Antonio opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the glare. He looked past the cop's leg and saw Angel, one arm twisted behind his back in the grasp of the second federale. Angel put a finger to his lips, then winced as the cop jerked his arm a little higher.
"You ready to listen, my friend?" the federale asked, pressing his foot a little harder. "Huh?"
"Yeah, man, yeah. I'll listen. What's the problem? I wasn't doing anything."
"Maybe we should take a ride, eh, Ricardo?" The cop turned to look at his partner, who was grinning broadly.
Ricardo jerked Angel's arm for emphasis and said, "Yeah, let's take a ride. I'll get the car."
He shoved Angel forward, letting go of the man's arm at the last second, and Angel spun in a half circle, then grabbed his shoulder. "What you have to do that for, man? I didn't do anything to you. I didn't even say anything, man."
The cop ignored him and walked to the corner of the bus station. Antonio tried to get up, and the cop with the baton pushed him back down, then raised the baton and threatened to hit him again. A moment later a Jeep Cherokee backed out into the street with a blare of its horn. Pedestrians standing near the curb scattered out of the way, and the cop with the baton laughed.
"Okay, you, get up," he said. Hanging the baton from his belt, he unsnapped his holster, resting his hand on the butt of his pistol. He looked over his shoulder at Angel. "Get in first."
Angel did as he was told, backing toward the Cherokee and watching the man's gun hand. When Angel was seated in the back, Antonio felt the sharp prod of a boot in his ribs. "Get up, asshole." The cop backed off just a bit, and Antonio got to his knees. His shoulder still hurt and his ribs ached. He climbed into the rear of the Cherokee, looking over his shoulder at the grinning federale.
Getting into the front seat, then closing the door after him, the cop turned to rest his chin and arms on the back of the front seat. "So, where shall we go?" His voice was muffled by his arms.
"What?"
"I asked you where we should go, asshole. Can't you hear?"
"How do I know, man? I mean, this is your fucking idea."
"Watch your language, asshole. This is an official police vehicle." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Antonio thought it sounded like the bark of a hungry coyote.
The driver, as if tired of waiting for the two men to decide on a destination, pulled into the traffic, narrowly missing a passing car. "I guess we'll just ride around for a while, huh?"
"What do you guys want?" Antonio asked. His voice sounded high and thin to his ears. The mixture of fear and frustration made his throat feel tight. He breathed in long, shallow gasps, and his mouth was dry. It felt as if it were coated with a thin paste.
"You think we want something?"
"Sure, doesn't everybody?"
"I don't know. What do you want?"
"I want to get out of the car, man. That's what I want."
"You think we can just let you go?"
"Why not? We haven't done anything."
"That's for us to decide. Not you."
"Okay, man, how much?"
"What?"
"How much?" Antonio reached for his wallet. The movement made his ribs throb, but he ignored the pain. All he could think of was getting out of the Jeep.
"You trying to bribe us?" The cop grabbed the wallet and opened the billfold.
"No, man, no. What do you think I am?"
"You mean you're not trying to bribe us? Then what do you need all this money for?"
"Nothing. I don't need it for anything, man."
"You know," the cop said, lowering his voice and frowning, "my mother is very sick." He nodded to his partner. "And his mother, too. Both cur mothers are very sick."
"I'm sorry to hear that, man. I really am."
"Medicine is expensive, too. Very expensive."
Antonio turned to Angel with a grin. "You know what I think, Angel, man? I think we should help these guys out. They can't make too much money. And both their mothers are sick. Isn't that something?"
"Yeah, man, that's really something. Maybe we can buy the medicine for their sick mothers."
Antonio shook his head. "We could do that, man. But I got a better idea." He snatched the wallet and counted out two hundred thousand pesos. Folding the bills, he handed them to the cop. "Here, man, take it. For your mother."
The cop looked at the bills. "What about his mother?" he asked, indicating his partner.
Antonio slapped himself in the forehead. "What am I thinking of?" He counted out another two hundred thousand, then added several more bills. "For bus fare," he said.
"You don't have to do that," the cop said.
"No, I want to. We want to. Take it." He folded the cop's fingers tightly around the bills. "You keep it."
The driver pulled over to the curb. The cop in the passenger seat reached into the rear and opened the door. Antonio got out slowly, holding his ribs. When Angel joined him on the curb, the Jeep pulled away.
"Good thing their fathers are dead," Antonio said, gritting his teeth. "We couldn't afford medicine for four old people."
"You know what I'm thinking?" Angel asked.
"What?"
"You know how much medicine we could buy if we had the money Don Carlos has?"
23
On the outskirts of San Carlos Mack Bolan pulled the Renegade into a dusty parking lot in front of the Cantina La Paloma. He turned off the ignition and looked at Randy Carlton. They were both hungry and thirsty, and the place looked as good as any.
"This place looks like Germany after the war," Bolan said.
"That's Mexico for you." Carlton stared through the windshield as he spoke. "You know, I've been in a hundred places just like it. It's no damn wonder these people try to sneak up north."
Carlton opened his door and stepped down from the 4x4. He walked around to the driver's side and leaned on the open window. "When we get inside, watch your back, Mike. Gringos aren't too popular around here. This isn't exactly tourist heaven."
He stepped back from the door and waited while Bolan rolled the window up and climbed out. "Make sure it's locked."
Leading the way into the cantina, Carlton nodded at an old man in an armless rocker on the wooden porch. The old man ignored him, just a trace of a smile curling the corners of his thin lips. As Bolan walked past, the old man turned his head slightly, as if he were seeing something out of the ordinary. Bolan felt the porch floorboards throbbing under his feet in response to the blaring jukebox inside. When the two men pushed through the door, the old man turned back. There was no trace left of the sardonic smile. The music stopped suddenly, and the carnival glare of the jukebox went black.
Inside, the darkness was thick with conversation and the smell of overcooked rice. A sharp tang of chili cut through the background odors. The conversation came to a sudden, deafening halt as Randy Carlton led the way to a vacant table in front of the dusty, grease-smeared window. He scraped back a chair and sat on an angle, one shoulder canted toward the interior of the room, the other up against the dirty glass.
Bolan joined him at the table, conscious of a hundred eyes watching his every move. He turned his own chair a little and repositioned the table under Carlton's elbow. The noise of the moving furniture was the only sound, except for the continuous racket of pots, pans and dishes in the kitchen.
The Executioner checked the radio beacon by tilting his pocket forward enough to see the winking lights. "I can't figure why Allenson drove all this way," he muttered. "He sure as hell didn't come here for lunch."
"San Carlos is coyote country, Mike. My guess is he's here to pick up a month's pad."
"I'm not so sure about that, Randy. Seems like a lot of trouble. Unnecessary trouble."
"Maybe so, but the coyotes don't much like it north of the border. Too risky. They don't want to go roaming around up there, and the last thing they need is for some illegal to see them talking to somebody from the Border Patrol. It's bad for business. There are
very few secrets on either side of the border."
Carlton turned to look over his shoulder at the Jeep. A crowd of small children milled around the vehicle. One, a little taller than the others, reached out with a bony arm and ran his fingers through the accumulated grit on the driver's door. There was something almost reverential in the gesture.
Bolan watched the kitchen expectantly. Through a glassless window in the center of the rear wall, he could see a cook working over a pair of blackened stoves. A dark-haired woman, her round face like a dark moon in the lightened rectangle, leaned forward to watch them for a long moment. Behind her, curls of steam rose in the air and hung like a pale cloud. She vanished almost as suddenly as she had appeared, then a block of light flashed in one corner as a door to the kitchen opened.
A moment later she was at their table, wiping her hands on a grimy apron. "Señores? What can I do for you? You are lost, no?"
"How's your chili?" he asked.
"Caliente, muy caliente, señor."
"Two chilies, señorita, and two beers, please."
She took a pencil from her tightly wound hair and a pad from a pocket in the apron. After she had written up their order, she continued to stare at them.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"No, that'll do for now."
"You sure?"
"Yes, why? Is there something you want to recommend?"
She looked at Carlton, her face a flat, impassive mask. She tapped the pencil, eraser first, on the pad. "Two chilies and two beers. That to go?"
"No."
She shook her head slowly. Bolan watched the woman curiously. She obviously had something on her mind, and just as obviously didn't know whether to broach the subject. "That's what I'd recommend," she said. She turned abruptly and walked back to the corner of the room. A moment later the block of light opened in the wall, and she was gone.
Carlton turned to Bolan and whispered, "What the hell was that all about?"
Bolan shook his head. "I have no idea."
Continuing to whisper, Carlton leaned forward, keeping one eye on the Jeep. "There are probably a dozen chicken runners in here right now. I don't imagine too many white faces stop in asking for beer and chili."
The conversation around the room gradually resumed, starting as a sibilant undercurrent and slowly building in volume. By the time the woman returned with their order, the raucous thunder of the jukebox had been restored, but every other eye in the cantina was still directed at their table.
"I guess we don't canvass the room, asking if anyone here knows a Señor Calderone, do we?" Carlton asked.
"I think if we stick on Allenson's tail, we'll find him. I just wish to hell we knew more than a name. It's not exactly an uncommon one."
"If he's the one we want," Carlton replied, "they'll know who we mean."
He broke a piece of bread from a warm loaf and dipped it into the chili. As soon as he took a bite, he immediately reached for the beer. He fanned his open mouth with one hand. "Great chili." He was about to say something else when he stopped with his mouth still open. "We've got a problem."
Bolan turned to see what he was staring at. Buck Allenson stood on the sidewalk across the street, talking to three men. His back was to the cantina, but there was no mistaking the big man. One of the three kept glancing at the Renegade, and once reached out to point at the cantina, but Allenson stiffened, grabbed the extended arm and wrenched it down.
"Sit tight, Randy. If he doesn't know we saw him, we'll have the upper hand."
"The last time I had the upper hand, I got myself shot up. I'm not about to let that happen again. I have a score to settle with that son of a bitch." He started to rise out of his chair, but Bolan reached across the table and yanked him down.
The younger man watched the animated conversation through the window, trying hard not to stare. "There he goes, Mike."
"What about the other three?"
"They're still there."
"Okay, watch where they go."
"What about Buck?"
"Don't worry about him. He's only a little wheel in a big machine. We'll get him, but we want bigger game than he is. Don't forget that. You blow his brains out and you'll feel good for a couple of minutes. But as soon as you realize there's somebody a lot worse out there, how will you feel?"
"Why do you have to be so damned logical?"
"If I weren't, I wouldn't be sitting here now. And neither would you."
Carlton hung his head. Bolan watched the younger man clench and unclench his fist as it lay on the table between them. He knew the temptation the guy was struggling against. But more importantly, he knew, as Carlton didn't, the consequences of giving in to it.
Finally the patrolman looked up. "Okay, you win. What do we do now?"
"Finish our chili. It might be awhile before we get to eat again."
* * *
Bolan climbed behind the steering wheel and leaned over to unlock the door for Carlton. Randy slammed the door closed behind him and reached between the bucket seats into the back. He slipped a Browning automatic into his lap.
"You still see him?" Bolan asked.
"Yeah, he's in the alley across the street. I don't know what happened to the other two."
"It doesn't matter. As long as they're still interested in us, we can hook that fish any time we want to."
"What now?"
"I think we might as well find a place to stay. Any ideas?"
"What am I, a tour guide? I've been here once, Mike."
"Then let's go look for the local version of a Holiday Inn."
Carlton snorted. "The only thing they'll have in common is a nosy clerk. I can guarantee that."
Bolan backed into the street, swung in a half circle and headed into the heart of San Carlos. They steered through the town's traffic, narrowly avoiding a collision with a careering taxi, which roared off with its fenders flapping. In the uproar on the sidewalk that followed the near miss, Bolan noticed a rusty green Oldsmobile slide away from the curb and slip into the traffic three cars behind him.
The heart of the town was busy, but no less run-down than the outskirts, and as the traffic thinned, the Renegade was able to make decent time. At a crowded intersection, Carlton rolled his window down and asked directions to a hotel. He realized it was unnecessary to follow the rapid Spanish as he glanced in the direction pointed out by an old man with a pushcart.
Bolan hung a right and nudged the Renegade through the teeming side street. The green Oldsmobile also made the turn, but pulled over just past the corner, A faded red arrow, inscribed with the word Estacionamiento, directed them down an alley, and Bolan pulled in between two brick walls. It was a tight squeeze, and he had to roll down his window to tug the sideview mirror in toward the door.
The parking lot behind the hotel was empty. Bolan and Carlton climbed down and hauled their light luggage out of the rear, then locked the 4x4. They walked into the hotel lobby through a side door just off the parking lot.
A tiny clerk, barely visible over the front desk, checked them in, then stepped around the desk to lead the way to their room. The creaky elevator seemed uncertain whether it wanted to reach the third floor. The clerk unlocked the door and extended an open palm in a less than subtle hint. Carlton obligingly slipped a bill into the tiny hand. Before closing the door, the clerk informed them that toilet facilities were to be found at the end of the hall.
"God," Carlton said, "what a dump."
"All in the line of duty, Randy."
The patrolman laughed. "Now I know what combat pay is all about. I'll bet the bugs in this place are bigger than I am." He hefted his overnight bag and dropped it on one of the two single beds. The sluggish springs continued to rock for several seconds, and he shook his head. "Shit! I forgot my medicine in the glove compartment. I'll be right back. You want anything while I'm downstairs?"
"No, thanks."
Carlton stepped into the hall and started for the elevator. Then, realizing it was probably
quicker to walk, he ducked into the stairwell.
Bolan sat on the edge of the bed and considered his options. A few moments later he heard a soft knock on the door. Drawing his Beretta, he walked to the door and pressed his back against the wall. "That you, Randy?"
When there was no answer, he reached for the knob, then hesitated. The door burst open almost immediately, and three men lunged into the room. Bolan fired at point-blank range, nailing the last man in the center of the back. The crack of vertebrae sounded like snapping twigs, and the man fell to the floor. His two companions whirled, one stitching the wall behind Bolan with a sustained burst from a silenced Uzi.
The warrior dived to the floor, the 9 mm stingers gouging plaster from the walls. Bolan squeezed off another round, catching the sluggish gunner on the left cheekbone. Incredibly the man continued his spin, the Uzi spitting the last rounds in its magazine before he fell backward onto the nearer bed.
The third man, obviously unprepared for this kind of resistance, backed up, raising one hand over his head. But the silenced.45 in his other hand was still wavering. Bolan watched the man for a heartbeat, then, as the pistol swung in his direction, the warrior fired a 3-round burst, catching the surprised hit man in the chest. The impact hurled him back against the window, where he seemed to hesitate for just a moment before the glass gave way with a shriek. Then he pitched backward, carrying broken glass and window frame with him to the ground three stories below.
Bolan got to his feet slowly, swinging the Beretta toward the gaping doorway. Catfooting to the opening, he peeked out into the hall and saw that it was empty. He holstered the Beretta and was halfway across the room when four federales filled the doorway.
"That was fast."
"Señor, you are under arrest. Please come with us."
"Under arrest for what?"
The lieutenant in charge smiled. "You narcotraficantes are such kidders." He snapped his fingers and waved to an underling. "Take his weapons."
24
Border Sweep Page 15