He needed to cut through the red tape, to get everyone moving in the same direction at once, if they were to prevent Tuerto’s plan from succeeding. And that meant forcing them to do what he wanted. It wasn’t often that Bolan pitted his will against those of monolithic bureaucracies, but it was a fight he was certain he could win. There was no man alive more stubborn than him, when the need was great enough. He just hoped it wouldn’t take too much time.
The drive was a short one, all things considered, though Bolan’s impatience made it seem far longer than it truly was. As they pulled into the base camp, Carter was already on the phone to the Tucson office of the FBI.
Bolan got out even as a number of men in ties and windbreakers hurried forward out of the large military-issue tents that made up the camp. One of them waved a walkie-talkie in Bolan’s face. “I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of explaining to do!”
“And I’m happy to do so,” Bolan said. “But on my terms.”
“What the hell does that mean? Chantecoq?” The man looked at the Interpol agent.
“I don’t know,” Chantecoq said. “He insists on making a phone call.”
“Great! Sure! Why not? Let’s get more people involved, see how far we can push this leaky boat before it sinks!” the man snarled. He threw a cell phone to Bolan. “Call whoever the hell you want, as long as you tell me where those damn coyotes are holed up and where our people are!”
“My pleasure,” Bolan said.
Chapter 17
Tanzir felt a twinge of guilt as the man burned. The look of surprise on his face would stay with her for a long time, if she survived this day. It had been a simple enough matter to fill a few empty soda bottles from one of the crates with the dregs of gasoline and dollops of oil and machine grease from another box, and then stuff them with rags, creating something approaching Molotov cocktails.
The improvised mixture had exploded over the man as he opened the door in response to her pleading, and his scream had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She stiffened her resolve, knowing that he had planned worse fates for innocents over the border. Innocents who would live, thanks to her actions; it was a cold comfort, but it was all she had.
She had three more of the bottles, and as she scuttled out into the daylight, she was already wondering where they would do the most damage and be the most distracting, to enable her to see to Agent James’s rescue. Running between the buildings, she slung one beneath a boardwalk, where it struck an exposed water pipe and burst. Flames licked greedily up the side of the building from beneath.
Two left. Holding the bottles by the necks, she hurried forward. No one had seen her yet, being far too busy watching Yusuf burn. She skidded to a stop and saw the trucks. Men moved amongst them, obviously working at repairs. She had wondered why they hadn’t moved out yet; she had assumed Tuerto was simply being overcautious. Instead, it appeared as if someone had put a thorn in their collective paw.
A man turned and saw her. Eyes widening, he began to yell. She sprang forward, her bare feet kicking up dust as she cocked her arm back and threw. The bottle bounced off the startled man’s chest and struck the open hood of the truck he was standing next to. The fire spread quickly through everything under the camouflage netting that had been erected to protect the vehicles from prying eyes.
As she prepared to lob her last bottle, a wide hand swatted it from her grip. It hit the ground and burst, exploding into fragments. She dived aside, twisting to avoid the flaming liquid. A heavy boot stomped down between her shoulder blades, pinning her flat to the ground.
“Hello, little bird,” Digger said, forcing her down as she tried to squirm out from under him. “I been missing you, sweetness. Django!” he called out, turning slightly. “Django, I got her!”
Tanzir thrashed beneath his weight. But he was too heavy to dislodge. She had to make him move. Straining, she reached out and grasped a shard of glass and, twisting her body, she jammed the glass piece into his leg. Digger yelped and stumbled off her, kicking her in the side as he moved. She crawled to her feet, clutching the glass.
“Drop it, little lady,” Sweets said, aiming his pistol at her. Fire crackled behind her, and smoke wound between the buildings. He glanced back at Tuerto, who was following him, looking slightly shell-shocked. “I told you she was a spitfire,” he said mockingly. “And next time you threaten me will be the last, Mr. One-Eye,” he continued, his grin becoming a glare.
“Alma? I don’t...” Tuerto began, looking at her, his one good eye wide in disbelief.
“He tried to force himself on me!” she said, pointing a shaking hand at Digger, who was clutching at his leg. “He tried to—”
“Quiet,” Sweets said conversationally.
“I could almost believe that if I hadn’t seen the professional way you set those fires,” Tuerto said and glanced up at the flames curling into the painfully blue sky. He shook his head in apparent admiration.
Sweets whistled. “Yes, sir, very neat. That is some spec ops bullshit right there, ain’t it, boys? Cooked up some goddamn weapons of mass destruction right there in that building...” He lifted his pistol. “Guess Jorge and Cousin Frank weren’t the only foxes in the henhouse, were they?”
Tanzir took a breath and tightened her grip on the chunk of glass bottle. If she could reach him before he—
“Don’t,” Tuerto warned, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t know who you are, woman, but I quite like you. I’d hate to shoot you.”
“I wouldn’t,” Sweets said, licking his lips. “Or we could just let Digger have her, like I wanted to do in the first place.”
“No. I want to know who she’s working for,” Tuerto said.
“Does it matter?” Sweets said.
“It does indeed,” Tuerto snapped, turning to glare at the other man. “At every turn we are beset with traitors and obstacles! Does it not strike you as curious that we are so afflicted?”
“Nope. Shit happens. Let’s shoot her, dump her in a gulley and get to figuring about how we’re going to salvage this shit, huh?” Sweets said.
Ignoring him, Tuerto turned to Tanzir. “Who is it? The Mexican government? Interpol?”
“Yes. And you’re under arrest,” she said, raising her jagged blade of glass. She aimed it at Tuerto. “You have no idea how long I have waited to say those words.” She took a single hopping step and sprang for him, the glass hissing as it split the air. But Sweets was faster, however, lunging forward from the side and swinging his gun butt down on her skull, dropping her senseless to the dirt.
“Interpol’s got them a funny idea of arresting folks if that’s how they do it,” Sweets said, looking down at her. “Little filly went right for your throat, One-Eye, like you smacked her momma.”
Before Tuerto could reply, a burst of gunfire caused them all to turn. “Now what?” the man with one eye said.
* * *
JAMES FIRED, catching the man in the chest and sending him rattling back down the steps. Carefully stepping over the body, he retrieved a second pistol and headed for the door. Someone was setting fires. Halfway down the stairs, he heard screams and smelled burning meat, and he began to wonder what was going on.
Bullets plucked at the banister, snapping him back to the here and present. Falling back against the wall, he pulled both triggers, replying in kind. Someone screamed downstairs, but more weapons opened up in counterargument, sending splinters of wood spattering against his abused frame. James nearly fell headlong down the stairs as he moved as quickly as possible to the ground floor.
His pace was reduced to inches by a combination of pain and sporadic gunfire. He caught sight of heads bobbing behind the bar. Through blurry eyes, he saw the ancient chandelier swinging in the hot breeze. Tipping backward, he fired at the ceiling. The decoration gave way with a shri
ll squeal. It shot downward, crashing into a table and setting up a cloud of dust that mingled with the smoke.
James followed it, nearly sliding down the remaining stairs to the floor, and threw himself behind a table, knocking it onto its end with one stiffening shoulder. He ignored the blazing streaks of pain that radiated through him and concentrated on the bar.
He fired at the bottles behind the counter, sending a shower of alcohol and glass down on the men behind it. Someone shot to their feet and James shot him. Then he ran for the door, his back itching, expecting to feel the kiss of a bullet at any moment.
The heat of the day washed across him, drying his sweat where he stood. Shapes rose up before him and he fired, both pistols jerking in his hands. Another body tumbled.
“Christ on a goddamn crutch! You ain’t killed him yet?” Sweets said. James wheeled, following the sound of his voice. Sweets stepped back, raising his weapon. Tuerto and the others halted in their tracks, watching the confrontation.
“You know us half-breeds, Sweets...tougher than goddamn cockroaches,” James croaked, his throat as dry as sandpaper. He was thirsty, and the guns felt like lead weights in his hands. He heard feet behind him and he stepped forward off the porch, hurrying toward Sweets on legs as wobbly as noodles. “Don’t move! Nobody move!” It was such a surprising maneuver that his command was obeyed instinctively by everyone present.
“Somebody shoot him! Shoot him!” Sweets yelped, backing away. He made to fire, but the proximity of James’s weapons to him made him hesitate. He knew he was good enough to plug the agent, but was he good enough to do it before James did the same to him?
James saw those thoughts flash across the surface of Sweets’s mind and he smiled grimly. “You might kill me, Django, but I’ll sure as hell take you with me. Tell them to back off! All of them!”
“Crap,” Sweets said, letting his weapon drop. “Everyone chill out. Let’s none of us be hasty at this here juncture, huh?”
“There is hasty, and then there is hasty,” Tuerto said, not lowering his weapon. Neither did any of his men. “Cost and reward, Mr. Sweets. Which is worth more? Your life? Or Agent James’s?”
“I’m thinking mine!” Sweets said as James sidled behind him.
“Start backing up. And you stay where I can see you, Digger!” James shouted hoarsely. The big man froze like a wolf caught in a security light. “We’re taking whatever’s got wheels and is still working and we’re getting out of here, Sweets.”
“Got your tail between your legs, huh, Jorge?” Sweets said.
“Damn straight,” James said. “A good coyote knows when to run, Sweets. You taught me that.”
“Going to leave your partner behind then?” the rangy coyote said nastily. James froze.
“Cooper?”
“Nope,” Sweets nodded. Tuerto gestured and two of his men brought Tanzir forward. She hung between them, head bowed, hair covering her face. “Figure you two knew about each other, right?”
“Almost certainly they did,” Tuerto said, pressing the barrel of his pistol to the woman’s head. “Interpol has been after me for years now. Though they’ve never dangled bait quite like this before.”
James took a breath. “Let her go,” he said.
“No. I think not,” Tuerto said, cocking his weapon.
“I’ll kill Sweets!”
“And so?” Tuerto said.
“Thanks,” Sweets said.
“Shut up!” James snapped. “I’ll kill him. Let her go.”
“It is a matter of cost and reward, as I said, Agent James. She is worth more to me than him, I’m afraid,” Tuerto said simply. He shrugged. “It is as Allah wills it. Shoot and then die yourself. Or surrender and perhaps live a day more. The Garden of Forking Paths has narrowed to but two, for you, my friend.”
The border patrol agent hesitated. The sun pounded down on him like a hammer, the heat searing the top of his head, and his vision was spotted with splashes of crackling white. Tuerto was right, he knew. Killing Sweets was a useless gesture, satisfying as it would be. Tuerto was more dangerous. And he held all the cards.
Tanzir looked up blearily, and their eyes met. She mouthed the words shoot him, and he wondered whether she meant Tuerto or Sweets. It didn’t matter. At the moment, he knew he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. He was beat, barely able to stand. His pistol barrels dipped and he blinked.
“Hell,” he said.
“Smart man,” Sweets said, spinning and slamming a fist into his belly. James gasped and sank down, but not far. Sweets grabbed his hair and drove a knee into his chin, knocking him flat onto his back. “You’re more intelligent than I gave you credit for, Jorge. Pity it led you here, huh?” He kicked the pistols away, stomping on one of James’s hands in the process. The agent was too out of it to do more than grunt as the bones in his hands grated together.
Sweets sank to his haunches and leaned close, looking more lupine than ever. “Going to wish you’d been stupider, Jorge. Going to wish you ran. I promise you that.”
Chapter 18
Outside Tapowo
The helicopter dropped to the ground in a cloud of dust, sending men and women scrambling to cover sensitive equipment and prevent papers and maps from being blown away. Bolan watched it land and fiddled with the cuffs that still bound his wrists.
It was an easy enough thing to get them off, but left on, they made a point. The call had been quick, and as Bolan had hoped, the cavalry was immediately en route. Watts hadn’t let him down. The stocky tribal policeman had been just irritated enough to do as Bolan had hoped, and made the call to Hal Brognola.
The latter was the first man off the chopper, his ever-present cigar caught between lips thin with frustration and barely repressed fury. He stumped forward, his head lowered with bulldog stubbornness, and met his opposite numbers in the dust and the wind of the chopper’s descent.
The man in charge of the border patrol contingent was Greaves, and his opposite number, the German named Rittermark. Both men looked ready for a fight, and were thus surprised when Brognola stepped past them and stopped in front of Bolan.
“Striker, you look like shit,” he said.
“If it’s any consolation, I feel worse,” Bolan said.
Brognola snorted. “It’s not. Take those cuffs off, huh? It’s embarrassing.”
“Just waiting for you,” Bolan said, slipping the cuffs off with practiced ease and tossing them to Chantecoq. The Frenchman looked at the cuffs, and tossed them to the Fed, Carter.
“I believe that these are yours, non?” he said. Carter grimaced.
Bolan stood, rubbing his wrists as Greaves and Rittermark stormed into the tent after Brognola. “Satisfied, Cooper?” Greaves said. “Feel like talking now, maybe?”
“Maybe you should watch your tone,” Brognola said without turning around. “Well, Striker?”
“I’m good. Did you get in touch with the Mexicans?” Bolan said.
“After an eternity on hold, yes. They’re mobilizing as we speak.”
“The Mexicans?” Greaves said, sharing a look with Rittermark.
“Si,” a heavyset man said who’d followed Brognola off of the chopper. No one had noticed him, intent as they were on other matters, but presently all eyes were on him. Round and wearing a military uniform, he tucked his hat under his arm and nodded to Bolan.
Bolan grinned. “Hello, Ortega.”
Felipe Ortega was not quite an old friend, but he was close. It was he who had alerted Bolan to the Sinaloa poppy field that he’d destroyed earlier in the week. Ortega was no friend to the cartels, and he was happy to hurt them in whatever fashion was at hand, including passing information he couldn’t act on to certain heavily armed, possibly insane, from his perspective, gringos.
When Bolan contacted Brognola, the man had
literally sputtered in relief. Brognola had feared the worst when Bolan had broken contact to go to Agent James’s aid and hadn’t gotten back in touch. When Bolan had finally been allowed to make a call by Greaves and Rittermark, Brognola was already been en route to Arizona from the Wonderland on the Potomac.
After talking with Bolan, he’d immediately called Ortega, Stony Man’s contact in the Mexican government. And Ortega, for his part, hadn’t been happy to learn that the help he’d given to Interpol had been repaid with an information blackout concerning a hundred armed terrorists on his patch. And he said as much even as the helicopter’s rotor blades slowed enough to allow him to speak without shouting.
“We were disappointed to learn that we were being kept out of the loop on a matter of such...international urgency,” Ortega said, looking around the camp. “When we helped you insert your agent into the situation, we assumed you were simply looking to plug the flow of heroin traveling through American ports. It took a phone call to inform us otherwise.”
“Brognola...” Greaves snarled.
The big Fed held up a hand. “Not just me.”
“It was Jorge—Agent James,” Bolan spoke up. Ortega nodded.
“Indeed. Though his warning didn’t reach us until far too late, I’m sorry to say.” Ortega looked at the others. “There was a certain amount of interference.”
Rittermark grunted. “Your organization leaks like a sieve, you mean. That’s why we kept you out of it. No reason to embarrass your government.”
“Yes, how kind of you,” Ortega said blandly. “But that particular leak has been plugged, you’ll be glad to know.”
“What do you mean?” Greaves said.
“Agent James’s contact,” Ortega said. “He passed what James told him up the line. And when Mr. Brognola called us and told us what was going on, we found out where that information had stopped.” He clenched a fist. “Then we simply plugged the leak.” He looked at Bolan. “Thanks to Agent Cooper here, we have eliminated a prominent gap in our security apparatus.” He smiled broadly. “The least we could do, then, in return, is to mobilize what forces we have near the border for a, ah, training exercise.” He looked at Greaves. “Feel free to inform your superiors. Unlike you, we feel little need for secrecy.”
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