Border Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan turned the man again to force him to face the stream of water, and he could feel the man's entire body begin to shudder. He shook his head from side to side, once bumping the back of his head into his savior's face and cutting his lip. With the initial danger past, Bolan allowed the gasping man to slump gently to the floor of the shower. He stepped out, leaving the water on full blast.

  Grabbing his Beretta, he walked to the outer office, intending to lock the door. He stopped abruptly in the center of the room. The frosted glass in the outer door was dark. As he began to move again, the shadow moved and he heard the rattle of the doorknob. It was too late to lock the door. He sidestepped and took cover behind a row of cabinets.

  The knob squeaked and the latch clicked open. Crouching behind the metal cabinet, he shifted the Beretta to his left hand. It was tempting to shoot first, through the glass, but until he knew who was trying to enter the office he had to hold his fire. It could be anyone, from a cleaning woman to a burglar. There didn't have to be a connection between the man in the shower and anyone who tried to enter the office.

  The door swung open slowly, its hinges squeaking like an old radio sound effect. The large shadow was broad enough to cover the entire panel of glass. When the door finally opened wide enough, the shadow split in two, and one man stepped through. His right hand was extended, and Bolan caught a glimpse of an automatic pistol with a suppressor threaded in place before the interior darkness swallowed both the man and his gun.

  A second man, taller and slimmer than the behemoth who led the way, slipped in and closed the door behind him. The frosted glass now glowed softly again, the overhead fluorescent in the hallway ceiling bleeding through and throwing a pale block onto the tiled floor.

  In the near darkness Bolan watched while the two men huddled together. Their whispered conversation was too soft for him to hear, despite the closeness. The lead shadow lifted a small walkie-talkie to his lips, and Bolan heard a sharp burst of static.

  "Looks like you're overreacting again. Nobody's here. I'll let you know for sure in a couple of minutes." The big man thumbed the walkie-talkie off and tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  The slender man passed in front of the glass, and a click filled the room with light. Bolan blinked away the sudden glare, and the big man froze. He shouted something as he swung around his automatic. His reactions were good.

  But Bolan's were a little better.

  The Beretta chugged twice, the suppressed whisper like thunder in the sudden silence. Two bright red blotches exploded on the big man's denim shirt, and he looked at the holes in his chest as if he didn't believe they were really there. Then, in a slow second that seemed to take an eternity, he looked back at Bolan, his mouth frozen in a silent O.

  He seemed to stumble over the pattern in the tile and pitched forward. A spasmodic contraction jerked his trigger finger once, then again, the slugs slamming into the floor as he fell.

  Behind him, now suddenly exposed and still uncertain what was happening, the tall man stuck out his tongue as if thinking. He reminded Bolan of a chess player caught off guard by an unexpected maneuver. He spotted the warrior in the same instant and dived to the floor, landing on a shoulder and rolling toward the wall. He slammed into the legs of a lounge and tried to rise, but his boots slipped on the slick tile and he landed hard on one elbow.

  The pistol in his other hand wavered, and he fired one shot while trying to regain his balance. The slug ripped into the plaster just above Bolan's head, sending a shower of dust and fragments sifting down over the Executioner's wet skin.

  He was exposed in the corner, but his opponent was just as vulnerable. Still lying on the floor, the thin man rolled to his right, his feet slipping under the lounge and hampering his movement. He fired again to buy himself some time, but this shot went wide. Bolan took careful aim and fired a single shot, catching the prostrate gunner in the shoulder. The bullet slammed down through the collarbone of his gun hand, and the arm went limp.

  Reaching for the pistol with his other hand, the hard guy rolled back just as Bolan fired again. This time the shot was dead on. The 9 mm stinger splintered bone as it bored through the man's skull, and he jerked like a landed trout for a second or two, then was still forever.

  Bolan scrambled to his feet and ran to the door. This time he locked it, pressing his ear to the glass. The hallway outside was quiet. He heard a door open and close at the far end of the hall, a mumbled conversation, then silence. He checked the two men on the floor. Neither had a pulse. As he stood after checking the big man, a burst of static crackled and Bolan, startled, turned to the door.

  Then he heard a voice, thin and reedy, almost a whisper. "Alonzo, you there? Come on man, answer me. Alonzo?"

  Bolan reached into the big man's pocket and yanked the walkie-talkie free. He held his hand over the mike and pressed the send button. "Hang on," he mumbled, deepening his voice to approximate what he assumed the dead man had sounded like.

  "Everything all right up there?"

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "All right. Look, if you don't need me, I'm gonna go ahead. Okay?"

  "Okay, okay. I'll see you later."

  Bolan tossed the walkie-talkie onto the floor and walked back to the inner office.

  4

  Randy Carlton punched the time clock with more than his customary violence. The mechanical jaws in the clock's inner workings chewed at the stiff cardboard, chomping several square bites out of the edge of his time card and stamping 7:03 four times before he yanked it loose. The whole partition on which the clock was mounted rattled its Plexiglas windows.

  Will Ralston, his partner, eyed him from the other side of the coffee machine. Carlton slammed the card back into its slot in a battered metal rack, which had seen better days. The metal panel on its front was creased and dented, its khaki paint chipped and peeling in several places, betraying at least three earlier paintings.

  He joined his partner at the coffee machine, breaking two Styrofoam cups as he yanked them from the dispenser. The third, miraculously, held together. Carlton dumped sugar into the white cup without looking, then opened the petcock on the coffee machine, watching the watery brown fluid dribble until the cup was half full. He churned the coffee and sugar into a viscous mess with a plastic stirrer, then added milk. After downing the lukewarm slop in the two gulps, he crumpled the cup in a large fist, ignoring the goo oozing out of the ruptured Styrofoam and seeping through his fingers.

  With a sardonic smile, he flipped the cup behind his back and watched it hang precariously on the lip of a plastic wastebasket. When it finally teetered in, he raised his right arm triumphantly, shouting "Yes! And it counts." He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and simulated the buzz of an adoring crowd.

  "You finished, or is it just halftime?" Ralston asked, tilting his Stetson far back on his head to reveal the broad forehead of a prematurely balding man.

  His partner ignored the taunt. "You see those dorks from Arizona last night? Jeez, how the hell do you blow a fifteen-point lead in eight minutes? Wildcats, my ass. Pussycats is more like it."

  "I guess they miss a certain power forward. Of course, he's a little long in the tooth, and I'd bet my next check his jump shot ain't what it used to be."

  Carlton groaned. "Here we go again. You never give up, do you? Well, old buddy, I'll bet you my next check I can still wipe the court with your raggedy ass. How about lunchtime we play a little one-on-one."

  "What'll you spot me?"

  "Two baskets-"

  "Shit! You outweigh me by forty pounds and have a six-inch height advantage."

  "Yeah, but I'm gettin' old. Isn't that what you just said? That ought to be worth something."

  "All right, all right. We'll talk about it later. What's in the hopper for this morning?"

  "Same old shit. Check the rail yards. Run down to the border for a nice leisurely ride."

  "Great, just what the doctor ordered. It's supposed to get up to a hundred and five today. T
oo damn early in the year for that kind of heat."

  "Shouldn't bother you. You grew up around here. I come from Flagstaff. It's human weather up there, not lizard weather."

  Ralston finished his own coffee and tossed the cup, intact, into the wastebasket. "You ready?"

  "No."

  "Good! Let's roll, then."

  The two men signed out, Ralston noting their itinerary on the assignment log, and stepped out into the early morning. The light was intense, but the temperature, at least, was still in the low eighties.

  Ralston led the way to the Bronco cruiser, his boots clacking on the asphalt of the parking lot inside a wire fence. At an even six foot he would have been imposing except for his partner's half foot advantage in height. He had brownish hair, and Carlton loved to tease him about the premature streak of gray at each temple. Ducking under the doorframe of the 4x4, he knocked his hat off, as he did at least twice a week. Carlton had unmercifully kept a running tally since their first day as partners.

  "Three twenty-seven. You're right on your average, Will."

  Ralston took a swipe at him, catching the taller man in the shoulder as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  "How come the rail yards? We were just there two days ago."

  "I know, but Ronny Sipe got a hunch. Says we ought to give the place another look."

  "Fine by me." Carlton eased back in the seat to give his head a little clearance in the compact vehicle. The roads were okay, but the rail yards were potholed and lumpy, tearing up Broncos and drivers with equal indifference.

  Ralston pumped the accelerator, turned the key, then waited for the engine to settle into a smooth rumble. He kicked it into gear and backed out of the parking place, spun the wheel and darted through the chain-link fence.

  Out on the street he cruised along slowly. Each man swept his side of the street with practiced casualness. The job had honed instincts to a sharp edge. Despite the regular patrols and the occasional tips about coyote runs, they made nearly half their collars in broad daylight on the streets of district towns.

  The border seemed to have some sort of mystical influence over the illegals, and they treated it as if it were possessed of magical power, as if mere passage across it rendered them invisible, or at least superficially legitimate. For some of the Border Patrol officers, it did. Ralston and Carlton were more concerned with the predators charging exorbitant rates for smuggling workers across the border. If you had been south and seen what most of the workers were leaving behind, it was hard to blame them. An occasional blind eye hurt no one, and helped ease consciences still a little thinly skinned.

  Not everyone felt the same way, however. Some of the officers eased their own guilt by aggressively pursuing more of it. Rough treatment, even brutality, wasn't uncommon. There was an unwritten rule among the southeast Arizona detachment that business was business, and each man had his own.

  The rail yard was a tangle of spurs, sidings and low sheds. Baked under the desert sun 360 days a year, it looked more like a moon base than a train yard. The sheds, all peeling paint and corrugated metal, occupied one side of the yards, each pair separated by a freight dock and siding. Once through the sagging gate, Ralston swung the Bronco in a wide half circle, then killed the engine.

  Both men jumped down and loosened their side arms, which they carried in western-style holsters. Some of the characters they'd encountered were about as close to illegal as you could get and twice as ornery. An angry hobo had less to lose than an illegal alien, who at least had hopes of a surreptitious entrance and six months' worth of work before slipping back over the border. The bums, on the other hand, didn't give a damn about anything as mundane as a job.

  Ralston had taken twenty-five stitches and a hairline skull fracture when he had attempted to wake a sleeping hobo. The man came awake with an eighteen-inch lead pipe in his hand and caught Ralston across the forehead before the lawman knew what was happening. The attacker claimed later that he'd thought he was being robbed. Ralston thought that was plausible, and didn't blame the guy, but his head ached for two months all the same.

  They started at one end of the row of freight sheds, checking each open car, sometimes climbing up into a boxcar or tugging a canvas bonnet loose to look up into a pyramid of concrete culverts. Worming their way down the rows, they talked in loud voices, kicking and banging against anything handy to make as much noise as possible. They were less concerned about catching anyone hiding in the yard than they were replaying Pete O'Brien's last day on the job… and on earth.

  O'Brien had peeked into a flatbed stacked with twenty-four-inch oil pipe, and staring down one of the long tubes he found himself also staring into the considerably smaller mouth of a sawed-off 12-gauge. The hiding man, spooked by the sudden burst of sunlight, had squeezed off both barrels. There wasn't enough left of O'Brien's head for the undertaker to work on.

  While Carlton checked the first few cars in each row, Ralston explored the freight sheds and a couple of cars on the end of each line. The sheds took a little time, and Carlton gradually pulled ahead of his partner.

  The first three rows turned up no living thing but a pair of rats nesting in the manure-filled straw of an empty cattle car, and the usual complement of flies, their glistening green turning an assortment of cowpies into a surrealistic bed of living emeralds.

  Carlton noticed the smell first as he worked his way down the fourth row. He couldn't place it at first, but he couldn't avoid it, either. By the time he reached the fifth row of boxcars, he refused to confront what he already knew. In aisle six the smell turned to stench, and the hum, like a high-tension line ready to blow its transformer, filled the space between two rows of cars.

  "Will? Can you come here? On the double."

  "What's the matter."

  "Just come here, will you?"

  Carlton pulled a large checkered handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it across his mouth and nose. He walked forward cautiously, like a man entering a bear's den, just the toes of his boots touching the baked clay beneath them. He heard Will Ralston behind him, but he didn't turn around.

  "What the hell…?" Ralston stopped suddenly, sniffed and almost gagged. "Jesus H. Christ!" He coughed, then cleared his throat, fighting back the surge of bile. He yanked out his own handkerchief and smothered the lower half of his face with it, taking shallow breaths. He stepped to his partner's side. "My God, what an awful stench."

  "Yeah, isn't it?" Carlton stepped forward now, one foot at a time. He reached the sliding door of the next car in the row. "It's locked," he said, nearly choking. "Get me something to rip it open, Will."

  "I saw a crowbar in one of the sheds. Be right back." Ralston, as if glad to get away for a moment, sprinted back down the aisle, then disappeared around the corner of the last car.

  While he waited for Ralston to return, Carlton backed away from the boxcar and, feeling slightly ridiculous, knotted the handkerchief over his mouth and nose, tucking the pointy end in under his shirt to keep it snug. He felt like a bad guy in a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western, and for a second, almost smiled. Then he remembered why he'd done it.

  Ralston sprinted back, a three-foot crowbar in his hand. He passed it to his partner and stepped backward a few paces to knot his own handkerchief in place. It was eight-thirty, and the heat had already begun to rise. As he hefted the crowbar, Carlton looked up at the sky, its blue all but bleached away by the rising sun, and watched the shimmering air rising from the roofs of the rows of cars. Three black specks curled in place high above him, gradually growing larger, like a trio of eight balls rolling down a spiral staircase. He watched them for a moment, but didn't have to guess what they were. He already knew.

  Slipping the straight end of the crowbar under a heavy padlock, he leaned into the bar, but had virtually no leverage. He tried pulling up, but couldn't reach high enough to exert any real pressure. He dropped to one knee, then crawled under the car to grab a couple of creosote-spattered two-by-fours. He felt somethi
ng hot and wet drip onto his back and dampen his shirt.

  Crawling back out from under the car, he swiped one big hand across his shoulders, felt the sticky moisture and brought his hand back. Raising the damp fingers to his covered nose, he took a shallow whiff, then hastily wiped the hand on his uniform pants.

  Stacking the two-by-fours against the door of the boxcar, he repositioned the crowbar, pinning the lumber about midway along its length, then leaned into it. With the wood as a fulcrum, he was able to pry the padlock latch away. The bolts started to give, creaking in the old wood, ripping splinters out of the door, then popping, one by one. When all four had come free, the latch sprang back against the door. The rusted bolts rattled in the latch mount as it swung back and forth.

  Carlton tossed the bar to one side and reached for the door handle. He gave it a shove, and the door, protesting at first, rolled back and slammed into its block. A wave of noxious air swept over both men like a hot liquid, and Ralston dropped to his knees and ripped the kerchief from his face. The splatter of vomit made Carlton's stomach churn, and he turned away, trying to block out the sound.

  He turned back to the car while Ralston, still choking, got to his feet. Pulling a heavy flashlight from his belt, he clicked it on and played the beam around the inside of the car.

  "Oh my God!" he said, swallowing hard and turning away from the dark interior of the boxcar. "Will, run and get the yardmaster. Forget the radio. Use his phone to call in. Then call Ronny Sipe and tell him to get his ass over here."

  Carlton, vaguely aware of his partner's feet pounding on the hot earth, backed away from the open door. He reached up and yanked the kerchief away.