He yanked the wheel hard left, leaving the rutted road and cutting north. The closer he got to the border—and he had no idea how far away it might be—the better chance he had of being spotted by someone in a position to help or at least come investigate. The truck rattled fiercely as he maneuvered around rocks and mesquite trees. This way was slower, but it would be slower for his pursuers too.
All of them, he thought, except the chopper. He could hear it now, closing the gap rapidly. If he were a betting man, he’d wager that Jesus was on it, most likely carrying some seriously badass hardware. Off to his right, Bolan spotted a wash where a riverbed had long since gone dry, and he turned into it. The walls would help hide his dust trail from the vehicles giving chase, and it would make it harder for the chopper to get close.
The walls of the wash rose up on either side of him, and he was now heading in a northeasterly direction. Not perfect, but the ground was relatively flat and obstacle free, allowing him to push his speed higher. He was contemplating his next move when the first hail of bullets from whoever was riding shotgun in the chopper kicked up dirt and pinged off the body of the truck.
Bolan swerved, trying to make himself a more difficult target, but without cover, it wasn’t going to do much good. More rounds pinged off the roof of the truck, and several passed through, hitting the dashboard. The chopper was right on top of him. It was only a matter of time until he took a bullet—or the truck did—and then the chase would be over.
Making a quick decision, Bolan slammed on the brakes. The pilot didn’t have time to correct. He flew past Bolan’s position as he gunned the truck again. The Executioner drew his Desert Eagle and fired through the shattered windshield, aiming for the man he could see hanging halfway out the open door of the passenger compartment. Disappointed that it wasn’t Jesus, he still knew that one less enemy at this point—especially one shooting at him—was a good thing.
The passenger was busy shouting at the pilot. Bolan’s first two rounds were a bit off, but the sudden attack caused the pilot to veer up, giving him a clear shot. The Executioner fired a third time, and his round took the man high in the chest. He briefly grappled for something to hold onto, then fell from the chopper, landing in a heap in front of the stolen truck.
Bolan braked again and jumped out, ready to put another round into the man should he still be alive, but it was unnecessary. Whether it was the shot or the fall that did the job, he was dead. But his assault rifle, a Colt M4 carbine, seemed intact. Most likely, this one had also been stolen from the U.S. Army. With the chopper turning back toward him, Bolan put his Desert Eagle away and picked up the Colt, checking the magazine and doing a fast visual inspection.
The weapon was undamaged. Bolan grabbed two more magazines from the dead man, then returned to the truck. Another man was visible in the front of the chopper, sitting next to the pilot, and a second shooter was now hanging out the open door. Bolan didn’t hesitate. He pulled the Colt to his shoulder and opened up. He put his first few rounds into the chopper’s windscreen. The pilot pulled up immediately, veering away from Bolan’s position in the wash.
The maneuver put the shooter in view, and Bolan fired twice, hitting him clean both times. He fell backward into the cabin. Still firing, the Executioner put several more rounds into the aircraft and saw smoke start to billow from the back rotors and the telltale flicker of gasoline leaking out of the fuel tank. The chopper lurched back and forth as the pilot struggled for control, and Bolan watched as it went down a mile or so away.
He considered his options, then reached a decision. Given the number of men headed his way—it looked like four vehicles by the dust plumes he spotted over the edge of the wash, it was time to go on foot. Shouldering the carbine, Bolan looked into the cab for anything that might be useful, especially water, and came up empty. Turning to leave, he realized that he’d overestimated how much time he had. Two more vehicles were closing on him from the opposite direction.
Sureno must have called in some of the men in the field. They were communicating by radio, triangulating his position. Now they were surrounding him. He could try and head due north, but without water or provisions, and no real idea of how far it was to the border, he could die, even if he did elude capture. No, it would be better to do the unexpected.
He began running at a quick clip toward the oncoming vehicles, and when they got to within a hundred yards or so, he pulled the carbine free again and opened up. Both vehicles slammed to a halt and four men, two from each, dived out, taking cover behind the rocks lining the sides of the wash. They were staying down, knowing that all they had to do was wait and he’d be trapped.
Bolan also dove behind a boulder, then glanced back down the wash toward the truck. He’d parked it sideways, so it would give him some cover. At the very least, the men coming from that direction would have to stop and get out of their vehicles. On foot, they’d be slower and more cautious.
He peered around the wash again, hoping to spot something he could use to his advantage. Suddenly, he realized his knees were wet. He looked down and saw that the dirt beneath him was plenty damp. Scanning the wall, he noted that water had cut a path into the side of the wash itself. It wasn’t quite a cave, but it just might do.
He dropped lower and slid inside the hollowed-out space, ignoring the stagnant, alkali-scented puddles. He turned, then used the stock of the carbine on the ceiling, angling the barrel into the space he’d crawled through. It only took several quick jabs to bring down dirt in sheets, covering the entrance. Bolan turned the rifle back and forth, then gently removed it from the wet dirt. A hole smaller than a quarter remained, letting in a tiny bit of light, oxygen and, most important, sound.
Now it was just a matter of waiting and striking when the moment was right.
* * *
MORE THAN AN hour passed. Bolan couldn’t see out of the hole, but he could hear. Sureno’s men walked past several times. They were stumped as to where he’d gone, and despite sending out men to look, they’d come up empty—which was understandable, considering that he hadn’t gone anywhere.
As they were debating what to do and arguing about whose fault it was, he heard the faint crackle of a radio, then the familiar voice of Jesus asking for an update. Taking a risk, Bolan pressed himself closer to the small hole, trying to see. From what he could tell, they’d gathered around the man holding the transmitter.
Bolan wasn’t going to get a better opportunity. The men had their backs to his position and were less than twenty feet away, gathered in the middle of the wash. He pushed the dirt away from the small opening and switched the selector on the carbine to automatic. Then he cut loose. Men died screaming as bullets filled the air.
Bolan pushed the rest of the soil out of the way, crawling toward his boulder once more. Of the twelve men he spotted, six were down before he’d finished getting out of the little cave. Two more dropped as he made it to the boulder and the magazine on his assault rifle went empty. Rather than reload, he simply dropped it and switched to the Desert Eagle.
Its booming roar filled the air as he took down two men who tried to rush his position. That left two, both of whom had taken cover on the far side of his truck and were shooting wildly, unable to know for sure where he was. Panic was a wonderful field tool. Bolan dashed for the truck, rolling as he got near.
He glimpsed two sets of feet on the far side and pulled the trigger, hitting each man in the lower leg. The powerful weapon all but tore limbs off at this range, and they were screaming in agony as he got to his feet. He worked his way around to the far side and finished the job, cutting off their cries in mid-note. It was more mercy than they’d have shown him.
Bolan scanned the area and saw nothing but bodies. Not all of Sureno’s men here were dead, but none of them were long for this world. On the ground near one of them, he spotted the radio and could hear Jesus demanding information. “Lo que est�
� sucediendo? Que es disparar?”
He picked it up and keyed the mike. “I was doing the shooting, Jesus,” he said. “And that’s just the beginning. I’ll be seeing you and Sureno real soon.” He threw the radio to the ground and moved toward the group of vehicles on the far side of the wash. Bolan wanted to search them quickly before he left, on the chance that he might find some supplies that would help him stay alive on his trek across the desert.
He didn’t see the man who’d taken shelter in the backseat of the first car he approached until he lunged forward, gun in hand.
Chapter 9
The shot creased Bolan’s left temple. He fell sideways, hitting the dirt with a thud, and the panicked Mexican continued his lunge out of the car. Bolan fired. The rounds from his Desert Eagle hit the man square in the chest, and he stumbled backward, hitting the door of the car. His surprised stare was sightless as he slumped to the ground.
Bolan climbed slowly to his feet. His head pounded, but the bleeding wasn’t too bad for a scalp wound. He tore a strip off his T-shirt and wrapped it around his head, blinking to clear the sweat and blood from his eyes. For now, he’d have to settle for getting away alive. He looked through the two cars and found a half-filled bottle of water on the floor and little else. Bolan surveyed the area once more. He didn’t see any plumes of dust indicating that he had more company coming. Still, although taking a vehicle was tempting, it would be easily spotted moving through the desert at a distance. He’d have to remain afoot if he wanted to avoid notice.
To the north, a low line of scrub-covered hills beckoned. If he moved quickly, he might be able to put himself on the far side of them before another, more organized search could be mounted. A look at the sky told him it would be full dark in less than thirty minutes.
Bolan checked that his gear was secured, then headed out, moving as fast as he could toward the hills.
* * *
THE JOURNEY BECAME a blur. By midnight, Bolan was suffering from the effects of his day and a lack of water. He’d been dehydrated to begin with, and the chase, gunplay and hike hadn’t helped. Several times, Bolan missed a step and fell, once rolling into another washout and crashing through the remains of a dead mesquite tree. The needles stabbed him and tore through his clothes, shredding his skin.
Somehow, he got to his feet, found his bearings again and kept moving. When he stumbled once more and fell to his knees, he felt his consciousness begin to let go. He was about to give in to the darkness when he heard footsteps behind him. Mustering his strength, Bolan spun around, reaching into his shoulder rig for the Desert Eagle. In the moonlight, he made out the weathered face of an old man.
“Tony.”
“Seems like you’re having a rough time, my friend,” Tony said. “Come with me, and I’ll get you sorted.”
A wave of relief washed over Bolan. For the moment, he would live.
* * *
THE SOUND OF coyotes yipping in the distance, the warm crackle of a fire and the smell of cowboy coffee were the first things to filter into Bolan’s consciousness when he awoke. He tried to roll over, but at the first movement his body screamed in protest.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, son.”
Bolan jerked semi-upright and regretted it almost immediately. He groaned, and Tony laughed softly.
“I save you from the vultures and you still suspect. That’s all right, I’d do the same,” the old man said. He sat across from Bolan, sipping from an old enamel mug. He looked peaceful and totally at home. “Guess you’re probably thirsty.” He stood and knelt next to Bolan, handing him a canteen.
“How did you find me?” Bolan asked.
“Olivia.”
Bolan lowered his head. He hadn’t had much time to consider Colton Rivers’s wife in all of this, but knowing she’d sent Tony meant she knew about her husband and his tragic end. To the east, the sky was turning gray, the first rays of light from a new day. But for her, there would be no sunshine for a long time to come.
“When you two didn’t come back, she called the Border Patrol station and they sent out a team. They found the SUV and Colton, but since you aren’t here in any official capacity, she didn’t have anyone else to turn to. She called me and I set out after you. You want to tell me what happened?”
“I made a mistake,” Bolan admitted. “And it got Colton killed. They were waiting for us when I expected them to be long gone. After Colton went down, I didn’t have much choice. It was surrender or die, so I let them take me. I figured I could at least do some recon.” He shook his head. “Even then, I still thought it was probably just a better-than-usual group of cartel thugs. It wasn’t until I met the leader and his right-hand man that I realized how serious the situation was.”
“Let me guess,” Tony said. “You ran into Rene Sureno.” When Bolan nodded, he continued. “I did some digging around, and that was the name I came up with. He’s a big player now and on the Mexican government’s radar. The problem is that their radar is pretty crowded these days. Anyway, that’s how I knew where to start looking for you. His compound is about thirty miles from here.”
“Thirty miles?” Bolan repeated, starting to rise. “We need to get moving. They’ll find us if we’re this close when daylight hits.”
“Rest easy, my friend. Rene and his men aren’t trackers. I know this country well enough that I could find us a place just outside his gates where we could have a drink, enjoy a campfire and lob grenades over his walls without him knowing where we were.” Tony poured himself another cup of coffee. “We’ll move on when we’ve got enough light to see by. Do you know the story of Geronimo?”
“Not the specifics,” Bolan said. “Just that he was from around here.”
The old man nodded. “This country was Geronimo’s, all right. He and his band would raid all along the border, slipping into the valleys on the U.S. side and then use the Chiricahua mountain range to vanish.”
Bolan leaned against the rocks and listened to the soft, even rhythm of Tony’s voice. Taking small sips from the canteen and popping pieces of dried fruit in his mouth, he allowed himself to relax slightly.
“Finally, the government sent in the cavalry—and I do mean the real thing. The 4th Cavalry was sent out from Fort Huachuca. And Geronimo gave them a merry chase. Whenever it got close, he and his band would hop across the border into Mexico.”
“He surrendered eventually, right?”
Tony nodded. “He did, but it was more out of a desire to save what was left of his band. They were beaten by starvation as much as anything else. That and the fact that the 4th never relented once they got going. Either way, many of the trails and camps I use are the very same ones that wily old Apache used.” He gestured around them. “This little canyon we’re in right now isn’t all that far from Rene, especially as the crow flies. But to get in here, you have to be on foot or horseback.”
Bolan hadn’t realized they had horses with them until that moment. He looked at the two animals, which had been silent the whole time. They were in a makeshift corral nearby.
Tony lifted a small medical bag from the ground and moved closer. “The sun will be up soon. Let’s tend to the rest of your wounds.” He started at the top, cleaning and using liquid bandages. “I imagine most of these scars I see have a story.”
“They do,” Bolan said. “But don’t they all?”
“Yeah, I figured.” He swabbed a particularly nasty cut on Bolan’s ribs. “Are you about ready to tell me who you really are?”
“Just as soon as you’re ready to do the same,” he replied.
“My identity isn’t secret,” the old man said.
“No, but when Colton told me about you, there were a lot of maybes in the story.”
Tony leaned back, examining his work, then nodded with satisfaction. He put the medical bag away, gathering
the bits of trash into a plastic bag. Then he dug into a saddlebag and tossed Bolan a clean T-shirt. “Men like you and me, we’re like wolves. We know our own kind when we smell ’em.”
Bolan chuckled. “I suppose we do. Sureno is a wolf, too, just a different type.” His thoughts turned to Rivers once more. “I should’ve smelled him, but I didn’t.”
“We all make mistakes,” Tony said. “But Sureno isn’t a wolf. He’s really just a jumped-up coyote. You keep your name, Cooper, but whichever name you use, you’ll have a friend here, if you need one. This old man is still good for something every now and then.”
Bolan nodded. “You have my thanks. You pulled my fat out of the fire, probably saved my life. I won’t forget it.”
Tony looked at him carefully. “No,” he said, “I don’t suppose you will. You aren’t that kind of man—or wolf.”
“Sureno isn’t the forgetting kind, either,” Bolan said. “He’ll be coming.”
Chapter 10
While waiting for daylight, Bolan and Tony cleaned up the camp, put out the fire and began loading the horses. They were almost finished when the whip-thip of helicopter blades cut through the morning air.
“You call in reinforcements?” Bolan asked, suspecting the answer before he heard it.
“Nope. No satellite phone these days.” Tony scanned the sky to the south.
“Sureno?”
“Probably,” the old man said. “Last I heard, he was strictly a ground crew. When you mentioned that he had a chopper you put down, I figured he’s obviously got more toys than I knew about. Let’s saddle up. We can lose them in the mountains.”
They grabbed the last of the gear on the ground and moved to the horses. Bolan stood out of the way, handing Tony what he needed as he prepped the mounts. Horses were not in his area of expertise. Bolan tied the last of the gear to his horse, then slipped a foot into the stirrup.
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