"Ronny," Carlton said, shifting his weight in the chair. "Thought you'd be by sooner."
"Yeah, well…"
"Don't matter, though. He hasn't been awake yet. Doc says he may never be." Carlton stood up, his six-foot-six frame towering over the slender figure huddled under a single sheet, its crisp white broken only by a faded black stencil.
"I was hoping maybe I could ask him some questions."
"What for? Nobody gives a damn, anyway."
"I gave a damn. So do you." Sipe stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Its hollow core echoed the bright snap of the brass latch.
Carlton walked to the single window centered in the far wall. The lace curtains were open, and they hung limply in the breathless night air. He looked out and up, watching the stars for a long second. The moon was almost full, and the shadowy silhouette of an owl darted across the nearly round disk.
Without turning to Sipe, he said, "This has got to stop."
"I know that. But I don't know how to stop it."
"Think of something, dammit!"
"You make it sound so easy."
"I know it's not easy, Ronny. But it can't be so damn hard as we make it. It just can't be."
"Get me something. Something I can use, Randy. A name, a place, hell, I don't know… a license plate number."
"You want to hear something funny?"
"What?"
"Captain Dickerson says it's their fault. He says they just screw up. They try to sneak in and they blow it. Isn't that funny?"
"Shit. This is six in the past two months, half on the Mexican side. And all strangled with a wire. How the hell does he explain that?"
"He says he doesn't have to. He says explaining things is your job."
"I can't explain squat if he won't ask a few questions. I need an investigation, for God's sake. I need information, witnesses, dates, places. I need wiretaps and photo surveillance. I can't get staff, and I can't handle all that on my own."
"He says we're shorthanded, see. He says we got maybe fifty men to cover a thousand miles of border twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Hell, Ronny, I don't know… maybe he's right."
"That's a crock, and you know it. Everybody's short-handed, but that's no excuse. You can't just sit back on what hands you got and do nothing."
"Don't you think I know that? Shit, Will and I have been working overtime, off the books and off the record, for four months. We still don't have anything we can use."
Sipe walked to the side of the bed and looked down at the unconscious man. "Any ID on him?"
"Sure, and he had a bankbook and two grand in traveler's checks." Carlton started cracking his knuckles, as if he wanted to punish his own body for the frustration he felt. "You know, Ronny, when this guy wakes up — if he ever does — we'll still know absolutely nothing about him. He'll be scared stiff. If he has any idea who gave him that skinny necktie, he won't tell us. And the funny thing is, after we ship him back to Mexico, he'll probably pay the same guy to smuggle him back up here. If I didn't know better, I'd swear there was some kind of pipeline."
"I think there is, Randy. But I can't prove it."
"Why do you think so?"
"How else can you explain it? It runs like a top, nobody ever gets nailed. Unless I miss my guess, somebody's cut a deal with some of the big farmers up here. They run these poor bastards in, use 'em up, then ship 'em back."
"You got any leads?"
"Nothing much. And what I do have wouldn't stand up in a kangaroo court, let alone the appellate court. Even if I managed to get a conviction, which I doubt I could do, I'd be laughed right out of Arizona on appeal."
Randy seemed uncertain about something. He looked at Sipe thoughtfully, as if debating whether to raise an issue he wasn't all that clear about himself. Finally, with an offhand wave, he dismissed whatever reservations had been holding him back. "You know, Ronny, there's something I've been wondering about."
"What's that?"
"I'm not sure. I mean, it's just a guess, so if it's crazy, just shut me up."
Sipe watched him closely. "Go ahead."
"Well, I'm not so sure this guy is a run-of-the-mill illegal." He stared at the bed as if expecting confirmation from the unconscious man. "I mean, we've only seen four of the six, but something doesn't seem right. They don't look like farm workers. Not to me, anyway. Their clothes are too fancy. Their hands are soft. Hell, they look like they eat regularly."
"So, who do you think they are?"
Carlton spread his hands helplessly. "I don't have a clue. Told you it was crazy."
Sipe leaned back in his chair. "I don't know. Let me think about it. You might be onto something."
Carlton sat back down, this time tilting his hat far back and fixing his pale green eyes on Sipe. "You want any help?"
"Uh-uh. Not yet."
"You'll let me know?"
"Sure. Listen, I've got to be going. You give me a call when he wakes up, all right?"
The other man nodded, then folded his hands across his midsection. As he slid down in the uncomfortable chair, his eyes drooped and his hat fell forward. Sipe closed the door gently.
Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Sipe walked slowly toward the elevator. He nodded absently to the night nurse as he punched the call button for the elevator, then stood facing the scratched wood of its doors. When it arrived, he stepped in almost unconsciously.
The street was deserted, and the few lights threw shadows in every direction. A two-story rooming house stood across the street from the hospital. Its sickly green neon sign was only partially lit, and the illumination flashed on and off halfheartedly. Glancing at his watch, he realized there was no point in driving home. The office was full of interesting puzzles, and since he had nothing better to do, he decided to catch up on some paperwork.
Sipe crossed the street and stepped into the alley between the rooming house and a hardware store. Behind the latter a square of compressed clay served as a municipal parking lot. His government-issue Ford was the only car in the lot. Sipe unlocked the car, then hesitated before getting in. He walked to the front of the car and sat on the left fender, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket as he wriggled himself into a comfortable position.
Away from the flickering signs on the street, the sky was dark enough for him to see quite a few stars. It was rather hot for being so late, and he was conscious of his damp shirt as he lit a cigarette, then leaned back to lie on the hood. The smoke spiraled straight up, undisturbed by a breath of air. He closed his eyes and found himself staring into the sallow features of the unconscious man across the street. Even in comatose repose, there was something affecting about them. The mobility of pain seemed to flicker just under the skin, as if the placid face were a thin mask under which a contorted parody lay hidden.
Running over the day's events, he wondered why corporate law had seemed so unappealing. It paid so much more, and offered a thick layer of insulation from reality. Even if your masters were responsible for human suffering, you never saw it, were protected from it in a hundred ways. There was something to be said for that, not to mention the perks that came with that insularity.
But he didn't have to think about it for very long before he knew the reason he had chosen as he had. The internal argument was one he had committed to memory, and lately it had been argued more and more frequently, with increasing passion on both sides. And every time he ran through it, he expected something different, as if he might yet discover some loophole in the logic on either side.
But the bottom line, as he very well knew, was that logic had nothing to do with his choice. It was a decision made out of passion, and money was no antidote for that. He cared, he knew he cared, and he told himself that that made all the difference. Yet there was no smugness in the declaration, and no self-congratulation.
The analytical intelligence that made him so good at what he did also made it painful for him to do it, because he understood only too well that the choice would neve
r make him rich, and never satisfied. The world was too full of people only too willing to take advantage of others who were less intelligent, or weaker, or less fortunate than they. A crusader's work, like that of a woman, was never done.
Flicking the cigarette away, he watched it arc through the darkness, outlined against the sky like a meteor. He hopped down from the hood and climbed into the car. It started right away, catching him by surprise. He clicked on the lights and eased down the alleyway to the street, not bothering with his seat belt.
The dozen blocks to his office were completely deserted. Most of the shops preferred not to bother with illuminated signs, and there were no streetlights. During the short drive, he began toying with what he knew that might be relevant to the case, and realized that almost everything could be and that possibly nothing was. Smuggling was just too profitable, and those who took the risk were likely to smuggle anything from drugs to aliens.
By the time he had parked his car on the street below his second-floor office, he had decided to ransack his files, starting at A and checking every case in the bulging drawers that might conceivably relate to the recent rash of killings. He hadn't wanted to say anything to Carlton, but he'd already made a few inquiries. As with the border patrolman, there was something that didn't sit quite right with him. He'd begun to wonder whether he was getting paranoid, whether the endless stream of misery was sucking him under. Now he wasn't so sure.
He opened the glass door to the lobby of his building, then shuffled across the marble floor. He'd never been able to decide whether he was fortunate or cursed to have so much work, but it was too late to consider any other arrangement. It came with the turf.
The stairway seemed higher than Everest, and he realized he was exhausted. Another night on the office couch seemed like a certainty. The long corridor seemed even longer than it was, and he dragged himself toward the front of the building, finally stopping in front of the frosted glass that was his only defense against the world. And like so many defenses, it let him see very little and protected him not at all.
Once inside, he sighed, walking to the refrigerator with the uncertain step of a condemned man reluctantly negotiating his last mile. There was some V-8 and an open can of diet ginger ale. He opted for nutrition and opened the juice. It was salty, and he knew he'd regret it later, but there was plenty of water in the cooler.
The fourteen filing cabinets that contained his current paperwork occupied one short wall of the outer office and spilled over into the rear office. He clicked on the overhead light to browse through the first drawer. Flipping through them, he paused now and then to yank a file free of the paper squeeze until he had a stack nearly eight inches thick. Tilting one file at an angle to mark his place, he hefted the stack and walked over to drop it onto the vinyl-covered sofa.
Sipe turned on a floor lamp and shut off the overhead fixture. Dropping onto the sofa with the first file, he realized it was going to be a long night. He riffled through the papers of the first folder but kept staring at his office door. It was now lit only by a small brass lamp, its green shade tilted at a forty-five-degree angle to let the sixty-watt bulb throw its light a little farther into the shadows.
Several hours later he got up with a sigh and walked in to sit at the desk. He flipped idly through the thick black phone index open on his desk. Then, as if struck by an idea, he flipped backward, this time with purpose.
Finding the page he wanted, Sipe picked up the unsharpened pencil he used to dial and tapped it, eraser down, on the open page. The steady rap of the rubber joined with the metallic tick of a Seiko quartz clock on the wall. Together they weren't enough to drown out the sound of a dropping pin.
Sipe sat back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. The pencil was still clutched like a single chopstick in the fingers of one hand. He stared at the ceiling, knowing that what he was about to do was at best unorthodox, and at worst illegal. But, he reminded himself, you know what they say about desperate times.
He tilted forward with a thud and tugged the phone and phone book toward him into the center of the light. With a shrug, he jabbed the pencil into the rotary dial and began to spin it. The phone rang twice, seemed to hesitate, then rang twice more. A nasal voice, more Bronx than Washington, answered just as the fifth ring began. "Justice Department…" To Sipe, it sounded as much like a question as an identification. "May I help you? Who do you wish to speak to?"
Sipe told her and tilted back in his chair while she put him on hold. He listened to the not quite silent line, a thousand whispers crissing and crossing in the jungle of cables into which both he and the Justice Department were plugged. He wondered whether, after all, Muzak might not be a bad thing, instead of being teased by scraps of conversation, almost familiar voices fading in and out, names, famous and unknown, bouncing around the cable network like so many electrons.
The sudden click put an end to his philosophizing. He listened to the abrupt greeting on the other end, trying to visualize the woman who now spoke to him. Was she a blonde or a brunette, did she have long legs or large breasts? Or both?
When the mystery woman stopped speaking, he identified himself, told her who he wanted to speak to and why, then felt himself slide back into electronic limbo. Another teasing interlude of crackling whispers was almost immediately terminated. His party was finally on the line. "Mr. Brognola. My name is Ronald Sipe. I'm an assistant U.S. Attorney in Arizona. We met a couple of years ago. On your turf."
"Yes, Mr. Sipe, I remember you. How are you?"
"I need help."
3
Ronald Sipe's office was dark. Mack Bolan put his hand on the knob, and the half-open door swung all the way in. Something didn't seem right. He leaned forward and let his combat senses take over, probing the darkness. When the soldier had ascertained he was alone, he stepped through the doorway and slipped to one side, pulling the door closed with one hand and opening his jacket with the other. Even in the early heat, the butt of the Beretta felt cold.
Bolan skirted files and a low sofa that were more appropriate to a dentist's office than the office of a U.S. Attorney. His legs brushed the vinyl, denim scraping against the network of crazed lines where the vinyl was just beginning to peel. Footsteps in the corridor outside froze him in his tracks, and he held his breath as a bulky shadow stopped momentarily in front of the pebbled glass. A rattle of keys echoed tinnily from the hall, then the shadow moved on, its owner humming to himself in a nasal baritone.
Stepping to the inner doorway, he pulled out his big.44 Desert Eagle and snicked off the safety. The weight of the pistol gave him some reassurance, and he began to move more quickly. Through the open door he could see the left wall of the inner office, which was lined with filing cabinets in a tight rank, their tops littered with stacks of office supplies and bulging folders waiting to be put away. As he moved to the left, Bolan could see more of the office, which seemed to be as deserted as the outer room.
One corner of a scarred wooden desk came into view, and Bolan leaned to the left, dropping into a crouch. The back of a tall leather chair, canted to the right, towered over the desk. The chair faced the window behind the desk, but a shirtsleeved arm draped over the armrest told Bolan the chair was occupied. The sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, its cuff hanging loose.
Bolan held his breath. Dashing across the doorway, he peered into the right side of the office, but nothing seemed out of place. He moved through the doorway, his gun held tightly in one hand, drew a bead on the center of the tall chair back and catfooted forward until he was inches from the desk. All he could see of the chair's occupant was the left arm.
The warrior stepped cautiously around the desk and spun the chair halfway around. The man in the chair remained motionless. His left arm — an inhuman, fish-belly white — slipped off the armrest and dangled toward the floor. Bolan noticed a thick brown band under the flapping cuff, and just below the elbow, a slight trickle of nearly dried blood curled over the forearm and disappea
red. A disposable hypodermic dangled obscenely at its source, its shiny plastic reflecting a narrow band of sunlight that slipped in through the gap in the draperies.
Bolan put the.44 into its holster and knelt beside the man in the chair. Using a sheet of typing paper, he removed the needle. Then he released the thick rubber tubing knotted just under the shirt cuff. The flesh under the rubber was wrinkled and whiter than the rest of the arm. The warrior leaned forward and placed his head on the man's chest. A faint heartbeat, like an impossibly distant drum, thumped intermittently, pausing each time as if to gather its strength for another try.
The man's chest barely rose and fell with his shallow breathing. Bolan stood and tugged the man to his feet. When the deadweight threatened to slip away, the Executioner propped him on the edge of the desk and slapped his cheeks.
"Wake up. Come on, wake up."
The man groaned, but it was a groan of protest. He seemed to resent being disturbed, as if where he was so much better than where Bolan was. The warrior tried to force him to walk, but the man's legs were made of rubber. They buckled as soon as Bolan slacked off his own support.
A small bathroom stood in the far corner, but Bolan knew without looking that there would be no tub. The room was too small. He dragged the nearly unconscious man to the doorway and saw a small shower stall in one corner of the tiny bathroom. Bolan reached in and turned the cold on full blast. The stream of water pulsed and stuttered, but it was going to have to do. He propped the man against the doorframe, bracing him with one knee, then stripped off his jacket and draped it over the small sink. He tugged his weapons free and placed them on top of the jacket.
The man started to slip, and Bolan grabbed him. Like a stevedore manhandling an obstinate crate, the warrior pushed and shoved his resistant burden under the cold spray, then stepped in after him to hold him upright. He slapped the man's cheeks several times, trying to force him awake. The cold water poured down around them, and the man groaned again.
Bolan cupped the man's head in both hands and tilted his face toward the cold water. It pooled in both closed eyes and filled the man's nose and open mouth. He choked and spluttered, shaking his head in an indifferent effort to escape the water, then gagged as his throat constricted. Bolan knew what was coming, but there was little chance to avoid it. He slipped to one side, and the man began to vomit, choking and gasping.
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