Border Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  “Good point,” Sweets said, grinning ruefully. “Where are you going?”

  “With your brother,” Tuerto said. Spotlights suddenly swept down from overhead, and voices speaking in Spanish echoed from loudspeakers. There was a rattle of gunfire not far away. Tuerto frowned. “I will see to a proper distraction and gather another group. We may yet salvage something from this mess.”

  “Digger’s van is around back,” Sweets said, climbing into his vehicle. He slammed the door. “Don’t be late now... I can’t refund them plane tickets to Barbados.”

  The van shot forward even as Hassam pulled the back doors closed. Tuerto watched it for a moment, and then turned and began grabbing men as they ran past. Orders spilled from Tuerto’s lips with a fluency born of a hundred desperate situations, and he knew the men he had brought would fight and die as well as any. Even better, they would buy him the time he needed to get away.

  Plans within plans spun in the mercenary’s head. He was an expert at adapting on the fly, but this situation was rapidly moving out of his comfort zone. The original plan, to move north with the money, was still in play. But the distraction of the Holy One Hundred’s attacks was looking less and less like a done deal. He cast a covert glance at the men around him. Who had seen his face? It was a substantial list—these men, the drivers, the Interpol woman and the two federal agents.

  If they all happened to die, he could simply disappear. But he had to make sure. Easy enough with the Holy One Hundred; they wanted to die, and he was happy to oblige. As for the others... “Find the surviving drivers, save for the one called Digger, and send them to paradise,” he said to one of his men. “No loose ends, brothers,” he said out loud. “Kill the others, as well, those pathetic pilgrims looking to clean toilets in America. Send them all to Allah’s grace.”

  The woman was the key. Taking a hostage was a risky thing, but the dividends could be lucrative. Interpol was squeamish about losing agents. If worse came to worst, he could bargain her life for his.

  Yes, the woman was the key. He needed to get her.

  * * *

  BOLAN CLUNG TO THE WINDOW FRAME by his fingertips and tried to ignore the ache in his muscles. Tanzir, in contrast, was shimmying down the rusty drainpipe as if it was second nature. She dropped lightly to the street and pressed herself against the wall as she waited impatiently for Bolan to join her.

  He dropped to the ground with a grunt, his knees bent and arms extended. Stretching slightly, he looked around. “Right on time,” he said. Gunfire chopped the silence of the night into rags and tatters, and the growl of engines shouldered through the gaps. It sounded as if the Federales were getting their teeth into Tuerto’s men, but the latter weren’t exactly giving up.

  A helicopter swooped overhead and he realized that the Mexicans were no longer the only players in the game. A sense of relief, slight but welcome, flooded Bolan. They might actually pull this off.

  “What is going on? What is happening?” Tanzir said, wide-eyed.

  “The plan got changed. I was hoping we’d have you and James out of town before this happened, but no such luck. There’s nothing for it but to keep our heads down and make a break for it after we get James out.”

  Tanzir pulled her pistol and checked the clip. “Tuerto’s men will scatter like roaches if this goes on for too long. And he’ll be the first. We need to find him, and now.” She slapped the clip home and started to push away from the wall. Bolan snagged her arm.

  “First we rescue James. Then we’ll go after Tuerto,” he said.

  “Not acceptable,” Tanzir said, shaking his grip off. “Taking Tuerto down is more important than—” She bit down on the last part of the sentence before it could escape her lips, but Bolan knew well enough what she’d been about to say. It was a sentiment that he himself had once shared, more or less. He met her eyes, saying nothing. A muscle in her jaw bobbed and then she was moving away. He didn’t try to stop her.

  Instead, he sidled around the edge of the saloon, Beretta held low. Men were spilling out of the building as others readied glass bottles stuffed with rags. They were planning to burn the place down, probably more to destroy any evidence of what they were up to than to flush out James. Six men, the others were already scattering.

  Bolan stepped out from around the edge of the building as the first Molotov cocktail tumbled through the open doorway. He raised the Beretta, took a breath and squeezed the trigger. Three men collapsed in the sudden blaze of firelight. Two more cocktails hit the windows and porch, scattering serpentine trails of burning alcohol and gasoline. The smell hit Bolan a moment before he went low and ducked behind one of the crippled trucks. He shot a running figure, causing it to tumble face-first into the dust and then the Executioner was up and moving around the back end of the truck, the Beretta bucking in his grip.

  Two bodies bent and slumped and Bolan stepped over them and up onto the burning porch. Smoke invaded his sinuses as heat scorched his lungs and skin. His instincts screamed at him to back away from the flames.

  Bolan stepped back and turned, quickly stripping the shirt off of one of the dead men. Tearing it into strips he wrapped it around his head and hands and then moved back up the steps. Black smoke billowed out the doorway and shattered windows as fire spread quickly through the old structure.

  Steeling himself, the Executioner plunged into the inferno. Fire caressed him with delicate pain as he raced through it as fast as he dared, and smoke pried at his sinuses, seeking to fill his lungs. Through tear-filled eyes, he caught sight of Agent James, collapsed on the steps. Bolan struggled up the stairs. He pitched back against the wall as a burning timber slammed down, taking out the banister. The badly made stairs shifted, creaking beneath his weight. Bolan jumped as they crumpled beneath him, his hands grabbing onto the landing, barely in time. He clawed wildly at the wood as his weight carried him backward and he dug strong fingers into the boards, pulling himself up beside James with a growl.

  Swiftly, he pressed two bloody fingertips to James’s neck and was relieved to find a pulse. It was thready, but there. Downstairs, a chunk of the ceiling gave way. What age and neglect couldn’t do, the fire was, in spades. Bolan hefted the border agent in a fireman’s carry and scrambled down the corridor toward the window. He had to get the man clear of the fire, and soon, if he was to make it.

  The window at the end of the hallway was one of the few that still had a full pane of glass and Bolan swiftly punched it out with the butt of his H&K. Then, adrenaline and desperation delivering a boost to his strength, he kicked the rotten frame out of the wall, opening a hole wide enough for two men to go through.

  Behind him, the flames crawled along the corridor, pulled toward the open air, crackling greedily. The whole building gave a shudder as it began to collapse. Bolan pulled James’s hands over his shoulders and hurriedly stripped the sling from his gun, tossing the weapon aside with a flicker of regret. That was two weapons lost in as many days. It was getting to be a bad habit.

  Using the sling, he lashed James’s arms to his web gear and tied them tight. Then, making sure the other man wouldn’t shift loose, he swung out onto the outside wall and began to climb. Flames licked at his legs as he hauled them upward, arm over arm, toward the roof. It was a long shot, he knew, but James wouldn’t survive a fall to the street below, not in the shape he was in.

  On his back, the young man coughed. “Cooper?” he said.

  “Right here, James, just hold on,” Bolan said, sweat running down his grime-streaked face in sheets. His fingers felt as if they were broken and a spasm of pain rippled down the length of one arm. This would have been difficult even if he were in perfect condition. As it stood, there was a very good chance he’d carry them both straight to hell.

  “Leave me, Cooper.” James groaned, his weight shifting, nearly pulling Bolan off his perch.

  “If you’d wanted me to
do that, you should have said it while we were still inside,” Bolan grunted. Something in his shoulder popped and he longed to give it a rest, but he knew there was no time. No time for anything but desperate measures.

  His fingers found the edge of the roof a moment later and he hauled himself and James up over it as quickly as he could manage. The roof was already growing hot under his feet and he knew he only had minutes at most before it collapsed out from under them.

  “Time to go, James,” he said, looking up. He pulled a flare out from his combat harness and smacked it to life. Then he held it up as high as he could reach, hoping against hope that someone would see it in time over the glare cast by the flames.

  Chapter 22

  “Idiots! What do you mean you burned it?” Tuerto howled, clubbing a man to the ground as his composure fled him momentarily. The others stepped back, staring at him uncertainly. Tuerto fought to regain control of himself. Fingertips pressed to his temples, he knew that it was unlikely that Cooper—if that was who was behind this—had left the woman tied up and that, as such, the burning of the saloon only made sense.

  He could feel the noose tightening around his neck as his breath whistled in and out from between his clenched teeth. Never before had a plan of his failed so spectacularly. Never before had everything seemed to conspire so forcefully against him. It was as if Allah had turned his gaze aside.

  Waving a hand, he forced his face into immobility. “Forgive me, Ali, I reacted badly,” he said, stretching out a hand to the man he’d felled. “What’s done is done. Our brothers give their lives to insure our success. We must move quickly.”

  Tuerto led them away from the orange light of the fire. Like the one from earlier in the day, it would spread quickly if not stopped. This time, however, it suited their purposes for the entire town to go up in flames and the sooner the better.

  Every trace of them must be wiped away; every plan, every spent bullet. All of it must be gone. Only then could he be certain of survival, and of some measure of success.

  The second van sat back behind a building, its engine already idling and protected from the aerial searchlights by the overhanging eaves of two rooftops. He grunted in relief. Something, at least, was going right.

  “Where’s the girl?” Digger rumbled, opening the passenger door for Tuerto. “I thought you were bringing her for me. Django said.” Ali and the others climbed into the back, causing the van to shift on its wheels. “Where is she?”

  “Back there,” Tuerto said brusquely. “But we need to go, now!”

  “Where’s Django?”

  “He has already left!” Tuerto said. “Go!”

  “Not until Django tells me so!” Digger growled, glaring at the other man. “Not until I get what I want!”

  “I say go,” Tuerto said, pulling out his weapon and pressing it to Digger’s temple. “Go, and go now.” Digger gave a silent snarl and set the van into gear. It rolled out onto the street and the searchlights from the circling helicopters caught it, nearly blinding Tuerto. “Go! Go, go, go!” he shouted.

  “Don’t yell at me!” Digger snapped, stomping on the gas. The van lurched into motion, spitting sand, dirt and gravel beneath its wheels as it went. It sprang out into the street, nearly colliding with another vehicle. Tuerto swung his pistol toward the other vehicle, a military jeep, and shot the driver, a man wearing the uniform of the Mexican military. The jeep crashed into a building behind them as the van swept past.

  “We have to get out of here,” Tuerto said again. “Avoid the patrols. Can you do that?” he said, looking at Digger. “Or was your brother lying yet again?”

  “Django doesn’t lie!” Digger growled.

  “Django does nothing but lie!” Tariq retorted. He turned back around. “Hey, look out!” he cried, grabbing for the wheel.

  The woman had stepped out of nowhere, a pistol clasped in both hands. She stood in a relaxed shooter’s stance, her face an iron mask of resolve. She fired rapidly and the windshield became a hurricane of glass. Digger and Tuerto yelled in unison and the former stomped on the gas, trying to run the woman down.

  Tanzir dived aside as the van rumbled past. It turned sharply and one side rose off the ground as if the vehicle were attempting an awkward pirouette. Then, with a shriek of bending metal and breaking glass, it slammed down on its side. Tanzir rose from where she’d landed and hurried forward.

  The back door of the van was kicked open and a man staggered out, the weapon in his hand kicking up a cloud of dust as he pulled the trigger. The Interpol agent pivoted and fired, raising a cloud of red from his skull. Even as he dropped, another man climbed out and took cover behind the open door of the van.

  Tanzir hurled herself through a beckoning doorway as assault rifles spoke. Huddling in the doorway, she wondered if perhaps she should have waited for the man called Cooper to give her backup. Angrily, she brushed the thought aside. No, no, Tuerto was hers. Three years she had waited, and this night was the night.

  With a snarl rippling across her lovely features, she stepped out of the doorway, firing toward the van. She shot through the windows on the door, knocking one of the survivors back. He screamed and tried to crawl away, clutching at himself. His companions wavered. The van caught fire a moment later and they broke, sprinting away.

  She didn’t lower her weapon. Instead she hurried toward the driver’s compartment. The driver’s side was pressed flat to the ground, and she could see nothing inside. The heat from the fire kept her from getting too close, but she saw that the passenger door was hanging like a broken limb, its bolt hinges split from the impact.

  She cursed in frustration.

  “Such language from so beautiful a woman,” her quarry said.

  She hit the ground and rolled as the pistol barked, bounding to her feet and firing in return. The man known as One-Eye staggered, giving a cough as his hand flew to his side. “Ah! Damnation,” he grunted, firing again and sending her scrambling around the other side of the van.

  Then, staggering, he began to run, leaving behind a trail of blood. After a moment, Tanzir looked up. She began to follow after him, blind to everything else but the path before her.

  As the two of them moved away from the light of the fire, a broad hand punched through the remainder of the windshield. Thick fingers dug trenches in the dirt as Digger pulled himself out of the wreck, his face blistered and peppered with glass shards that glittered eerily in the light of the fire. He climbed to his feet, seemingly unconcerned about any hurts that he might have sustained.

  In those last moments before the van had turned over, he had seen a flash of her dark wings. The black bird beneath the woman’s skin was calling him on, filling him with eagerness. Digger flexed his fingers and swiped glass out of his bloody chest and neck.

  “I’m coming,” he said, following the sound of her wings.

  Chapter 23

  The roar of the helicopter was as welcome a sound as Bolan had ever heard. It passed low and an emergency ladder was dropped. Bolan grabbed hold of James with one hand and the ladder with the other. Beneath their feet, the tar on the roof began to bubble from the heat of the fire below. The first lick of flame pierced the surface even as Bolan’s feet left the roof and he was pulled up into the safety of the chopper.

  Bolan set James into a seat and glanced at his rescuers. Carter, the FBI agent, nodded briskly to him. “Is this Greaves’s guy?” he said without preamble.

  “Agent Carter, say hello to Agent James, U.S. Border Patrol,” Bolan said.

  “You really did it,” Carter said, shaking his head. “You Justice Department guys are hard-core.”

  “Just doing my job,” Bolan said truthfully. “What’s the situation?”

  “We got one vehicle moving hell for leather north, but so far nobody has been able to break off and go after them. We got peopl
e en route to intercept, but...” He shrugged helplessly.

  “What are we waiting for then?” Bolan said. Tuerto had to be in that one. Even if not, Bolan knew they couldn’t let it slip away. If even one of Tuerto’s men set foot on American soil, innocents would die. And that the Executioner could not allow.

  “Maybe we should drop him off first, huh?” Carter said, gesturing to James.

  James cracked an eye. “Fuck that. Go get ’em,” he whispered.

  Carter barked an order and the helicopter swung away from the town. Bolan checked on James, marveling at the amount of punishment the young man had taken. “You look like hell, James.”

  “Thanks, Cooper. That makes me feel a ton better,” James said, closing his eyes.

  “My pleasure,” Bolan said, closing his own eyes, letting the cool night air wash over him. His skin was red in places, from the fire, and he stretched to keep his muscles from locking up. He had a feeling he was going to need every bit of agility before this night was through.

  “What happened to Tanzir?” James asked. Bolan opened his eyes.

  “She went after our one-eyed friend. I couldn’t convince her to wait for help,” he said.

  “White whale, man. I’m telling you...” James chuckled harshly.

  “Yes. I hope she does better than Ahab though,” Bolan said.

  The helicopter sped over the Sonoran Desert, swinging low and sending the wildlife, such as it was, running for the hills. The van appeared as the helicopter passed over a ridge. James blinked. “Is that my van?”

  “That’s your van,” Bolan said, attaching a rappel line to his harness.

  “That bastard stole my van!” James yelped, and then winced.

  “He also kicked seven shades of crap out of you, but you’re mad about the van?” Carter said wonderingly. “I take it back, Cooper. Border patrol is hard-core.”

  “He’s tougher than me, I’ll say that,” Bolan said, tightening the cinch in the line.