Border Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  James, however, didn’t seem inclined to wait. As Bolan dialed, the younger man suddenly rolled toward his pistol with the speed of a rattlesnake on the strike. As Bolan cursed and brought his weapon up one-handed, James scooped up the pistol and twisted around, sighting down the barrel.

  Bolan ducked to the side even as Jorge fired. Behind him, someone screamed. Bolan spun, and his UMP hummed as he let off a burst into Ernesto’s already sagging body. James’s bullet had torn a neat, round hole in the smuggler’s cranium, sending him into the darkness just ahead of Bolan’s own burst. Lowering his smoking weapon, Bolan turned back to James, who smiled at him weakly.

  “Sorry. Instinct, man,” James said, letting his pistol spin around his trigger finger until the butt was facing Bolan. “You can have it back now.”

  “Keep it,” Bolan said simply.

  Chapter 2

  “He’s legit,” Hal Brognola said, his voice echoing oddly through the receiver of the satellite phone. “He’s been with the United States Border Patrol for ten years, straight out of college. He’s a good one, Striker.”

  “He mentioned Interpol,” Bolan said.

  “Seconded, recently,” the big Fed said. “He and his partner.”

  “Partner?” Bolan looked at James, where he squatted beside Ernesto’s body, going through the man’s pockets. “He didn’t mention a partner.”

  “Why would he? He doesn’t know if you’re legit, either, Striker,” Brognola said, sounding amused. Bolan grunted. There was truth in that.

  “I guess I don’t have one of those faces, huh?”

  “Not even close.” Brognola cleared his throat. “From what I can tell, you just dropped into the middle of something that’s been in play for a while, barring recent changes.”

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?” Bolan said.

  “No, not really. It’s a mess, and only going to get messier. Interpol’s involved, Border Patrol wants the coyotes shut down and all the other federal agencies are screaming about being kept out of the loop. No one really knows what’s going on out there.”

  “Including us,” Bolan said.

  “How is that new?” Brognola said.

  “It’s not,” Bolan said. “Well, whatever the game is, I’m dealing myself in.”

  “Why did I have a feeling you’d say that?” Brognola sighed. “Look, I’ll try to find out what’s going on, on my end. Keep me posted on yours. Oh, and, Striker? Let’s keep the property damage to a minimum until we know whose field we’re playing in, okay?”

  “Sure thing,” Bolan said and turned off the phone. He clipped it back on his rig and started toward James. “You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” he said. The border patrol agent stood, clapping dirt off his pants.

  “Figured if you were really who you said you were, you’d find out, Cooper.” He rubbed his cheek. Bolan had given James the name of his Justice Department cover identity, Agent Matt Cooper, reasoning that it was the quickest way to get the man to trust him. So far, it seemed to have worked.

  “Well, I have. Who is he?”

  “He’s a ‘she,’ actually. Her name’s Amira Tanzir, with Interpol. She’s working things from the back end.” James watched curiously as Bolan knelt and grabbed Ernesto’s legs. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m moving the bodies onto the truck. Jihadists,” Bolan said, dragging the body up into the truck. Clapping his hands together, he hopped down and made for another one.

  “Maybe—that’s the rumor at any rate,” James said, rubbing his throat. “Hell, I don’t know, I just go where they tell me, Cooper.”

  “But that’s the rumor.”

  “Yeah,” he said. Bolan looked at him as he got another body onto the truck. According to Brognola, Jimmy-Jorge James was a veteran of countless border skirmishes with smugglers of all types of cargo—including humans. He’d made his bones taking down snakehead rings in California before gravitating east to the Mexican front, and the troubles there.

  Presently he was acting as a dogsbody for Interpol. Bolan could tell that it grated on the man, and the Executioner allowed himself a quick smile. He knew that feeling well. You grew used to working alone, to following your own initiative. It made it hard to follow orders, when it became time to do so again. That was one of the reasons for his current arrangement with the Stony Man organization. That, and the fact that Bolan felt that he was simply more effective on his own. He moved the last body onto the tailgate of the truck and shut it, flipping the body onto the others.

  “How long have you been under?” Bolan said, rounding the truck and sinking to his haunches. He unsheathed his KA-BAR and punctured the gas tank with one swift, economical strike. Rising to his feet, he looked at James.

  “Only a few months,” the young agent said. “We got word that some of the cartels were using coyotes to get pigment—”

  “Pigment?” Bolan said, stepping away from the thin trail of gasoline carving a swath through the dirt of the street. “Step back.”

  “Black tar heroin,” James said, backing up toward his van. “Are you sure about this?”

  “You’d rather I leave it here?”

  “I’d rather you let me call my bosses and let them come confiscate it. Have you ever heard of chain of evidence?”

  “No guarantees they’d get to it before someone else did. I’d hate to have gone through all this trouble just to see this crap wind up right where it was going anyway,” Bolan said, pulling a box of matches out of one of the pockets on his combat rig.

  “Yeah, about that,” James said. “What the hell was this about? You guys could have let us know you were planning an operation on our patch.”

  “No time, I’m afraid. Jihadists,” Bolan said, trying to steer the conversation back on topic and away from dangerous shoals.

  “Yeah, well, same shit, different angle. I got myself established as a coyote. I got some routes, made friends, that kind of thing.” James leaned against the side of his van, arms crossed. “I met Sweets.”

  “Who’s Sweets?” Bolan said, lighting a match. He dropped it and stepped back in a hurry. The tiny flame caught and zipped back along the gasoline trickle.

  “Sweets is Django Sweets. Big-time king coyote. Runs people, drugs, guns, car parts, whatever you want, whichever direction you want them going in. Coyotes have sort of an informal union, if you can believe it.”

  Bolan could. He’d seen it again and again with various types of criminals. Someone invariably put themselves on top. “Yes,” he said. When he didn’t elaborate, James went on.

  “Sweets put himself in the top spot a few months back. He’s in slick with the cartels, and, unfortunately, it looks like he’s got an in with us as well. He’s been running mules—illegal migrants carrying drugs—into Tucson and such, and he’s skated out of at least two sure-thing sting operations.”

  “So you are saying you have a leak?” Bolan said. The truck was engulfed in flames, taking the heroin and the bodies of the transporters with it.

  “Worse. We think Sweets has got people covering for him. Don’t know who though. We were hoping to scoop them up in the middle of all this.”

  “All what?” Bolan said. “All my contact knew was that it was a mess.”

  “Sweets was contacted a few weeks ago by a guy named Tuerto,” James said.

  Bolan blinked. “One-Eye?” he said, translating.

  “Mr. One-Eye, actually, or at least, that’s how Sweets referred to him.” James shook his head. “We had no clue who he was at the time, but then we got a panicky shout-out from Interpol.”

  “Terrorist?”

  “Worse. He’s a mercenary, and a good one. His sticky fingerprints are all over a number of incidents going from one end of the world to the other.” James shrugged. “At least, that’s what Interpol said. And the
y should know, because they’ve been tracking him for three years.”

  “Your partner,” Bolan said, reading between the lines. James nodded.

  “Yeah, she’s some hot shit, according to her bosses. Undercover work, tactical assault, all that jazz.”

  “And what do you make of her?” Bolan asked shrewdly. Tanzir sounded competent, if nothing else.

  James was silent for a moment. Bolan could practically see the gears turning in his head. When he finally answered, he chose his words with care. “She’s...intense. Tuerto’s...” He trailed off. “Listen, have you ever read any Melville?”

  Bolan caught his meaning instantly. “He’s her white whale,” he said.

  James shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “Something close to that.... She’s not obsessed, but she’s real focused.” James made a gesture. “Tunnel vision, you know?”

  “I know.” Bolan felt a pang. More than one person had accused him of something similar over the years, and he couldn’t say that they were entirely wrong. A small part of him was looking forward to meeting Ms. Tanzir more and more.

  James looked at him. “Yeah, I bet you do,” he said, not unkindly. “I only met her once, really. She wasn’t happy about the situation. Nor was I, for that matter.”

  “I bet you weren’t,” Bolan said.

  “Neither was her fellow,” James added, chuckling.

  “Fellow?” Bolan said, curious despite himself. “As in significant other?”

  “Very significant,” James said. “One of the head honchos of the Interpol contingent. Some French guy. Boy-howdy, that guy was not happy about her being there.”

  “Worried about her?”

  “To be honest, I couldn’t tell...it was either her, or the mission, with even odds as to which. Maybe both, for all I know.” The border patrol agent shook his head. “Guy was all hot and bothered, in a bad way, about her part in things.”

  “Speaking of which, if you’re here, where is she? You said something about the back end?” Bolan said, trying to pull them back to the topic at hand.

  James grunted. “Interpol has been helping the Mexican authorities with the cartels. They’ve got people on the inside just like the DEA and the Spooks.”

  “In my experience the cartels run a tight ship,” Bolan said dubiously. “They cause leaks...they don’t have them themselves.”

  “Normally, they do. The Interpol liaison with the Mexican government swears up and down that she hasn’t been made. The cartels are bringing up a load of two-legged cargo as far as the border...”

  “And she’ll be coming with them,” Bolan said, catching on quickly. “Just one more face in the crowd.” He had to admit, privately at least, that as far as plans went, it wasn’t bad. Two operatives stood a better chance at succeeding than one, especially in a situation like this, which was bound to go to hell, regardless of the people involved. “This Tuerto... They tracked him here?”

  “Not just him. Mexican authorities thought they had identified at least six other terror suspects.” James held up his fingers for emphasis.

  “And?” Bolan prodded.

  “Undercover Federales got a picture of Sweets meeting with somebody they think is Tuerto in Mexico City. He was arranging a job.”

  “And since you were already in place—”

  “Two birds, one stone,” James said, holding up two fingers. “I love that saying.” At a look from Bolan, he sped on, his words nearly tripping over one another. “Anyway, Sweets contacted me a day ago. Said he needed drivers for a shipment, and promised equal shares, good money, no questions. He wants me to come to a meeting in some no-account shit hole he’s holed up in. I said yes.”

  “Then what was this?” Bolan said, gesturing toward the burning truck.

  “I was keeping up appearances.” James shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt, just in case our leak decided to dime me out. A good coyote is greedy, plus, hell, if I’m going to sacrifice my op for somebody else’s. I put too much effort into finding out where Ernesto’s supplies were coming from—”

  “Sinaloa—I already took care of it,” Bolan said almost absently. The agent looked at him, mouth open.

  “You what?” he said.

  “I took care of it, about a day ago.” Bolan smiled. “You’re welcome.” James shook his head, his face a study in conflicting emotions.

  “I’ve been looking for that damn field for almost a year now. He’s been shoveling so much pigment into border runners that half of them have been dying on the ground before they get two feet into Tucson. How the hell did you—?”

  “Trade secret,” Bolan said, patting his weapon.

  “Trade—? You know what? I don’t give a good goddamn, man. I really don’t. You say it’s done, I figure you know what you’re talking about,” James said, motioning toward the burning truck for emphasis.

  Bolan was silent for a moment. He examined the man in front of him. James was young, but he had the look in his eye that Bolan had come to associate with professionals of high caliber—a determination to see things done, and done right. He made his decision that instant, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

  “What now?” Bolan said.

  “Now, he asks. Now, Agent Cooper, I try to salvage what I can,” James said. “I get my ass to that meeting, do my shuck-and-jive routine, and get things moving. Hopefully my erstwhile partner is already in place, then we see how shit goes down, you dig?”

  “Which means?”

  “The plan was to figure out where we were going—what the destination was—and have people waiting. I’d roll them right into custody, with Tanzir riding shotgun. Then, from there, we’d wrap up the rest of them.” James rubbed his temples. “It sounds a lot simpler than it is.”

  “You’ll have to get it exactly right,” Bolan said in agreement. James grinned.

  “I’m good at my job, man. There’s no one better.”

  “But you wouldn’t turn down help,” Bolan said.

  “What?” James said, blinking.

  “I’m going with you,” Bolan said. Normally, Bolan would have left them to it, but there was too much riding on this, and too much dependent on all the wrong people, in Bolan’s estimation. The more complex a plan, the more likely it was to go wrong at the worst moment.

  If even one of Tuerto’s men got through, it could be a disaster of hideous proportions. It only took one man to set off a bomb, after all.

  “Whoa, hold up there, chief!” James held up his hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea! You aren’t exactly the subtle type.” He gestured at the burning truck. “If we do it my way there’s no fuss, no muss.”

  “But my way, they don’t get near the border,” Bolan said. He hefted his UMP meaningfully. The other man was quiet for a minute, and then he grinned.

  “Oh, we’re going to be the best of friends, Agent Cooper. I can see that right now.”

  Chapter 3

  The town, such as it was, did not exist. It was not on any map, and the roads leading into it and out of it were not paved. It was one of a hundred such towns in the Sonoran Desert that clung to the edge of the map unseen and unclaimed by either of the two nations in a position to do so.

  It had no name because such places needed no name. It was simply “the town.”

  Tariq Ibn Tumart—also known as Tuerto—had, in his life, been to many such places the world over. They were easy enough to locate, if you knew what you were looking for.

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the military-surplus jeep as it rattled and groaned its way across the desert, Tumart contemplated again the twists and trials that had brought him to this point. Money figured heavily in these ruminations, as it always did. He reached up and slid a finger beneath the eye patch covering the gaping socket of his left eye, probing for an itch that was never qu
ite there.

  “Is this it?”

  Tumart didn’t bother to turn around. He removed his finger from his socket and examined it carefully. Then he said, “No. This is a completely different town. I thought we could sightsee. I hear they have the world’s largest saguaro cactus and I simply must see it.”

  “What?”

  Tumart sighed. “Of course, this is it. Quiet down.”

  “What was that about a cactus?”

  “A joke... It was just a little joke, my friend.”

  “You joke too much, Berber. We are on a holy mission.”

  “Forgive me, Abbas. Now, if you do not kindly shut up, Arab, I will shoot you and our mission—holy or otherwise—will be one man weaker.” Tumart turned then, an H&K USP appearing in his hand as if by magic. He aimed the pistol in a general fashion at the man occupying the seat behind him. Abbas, a thin, long-beaked Saudi, recoiled, his dark eyes widening. Tumart smiled pleasantly and tapped the barrel of the pistol to his eye-patch in a mock-salute.

  “Thank you,” he said, turning back around. He allowed himself a moment of petty triumph then returned to his thoughts.

  Why was he here again? Ah, yes...money, he remembered.

  He smiled bitterly and glanced at the driver. Fahd, he thought his name was. He was less prone to chatter than Abbas, but with altogether worse hygiene.

  “You should trim your beard,” Tumart said. Fahd grunted, but kept his eyes on the desert in front of the jeep. Tumart rubbed a palm over his smooth-shaven pate, and focused on their destination.

  The town was the first step in an operation designed not to cripple or destroy, but to simply spread fear. An ephemeral goal, but, considering his paymasters, Tumart wasn’t surprised.

  He was a good Muslim, when he thought about it, but fanatical devotion to a concept of divinity was not something he indulged in. Abbas and the others, however...

  “When we get there, try to keep your mouth shut,” Tumart said, looking at his companions. “These men are not of the Faithful, nor are they likely to be swayed by threats.”