Invasion Usa: Border War

by Johnstone, William W.

  The cabbie rolled the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, grinned in the garish neon light of the flamingo-shaped sign, and said, “Sorry, buddy, that ain’t where you’re goin’.”

  Tom tensed at the menacing tone of the cabbie’s voice. He heard the scuff of shoe leather on concrete and looked quickly over his shoulder. Two men had emerged from the shadows along the street, one to his right and one to his left. They moved in quickly, cutting him off so that he couldn’t spin around and duck back into the night club. All he could do was move forward, and that took him toward the cabbie, who stepped away from the car and brought a switchblade out of the hip pocket of his jeans. The blade snapped open and glittered in the light from the neon sign.

  “You should’ve let me take you where I wanted to earlier, amigo,” the cabbie said. “We could have saved all this trouble.”

  “You mean I should’ve let you turn me over to thieves or kidnappers, whatever it is you and your friends have in mind?”

  “You come down here, you got to expect somethin’ bad to happen, hombre. Now come with us, and if you don’ fight, maybe you won’t get hurt too bad. You might even live to go back home.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Tom said, “not without a fight. And if there’s a commotion out here, they’re liable to hear inside the club.”

  The cabbie laughed harshly. “You think they care in there?” He weaved the point of the switchblade back and forth in the air in front of him. “Come on, you bastard, or I’ll cut you up.”

  The man suddenly darted the blade at Tom’s face. Tom stepped to the side instinctively to avoid the thrust. The cabbie laughed again, showing that he was just playing a cruel game with Tom, like a cat with a trapped mouse.

  The problem was that this mouse could fight back. Tom used his avoidance of the knife as concealment for the way he swung his right hand behind him. His fingers closed around the butt of the pistol Brady Keller had given him. He brought it out and around in a smooth, efficient move that left it pointing at the cabbie’s startled face as he stood frozen a few feet away on the sidewalk.

  Tom heard quick movements from the men behind him, but the cabbie called out in Spanish for them to stop. Tom smiled tightly and said, “That’s smart. Even if your amigos jump me, I’ll be able to pull the trigger before I go down. And if that happens, you’ll be a dead man.”

  “Stay back,” the cabbie said to the other men. “This hombre is loco!” To Tom, he went on. “Don’ you know you can’t do this, man? It ... it just isn’t done!”

  “What, fighting back when someone tries to do you wrong?” Tom’s lips drew back from his teeth in an expression that was half grin, half snarl. “Get in the cab. You’re taking me back to the bridge, just as we agreed.” He chuckled grimly. “I’ll even give you the twenty-five bucks. That’s how much of a generous guy I am.”

  The cabbie closed the switchblade. “You gonna be sorry about this, man,” he said darkly.

  “Drop that knife,” Tom ordered. “I’m not getting in the cab as long as you’ve got it.”

  The cabbie sighed and said, “All right.”

  But instead of dropping the knife, he suddenly threw it hard, right at Tom’s face. Tom ducked to avoid it, and as he did, the cabbie flung himself to the side, out of the line of fire in case Tom pulled the trigger.

  Tom didn’t fire, though, because he heard rushing footsteps closing in on him from both sides. Now that the cabbie was momentarily out of danger, the other men figured it was safe to attack.

  Spinning to his left, he chopped at the head of the man coming at him from that direction. The blow landed with a solid thud. The man grunted in pain and stumbled. Tom tried to turn back to meet the threat of the other one, but he was too late. The second man crashed into him, knocking him off his feet.

  Tom managed to hang onto the gun as he rolled across the dirty sidewalk. A figure loomed above him, shouting vile obscenities. It was the cabbie, and he swung his foot at Tom’s head in a vicious kick.

  Tom kept rolling to avoid the kick. He reached up with his left hand and grabbed the cabbie’s ankle as the kick missed him. He heaved as hard as he could. With a startled yell, the cabbie went over backward and crashed to the sidewalk.

  The other two men were still on their feet. They came after Tom, and he couldn’t stay out of the way of both of them. A foot slammed into his ribs, sending shards of white-hot pain through him, and a second later another kick connected with the wrist of his gun hand. The little pistol slipped out of his fingers and slid spinning into the dark street.

  Hands grabbed Tom and hauled him roughly to his feet. A few feet away, the cabbie was just getting up. He reached out and snagged the switchblade he had thrown at Tom. It had fallen to the sidewalk, and now it was back in the cabbie’s hand. With a flick of his wrist, he opened it.

  “You damn gringo,” he snarled at Tom as he advanced toward him. The other two men tightened their grip on Tom’s arms so that he had no chance of getting away. “Now you gonna pay for what you did, man. You can’t threaten me an’ get away with it, you son of a bitch.”

  Tom’s heart pounded furiously in his chest. He was more angry than afraid, and as soon as the cabbie came close enough, he was going to try to kick the bastard in the balls. It might not change anything in the end, but he wanted to deal out as much punishment as he could while he still had the chance.

  But as the cabbie approached, again weaving the point of the blade through the air in front of him, Tom felt his heart sink. If they killed him, he would never get back to Laredo with the knowledge of where the kidnapped girls were being held. He cursed the fate that had sent him crossing the path of these thugs. Just as Brady Keller had warned him, not all the dangers in Nuevo Laredo had anything to do with Los Lobos de la Noche.

  The cabbie was almost close enough. Tom tensed himself, ready to lash out at the man and then try to tear himself free from the two who held him. He didn’t have much chance, but he couldn’t give up.

  Then suddenly there was movement in the shadows behind the cabbie. With a dull gleam of metal, the barrel of a heavy revolver crashed down on the man’s head. He let go of the switchblade as his knees unhinged. The knife rattled to the sidewalk. The cabbie was right behind it, pitching face-first to the concrete.

  Texas Ranger Captain Roy Rodgers stepped into the light, leveled the gun in his hand at Tom’s captors, and said in a quiet, dangerous voice, “Let him go.”

  Instead of following orders, the men practically threw Tom at Rodgers, making it impossible for the Ranger to fire. Rodgers darted aside as the two men grabbed for their own guns, tucked behind their belts.

  “Drop ’em!” Rodgers shouted, but the men paid him no heed. Their guns came up and spouted flame.

  Tom threw himself into the street as shots roared. He wasn’t trying to escape. He reached out in the direction his pistol had gone when it was kicked out of his hand earlier. His fingers touched metal, and he grabbed it up and rolled over onto his stomach, facing back toward the sidewalk.

  He saw Rodgers fire and saw one of the gunmen spin off his feet. But then Rodgers staggered as he was hit by a shot from the other man. The Ranger tried to bring his gun around, but he was moving too slowly.

  The little pistol in Tom’s hand cracked wickedly as it bucked twice against his palm. Knowing the gun wasn’t all that accurate, he aimed for the largest possible target, the middle of the man’s body. The man jerked back a step, grunted, and doubled over as his gun slipped from his fingers and thudded to the sidewalk. He crumpled, clutching his belly where the .25-caliber slugs had ripped into it.

  Tom scrambled to his feet and ran to Rodgers’s side. He gripped the Ranger’s arm with his left hand, steadying him. “How bad are you hit?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” Rodgers grated. “Just grazed me on the side, maybe broke a rib. I’ll be all right, though, if we can get out of here.”

  Tom didn’t waste any time asking the Ranger what he was doing there. He jus
t steered Rodgers toward the cab, which was still parked at the curb. Along the way he stepped on the outstretched hand of the unconscious cabbie and heard bones snap. It hadn’t been intentional—but he couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for the son of a bitch, either.

  He pulled open the passenger door and helped Rodgers into the car. Then he slammed the door and hurried around to get behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. Tom started the car and put it in gear. He drove toward the international bridge, but not at the breakneck pace the cabbie had achieved on the earlier trip.

  “Wait a minute,” Rodgers said, his voice stretched taut by pain. “I can’t walk across the bridge and through U.S. customs with this bloodstain on my shirt. Take the next right and then the next left after that. That’ll take us to Bridge #2. You can drive across that one.” Rodgers took off his Stetson and handed it to Tom. “Put that on and pull down the brim. You’ll just be a Mexican cabbie taking a drunken gringo back to Laredo.”

  Tom nodded and put on the hat. He pulled over and helped Rodgers into the rear seat, where a passenger would normally ride. Then they resumed the trip and drove the few blocks to International Bridge #2. Straight across the river, just past the customs booths, was the southern tip of Interstate 35.

  A few cars and trucks were crossing the bridge, even at this time of night. Tom got in line and waited his turn. When he pulled up to the customs booth, he muttered something in Spanish about having a fare for one of the hotels in downtown Laredo. The U.S. customs agent asked him a few perfunctory questions, collected the dollar toll, and waved him through after glancing into the backseat at Rodgers, who was hunched over looking sick. It was certainly a convincing imitation of being drunk.

  A feeling of relief washed through Tom as he drove away from the bridge. Just being on American soil again meant a lot. He took the first exit from the interstate highway, made a few turns, drove a few blocks, and wound up back at the parking lot where he had left his car earlier in the evening. That seemed like a long time ago now, and it seemed even longer since he had left Kelly’s house to meet with Brady Keller. The get-together at the gun club was ancient history, even though it had taken place only five hours earlier.

  The two men transferred from the cab to Tom’s rental car. Rodgers said, “I’ll try not to get blood on the seat. The rental company wouldn’t be happy about that.”

  “You saved my life,” Tom pointed out. “I’m not too worried what the rental company thinks.”

  “Well, you saved mine, too. That second hombre would’ve dropped me if you hadn’t gotten him first.”

  “And you wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for me.” Tom drove steadily through downtown Laredo. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you know what we’re doing?” Tom’s voice was grim as he asked the question.

  “I know enough to make a good guess.”

  “The question now is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “We can talk about that while your wife is patching up this bullet crease in my side.”

  Tom glanced over at the Ranger in surprise. “I figured I ought to take you to the emergency room.”

  Rodgers shook his head. “That’d mean the gunshot wound would have to be reported, and we’d have to put this whole thing on an official basis. I’d rather not do that just yet, until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

  “What makes you think my wife can take care of that wound?”

  “She’s married to you.” Rodgers laughed. “I figure she’s bound to have some experience patching up gunshot wounds.”

  “I’m not the Lone Ranger, you know, going around getting into gunfights all the time.”

  “Just drive,” Rodgers said.

  Twenty-nine

  Tom went into the house first, moving quietly. The FBI technician in the den was sound asleep, stretched out on one of the sofas. The guy would undoubtedly get his ass chewed out if Agent Morgan ever got wind of his dereliction of duty, but Tom sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her. He was glad the agent was sleeping on the job. It made getting Rodgers in the house that much easier.

  He took the Ranger into the bathroom just off the master bedroom and got his first good look at the extent of the bloodstain on Rodgers’s shirt. It was pretty large, and Tom wasn’t surprised that Rodgers was pale and unsteady, after losing that much blood.

  Rodgers sat down on the toilet while Tom said, “I’ll go get Bonnie.” Rodgers nodded weakly.

  Tom found Bonnie sitting in a rocking chair in the guest bedroom, wearing her robe, a paperback book lying in her lap where she had obviously dropped it when she dozed off. She had tried to wait up for him to return from his meeting with Brady Keller, but the hour had gotten too late and weariness had overtaken her.

  He put a hand on her shoulder and said her name softly. She gasped as she came awake. Her eyes flew open and she stared up at Tom for a second as if she didn’t recognize him. Then her brain cleared and she threw her arms around his neck, coming up out of the chair as she hugged him hard.

  “Oh my God!” she said. “When it got so late, I was afraid something had happened to you, Tom.” She drew back a little and looked him over, and she must have noticed his disheveled state because she went on. “Goodness, it looks like you’ve been rolling around in the street!”

  “That’s a pretty good guess,” Tom told her dryly.

  “And what’s that on your hand? Is it ... it’s blood! Are you all right?”

  Tom looked down at his hand and saw the crimson smear on it. He must have gotten the blood on him while he was helping Rodgers.

  “It’s not my blood,” he said. “It belongs to Roy Rodgers.”

  She blinked and frowned in confusion, then her expression cleared. “The Texas Ranger?”

  “That’s right. He’s sitting in Kelly’s bathroom right now with a bullet crease in his side. I thought maybe you could help me with him.”

  Bonnie’s eyes widened. “You stay out half the night and then bring home a Texas Ranger with a gunshot wound? Tom, what in the world have you been doing?”

  He didn’t think it would hurt to tell her. “Finding out where Guerrero and his men are holding Laura and the other girls.”

  That news made Bonnie’s eyes widen even more. She brought a hand to her mouth. “Really?” she asked, as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to hope that it was true.

  “Really,” Tom told her. “Come on and help me with Rodgers, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  They made their way quietly down the hall to the master bedroom as Tom whispered to her that he didn’t want to wake the FBI agent in the den. When they reached the bathroom, they found Rodgers with his head leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. He didn’t stir when they came in, and Tom knew he had passed out. He felt a moment of doubt about this; Rodgers might need more medical attention than he and Bonnie could provide. But the Ranger had been right about the dangers of an emergency room visit. Once his injury was on record, his superiors would want to know how he had gotten shot, and he would have to tell them.

  Bonnie took a deep breath and her jaw set stubbornly. “Let’s get that shirt off of him,” she said as she picked up a small pair of scissors from the vanity and went to work cutting the bloody garment away.

  Rodgers stirred and his eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t quite regain consciousness until they had the shirt off and began using wet paper towels to wipe away the blood around the wound. The bullet had left an ugly gash about four inches long in his side. It had knocked out a small chunk of meat and resulted in a lot of blood, but Tom could tell by looking that the injury wasn’t all that serious, just messy and probably quite painful. He clapped a hand over Rodgers’s mouth to keep the Ranger from yelling as Bonnie doused the wound with alcohol. Rodgers’s eyes opened wide at the touch of the fiery liquid.

  Tom squeezed the Ranger’s shoulder with his other hand. “Hang on,” he said. “We’re almost done. T
he worst is over.”

  Bonnie found some gauze and adhesive tape in a cabinet and fashioned a thick bandage that she taped in place over the wound. The blood had started flowing again and the bandage would probably have to be soaked off when it was changed, but Bonnie made it tight enough that it ought to staunch the bleeding.

  “Thanks,” Rodgers choked out. “Feels like you did ... a good job.”

  “You ought to be in a hospital,” Bonnie said. “I’m not a doctor.”

  “No, but you’re a mother, and this is just like a really bad scraped knee,” Tom said.

  “I’m serious,” Bonnie insisted. “Captain Rodgers may need stitches, and he might have a broken rib.”

  Rodgers lifted a hand and waved off that suggestion. “No hospital,” he said. “No stitches. I can tell now ... no ribs broken. Don’t want to ... report this.”

  “Because of the girls?”

  Rodgers nodded.

  Bonnie turned to Tom. “You said you’d tell me what happened.”

  He sat down on the edge of the tub and motioned for Bonnie to sit beside him. When she was perched there, he said, “Brady Keller got a lead on somebody who knows where the Night Wolves have their headquarters.”

  “Not sure I ... need to hear this,” Rodgers murmured.

  “You’re hip-deep in it already,” Tom told him bluntly. “I’d say you’ve already made your choice which side you’re on, Captain.”

  Rodgers looked intently at him for a moment and then nodded slowly. “I figured it had to be something like that when you went over to Nuevo Laredo. Go on, Brannon.”

  Bonnie said in surprise, “You went to Nuevo Laredo?”

  “Keller’s contact wanted a personal meeting,” Tom explained. “I didn’t have any choice. I thought about calling you to tell you, but I decided it would be better to wait until after it was done, so you wouldn’t worry.”

  She frowned. “You should have thought that through a little more ... but we’ll let it go for now. What happened?”

  Tom explained what Brady Keller had told him and then sketched in the highlights of his visit to Nuevo Laredo. Bonnie paled when he reached the part about being accosted by the cabbie and the man’s two accomplices.