun chattered and tore through the tarp, forcing Bolan to dodge it. The Executioner moved with lethal grace, springing to his feet and sliding around the back of the truck. Smoke boiled out of it, and he let off a second short burst into the interior. He spun on his heel, his weapon snarling. Another smuggler was punched backward, a spray of red arcing from his face and chest. The UMP clicked on empty. Bolan reached for another clip.

A man lunged at him, machete whistling through the air. Bolan let the UMP fall to dangle from its strap, and stepped aside, swatting the blade of the machete with the flat of his hand. He slapped the blade down to the ground and swept its owner’s feet out from under him. As the smuggler fell, Bolan kicked the machete away.

Colored smoke hung thick on the air, and he could hear the scratch of rubber soles on dirt. Bolan jabbed his opponent quickly in the face, then, as the smuggler reeled back, clutching at his nose, the big American rammed his fist into the man’s throat. Cartilage crumpled and the man collapsed, gagging. Bolan swept up the machete and reversed it with a twirl of his wrist, driving it down into the smuggler’s skull with a wet crunch.

Bullets plucked at the ground at his feet and he sprinted forward, toward the van. The owner—Jorge—was a light-skinned man, built stocky, and he backpedaled, hands up, despite the pistol on his hip, as Bolan thundered toward him out of the smoke.

“Wait, wait, wait—” he shouted as Bolan slammed into him, shoulder first. They went down together, but only Bolan came up. He grabbed Jorge’s shirtfront and slung him bodily behind the van.

“Damn it, wait!” Jorge yelped. Bolan knocked him sprawling and joined him behind the van.

“You keep quiet. Maybe you’ll live through this.”

Ernesto and two men, both armed with AK-47s, moved forward out of the smoke, looking around wildly. Bolan pressed his foot to Jorge’s throat and twisted around the edge of the van, bringing his weapon up even as he slammed a full magazine home.

“Hey! Gringo, you going to—” Ernesto began.

The UMP burped. Ernesto screeched, and his pistol discharged as he toppled. His companions fell more quietly. Bolan waited a minute, then two. He relaxed slightly. No movement from the truck.

All in all, it had taken only a few minutes. It had been a textbook takedown. Bolan slid his foot away from Jorge’s throat, but kept his weapon aimed at the man.

“Good afternoon. Jorge, was it?” Bolan said, squatting and yanking the pistol from the man’s holster. He tossed it aside.

“Jimmy-Jorge James actually,” the man croaked. “Who the hell are you?”

“Interesting name,” Bolan said, ignoring the question.

“Blame my parents,” Jimmy-Jorge James said. “So, you kill Ernesto?”

“Yes.”

“Crap. I’m going to reach into my pants, get something you probably need to see.” James waited for Bolan’s nod, then reached into his trousers and pulled out a bill folder. He tossed it to Bolan. Bolan flipped it open and quirked an eyebrow in surprise.

“You’re border patrol?”

“That’s what it says on the badge, hombre.” James rubbed the back of his neck. “And you, my friend, just potentially blew two very important federal operations! Now, who the hell are you?”

“I’ll ask the questions. What were you doing here?” Bolan said.

“I was running a sting operation on poor old Ernesto there. Got a problem with that?” James said belligerently. He made to get up, but Bolan motioned for him to stay down.

“Not yet,” he said pleasantly. “Not until I know you are who you say you are. And that you were doing what you claim you were doing.”

“Yes, because I’m the untrustworthy one here,” James said harshly, indicating the bodies all around.

“A little paranoia is good for the soul,” Bolan said calmly. He eyed the badge, looking for telltale signs that it was a fake. Finding nothing to indicate that it was anything other than what it seemed, he let the UMP fall to dangle from his shoulder and reached up to detach the satellite phone from his harness. It would be a simple enough matter to have someone check out the badge number and the identification.

James, however, didn’t seem inclined to wait. As Bolan dialed, the younger man suddenly rolled toward his pistol with the speed of a rattlesnake on the strike. As Bolan cursed and brought his weapon up one-handed, James scooped up the pistol and twisted around, sighting down the barrel.

Bolan ducked to the side even as Jorge fired. Behind him, someone screamed. Bolan spun, and his UMP hummed as he let off a burst into Ernesto’s already sagging body. James’s bullet had torn a neat, round hole in the smuggler’s cranium, sending him into the darkness just ahead of Bolan’s own burst. Lowering his smoking weapon, Bolan turned back to James, who smiled at him weakly.

“Sorry. Instinct, man,” James said, letting his pistol spin around his trigger finger until the butt was facing Bolan. “You can have it back now.”

“Keep it,” Bolan said simply.

Chapter 2

“He’s legit,” Hal Brognola said, his voice echoing oddly through the receiver of the satellite phone. “He’s been with the United States Border Patrol for ten years, straight out of college. He’s a good one, Striker.”

“He mentioned Interpol,” Bolan said.

“Seconded, recently,” the big Fed said. “He and his partner.”

“Partner?” Bolan looked at James, where he squatted beside Ernesto’s body, going through the man’s pockets. “He didn’t mention a partner.”

“Why would he? He doesn’t know if you’re legit, either, Striker,” Brognola said, sounding amused. Bolan grunted. There was truth in that.

“I guess I don’t have one of those faces, huh?”

“Not even close.” Brognola cleared his throat. “From what I can tell, you just dropped into the middle of something that’s been in play for a while, barring recent changes.”

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Bolan said.

“No, not really. It’s a mess, and only going to get messier. Interpol’s involved, Border Patrol wants the coyotes shut down and all the other federal agencies are screaming about being kept out of the loop. No one really knows what’s going on out there.”

“Including us,” Bolan said.

“How is that new?” Brognola said.

“It’s not,” Bolan said. “Well, whatever the game is, I’m dealing myself in.”

“Why did I have a feeling you’d say that?” Brognola sighed. “Look, I’ll try to find out what’s going on, on my end. Keep me posted on yours. Oh, and, Striker? Let’s keep the property damage to a minimum until we know whose field we’re playing in, okay?”

“Sure thing,” Bolan said and turned off the phone. He clipped it back on his rig and started toward James. “You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” he said. The border patrol agent stood, clapping dirt off his pants.

“Figured if you were really who you said you were, you’d find out, Cooper.” He rubbed his cheek. Bolan had given James the name of his Justice Department cover identity, Agent Matt Cooper, reasoning that it was the quickest way to get the man to trust him. So far, it seemed to have worked.

“Well, I have. Who is he?”

“He’s a ‘she,’ actually. Her name’s Amira Tanzir, with Interpol. She’s working things from the back end.” James watched curiously as Bolan knelt and grabbed Ernesto’s legs. “What are you doing?”

“I’m moving the bodies onto the truck. Jihadists,” Bolan said, dragging the body up into the truck. Clapping his hands together, he hopped down and made for another one.

“Maybe—that’s the rumor at any rate,” James said, rubbing his throat. “Hell, I don’t know, I just go where they tell me, Cooper.”

“But that’s the rumor.”

“Yeah,” he said. Bolan looked at him as he got another body onto the truck. According to Brognola, Jimmy-Jorge James was a veteran of countless border skirmishes with smugglers of all types of cargo—including humans. He’d made his bones taking down snakehead rings in California before gravitating east to the Mexican front, and the troubles there.

Presently he was acting as a dogsbody for Interpol. Bolan could tell that it grated on the man, and the Executioner allowed himself a quick smile. He knew that feeling well. You grew used to working alone, to following your own initiative. It made it hard to follow orders, when it became time to do so again. That was one of the reasons for his current arrangement with the Stony Man organization. That, and the fact that Bolan felt that he was simply more effective on his own. He moved the last body onto the tailgate of the truck and shut it, flipping the body onto the others.

“How long have you been under?” Bolan said, rounding the truck and sinking to his haunches. He unsheathed his KA-BAR and punctured the gas tank with one swift, economical strike. Rising to his feet, he looked at James.

“Only a few months,” the young agent said. “We got word that some of the cartels were using coyotes to get pigment—”

“Pigment?” Bolan said, stepping away from the thin trail of gasoline carving a swath through the dirt of the street. “Step back.”

“Black tar heroin,” James said, backing up toward his van. “Are you sure about this?”

“You’d rather I leave it here?”

“I’d rather you let me call my bosses and let them come confiscate it. Have you ever heard of chain of evidence?”

“No guarantees they’d get to it before someone else did. I’d hate to have gone through all this trouble just to see this crap wind up right where it was going anyway,” Bolan said, pulling a box of matches out of one of the pockets on his combat rig.

“Yeah, about that,” James said. “What the hell was this about? You guys could have let us know you were planning an operation on our patch.”

“No time, I’m afraid. Jihadists,” Bolan said, trying to steer the conversation back on topic and away from dangerous shoals.

“Yeah, well, same shit, different angle. I got myself established as a coyote. I got some routes, made friends, that kind of thing.” James leaned against the side of his van, arms crossed. “I met Sweets.”

“Who’s Sweets?” Bolan said, lighting a match. He dropped it and stepped back in a hurry. The tiny flame caught and zipped back along the gasoline trickle.

“Sweets is Django Sweets. Big-time king coyote. Runs people, drugs, guns, car parts, whatever you want, whichever direction you want them going in. Coyotes have sort of an informal union, if you can believe it.”

Bolan could. He’d seen it again and again with various types of criminals. Someone invariably put themselves on top. “Yes,” he said. When he didn’t elaborate, James went on.

“Sweets put himself in the top spot a few months back. He’s in slick with the cartels, and, unfortunately, it looks like he’s got an in with us as well. He’s been running mules—illegal migrants carrying drugs—into Tucson and such, and he’s skated out of at least two sure-thing sting operations.”

“So you are saying you have a leak?” Bolan said. The truck was engulfed in flames, taking the heroin and the bodies of the transporters with it.

“Worse. We think Sweets has got people covering for him. Don’t know who though. We were hoping to scoop them up in the middle of all this.”

“All what?” Bolan said. “All my contact knew was that it was a mess.”

“Sweets was contacted a few weeks ago by a guy named Tuerto,” James said.

Bolan blinked. “One-Eye?” he said, translating.

“Mr. One-Eye, actually, or at least, that’s how Sweets referred to him.” James shook his head. “We had no clue who he was at the time, but then we got a panicky shout-out from Interpol.”

“Terrorist?”

“Worse. He’s a mercenary, and a good one. His sticky fingerprints are all over a number of incidents going from one end of the world to the other.” James shrugged. “At least, that’s what Interpol said. And they should know, because they’ve been tracking him for three years.”

“Your partner,” Bolan said, reading between the lines. James nodded.

“Yeah, she’s some hot shit, according to her bosses. Undercover work, tactical assault, all that jazz.”

“And what do you make of her?” Bolan asked shrewdly. Tanzir sounded competent, if nothing else.

James was silent for a moment. Bolan could practically see the gears turning in his head. When he finally answered, he chose his words with care. “She’s...intense. Tuerto’s...” He trailed off. “Listen, have you ever read any Melville?”

Bolan caught his meaning instantly. “He’s her white whale,” he said.

James shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “Something close to that.... She’s not obsessed, but she’s real focused.” James made a gesture. “Tunnel vision, you know?”

“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.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Bolan said. Up ahead, he caught sight of a skeletal shape slouched in the desert, like the remains of a dead dragon.

“This is it...the town with no name,” James said.

“The town with no name?” Bolan said.

“That’s what Sweets calls it, anyway,” James said. “It used to be one of them border towns, not really Mexican or American, but catering to folks on both sides of the line. The usual stuff...guns and whores and drugs and booze. That sort of thing,” James went on. He grunted. “By the Second World War, when they started tightening up on things out here, a bunch of these little towns like this got caught up in things and they were all abandoned.”

“All? How many are there, exactly?” Bolan asked. He had heard about these phantom towns, but he’d never seen one before. It was like driving into a snapshot of his country’s history.

“Dozens,” James said. “And Sweets knows them all, believe you me. He uses them like hideouts, you know?” He shook his head slightly. “Him and Digger, they don’t do well in high-population-density spots, if you get me.”

Bolan did. There was a certain type of man for whom civilization, with all its benefits and burdens, was simply intolerable. Modern wolfheads, they clung to the fringes, making their way as best they could. For a while, Bolan himself might have been counted among their number, but he had never truly given up society. He simply took issue with certain aspects of it.

The van moved up slowly through the dusty streets, trailing a cloud of the same behind it, the shadows cast by the sagging, arthritic buildings crawling across its roof and windshield. But where another man might have just seen empty buildings falling into ruin, Bolan saw a hundred potential snipers’ nests. He’d been in numerous towns just like this one over the years, in Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia. They were corpse-towns—ghoulish reminders of worse times, forgotten and lonely.

“Funny,” Bolan said as he calculated angles of fire and entry and exit points. “This Sweets is a fan of Westerns, I take it.” He plucked at the loose shirt he had changed into. His body armor and fatigues were stowed beneath the seat, and he presently wore more appropriate garb for his cover—a loose floral-pattern shirt and denims.

“Out here, it’s practically a profession,” James said, reaching across Bolan to flip open his glove compartment. Battered paperbacks featuring faded cowboys and outlaws on the covers slid out as James dug around for something. He plucked a rag-wrapped bundle out and tossed it into Bolan’s lap. “Here, take this.”

“What is it?” Bolan said as he took the bundle. It proved to be a stubby .38 with peeling electrical tape wrapped around the grip. He looked at James. “I think I prefer mine, thanks,” he said.

“Oh, I’d prefer yours, too, but nobody in our line runs looking like they’re ready for war, man,” James said. “Hardware like yours attracts too much attention, you know? The knife is fine, if a bit fancy, but that H&K and the Desert Eagle have got to go, you dig?”

Bolan immediately understood James’s point and was impressed with the man’s attention to details. He popped the cylinder on the revolver, spinning it gently with his palm. It was already loaded. He pulled a round out and bounced it on his palm for a moment before sliding it back into place and snapping the cylinder shut. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”

“There’s a cubbyhole beneath your feet. It’s where I keep my badge and some other odds and ends most times. Drop your gear in there.”

Bolan found the hatch and popped it open. He blinked as he took in the assortment of hardware revealed to him—grenades, two heavy-caliber pistols and what looked like a disassembled combat shotgun, as well as a pack of MREs—Meals, Ready-to-Eat—and a satellite phone. Bolan glanced at James, who grinned sheepishly. “Man’s got to be prepared out here, Cooper.”

Bolan snorted and dropped his weapons into the hatch and sealed it back. “There’s prepared and then there’s paranoid, Agent James,” Bolan said, tucking the .38 into the ratty elastic holster James had scrounged for him. It clung to his hip loosely and he wished he had thought to bring a small-caliber pistol with him. It never hurt to have a holdout piece, and at least he knew it would have been tended to by the loving hands of Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John Kissinger.

“Undercover work does that to you, I’m afraid,” James said. “And you can just call me Jimmy or Jorge—no formalities out here. Speaking of which...what am I calling you?”

“LaMancha,” Bolan said, rifling through his memory for a suitable name. It was an old identity, and it had served him well in the early years of his war. “Frank LaMancha.” He hadn’t used that name in several years, but it was a good one. Don Quixote was a favorite of his, though the correlations between his quest and that of the Man of La Mancha’s were sometimes a bit too on the nose to be entirely comfortable.

“All right,” James said, nodding. “Sure you can remember that, though?”

“I think so.”

“Keep It Simple, Stupid. Rule one of undercover work,” James said.

“A good rule in general,” Bolan said.

“All right then. You’re my cousin, you need money and you’re helping me out on a few runs, to see how you like it. Simple?”

“Simple,” Bolan said.

“Groovy. Now, let’s introduce you to the guys, shall we?” James said. He and Bolan got out of the van. The wind was blowing sand and grit through the air hard enough to sting.

Bolan shaded his eyes as they ambled toward the broken-down cantina. There were more people about than he’d expected; not just would-be undocumented workers, but also a certain class of social parasite that flocked to almost every illicit gathering Bolan had ever had the misfortune to attend...pimps, prostitutes, drug-dealers and the like.

“Oh, good, you’re finally here,” someone sneered as they made their way up the steps to the cantina. Bolan turned and saw a portly, middle-aged man sitting in one of the creaky chairs that littered the boardwalk around the cantina. “You ain’t still on strawberry-picking time, are you?”

“Hey, Franco,” James said, his distaste evident. Bolan examined the man unobtrusively. What he had taken for fat at first glance was actually muscle. Franco was short and shaped like a fireplug. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and across his bare arms and neck. A prominent swastika rested between the edge of his jaw and his ear. “Is Sweets here yet?”

“Yeah, and now that your lazy ass is here, we can get started. Time is money, greaser.” Franco cocked an eye at Bolan. “Who’s this guy?”

“My cousin Frank,” James said.

“No shit. He’s big for a beaner.”

“I eat my vegetables,” Bolan said mildly. He looked at James. “This isn’t Sweets, I take it.”

“Nope, this here is Franco, which is not his real name, but is likely one he picked out of one of them Time-Life collected histories of Second World War books,” James said. “Franco, say hello to my cousin, Frank LaMancha.”

“Hello, Cousin Frank,” Franco said. “Why are you inflicting your august personage upon us today?” He stood, bobbing up onto the soles of his cowboy boots and flexing his wide hands. His knuckles popped audibly. Bolan sized him up at once; a petty bully, spoiling for a fight.

“He needs money, Franco. And it ain’t your business,” James said.

“Damn well is my business if you bringing someone new into this deal,” Franco said. “I don’t know him. Sweets don’t know him. How do we know he ain’t working for somebody?”

“Because I’m vouching for him,” James said.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Franco said, shrugging. Then, lightning quick, his fist jabbed out, catching James in the gut. As the border patrol agent folded over wheezing, Franco rounded on Bolan and launched a kick at his knee. Bolan blocked the blow with his palms and resisted the urge to draw his weapon. People were gathering, eager to see the fight. Franco hopped back, raising his ink-covered fists. “Good reflexes for a Mexican,” he grunted.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bolan said, sliding forward lightly. He tossed off a loose blow that Franco easily deflected and then hammered a sucker punch into the other man’s kidney. Franco coughed and stumbled and Bolan circled him like a wolf, jabbing and tapping at him with featherlight strikes. Then Franco uttered a wordless cry and rushed him.

Bolan knew immediately that letting Franco get his arms around him would be a mistake. The muscles in the smaller man’s arm looked like steel cables for all that his belly was soft. Bolan stepped aside at the last moment and drove his elbow into the back of Franco’s neck, dropping him to the ground. The thug groaned and made to stand, but Bolan stuck a boot between his shoulder blades and shoved him down. He drew the .38 then and took aim. “Stay down,” he said. “I’d hate to have to shoot a man I just met.”

“I feel the same way myself,” someone said over the sound of a pistol being cocked. “So how about you drop the hogleg, pal?”

Chapter 5

“Your professionals are brawling in the street,” Tumart said, letting the threadbare curtain twitch back in place. He turned and looked at Sweets, sprawled lazily in the small room’s only chair. He seemed unconcerned by both the violence below and the glares that Abbas and Fahd were tossing his way.

“They do that. High spirits is all it is. I’ll stop them in a minute,” Sweets said.

“This room smells of fornication,” Abbas said.

“Probably because it’s a whorehouse. Or used to be,” Sweets drawled. Abbas flushed and spun to face Tumart.

“He insults us!”

“He insults you,” Tumart said, scratching at the corner of his empty eye socket. “My nose is not so sensitive as yours.” He looked at Sweets. “I do smell blood, however.”

“Blood?” Sweets said, sitting up. Tumart couldn’t be sure, but he thought the coyote’s face blanched slightly.

“Yes. In the room opposite ours. One of your men is staying in there, is he not?”

“Digger,” Sweets said. “My brother.”

“Is that his name? How unusual. Is he hurt? Ill perhaps?”

“No. Not as such,” Sweets said, choosing his words with obvious care. “He’s just a bit odd is all. I watch out for him now that our momma is gone to Jesus.” He pushed himself to his feet and trotted to the window. “What did you ask me up here for?” he said, looking out the window.

“Have the last of your drivers arrived yet? We are on a schedule.”

“They’re here,” Sweets said. “I just need to give them a shout and see whether they’re going to bite.”

“I thought that you were certain of them,” Abbas said sharply.

Sweets smiled at the man. “Certain is as certain does. Don’t mean nothing from one moment to the next.”

“How Zen,” Tumart said. “But not good enough. What if they find themselves not as certain as you have assured?”

“They will be.”

“But if not?” Sweets looked at him, and that look spoke volumes. Tumart nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Sentimentality is for lesser men, is that it?”

“It ain’t personal. Just business,” Sweets said and shrugged. “If any of them punk out, we’ll divide by the number we got. We can always make room and still give your boys enough local color to blend in with.”

“And by make room, you mean...”

Sweets drew his thumb across his throat in a lazy gesture. “Simple ways are the best, I find. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I got a fight to break up.” He left the room and Tumart closed the door behind him. He turned to look at the others.

“I believe we made the right choice,” the man said.

“He is a pig,” Abbas snapped. Fahd, as always, said nothing.

“Yes. But pigs are dangerous.” Tumart sat on the bed and rubbed his chin. “They will just as happily eat the hand that feeds them as the food they are given. Mr. Sweets is just the same. And, I feel, his men are no different. We will counsel our brothers to maintain vigilance.”

“And when they have done their job?” Abbas asked.

“Then we will slaughter our fine fat pigs,” Tumart said softly. “Not with relish, but out of necessity.” He sat back and closed his eye. “Now, Abbas, if you would follow Fahd’s example and be silent, I intend to conserve my energy for when it becomes necessary.”

* * *

“SO HOW ABOUT YOU DROP the hogleg, pal?”

Bolan froze. Then he tossed his pistol aside and stepped off the groaning Franco. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” he said, turning around.

“On purpose, I do assure you,” Sweets said, gesturing with the M-9. “Go stand over there.” He kicked Franco in the side as Bolan moved. “And you, Franco, get your worthless ass up.” He looked over at James. “Hi, Jorge, got yourself a running partner then, eh?”

“My cousin,” the border patrol agent wheezed, rubbing the spot where Franco’s punch had connected. “He needs money.”

“Way of the world these days.” Sweets rubbed his cheek with the pistol’s barrel as he examined Bolan. For a moment, the Executioner felt as if he was being sized up by a viper about to take a bite. The feeling passed quickly, however, as Sweets turned away. “Are you vouching for him, Jorge?”

“He’s my cousin,” James said again.

“Like blood and water, huh?” Sweets said. He grinned. “I can dig it.” He turned back to Bolan. “Django Sweets.”

“Frank LaMancha.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” Sweets said, extending a hand. Bolan took it. Sweets had a strong grip, and his skin was like leather. He pulled Bolan close and the Executioner didn’t resist. “Don’t pound on no one else while you’re on the clock, though. I need all my boys driveworthy,” he said.

“Franco pushed him, Sweets,” James said.

Sweets didn’t look at him. “Don’t tattle, Jorge.” He released Bolan’s hand and stepped back. “Y’all are the last to arrive. Get inside so we can get started.” Sweets turned and ambled back into the cantina, a sullen Franco on his heels. Bolan looked at James and raised an eyebrow.

James shrugged. “That’s Sweets.”

“So I gathered,” Bolan said. James’s estimation had been right on the money, he thought. Bolan had faced many men, and he recognized a nasty customer when he saw one. Sweets wasn’t an especially smart man, or even a vicious one, but he was just enough of both to be intimidating to the men who followed him. Regardless, Bolan made a mental note to never let Sweets get behind him again.

Inside the cantina were nine more men, counting Sweets and Franco. They were a grab bag of ethnicities and accents, but all had the same starving-wolf look in their eyes. They were hard men, and devoted to their greed. They sat around the few tables in pairs or trios, chatting softly. James led Bolan to a table with two other men. The latter’s conversation stopped as Bolan and James sat down.

“Henshaw, Eddie,” James said, nodding to each man in turn. Henshaw was a slim man, with eyes like a weasel and a .38, similar to the one Bolan carried, holstered under one sweat-stained armpit. Eddie was heavier, though he looked to be less affected by the heat. He grinned jovially at Bolan and shoved a pair of twenty-dollar bills at him.

“Here’s your cut, Cousin Frank,” he said.

“My cut?”

“I put a C-note on you to clean Franco’s fat ass. Figure it’s only fair we go sixty-forty.” Eddie leaned back and interlaced his fingers over the belly that strained at his shirtfront. “Oh, lordy, that was funny.”

“Funny,” Henshaw echoed, his eyes elsewhere.

“Easiest money I ever made,” Bolan said, playing the part and pulling the bills toward him.

“Franco’s a chump. Now, you want a real fight? Digger is your man,” Eddie said conspiratorially. He tapped the side of his bulbous nose. “Bastard is as big as a house.”

James looked around. “I don’t see him.”

“Upstairs,” Henshaw said. “He’s relaxing.” The emphasis he laid on the word caused Bolan to perk up. He looked at James again, but the other man shook his head in a gesture that Bolan thought meant “I’ll tell you later.”

Sweets, standing behind the bar, smacked the wood with the butt of his pistol. “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention,” he said. The room quieted down. Bolan found that he was grudgingly impressed. Sweets poured himself a drink and knocked it back, then swept the room with a hard gaze. “We all know why we’re here.”

“Because we’re greedy sumbitches,” Eddie said loudly. There were a few chuckles.

“There is that,” Sweets said. “But it’s also because you’re the best I got. You’ve all run tar, tits and Thompsons over the border. Drugs, bodies and guns, and you ain’t lost a load, or if you did, don’t nobody but you knows it.” He poured himself another drink. “But this here run, it’ll be a bit different...” Bolan tensed. Sweets smiled. “There’ll be more money for one thing.”

“And for the other?” James said.

Sweets looked at him. “Fellows we chauffeuring have specific places they want to go. They’ll be mixed in with the regulars, and you’ll be taking the whole load to different points across the border. They got a schedule, and they’re sticklers for punctuality.”

“Who are these guys? Tourists?” another man asked.

“Ragheads,” Franco spat.

“Customers,” Sweets corrected. “Good ones, too, though, ah, probably not repeat ones.” He leaned forward over the bar. “There are ten of us and a hundred of them. We’ll each be carting ten of them to where they need to go. We’ll be meeting them here and shuffling them over.”

“A hundred men,” James said. “Hell, that’s a damn army, Sweets.”

“So it is,” Sweets said. “And so what? I know a couple of us done run cartel muscle over the border before, this ain’t no different.”

“It is if they ain’t cartel soldiers,” Henshaw barked. His fingers danced nervously along the butt of his pistol. “What was that Franco said? Are we really escorting Jihadists or some mess?”

“What if we are?” Eddie said, looking at the other man. “Their money is as green as anyone else’s.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Boys, let’s be realistic here,” Sweets said, interrupting. “What we’re talking about is likely treason on some level. Then, so is running undocumented workers or Nicaraguan gunmen into Santa Fe or Dallas. And, if it’s tweaking your shriveled little patriotic impulses, need I remind you that every redneck for a hundred miles of the border has a small armory in his basement? It ain’t like we’re escorting these fellows into the Promised Land. They might blow up a department store or erase a preschool, but at the end of the day, they’ll die in the dust same as every other bad man. And we’ll be sitting pretty with a nice chunk of cash.”

“Yeah, but what about the next time, Sweets?” James said. “We get these guys through and the border is going to close up tighter than blazes.”

“Probably, but not for long,” Sweets said confidently. “People got short memories. And we provide a necessary function.”

Bolan thought that Sweets was kidding himself. There would always be cracks in a border as long and as crooked as the Mexican-American border, but if this scheme succeeded it would mean a death sentence or life imprisonment for every man of Sweets’s ilk. Looking around the room, he saw not a few faces that reflected his opinion back at him. None of them, however, were speaking up. Greed could put iron in even the most pliable spine, it seemed.

“Look, I ain’t going to force nobody. Give it a minute, talk it over. Have a drink. Let me know,” Sweets said, filling up his glass again.

The meeting broke up a moment later. Two or three men stood and wandered outside, lighting up cigarettes as they went and speaking quietly. Bolan stood. “Toilet?” he said. Eddie grinned at him.

“Nervous?”

“Something like that.”

“Up them stairs there,” Henshaw said, gesturing. Bolan nodded and shot a look at James. The other man inclined his head. Bolan turned toward the stairs, satisfied that the younger man had understood him. He needed to scout the area.

Instincts honed in countless undercover operations prickled in warning as he made his way up the stairs. Like as not, the bulk of the terrorists were waiting for an “all-clear” signal to come into town. But there would have to be someone here to give that signal. And if Bolan were any judge, that man would be the one called Tuerto.

At the top of the stairs, Bolan let his fingers drift toward the pistol clipped to his belt. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but he couldn’t let pass the opportunity to take the head off the snake first thing, even if he’d have to shoot his way out of town after the fact. His partner wouldn’t like it, but Bolan was damned if he was going to let a hundred armed terrorists get anywhere near the American border, sting operation or no sting operation.

The corridor was narrow and there were four doors, two to either side, plus a bathroom that Bolan smelled well before he spotted it. Stepping lightly down the hall, he let his senses drift in such a way as to catch the smallest sound. If you tried to listen for one thing, you almost always missed everything else. But experience had taught him that listening to everything was a sure way not to miss anything.

There was a low buzz of what might have been conversation coming from one room. But from another... Bolan’s nostrils wrinkled. He smelled blood and lots of it. He pulled the pistol and went to the latter door, a wordless warning siren pealing in his head as he turned the knob. The door opened on darkness and Bolan stepped through.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The blinds were pulled tight and only a thin drizzle of orange Sonoran light was available to see by. Head cocked, he looked around. There was a bundle wrapped in red-stained sheets on the bed, and the abattoir smell was getting worse for every moment he stood there.

“Who are you?”

Bolan spun quick as a cat, but not quickly enough. A meaty paw slammed down on his wrist and the Executioner found himself jerked into the air and slung back the way he had come before he could do more than blink.

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