Border Offensive

“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.

Chapter 6

The Executioner hit the door at high speed, taking it off its hinges, and bounced off the opposite wall. He rolled to his feet, weaponless, his ears ringing. A monstrous shape filled the doorway. Hands like slabs of cured ham stretched toward him and Bolan narrowly avoided what he knew would surely be a crushing grip. “Who told you that you could come in here?” the man-mountain squalled, sounding more like a petulant child than a monster.

“I was looking for the bathroom, actually,” Bolan said, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Guess I made a mistake.”

“That was my room! Nobody goes in my room!” A big fist looped out and punched clean through the drywall, showering Bolan with dust. He tried to return the favor, digging his knuckles into a spot just beneath his opponent’s sternum. The big man grunted and twisted, pushing Bolan and sending him sprawling down the stairs. “Nobody!”

Bolan clambered to his feet, using the wobbly banister for help. He hadn’t been punched that hard in a long time, and he didn’t intend to let it happen again. The man was big, a little over Bolan’s own six and change in height, and built wide, with a layer of cherubic flab over muscles built by labor, rather than exercise. He was quick, as well, not so much as Bolan, but light on his feet. His eyes bulged and his mouth worked silently as he advanced on the Executioner. Bolan’s palm itched for the feel of a pistol. Lacking that, he went for his knife. He ducked under a backhanded swipe and pulled the blade. It closed the gap with his opponent’s belly, but viselike fingers swallowed his own, forcing the blade aside. Knuckles scraped his cheek and Bolan brought his knee up. The big man uttered a shrill cry and threw Bolan over the banister as if he weighed no more than a bale of hay.

Bolan hit a table and it broke in two at the point of impact. All the breath had been forced from his lungs and it was all he could do at the moment to roll over and grope for the KA-BAR, which had landed point first into the rough wooden floor. But even as his fingertips found the handle, he heard the ominous click of a gun being cocked. He looked up. The big man glared down at him, a Glock aimed at a point somewhere between Bolan’s eyes. Bolan tensed, preparing to roll aside.