Easing into the niche, Bolan wriggled past the sharp edge of the rock, scraping some skin away, but thankful to be free of the thorns. Even in the shade the heat was oppressive. Every breath made his mouth feel drier. His skin burned, and sweat rolled down his brow and into his eyes. The rips and tears of the thorns felt as if they were full of liquid fire.
The darkness suddenly exploded with a spine-tingling rattle. The brittle sound echoed from the walls of rock around him, and Bolan froze. It was too dark inside to see much, and his body blocked out much of the light. But he didn't have to see anything to know he was in big trouble. An angry rattler, coiled in the shade somewhere ahead of him, was taking exception to his presence. Without seeing the snake, he had little chance of killing it.
Backing out would be difficult, if not impossible, and he would be vulnerable to a strike in any case. Groping blindly ahead was like playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded pistol. Shooting into the darkness would probably not net him a snake, and would certainly give away his location. His only chance was getting some light.
Backing away a little, slowly, he slid one hand under his body and groped in his pocket for a cigarette lighter. The snake rattled a second time, not satisfied with Bolan's failure to heed the first warning. The reptiles were unpredictable, but two warnings were two more than some people got. He concentrated all his attention on the coffinlike confines of the niche, trying to will the rattler into some semblance of patience. The only certain thing was that a sudden movement would get him bitten.
Bolan started to remove his hand from the pocket, holding his breath until he tugged it out from under his body. The sweat poured off him, the hiss of his breath echoed raspily off the rock. His hand was now free, clutching both a cigarette lighter and the Beretta 93-R. He lost all track of time, and couldn't tell whether minutes or seconds had gone by.
His sweaty thumb soaked the ignition wheel, and the lighter didn't catch the first two times. He rubbed the wheel on his shirt to dry it, then used his left hand to thumb it again. He shifted the Beretta tentatively, aiming it in the general direction of the sound. Bolan knew he'd have one chance — the flame was certain to provoke a strike.
The fourth time, a small spark flew from the wheel, but still the flame didn't take. He smelled butane in the enclosed space, its acrid bite tickling his nostrils. The flame darted up on the fifth try, and he saw the rattler, a big diamondback coiled in tight rings, its tail shaking frenetically. The reptile raised its head as Bolan shifted the pistol and squeezed. The 9 mm slug caught the rattler just behind the head, ripping through its spine, and taking the head off. The snake's tight coils quivered as the tail continued to shake for a second or two, then collapsed into the center of the still-wriggling loops.
Bolan let his breath out in a long sigh. His mouth felt dry, and his lips stuck to his tongue. He bit his lower lip gently, then shook himself. The chill in his spine was still there, lingering on like an afterimage on the retina long after a meteor has already turned to ash.
Bolan reached out for the dead snake and shoved it aside with the warm muzzle of the Beretta. He could only hope the snake had been alone in the shadowy niche. Crawling forward, he was forced to curl his body around the face of the boulder on his right, then haul his legs in after him. Another bend, this time to the left, brought him back into the light. Four feet away open air and bright sun waited. It would be a tight squeeze, but he had no choice but to go ahead. The cramped tunnel wouldn't permit him to turn around, even if he wanted to.
Dampened by the rock, the echo of a short burst of automatic weapons fire whined into the niche. He heard angry shouts, and a rush of heavy steps on the loose stone. The mellow baritone of the carbine rolled up and away like thunder, and Bolan breathed a silent prayer of thanks that at least one of the patrolmen was still alive.
Anxious to get out of the claustrophobic nook, Bolan shimmied and wiggled until he felt the heat of the sun on the backs of his hands. He reached back to snag the Weatherby, which he'd been forced to drag along by its sling. It caught on an outcropping of rock, and he jiggled the sling until it slipped free. He had pushed the Uzi ahead of him, and now he had both weapons handy again, the odds seemed a little more encouraging.
Crouched in the mouth of the tunnel, he listened for a minute. The footsteps had stopped, and so had the voices. He might as well have been alone in the desert for all the sound he heard. A slight whistle, barely audible, was the only legacy of the burned-out chopper and the holocaust that had consumed it.
He scanned the jumbled rock in front of him, looking for a place to hide. Tangled vines, their small leaves and thick cords clinging with tiny roots to the flat face of the stone, covered the bottom of the chimneys. They were stiff and brittle, crackling under his feet as he stepped cautiously out and moved laterally along the smooth front of an upended rock.
Another rock, larger, but just as flat, sat with one end buried in the scree, its other end propped by a boulder. Like a daredevil motorcyclist plotting his next run, Bolan inched up the natural ramp until he could see over its upper edge.
He spotted the first two men almost immediately. Crouched in the shade of a huge rock, they pressed against it, peering out along either side. They were totally absorbed in their quarry and left their backs wide open. It was tempting to take them out, but Bolan held himself in check. He wanted to know how many others there were, and where they had holed up. He kept hoping for another shot from the carbine, anything to keep the hunters riveted to their prey.
Bolan waited patiently, the Uzi resting on top of the rock. Something arced through the air from the right, beyond a cluster of boulders, and landed out of sight on some loose scree. Bolan thought at first it was a rock, but when it came bouncing back, he knew better. He ducked just as the sudden crump of a grenade sent splinters of razor-edged stone whirling off in every direction.
Inching back up over the lip, he noticed that one of the two men in sight had fallen to his knees. A splash of red was just visible where he squeezed his left shoulder with his right hand. A quick burst of fire, apparently from two guns, erupted from the same patch of boulders the grenade had come from. That was all Bolan needed to know.
He swept the Uzi in a broad semicircle, his finger loose on the trigger. Satisfied, he brought it back around, this time squeezing. The SMG chattered noisily for a moment, then went dry. He dropped down and changed clips, tossing the empty down the slope behind him. Easing back up, he saw the wounded man leaning against the rock, his weapon on the ground to his right. The second man lay flat and was now staring back in Bolan's direction.
Tucking the Uzi in his belt, Bolan crouch-walked down the flat rock and slipped the Weatherby off his shoulder. The big Mark V felt solid in his hands. Dropping to his stomach at the foot of the rock, he cradled the rifle across his elbows and crawled fifty feet to his right. Peeking around a boulder, he could just make out the second man, who swiveled his head back and forth, still uncertain where the shots had come from and less certain what he should do about it.
Dressed with all the style and taste of a circus clown, the man looked out of place in the shadow of the desert chimneys. He seemed bewildered. Bolan eased the scope to his eye, settling the cross hairs for a moment on the man's left temple. The head kept bobbing like that of a frightened bird, and the warrior slid the sight a little to the right, opting for a more stationary target.
The crack of the big rifle bounced off the faces of the chimneys. The reverberating sound had a sharp edge, like metal tearing or like that first terrible instant after a lightning bolt when the sky splits open. The high-velocity slug found its mark, entering through the top of the shoulder and sliding down along the backbone until it came to rest over the right hip.
Before the body stopped jerking, Bolan was on his feet. He slipped the Weatherby back over his shoulder and hauled the Uzi from his belt, charging straight ahead.
Two men, their faces frozen in surprise, watched him for an instant before reactin
g. By the time they'd recovered, it was already too late — Bolan emptied the magazine of the machine pistol. Both men fell backward, landing in a heap at the foot of an upright slab of bluish-brown rock. He tossed the empty magazine away, rammed the last one in place and listened. He could hear nothing.
Looking up at the towering chimneys, Bolan tilted his head far back. His voice echoed eerily from the stone. "Ralston! Carlton!"
When no one answered, he began to run.
12
The moonlight filtered down through the orange trees. The breathless air still carried a trace of the afternoon heat. An occasional breeze hissed through the branches, shaking the leaves, but the four men moving along the aisle weren't interested in the weather.
Up ahead, a small clearing marked a crossroads in the heart of the grove. The men moved easily, even confidently, talking and joking. It was Friday night, and each had a week's wages in his pocket, still in a pay envelope. They had opened the envelope to count the bills, then folded them carefully and returned them to the safety of the crisp white paper.
At the crossroads, they stepped into a dusty lane and stopped. The van wasn't there, but it was early, and there were a lot of farms to be serviced. Their turn would come, if they were patient. Passing a half gallon jug back and forth, they worked on the cheap wine, trying hard for a party mood. The wine helped, but the women would help a lot more.
Roberto Miercoles sat on the rough grass at the edge of the clearing. He tucked the jug into the crook of his elbow and hoisted it to let a thin stream of third-rate burgundy trickle down his throat. The wine burned a little, but it was better than what they usually drank.
The others stood over him, chatting sporadically and keeping an eye on the wine. In the moonlight the wine looked almost black, its surface glittering like coal as it slapped against the sides of the jug. When he tried to put the jug down, it hit a rock and dropped into the sand. The others held their breath until Roberto felt the bottom to make sure it hadn't cracked. Eighteen miles was a long way to go for a jug of wine, even on a Friday night. The women would have some to sell, but it would be watered down and three times as expensive.
Roberto lay back on the grass, letting the stiff blades tickle his neck. Like the others, he was all bone and wire, his leathery skin little more than a tight brown sheath holding the moving parts together. Unlike them, he was new at picking. His shoulders ached, and his thumb and Fingers were blistered from the constant friction against the rough skin of the oranges.
He would get the knack of it, if only he could hang on for another two or three weeks. The big gringo who rode around on the tractor had been pushing him all week. Six days in a row he had picked the least, but luckily it was a bumper crop, and getting the fruit in was more important than busting chops. In a tight year, the others told him, Roberto would have been handed his walking papers.
Fruit picking was Darwinism at its most brutal. If you were slow, you got a little slack, but not for long. If you couldn't keep up, you were sent packing. Two, three days, and he would either make the team or get sent away. And the word traveled fast. Once you were cut, God and all else holy had to smile on you before you got another chance at some other farm.
And you had to be careful. If you went too fast, too soon, you got hurt. If you got hurt and couldn't work, God wouldn't smile on you. He couldn't help you, either.
Gordo Gonsalves, nicknamed for his girth, and the nominal leader of the small group, kicked the soles of Roberto's feet. "You sleeping, Roberto? You don't want to miss all the fun, do you? Wake up."
Roberto laughed. "I don't know whether I'm in any shape to party."
"Oh, my friend, don't say that. You see these women, you change your mind. You better be ready. Dead men will come out of the trees to get in line. I myself will take two or three turns."
"Two or three?"
"Yes…with each one. Gordo needs to charge his batteries. It is a long week with no women."
The smaller of the other two laughed wickedly. "Is Gordo a man? I think he must be a vibrator. I myself need no batteries to make a woman smile. Sometimes they even pay me"
"Sure, José. You are used to taking money from women. Even your mother gave you ten pesos to run away from home, no?"
"That's not true, Gordo," the fourth man chimed in.
"It isn't?"
"No. It was twenty pesos." The men laughed easily, but the good-natured kidding skirted dangerously close to insult. Because of the circumstances, the men seemed willing to tolerate a little more than usual. They all expected the women to give them the chance to disprove even the most scurrilous attacks on their virility.
The three standing men continued to joke, poking one another in the ribs with bony elbows. Roberto lay on the grass, too tired to join in. He was debating whether to get up and go back to the tent when lights exploded at the far end of the lane. The twin spears bounced wildly, and the snarl of a decrepit transmission rose and fell as the approaching vehicle bounced over the bumpy lane.
Gordo walked into the middle of the lane, spreading his arms in welcome. The bright beams of the headlights heightened the garish colors in his Hawaiian shirt. The outline of the approaching vehicle gradually sharpened into the silhouette of an old Volkswagen van. Gordo stepped aside, his arms still extended, and shouted hello. The van stopped, rocking on ancient springs that continued to creak for several seconds. Gordo walked around the rear of the rusty van, leaning forward at the waist and puckered his lips in a grotesque parody of a kiss.
The rear door swung open, and Gordo, eyes closed, inhaled the cloud of cheap perfume that seemed to overwhelm the more subtle scent of orange almost immediately. The door banged against the side of the van, and a woman almost as large as Gordo climbed down with a labored sigh.
"Rosita," Gordo bellowed, "give me a kiss!"
The big woman adjusted the folds of her tentlike dress, the flesh on her upper arms moving independently, like thick, pale turkey wattles. "Hold your horses, Gordo. Rosita has to catch her breath."
"Didn't you miss me?"
"A blind woman couldn't miss that shirt, Gordo."
The woman laughed heartily, and the sound was not unmusical, although her voice was deep and rough-edged. The driver's door banged open and two more women, less bulky than Rosita and several years younger, tottered to the rear of the van on spike heels. The soft soil kept giving way under the sharp heels, and the women walked with an odd gait as if they shared a strange deformity.
"Girls, I have a real treat for you," Gordo promised. "Where's Roberto?" He turned to look at the others, and they stepped back into the shadows and hauled the man to his feet. He'd been dozing, and he shook his head groggily as he was shoved forward into the red glare of the van's taillights.
Gordo wrapped a heavy arm around Roberto's neck, hugging the much smaller man to his massive chest and rubbing his knuckles vigorously into the man's hair. "A real tender chicken, this one." He laughed. "You should pay me. Anna, take him under your wing. Young chickens should stick together."
A slim, dark-haired young woman, her face prematurely lined, black eyes slightly sunken in sallow cheeks, staggered tipsily toward the fat man. She paced back and forth in front of Gordo, who was still holding Roberto around the neck, and rearranged her body parts, cocking her hips and thrusting her breasts forward in a distant echo of a Hollywood vamp strutting her stuff.
Gordo let go of Roberto, and Anna leaned toward the young man, taking his chin in one bony hand and tilting his head up. Her dress was bright red and low cut, ready for a daring fifties prom. She reached up and slipped one tattered spaghetti strap from her shoulder and tugged the bodice of her dress suggestively.
"You want to help Anna with this?" she said, leering.
Roberto stammered, and Gordo slapped him on the back, pushing him into Anna's arms. She clasped the young man around the shoulders and fell over backward, laughing uncontrollably as he struggled to free himself from her clutches. Between bursts of brittle laughte
r, she gasped, "Gordo, your chicken doesn't seem to like women. Maybe you should take him for a walk, eh?" She sat up abruptly, dumping Roberto onto the ground. With brutal efficiency, a gesture devoid of any hint of seduction or sensuality, she tugged her dress down to her waist and pulled him to her chest.
"Make up your mind, sweet one. Anna has to make some money." She climbed unsteadily to her feet and sat on the rear bumper of the van. Roberto looked past her to the ragged ticking of a mattress crammed into the back of the van, and darted a glance at Gordo almost helplessly, but the fat man was already walking into the trees, whispering into Rosita's ear. He looked at Anna, and the young woman saw his uncertainty. Taking the bull by the horns, she tugged her red dress all the way off and watched as it drifted to the ground. She lifted her spike heels carefully through its folds and tugged her panties off before sitting on the mattress and sliding back into the van. Roberto shrugged, then climbed in after her. This wasn't what he had expected, but then nothing he'd yet seen in America had failed to surprise him.
"Should I close the door?" he whispered.
"What for?" Anna mumbled, raising her arms over her head. He lay beside her, his head on her shoulder, and listened to his heart, her heart and the rumble of the still-running engine.
Roberto felt repelled and attracted at the same time. He hadn't been with a woman in weeks. It was something he thought about almost constantly, but this wasn't exactly what he had in mind. It was too direct, too commercial. There was no finesse involved, no courting, no flirting. He had imagined that the subtlety he preferred would redeem almost anything, even the separation from his family. It would be possible to pretend, even if only for a few minutes, that he was in command of his own life. He would pick a woman; she would pick him. Together they would decide what to do and when. But this, this was…
Border Sweep Page 8