Roberto sat up. Anna, still lying back on the mattress, didn't seem to notice. He reached out and touched her thighs, sliding his hand over the skin. It wasn't as soft as he was used to, but then neither was the woman herself. His palm rasped on her dry skin.
He leaned back, resting his weight on one elbow, and circled her breasts with tentative fingers. Anna grabbed his wrist, forcing his hand back between her thighs, and hoisted her pelvis. Roberto withdrew his hand altogether. She spread her legs, and he crawled between them on his knees. He couldn't decide what to do, and Anna shifted her hips impatiently.
It was then he felt the sharp jab in the middle of his back. He reached back idly, expecting to hear the buzz of an angry fly. Instead, his fingers bumped against cold steel. Slowly he shifted his weight back onto his haunches and started to turn, the steel jabbing him again.
"Don't turn around, amigo," a rough whisper ordered.
Roberto froze. Anna seemed not to notice anything. She continued to squirm, showing less and less interest.
"What do you want?" Roberto asked.
"Nothing. I don't want anything." The whisper was more insistent, but no louder. "Go back to Mexico, understand? You don't have a job here anymore."
"But why…?"
"Shut up! You're not wanted here. Mr. Tyack has other plans."
"Can I just get…?"
"You don't get nothing. You don't need nothing. You want to walk, do it. You want to die, give me an argument."
Roberto turned slightly, and the blade flicked at his bare back. "Don't turn around, I said. I mean it."
"Gordo? Is that you? Come on, man… quit it."
The young man turned then, and the blade caught him in the side, slipping in between two ribs. It slashed sideways, and slipped out. Anna felt the warm splash on her thighs, and laughed. "Baby," she said, "couldn't you wait to get it in?"
Roberto pitched forward and landed on her chest, pinning her to the mattress. She smacked his rump, but he didn't move. She pinched him, and he didn't respond. She heard a soft flutter, and a piece of paper landed on her chest as she slid out from under Roberto's deadweight.
She snatched at it, crunching it in her fist as she pulled her legs free of her john. Then she realized the warm sticky fluid running down her legs wasn't what she had imagined. She screamed.
And she didn't stop screaming.
Gordo, his loose belt flapping around his waist, rushed out of the trees to the van. Anna, still naked, stood beside the van with her hands covering her face, the blood, black in the moonlight, slowly thickening on her bony legs. Footsteps pounded behind him as he stepped to Anna's side. As he tried to pull her hands away, the crumpled paper slipped from her fingers.
The other men had joined him, and Gordo bent to pick up the paper, unfolding it carefully with his thick fingers and pressing it flat in his open palm.
"What is it, Gordo? What happened?"
He extended the palm, the paper fluttering slightly as his hand shook. "A pink slip. I have heard about this. We better get the hell out of here. Tyack is dealing with the devil."
When he crossed himself, he was already heading for the highway. Anna's screams continued to ring in his ears, though her mouth was closed and she was already attempting to wipe away the blood on her thighs with handfuls of sand.
13
Mack Bolan entered the hospital with some reluctance. Over the years he'd seen more than his share of human suffering. It was one thing to see it on the battlefield, where it was the only logical outcome. It was another to see it on the home front. He wasn't naive, and he wasn't a dreamer, but there was still something unsettling about the increasing frequency with which innocent people, and those whose job it was to preserve that innocence, found themselves looking down a deep well with a gun at their backs.
Waiting for the elevator, he wondered what it was in the collective heart of mankind that made it not only tolerable, but more and more often desirable, to use brutality as an instrument of self-enrichment. Impatience with reality was part of it, maybe, raised expectations leading to frustration and ultimately to violence. But that wasn't the whole picture. It couldn't be.
There had always been haves and have nots. The haves, more often than not, had been willing to keep what they had by violent means, just as those who had nothing were willing to resort to violence to get a slice of the pie. Cavemen had been violent men in a violent world. Some scientists even speculated that Cro-Magnon had waged a successful war against Neanderthal, the classic example of the upstart kicking ass to claim his place in the world.
But that was a simpler time, and the violence, almost by definition, was simple. There was nothing inherently wrong in warriors wreaking havoc on other warriors. That was, after all, what warriors were for. But lately, it seemed to Bolan, there were too many warriors, and far too many innocent people caught in the middle.
With a heavy sigh, Bolan entered the elevator and punched the button for the third floor.
The hallway was empty as he stepped off the elevator. The desk opposite was vacant, and Bolan walked past it to check the number on the nearest door. The next door bore a higher number, and he turned to head back in the other direction. Room 8 was the second on the right. The door was open and a dim light was on when Bolan poked his head in.
A soft blue flicker from high on the wall washed over the two beds, one of which was empty. In the other, Randy Carlton lay propped on a pair of pillows.
"I was wondering when you would stop by," he said. "Maybe I should have said 'if. "
"You had a pretty rough time of it."
"Yeah, I guess so. I'll be all right in a couple or three days, though, soon as I get my strength back." The patrolman pointed to an empty chair between the beds. "Sit down and watch my alma mater get whipped."
Bolan eased past the foot of the bed, ducking to avoid blocking the picture on the television high up on the wall. "You played basketball?"
"Yeah, four years, U of A. That was a long time ago, though. It seems like it must have been in a different life, or something. I remember all those lectures from the coach, how team work and cooperation were the key to success. How they could be used in the real world, once you left the boards behind. All that Knute Rockne and Gipper stuff. Seems like every coach, regardless of the sport, thinks the same. It's all crap, too. Teammates are brothers you know, working for a common goal, all that shit. But it doesn't last longer than the uniform."
Carlton turned his head away. When he spoke again, his voice came as if from a great distance. It sounded sluggish, almost as if he were underwater. "Will Ralston and I were partners. Almost four years. You know what that's like?"
"Yeah, I do." For a moment Bolan flashed on some of his own memories, the scars still fresh, as if a careless prod would start them bleeding all over again. "Yeah…"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Belasko, I guess I…"
"It's Mike. And you have nothing to apologize for."
Carlton struggled to sit up, groped around under the pillows, finally finding the controls. He pressed a button, and the top of the bed began to sink, stopping its descent when the upper half of the bed had risen high enough for him to face Bolan comfortably. "I guess I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you."
"You were holding your own when I got there."
"What about those bastards? Did you get a good look at them?"
Bolan nodded.
"'Cause I'll tell you, as soon as I get out of here, I'm going to look for them. You can take that to the bank."
"That won't be necessary."
The patrolman sat up a little, his eyes searching Bolan's face in the flickering blue light.
"What we have to do is find out who sent them, and why. That'll be a lot tougher, I'm guessing," Bolan told him.
"How'd you know where to find us, anyway?"
"Ronny Sipe and I stopped at your headquarters. One of the officers there told us where you went."
Carlton's face went dark. He seemed to be puzzlin
g his way through a sudden mystery.
"Anything wrong?"
"I'm not sure. You said somebody told you. Do you remember who it was?"
"Ronny talked to him, but he was hard to miss. A big guy, about six-four or so. Buck Allenson."
"Allenson! That bastard…"
"What's the matter?"
"You're sure he told you where to find us?"
Bolan leaned forward. "Certain. Sipe said Allenson told him you'd gotten a call and had gone to meet the informant in the desert. Why?"
"Because he couldn't have known. We didn't tell anyone about the tip. Will and I talked about it and decided not to. We were afraid of a leak, and we knew some of the guys aren't above sending us on a wild-goose chase. A lot of them don't give a shit about the job, and they keep ragging us about how serious we are… were. We wanted to cover our asses, either way, you know?"
Bolan was quiet for a long moment. The younger man watched him carefully, as if he could read the conflicting emotions that were racing through Bolan's mind and were reflected on his face. "Then he must have known about the ambush. Not only that, he deliberately sent me and Sipe out there…"
"Figuring you two'd get iced as well."
"Did you have any idea that Allenson was on the pad?"
"No. I didn't like the guy, but that was just personal. And we knew somebody had sold out, but… jeez! We figured it was just taking a few bucks to look the other way. Maybe even feed information about patrol patterns, so the coyotes would have an easier time of it. But setting four people up for murder, no way did we think that."
"What do you think now?"
The patrolman chewed on the inside of his lower lip for a while before answering. "I don't know. What else can I think? Unless somebody told him, and he just passed it on to you. That's possible, isn't it?" He shook his head. "I don't know what to think. I can't believe he would go that far. But somebody did. At least the bastard didn't get away with it, whoever it was."
"The last time I looked," Bolan said quietly, "five hundred wasn't a bad batting average."
"Five hundred? You mean…? Ronny, too?"
"Yeah. Ronny, too."
Carlton sighed. His shoulders shook for a moment, then he closed his eyes and fell back onto the pillow. "We better keep an eye on those two guys down the hall," he whispered.
"What two guys? I know about the guy from the boxcar, but he's still in a coma. There's another one?"
"Yeah, there's another one. Not from the boxcar, but Ronny and I think… thought… there was a connection. They found him in the desert with a wire around his neck. He's been here a couple or three days."
"Did he say anything yet?"
"No, he was in a coma, just like the other guy. But, hell, one of them will wake up. He has to. Otherwise.. " He held his hands out, palms up. He didn't have to elaborate.
"Is there anybody here you can trust?" Bolan asked.
"Ray Conlan."
"The sheriff?"
"Yeah. He's not crazy about illegals, but he's an honest man. You can trust him."
"I think I better go see him in the morning. Tonight I'll just hang around here."
"You have to sleep sometime, you know."
Bolan stood up. "I'll be back in a minute."
"Where are you going?"
"Just to talk to the nurse a minute. Be right back. You get some rest."
Bolan stepped out of the room, conscious of the blue light flickering behind him. The nurses' station down the hall was still empty, which seemed odd, and he walked quickly to the desk. The office behind it was dark, and the door that had been open earlier was closed. He rapped on the door with his knuckles, but heard only the echo of his knock. He turned the knob, but the door was locked. Turning to the desk, he rifled through the drawers until he found a set of keys.
The warrior unlocked the door and clicked on the light, the bright flash of the overhead fluorescents filling the room with a harsh glare. The night nurse lay trussed and gagged in one corner, a bright white strip of adhesive tape covering her mouth. Bolan knelt beside her and felt for her pulse. She was unconscious, but still alive.
Bolan stood and ran to the door, drawing the.44 as he slid through the doorway and out into the hall. He sprinted toward Randy Carlton's room and was relieved to find him still watching the basketball game. Bolan slipped the Beretta from its sling and tossed it to him.
"What the hell's going on?" the patrolman demanded.
"Those two men, what rooms are they in?"
"I don't know. Down the hall a few doors, I guess. Why?"
"Wait here, and keep your eye on the door."
Bolan bounded out of the room and started a door-to-door search. The first room on the right was vacant. The next was occupied by an old man, fast asleep with the television still flashing away. Slipping across the hall, he tried the first room on the left. Both beds were occupied by children. A young woman, her head on her chest, slept awkwardly on an uncomfortable chair between them.
The next room was dark, but its door was open. As soon as the light went on, Bolan knew he had found one of the men he was looking for.
Too late.
The stark white of the sheet was splashed with bright red, a trail of red leading to the edge of the bed and down its side. The red pool on the floor was occasionally broken by ripples as another drop of blood splashed into it.
Bolan ran to the door of the next room, turned the knob gently, then banged the door with his shoulder, sending it crashing back into the wall. In a combat crouch, he stepped through the door, the Desert Eagle held in front of him in a two-handed grip.
A single bed occupied the center of the small room. By the metal headboard, a man with a startled look on his face was frozen in the act of turning toward the door. He moved slowly, like ice thawing under a winter sun, gradually bringing around a suppressed Uzi toward the intruder.
Bolan fired once, then again. The startled hit man flew backward into the edge of the bed, blood from his massive wounds trickling down the wall behind him. The assassin slipped from the bed, dead before he hit the floor.
A slight scratch behind Bolan caused him to whirl around, seeking a target. He jerked his weapon upward when he saw Randy Carlton, Beretta in hand, leaning against the doorframe.
"We need to get some protection for this man, fast." Bolan indicated the still-unconscious patient. "He's the only witness we have now."
"I'll call Ray Conlan. Then I think Pd better make some arrangements for myself. I don't think I like the quality of care in this joint. I think it's time to check out."
14
The fat man looked at his boss through hooded eyes. The broad brown face, eyes slightly angled over prominent cheekbones, gave more than a hint of his Indian ancestry. But there was nothing primitive about the surroundings, or about the submachine gun on the table by his elbow. The boss, as usual, was pacing back and forth, whirling at one end of the table and marching back in the other direction, like a bear in an electronic shooting gallery.
Finally Carlos Calderone stopped at the center of the table and leaned forward, taking the weight of his upper body on stiff arms propped on the polished wood. He stared hard at the fat man, and Toms Sanchez was getting uncomfortable. He was also getting angry, and that was something he couldn't afford to do.
"Tomás," Calderone hissed, making no attempt to conceal his exasperation, "you keep fucking up. Everything I tell you to do, you say not to worry. I ask you how it went, and you tell me it went fine. Only later do I find out it didn't go well, and that it's not fine."
Sanchez shrugged his shoulders. "Don Calderone, you tell me to act like a businessman. 'Don't do it all yourself, Tomás, you say. 'Delegate, Tomás, you say. So I delegate. Can I help it if you give me faulty tools for a complicated job? Do you fix one of your computers with a bulldozer?"
Calderone turned his back on the man, letting the edge of the table take his weight as he leaned back. Sanchez stared at the expensive linen jacket, admiring the
fineness of its weave, and waited for the next insult, which he knew would not be long in coming.
Inhaling deeply and holding his breath for a long time, Calderone tottered slightly, and Sanchez wondered whether his boss was not, after all, no more than the spoiled child he seemed sometimes to be. He wondered, too, whether Calderone would turn blue and black out, falling to the floor in a dramatic gesture like the women in the television novelas did. He was still smiling at the notion when Calderone whirled again to face him.
"One," Calderone snapped, "I tell you to get rid of Mendoza, and he is still alive in the hospital." The first finger waggled suggestively, and Sanchez stared at it as if transfixed.
"But, Don Calderone, I…"
"Wait, Tomás, please wait. You will have your turn." The hand moved slightly and, as if by magic, a second finger joined the first. "Two, I ask you please to supervise the railroad test, make sure the chickens get to their destination without a hitch, and instead they end up a pile of dead meat in a railroad yard. That is not fine. That is not things going well."
"I already told…"
"Three…" and a third finger appeared"…I ask you to take a stone out of my shoe, to get rid of those nosy border patrolmen. It goes very well. They show up where they are supposed to. At the time they are supposed to. We even get a bonus with that attorney and his friend, and what happens?"
He paused to let Sanchez have his say, but the fat man knew it was still too early. If he was going to fire back, he'd better save his ammunition until he had a better target.
Calderone bit his lower lip before continuing. "Ill tell you what happens. What happens is I lose a two-million-dollar helicopter and eight men."
"You got rid of the attorney and the border patrolman."
"And you left two witnesses, no, Tomás? Did you not?" Calderone dropped his voice to a soft purr. He added a fourth finger. "Then, I ask you very simply to clean up the mess you have already made, and you make a mess of that, too."
"How did I know there would be somebody on guard at the hospital?"
Border Sweep Page 9