“Oh, give it a rest, Django,” Eddie said from the back. The big man had a shotgun resting across his round knees and he rolled his eyes as Sweets laughed.
“Eddie, we can’t have no ignoramuses running around with us,” Sweets said. “Cousin Frank looks sort of dense there, no offense to you, James.”
“None taken,” James said from the passenger seat. He looked back at Bolan, his face blank. Bolan resisted the urge to smile. The young man was checking on him, making sure he didn’t snap and try to throttle the king coyote. If he had known the young agent longer, he might have been insulted. As it was, Sweets had kept up a steady stream of insults the entire ride. Bolan was honestly beginning to look forward to shooting the man, a rare occurrence for him.
He figured that it was equal parts Sweets testing him and simply being unpleasant. “Social capital, huh?” Bolan spoke up. “I prefer the real thing myself.”
“One is transferable to the other, never you fear,” Sweets said. “Cartels bring our cargo up from wherever—either South or Central America, it don’t matter none—and pay us to take them off their hands and get them the rest of the way into the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
“And along the way, they sell the drugs the cartel loaded them down with, and we transfer the money back,” Eddie said. “Or we buy guns or some shit and carry that back down to our brothers over the border.”
“Guns, in this case.” Eddie chuckled, slapping a crate with his palm.
“Cost of doing business. The cartels are giving us ten long-haul trucks full of living, breathing camouflage for Mr. One-Eye’s requirements. Least we can do is give them boys some goodies to go home with.”
“Broken-down vans and surplus weapons,” Eddie said. “The customer gets what the customer wants.”
“Rule one of the service industry...they ask, we deliver,” Sweets said.
“Professional middlemen,” Tuerto said, looking at Bolan. The one-eyed man grinned. “I know a bit about that myself.”
“We’re a necessary cog in the machine of international commerce is all,” Sweets said. “Everybody wants something, and we provide that something, at a price that can’t be beat.”
“But not for much longer, one would think,” Tuerto said, stroking his eye patch. He grinned, baring white teeth. “Not considering the money that I am paying you.”
“Speaking of that,” Bolan said. “Why not just take a plane? You know, for old times’ sake?”
Tuerto looked at him sharply, his one good eye narrowing. The temperature in the back of the van seemed to drop by several degrees. The mercenary’s smile held, however. “By land, by sea, by air,” he said. He held up three fingers, and bent one. “Planes are passé, Frank. This year, it’s all about trucks. Next year, boats, I suspect.”
“That a fact?” Bolan said, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“You’re being impolite, Cousin Frank,” Sweets said. “Don’t make me come back there and teach you some manners.”
Bolan bit back a retort and settled back, looking away. Tuerto continued to look at him for a time, his fingertip tracing the threads that picked out the Seal of Solomon on the patch.
“So, how’d your meeting with Ernesto go, Jorge?” Eddie said with the air of a man trying to change the subject.
“It didn’t,” James said, after a minute. “He had some trouble in Sinaloa.”
“Shame, we could have used a bit of extra cash,” Eddie said mournfully.
“Get that thought out of your head right damn now,” Sweets said. He glanced at them. “I’m sure our pals from the cartels will have crammed them tractor trailers full of goddamn crank, blow and pigment for a shipment like this.”
“I was not informed of this,” Tuerto said sharply.
“No? Did I forget to mention it? That was remiss of me, I do apologize,” Sweets said. “It’s part of doing business with these fellows down here.”
“We do not need the additional complications,” Tuerto said.
“Rest your pony, Mr. One-Eye,” Sweets said, chuckling. “The huddled masses will handle all that. Your boys ain’t got to worry about dirtying their martyr-halos with them filthy pharmaceuticals.”
“I’m more worried about your men becoming distracted,” Tuerto said.
“We might be greedy, but we ain’t fools,” Eddie said. “Besides, ain’t like we got the time to do nothing about it.”
“Eddie’s right,” Sweets said. “We’re here.”
“Good God, look at all of them,” James whispered hoarsely as the tractor trailers came into view, looking like nothing so much as a small fort. Bolan uttered a silent curse as he saw the small sea of waiting people. Half of them were swooning with incipient sunstroke and the other half were looking dehydrated under the glare of the sun.
“Heard tell one time about a less reputable fellow in our line who got squirrely about a drop-off,” Eddie said as Sweets put the van in park. “Up and left his whole rig out in the middle of nowhere without ever bothering to open it up. A hundred and fifty of the poor fuckers cooked to death in the back before somebody found it. Said when they opened it up, it looked as if they’d been trying to punch holes in the container with their bare hands to get a little air.”
Bolan grimaced as he climbed out and joined the others. Sweets laughed as if Eddie had been telling a funny joke and said, “Are your folks on their way?” He directed the latter to Tuerto. The one-eyed man nodded.
“They should be arriving just as we do. Are you sure these vehicles they’re providing can hold loads of these sizes?”
“Heh, I once crammed thirty-four dirt-poor fruit pickers into a station wagon. I think we’ll find a way.” Sweets smiled and got out.
Bolan eyed the crowd. A quick-and-dirty battlefield estimation let him conclude that there were maybe eighty people waiting on them, possibly more. Bolan’s gut churned at the thought of what fate their future held. Hundreds of illegal immigrants, if not more, died every year trying to cross the border between the United States and Mexico.
He leaned against the van and took in the crowd. As he scanned each face, he wondered whether or not that person would make it. He shot a look at Tuerto and Sweets. Would any of those gathered here survive whatever these two had planned? Bolan was realistic enough to know he couldn’t save everyone, but he was determined to try regardless.
He came to the decision quickly and with a minimum of recrimination. To hell with the plans of federal agencies, foreign or domestic; the Executioner, as ever, had his own plans and the will to enact them regardless of the personal consequences.
The hard-faced drivers who had brought the would-be immigrants this far clustered around as Sweets got out of the van. They began speaking rapid-fire Spanish as Sweets held up his arms. “Quiet down, you vultures!” he snarled in English. “I want to check the damn merchandise first.”
“I hope he’s not being picky for our benefit,” Tuerto murmured, looking around coolly. Bolan glanced at the mercenary. Was the man already planning the mass murder of these desperate people...or something further on?
“It’s a damn army,” Eddie muttered. The heavyset coyote looked at Sweets. “You’ve really done it this time, you know that? What the hell, man? You think border patrol or the Federales ain’t noticed a million people just sitting out here in the desert?”
“Calm yourself,” Tuerto said. “It has all been planned for. Money was paid, and where bribes would not suffice, blindspots will.” He pointed upward. “I suggested this meeting point based on my own research. We are in a natural cross-point between two satellites. By the time anyone sees anything, the image will be hours old and we will be gone.”
“Hardly a million of ’em anyway,” Sweets drawled, turning away from the drivers. “There’s barely a hundred if there’s ten.”
Eddie shook his head. “T
his ain’t the way we do things, Sweets.”
“This is the big time, Eddie,” Sweets said without turning around. “We got to take a few risks to make a few bucks.”
“This ain’t a few risks...this is two really damn big ones,” Eddie said. He glanced at Tuerto. “No offense.”
“None taken, I assure you,” Tuerto said.
“Stop bellyaching,” Sweets said, glaring at Eddie. “You agreed to this. No time to back out now.” Sweets cocked his head. “Of course, if you insist...” He patted the butt of the pistol riding beneath his arm.
Eddie stepped back a pace, hands up and face pale. “N-no, Sweets! No, I was just saying is all.”
Sweets climbed up on top of his van and cupped his hands around his mouth. A moment later he was yelling instructions in broken Spanish at the milling crowd. Bolan drifted toward James. “If we let these people get in those vehicles, they’re dead. All of them,” he said quietly.
“Think I don’t know that?” James replied tonelessly. “I didn’t expect this. I mean...I knew it had to be something like this...but not this.” He shook his head. He looked at Bolan. “What do we do?”
“It’ll be messy,” Bolan said, hesitating. He looked at the crowd. If he were to enact the plan forming in his head, it was very likely that some of these people would be caught in the crossfire. They would die, and their deaths would be on his head. Bolan was no stranger to such things, but it was not something he could blithely ignore, either. He knew some men who could, and he was thankful he was not one of them. The day human life ceased to have a value for the Executioner was the day his crusade failed.
But in the end, a few probable deaths were as nothing to those certain to occur if the coyotes’ deadly cargo reached American soil. Bolan shook his head. “It’ll have to be quick. When we get back, I’ll get my gear...improvise something.”
“The rest of Tuerto’s men will have arrived by then,” James said doubtfully.
“That’s what I’m counting on. Tuerto doesn’t trust Sweets—”
“Smart man,” James grunted.
“And Sweets likely doesn’t trust Tuerto.” Bolan looked at the young agent. “I can call my people. What about yours?”
“I can use that phone in my van. We’ve got a prearranged signal.” James looked past Bolan at the crowd of hopeful faces trying to struggle into some semblance of order. “Problem is Tanzir is somewhere in that mess there.”
“What? You didn’t say anything about that,” Bolan said.
“You didn’t ask, Cooper,” James retorted, fighting to keep his voice low. Bolan backed off, sensing the strain that the young man was under. Sometimes Bolan forgot that life or death wasn’t how everyone played the game. At least not on the scale he was used to.
“How were you planning to contact her?” he asked.
“I wasn’t. She was supposed to contact me, but how the hell...” He trailed off and shook his head. “I don’t see how.”
“We may have to move without her. If she’s Interpol, she can take care of herself,” Bolan said. “We’ll—”
There was a shout, and one of the coyotes was sent stumbling by a cartel soldier as he tossed a box of weapons on the ground. The soldier kicked the crate open and shook a weapon at Sweets.
“Whoops,” Sweets said. “Looks like my buddy Mendez done found the palomino under the paint.”
Bolan looked at the gun in the man’s hands and knew instantly what was wrong. The weapon was almost as old as he was, and in bad shape despite the gleam of packing oil. “You’re trying to sell them bad guns,” he said, looking up at Sweets.
“Good guns cost money,” Sweets said nonchalantly. Mendez, the cartel man, shouted again, gesticulating fiercely. Bolan knew he was demanding an explanation, and he tensed. Weapons were being fingered and Bolan felt an electric current in the air; a grim portent of incipient violence. He glanced at James, and saw that the other man felt it, as well.
“Are you going to respond?” Tuerto said tersely.
Sweets said, “Sure,” and shot Mendez, his pistol clearing leather in the blink of an eye.
Chapter 8
Bolan put a round between the eyes of the nearest cartel soldier, sending the man spinning away. The others scattered, hunting for cover. Several of them found it, diving behind a couple of trucks.
“Hell, that’s torn it,” Eddie said, hefting his shotgun and diving behind the van. James swung behind the van, as well, his own pistol barking. Bolan stood his ground just to Sweets’s left, and they fired simultaneously. There had been a dozen cartel drivers; presently there were eight.
Sweets laughed once, a crystal-clear bark that put ripples of disgust the length of Bolan’s spine. The coyote had hopped down off the van after shooting Mendez and was stalking through the dust, firing the Parabellum rounds even as he dug under his shirt for a second, smaller pistol holstered at the small of his back. Bolan was tempted to let him get himself shot, but he had already called his own play. He dived for one of the closer vans, the .38 growling to keep the heads of the gunmen down. Bolan’s back brushed up against the van and he ripped the door open and threw himself in. Jabbing the parking brake, he set the vehicle to rolling and hurled himself out moments before it crashed into the vehicle the cartel drivers were crouching behind.
There was a shriek of busted glass and bending metal as the vans connected, and men scattered. Bolan found himself out in the open, and he caught one of the fleeing drivers in the head, knocking him down. “Down!” someone yelled. Bolan threw himself flat. Another driver pitched backward, blown off his feet moments before he would have done the same to Bolan.
Bolan glanced back. James saluted him and Bolan shot to his feet. A swirl of dust had risen, whipped up the trucks and the wind. The drivers were all down, eight men dead in as many minutes. Sweets reloaded his pistol as he trotted back toward the others. He grinned at Bolan. “Nice shooting, LaMancha. And that was quick thinking with the truck.”
“Seemed like the thing to do,” Bolan said.
“Looks like most of our cargo hightailed it, Sweets,” Eddie said, red-faced and breathing heavy. “We got maybe fifty, sixty folks left.”
“Good enough,” Sweets said, holstering his pistol. “Less for Tuerto’s boys to get rid of later.”
“Get rid of?” the coyote said. Tuerto shrugged and Eddie paled. “Man...” he muttered.
“Don’t get a conscience on me now, Eddie,” Sweets chided. “Let’s get these doggies loaded up. Rawhide!” He chuckled and walked toward the would-be migrants, hands raised.
Bolan looked around, slightly surprised that there was still anyone left. James stood beside him. “Where else are they gonna go, man?” he said. “Most of ’em paid with everything they owned to get this far. A little gunplay ain’t going to scare them off now.”
“No,” Bolan said, trying to ignore the sick feeling growing down deep in his gut.
“Good news is that I spotted Tanzir,” the agent continued.
“Where is she?” Bolan said.
“Right where she’s supposed to be,” James said.
* * *
AS FAR AS UNEXPECTED EVENTS went, the brief gun battle had been number eight on Tanzir’s list. She joined the group crowding around the van and tried to calm the jitters that sprang up the moment she caught sight of a familiar profile. She had only been this close to him once before, just after an explosion in a morning market in some no-name little town in North Africa. He had sipped coffee as body parts rained down and then had calmly paid his bill and wandered away into the confusion. Tuerto. Mr. One-Eye.
She couldn’t say for certain how he’d escaped that day, or whether or not he’d seen her when he turned and looked in her direction moments before the bomb went off. Control had assured her that her cover had not been blown then, or on this day.
<
br /> With his looks and dusky coloration, she judged him to be a Berber rather than an Arab. A neatly clipped beard and shaved head gave him the look of a particularly well-fed bird of prey, and his eyes were cold rather than burning with fanaticism. That coldness was what made him more dangerous than the lunatics who followed him, she knew.
Rittermark and the others—even Chantecoq—didn’t see it. They didn’t understand Tuerto the way that she did; they thought that he was just one more terrorist on the United Nations’ list. But she knew better. Tuerto wasn’t a monster, he was a monster-maker. He put together the plans, bought the explosives, armed the martyrs. He set up the dominoes for maximum coverage, and then skipped clear, wealthy on blood money.
He cared nothing for God or country; he held to no ideology save that of Mammon. And he would not hesitate to vanish if he felt the noose closing around his neck.
She had been more relieved than she’d thought she would be when she caught sight of Agent James during the brief gun battle. She smiled slightly, thinking of the look on his face. He was, by all rights, an effective undercover agent. Or so she had been told. But he had looked like a deer in headlights to her when the shooting began. She pushed the thought aside. This was not the time. She had more important matters to attend to.
Thinking back on it, this was probably the part of the mission that Chantecoq had been less than pleased with. She smiled. She wasn’t exactly happy about it herself.
Drawing close to Tuerto, she mustered her courage, and stumbled into him. Strong fingers gripped her shoulders and jerked her upright. The one good eye met hers and she essayed a smile. “I apologize, sir,” she said in Spanish.
“Think nothing of it. I have been hit by less pleasant things, I assure you,” he replied in the same language. He released her almost as an afterthought, and she reached out to steady herself. He blinked. “You are traveling to the States?”
“God willing,” she said, crossing herself.
“Ma’sa’Allah,” he said. “Are you alone then? In my country, a woman such as you would not travel by herself.”
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