Tuerto frowned and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He’d killed one of his own men to preserve her life. Could he just hand her over to a fiend like Digger? He grunted. Of course he could. In the end, his own life was more important.
“As you wish, but we must leave now,” he said.
“Oh, definitely,” Sweets said. “With two vehicles we can get half your boys easy across the border, barring any more mishaps.” Sweets knocked on the table. “Knock on wood.”
The brisk crack-crack-crack of an assault rifle caused both men to leap to their feet. Tuerto glared at Sweets. “You had to say that,” he said.
Chapter 20
Bolan moved through the desert like a shadow, his rangy frame gliding through the purple light. The sun was setting in a silent explosion of color, but the Executioner had no time for beauty, nor for the chill that was creeping into the air. He carried a modified H&K, similar to the one he’d lost, and a new Desert Eagle rested on his hip, plus a replacement KA-BAR. The weapons were familiar, and knowing Kissinger had sent them meant that Bolan could rely on them implicitly.
The helicopter had set him down a mile or so away from the town, and he moved quickly despite the strain that he still felt down deep in his limbs and joints. Pain could be pushed aside if the situation was desperate enough, and if this situation weren’t desperate, Bolan didn’t know what would qualify.
The rest he’d been able to grab had done him a world of good, giving his impressive constitution some much-needed time to recharge. Getting closer to his destination, Bolan dropped low and crawled through a maze of saguaros and scrub bushes. The town was much as he remembered, though presently there were columns of smoke rising up into the swiftly darkening sky.
Someone had been having fun, it seemed. And Bolan figured that the smoke was a good omen...if there was ever a sign that James was alive, that was it. Grinning like a wolf, Bolan slithered forward and crept toward the outskirts of the town.
As he got closer he saw that it was abuzz with activity. Men were hurrying back and forth, yelling. Bolan stopped and sank down, thinking. They must know that the Federales were on their way, somehow. That meant they’d be on their guard. It also meant that they wouldn’t be looking for one man.
It took him ten more minutes to get into town. Flat against a clapboard wall, he peered around a corner, judging the terrain. He could smell burning oil and rubber. His eyes found the building where the illegal immigrants were being held. Three men were heading for it, their weapons held purposefully. Bolan knew their intentions. If they were aware that their cover was blown, then there was no further need for those people in there.
The debate lasted only moments. Bolan had a duty, and he would not shirk it. As quiet as a panther, he shadowed the trio, gently taking the safety off of his H&K. It had a noise suppressor attached, and hopefully, any shots the terrorists got off would be misconstrued as being an execution under way.
One of them bent to unlock the padlock as the other two readied their assault rifles. Bolan sprang into action without an iota of hesitation to mar the smoothness of his movement. The KA-BAR swept out, cutting across the back of one man’s neck, slicing through his spinal column and nearly decapitating him. He fell without a sound, toppling forward. The other turned, his face going pale. Bolan shot him, the H&K making a quiet “chuff” of sound. The third man jerked to his feet, reaching for the weapon slung over his back. He opened his mouth to yell and Bolan, thinking quickly, jammed the blade of his knife through the man’s open mouth, nailing him to the door. The man gurgled, and Bolan shot him in the chest, putting him out of his misery. He jerked the blade free, letting the body fall.
Bolan shot the lock off and opened the door. A number of frightened faces met his and he held up a hand. “It’s okay,” he said in Spanish. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
They didn’t seem to believe him, but he couldn’t help that. They had no reason to trust a man with a gun, no matter how friendly he seemed. As far as they were concerned, he might just as well have been a cartel soldier as a rescuer.
“Is there an Amira Tanzir here?” Bolan said, speaking over the rising tide of whispers. “Amira Tanzir?”
“She was taken,” someone said. It was an older woman who was heavyset and tired and scared looking. Bolan could practically smell the stink of tension and fear on the close air of the former dance hall. “She set the fires, tried to escape. They took her,” she went on, shaking her head. “She shouldn’t have tried to run.”
“She didn’t,” Bolan said. “You all need to leave. Things are about to become very loud and very dangerous around here.” He lifted his weapon meaningfully.
“Where will we go?” the woman said. Apparently she had assumed the spokeswoman role for the crowd. “We are in the middle of nowhere, and we have barely had any water or food for the past three days.”
Bolan grimaced. He had expected as much, but he wasn’t happy about it. Thinking quickly, he stepped outside and dragged the three bodies inside. Several people murmured in protest, but Bolan ignored them.
“Take these weapons and barricade the doors. When the Federales arrive, surrender quickly,” Bolan said, checking the weapons and then handing them off. “They are aware that you’re here, so don’t worry. But until they come knocking, keep your heads down and the doors closed.”
“And then what?” the woman said, hefting one of the assault rifles with a disturbing air of familiarity. For a moment, Bolan wondered what her story was, and how she had ended up here. Then his mind turned back to the business at hand.
“And then you go home. Maybe you try again later. Maybe not,” Bolan said. “But this time, you go home.”
“The cartels will not be happy,” the woman said. “They will kill us.”
“No,” Bolan said, “They won’t. I swear it.”
“What can you do?” she said, eyeing him frankly. “Our government cannot stop them, any more than they can stop these men.” She kicked one of the bodies.
Bolan hefted his submachine gun. “I am not a government. And I will kill them.” And he knew that he would, if he survived this. The irony of calling what he did a war was not lost on Bolan, even at moments like this. Wars ended. But for the Executioner, there was always someone else to fight. There was always someone else who needed to be taken down, so that the innocent might live.
“I think maybe you will,” she said, nodding. Bolan stepped back outside and closed the doors, scuffing dirt over the bloodstains as he went. There was no reason to draw attention to himself before it was necessary.
He padded on, avoiding confrontation. Bolan had more experience than most in slinking through enemy territory without being detected, and it served him well in the narrow, dusty streets. Soon enough, the familiar hulk of the old saloon beckoned him, and he thought about what James had told him about Sweets and about his cowboy fixation. In retrospect, it seemed obvious. Where else would a man like Sweets choose to make his headquarters?
Staying out of sight of the men at the front, Bolan made his way to the rear of the building and entered the alleyway that separated it from the next building over. The space was narrow enough that he could use it to his advantage, and he did so at once, pressing one foot and one palm to each wall, he spider-crawled up, pushing himself toward the top-story windows.
He muttered a silent prayer, hoping the rooms they opened onto were empty or, at the very least, no one stuck their heads out while he was in such a precarious position. The burns on his shoulders and chest pulled and wept beneath his combat vest, and he bit back a hiss of pain. Slapping into the windowsill, he grabbed it with both hands and hauled himself through the glassless frame, into the room.
No one was inside, and the room was barren of everything save a thick layer of dust and grime. He crept to the door and listened, hearing nothing. Then he opened it a crack and peere
d through. The corridor beyond was empty. He closed the door and crouched, weighing the odds. If James and Tanzir were still alive, they were in this building. Sweets and Tuerto would have no reason to move them, unless they had decided to do to them what they had done to Bolan, and the Executioner doubted that. They were too valuable as bargaining chips, and they needed them in one piece.
He stood and opened the door, stepping out, his weapon held ready. He moved close to the door across the hall and listened. Movement; he counted in his head. One, two...three!
Bolan kicked open the door and fired three times, blasting the two mujahedeen and dropping them like stones. Letting the gun dangle, he unsheathed his knife and cut the bonds holding James to the bed. The young man looked like death warmed over. He gave a weak smile as Bolan helped him to his feet. His wounds had been bandaged, but he’d lost a lot of blood, and he’d been beaten black and blue since Bolan had last seen him.
“What took you so long?” he rasped.
“Traffic was murder,” Bolan said. “Can you stand?”
“I think I got my third wind,” James said. Bolan leaned him against the door frame. Then he bent and scooped up one of the dead terrorist’s assault rifles.
“Glad to hear it. I wasn’t planning on carrying you out of here,” Bolan said. He quickly peered around the corner of the door. Two men moved up the stairs at the end of the hall. One of them caught sight of him and yelled. Assault rifles chattered and Bolan jerked his head back as the air was filled with wooden splinters. He cursed. So much for the subtle approach.
“We could go out that way.” James gestured toward the room’s only window.
“I prefer the front door,” Bolan said. Taking a breath, he stepped around the door and fired as he hurled himself at the door opposite. Crashing through it, he rose and looked around. As he’d hoped, this room and the next, closest to the stairs, were connected by a door. Without slowing, he hit it at a run, stifling a groan as the wound on his neck began to weep from the exertion. He surprised one of the gunmen, and cut the startled man near in half. As he fell, the mujahedeen’s rifle chopped into the ceiling, sprinkling the floor with plaster. Bolan leaped over him and rammed the butt of his gun into the surprised features of the second man as he ran into the room to check on his companion. He fell, his face a mask of red. Bolan stepped over them and glanced down the stairs.
He emptied the clip at the men coming up, not bothering to aim. They fell back, yelling in outrage. Bolan lowered himself flat and squirmed across the landing, dragging one of the other rifles with him. “James, can you make it up here?” he shouted without turning around. Lowering his head, he swept the bar below with a steady eye. They had flipped over tables for cover and there were men scurrying in and out of the open doors. For the moment, Bolan had control of the situation. At least until someone thought to use a grenade. He needed an edge.
As if in answer to his prayers, the combat vest he’d lost earlier flopped down onto the floor next to him. James crawled slowly up next to him and grinned weakly. “Found it in that room you busted into. They got all our gear stored in there. Including everything they found in my van.”
Bolan hauled the vest up and plucked the remaining grenades from the harness. Two smoke canisters and a standard-issue fragmentation “room-buster”. He set them back and slid aside. “Have you still got that rifle I gave you?” James nodded yes. “Good. Keep a watch on our friends downstairs.”
“Think they’ll rush us?” James coughed.
“If they look as if they’re thinking about it, pop one of the smokers. It’ll buy us some time,” Bolan said, tapping one of the smoke canisters. “Save the other one. And don’t use the grenade unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m reenacting Custer’s Last Stand?” James said.
“Finding Agent Tanzir and getting us out of here before everything goes to hell.” Bolan eased himself backward and allowed James to take his place. When he was out of sight of the gunmen downstairs, he rose to his feet and moved down the hall, sliding the combat vest on as he went. There were two rooms he hadn’t checked, and he found that the second was locked. After rattling the knob, he stood back and gave the door a kick. He didn’t hesitate—if someone was inside, they’d have likely come running at the first sound of gunfire.
The first thing Bolan noticed was that the bed was empty. The second was the body on the floor. And the third was the rough bite of the nylon rope as it settled around his throat. Reacting instinctively, he threw himself back, catching his attacker between his own weight and the door frame. The rope went loose, not by much, but enough, and Bolan swept his knife out and up, slicing the rope in two with a twist of his wrist. He stumbled forward and turned as his attacker aimed a kick at his head. He caught an upswept ankle and threw them off balance.
“Is that a thank-you where you come from?” he said as Tanzir dropped back into a combat stance. Outside, he heard James fire off several rounds. He turned his attention back to the Interpol agent, risking an admiring glance. How she had freed herself, he could only guess.
“Thank you for what?” she said in slightly accented English. She lowered her fists and tapped fingers against the confiscated weapon poking up out of her trousers, its butt pressed against her belly. “Who are you?”
“Matt Cooper, U.S. Justice Department,” Bolan said. “I’m here to get you out.”
She rubbed her wrists. “I heard gunfire.”
“We’re preparing to make a strategic withdrawal to safety. Are you up for it?” Bolan said.
“We?” she said. “Is James—”
“He’s alive, but hurt. We need to go, and fast,” Bolan said.
“Where’s Tuerto?” she said.
“Downstairs, most likely trying to figure out how to get upstairs,” Bolan said.
“And where are we?”
“Upstairs, trying to figure out how to get down,” Bolan replied. A thought occurred to him. “And I think I’ve got it. Follow me.”
Chapter 21
“Ol’ Jorge has us pinned down but good. And no telling what Cousin Frank is up to,” Sweets said, hunkering behind the bar with Tuerto. Every so often, a gun from upstairs would chatter and chop into the overturned tables or the wall or the bar, forcing everyone’s head down.
“Cousin...? You mean Cooper? He’s dead!” Tuerto snapped.
“Yeah? You check on that lately?” Sweets said. He tapped his head. “Who else is going to be doing this? And right now? You ever watch any Clint Eastwood movies? Guys like Cooper ain’t dead unless you put a bullet between their eyes!” He laughed wildly. “Hell, he probably pulled himself back through the desert on his hands and knees, just looking for payback!”
“It doesn’t matter who it is! The question is, what do we do about it?” Tuerto said.
“Could just burn this shit hole down, I suppose...unless you want to try to make a play for your sugar dumpling upstairs, Mr. One-Eye,” Sweets said.
“We need to leave. Now,” Tuerto snapped, not looking at Sweets. “All we are doing is wasting time!”
“Couldn’t agree more myownself,” Sweets said, tapping his cheek with his pistol barrel. “Triple then?”
“We already agreed on double!” Tuerto glared at him in shock.
“We got to keep on top of the changing situation, man!” Sweets said. “A van is already outside, engine running. Triple or nothing. To compensate Digger for the loss of his lady, if nothing else.”
“I could just take the van...”
“And we could shoot each other to shit right here, save Cousin Frank or the Federales the trouble,” Sweets said, aiming his pistol in a casual fashion. “Your choice.”
“You make a persuasive argument, my friend,” Tuerto said. “Cover me?”
“My pleasure,” Sweets s
aid. He shot to his feet with a wild scream and leaped over the bar, firing his pistol even as his boot heels touched wood. Moving swiftly, he began to back out of the bar, pulling the trigger as he went. Tuerto moved quickly for the door and out into the cool of the night, while all eyes were on the coyote. Quickly, the man with one eye snapped orders to those of his men who were closest and they fell in around him as he hurried toward the van with Sweets.
“What about the others?” one of the men, a wiry Saudi named Hassam, said. “Are we just to leave them?”
“Here or there, what matter where they give their lives, so long as it is for Allah?” Tuerto said. “We—”
The sound started off quietly, but as he stopped in midsentence, it began to grow louder. It was the dull whop-whop-whop of a helicopter. Helicopters, in fact. Tuerto’s hands clenched. “We need to leave.” No one argued. They all recognized the sound for what it was as well as what it meant. Their grand jihad was close to ending before it had even truly begun.
Sweets yanked open the back of the van and made a melodramatic gesture. “Load it up, son. Fill her up and we’ll take her for a ride.”
“Hassam, take these, make for the first assault point,” Tuerto said, gesturing to the men around them. “If you do not hear from me in twenty-four hours, act as your conscience dictates.”
“The plan—?” Hassam began.
“The plan evolves,” Tuerto said. “‘Be like water.’”
Sweets snorted. “Arabs quoting Bruce Lee. Will wonders never cease?”
“Good taste in film is universal,” Tuerto said. He pointed at Sweets. “Hassam knows where to go. What he does not know, however, is the numbers for the account that contains your money. That stays here,” he continued, gesturing to himself.
“What, you don’t trust me?”
“Should I?” Tuerto said bluntly.
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