Border Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  She stepped closer to him to allow others to move past her and back into the truck. “I have no one else,” she said. “And I have nowhere else to go.”

  “That is...unfortunate,” he said. He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “And you would even face bullets to go somewhere else?” he continued, jerking his chin toward the bodies contorted in the dust.

  “I would,” she said, not looking at them. Death did not bother her as much as it had when she’d first started, but even so, she preferred not to see the human detritus of such confrontations.

  “Ha,” he said, smiling slightly.

  “We ain’t got time for this,” the leader of the smugglers—Sweets—growled. He seized Tanzir’s wrist in a painful grip and jerked her aside and shoved her into the truck. “In you go, sweetheart!” She landed on someone’s lap and struggled to her feet even as the door slammed shut with a loud clunk. In the sweltering darkness, Tanzir smiled.

  He was hers.

  * * *

  “RUDE,” TUERTO MURMURED, fixing Sweets with a look. Sweets shrugged in his infuriating way.

  “We ain’t got time for you to paw the filly right here, right now. That little tussle just now put us behind schedule. Whatever you want to do with her after we get going is your business.”

  Tuerto felt slightly insulted. “I am no beast. I am on a holy mission.” He frowned. “And that ‘tussle,’ as you call it, was your fault.”

  Sweets looked at him insolently. “Yeah, sure, whatever, let’s go.”

  They climbed aboard the van and Sweets put it in gear. They bounced back toward town, the trucks following. Tuerto sat back and thought of the girl. She was not a peasant, no matter how she dressed. But, of course, it was not unheard of for political refugees to mingle with those seeking work. It would explain the soft burr to her accent, not quite like the liquid sound of the locals. From farther south perhaps? Guatemala? Argentina? Bolivia? He smiled. She was beautiful. And brave...two qualities that Tuerto found irresistible.

  And something else...she was familiar. He did not know how, or why, but she was familiar to him. It didn’t matter, he supposed.

  Still, perhaps this trip wouldn’t be all business after all. The cross-country trek to Canada would be more pleasant with female companionship, that was for certain. Of course, he would have to ask her name first. He leaned his head back and closed his eye, thinking pleasant thoughts.

  He opened it again, a moment later, as a thought occurred to him. “Will the cartels come looking for their guns?”

  “Probably. But not any time soon. Few days, maybe a week, they’ll begin to wonder, and in wondering, they’ll get suspicious and then they’ll troop out here and find...what? Some burned-out vans and some skeletons. Who knows what happened? Maybe them boys they sent done plumb run off with them guns, you know?”

  “It’s a risk,” Tuerto said.

  Sweets shrugged. “So was shooting ol’ Mendez. Got to take a risk to make a buck, that’s what my daddy always said, God bless him.”

  “LaMancha reacted quickly. Far quicker, in fact, than anyone else,” Tuerto said.

  “Oh, he’s a special one, him,” Sweets said. “I got my eye on him.”

  “Is there something I should know?” Tuerto said.

  “Nope,” Sweets said. “Just a leak in the tank is all.”

  Tuerto grunted. “You think he’s a spy?” he said.

  “Oh, I know he is,” Sweets said. His grin turned feral. “See, I got me a phone call earlier today about ol’ Jorge, intimating as he was not entirely on the up-and-up. A whiff of deception, as you might put it.”

  “Ah,” Tuerto said. “But no proof?”

  “Proof is in the pudding. I might have let it slide, but Cousin Frank done stirred it up. Too slick that boy. Too good.”

  “Yes,” Tuerto murmured. “Though I dare say that your brother handled him easily enough.”

  “Digger’s like a rhino. Not much can stop him once he charges,” Sweets said with no small amount of pride. “Still, Jorge and his bogus cousin will get theirs, never you fear, Mr. One-Eye.” Sweets’s grin threatened to split his face. “Never you fear.”

  Chapter 9

  “So, what’s the plan?” James said as they drove.

  Bolan looked up and smiled stonily. “Reading my mind?”

  “No, reading your face. You’ve got that look a guy gets right before he goes off-book,” James said.

  “How were you planning on tracking all these vehicles? To catch them all, I mean?” Bolan said.

  “Once I ID’d all the faces involved, I was going to get in touch with the bosses. Everyone involved in this has got a record, and they’ve all got their sweet spots for doing a border run. Border patrol, the Feebs, whoever else will be waiting,” James said.

  “Sloppy,” Bolan said flatly. “What happens if they go a different route?”

  “They won’t,” he said confidently and tapped his head. “It ain’t in them to break habit. Habit is what keeps guys like Sweets and Eddie out of prison on a long-term basis. There’ll be copters in the air, as well. I’ve got a GPS tracker on my ride, so they’ll be following me. No, the big problem is catching Tuerto. He’s the big fish. Interpol wants him, the FBI wants him...heck, the CIA wants him. And I bet your bosses do, as well, if they know about it by now.” James looked at him. “Our way, we catch them by surprise, before they get to their targets, whatever those might be. So, what’s your way?”

  “Like I said, my way, they don’t get out of this town, especially Tuerto. And they don’t get the chance to finish their mission.” He took a breath. “How far from the border are we?”

  “Far enough that we’re out of U.S. jurisdiction,” James said. “That’s why we want them to come over the border, after all.”

  “And what would it take to get the Federales involved, you think?” Bolan said.

  “They’re already involved. Though if I know my bosses, they haven’t bothered to alert our southern cousins as to the exact date and time,” James said, smiling sourly.

  Something in the young man’s voice caught Bolan’s attention. “But?”

  “But I might have, ah, let something slip to a few local law enforcement professionals of my acquaintance in these parts.” James ducked his head. “Seemed only polite.”

  “That might not have been the wisest course of action,” Bolan said. “If Sweets has contacts inside their organization, as well...”

  “Then we’re screwed. Nothing to do now but play the cards we’re dealt,” Jorge said. “You don’t win the game unless you bet, Cooper.”

  Bolan liked the young man’s bravado. “Fair enough. So, here’s my thinking...if we made enough noise, do you think anyone would come running?”

  “Lots of folks.” James frowned. “But won’t that just make it harder to predict where anyone is going?”

  “Not if no one gets out of the town,” Bolan said, his voice going grim. “Oh, make no mistake, if the federal government was dealing with cartel soldiers or run-of-the-mill criminals, I’d have no problems with the plan your bosses concocted. But terrorists aren’t criminals, at least not in the way we’re used to thinking of them. They’re foreign combatants, and these will be on enemy soil. They won’t be looking to do anything but cause as much damage as possible to as many targets as possible. And trying to round them all up your way will only give them a wealth of targets to aim at. They’ll fight to the death. Any death.”

  The border patrol agent nodded jerkily. “Sweets wants to leave at dark-thirty or thereabouts. And not everyone will be leaving at once. Too conspicuous, even for the guys Sweets has bribed. So we’ve got until then. How do we do this?”

  “Simple. We make sure that you’re the first to leave,” Bolan said. “And that you’ve got Tuerto and Tanzir on board.”r />
  “Doesn’t sound so simple,” James said dubiously.

  “It will be.” Bolan patted the knife on his hip. “Now, drop me off just outside of town.”

  “Outside of—?” James looked at him. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Making sure things stay simple,” the Executioner said simply.

  James dropped him off without further comment, and Bolan crept back into town as the sky was going orange. It seemed even more crowded than before, and Bolan knew at once that Tuerto’s men had arrived, as well. They lounged in doorways and on porches, watching the vehicles stop and the engines go quiet. Bolan avoided the main thoroughfare and climbed a broken bluff overlooking the town. From what he could glean from the setup, it had likely been a mining town once, before the desert had crept up over it and driven its inhabitants in one direction or another.

  Low-crawling through the scrub brush and dirt on the slope of the bluff, Bolan paused to collect himself. Sweets was overconfident, and hadn’t left any sort of guards on the vehicles that the coyotes would be using to transport their deadly cargo. But Tuerto was another matter. Hunkering low, Bolan saw two men sitting near the vehicles, smoking and speaking quietly. One carried an AK-47, the other merely a pistol. Neither one was looking in his direction.

  He considered his options. Quiet or loud? Both had their perks, but he knew the latter was more trouble than it was worth in this situation. Quiet it was.

  Thus decided, Bolan snatched up a rock and gave it an overhand toss. It bounced and clattered down the screed. Both men looked up at once. The one with the AK started forward after a moment, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pierce the dim shadows of the gloaming. Bolan pressed himself flat and waited, barely breathing. Then, just as the man moved past him, he rose up and fastened a big hand around the man’s mouth and nose and drove the tip of the KA-BAR up through his back, angling the blade to pierce the lungs and remove any chance the man had to warn his companion. Carrying the body to the ground, Bolan dragged it aside and out of immediate sight. Then, as patient as any predator, he waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The second man clambered up the screed, calling out softly to his companion. “Farouk?” he said, one hand on the butt of the pistol holstered beneath his arm. “Farouk?”

  Bolan took a guess from the man’s accent and grunted, in Farsi, “Up here.” The guess looked to have been the correct one, as the man came closer. Bolan sent another rock tumbling. The man spun and Bolan sent him to the same fate that had claimed Farouk. Wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt, he sheathed it and moved carefully toward the vehicles. They had all been parked close together beneath a stretched awning of leather and camouflage netting that James had said was a coyote trick to avoid detection in this era of flybys and eyes in the sky. Drug runners did much the same when hiding their boats or trucks. It was a new age, and Bolan every so often felt wrong-footed by it.

  Luckily this time it just made his job easier. Staying low, he approached the first truck. Checking it, he climbed up and lifted the hood. Moving briskly, he removed the spark plugs, tossing them out into the desert. He moved to the next and did the same. On the third, he swept his knife out and punctured the brake lines one by one. On the fifth and sixth, he rolled beneath them and cut the fuel lines with efficient slashes. On seven, eight and nine, he ruined the radiators, letting the antifreeze and water drain out onto the greedy ground. With ten, he simply cut the ignition wires.

  He avoided James’s van, which left only four viable vehicles in the town—two small trucks and two vans. His plan was simple enough; smaller vehicles meant smaller groups. And if what James had told him about Tuerto was on the money, the man with one eye would damn well make sure he was on the first bus out when the shooting started. And the enigmatic Tanzir would be right with him, Bolan was certain.

  He smiled thinly. When James had pointed her out, Bolan had watched as she threw herself at Tuerto. It was an interesting gambit, if a bit old-fashioned. But it made sure that she would have a reason to be around when he left. He knew it must churn the agent’s stomach, however, to play nice with the man she’d been hunting for three years. Bolan had seen the flash of raw loathing in her eyes as she leaned against him, and was surprised that her target hadn’t. Maybe having only one eye made it harder to look past a pretty face. Bolan’s smile turned grim.

  He went to James’s van and opened the hidden compartment and grabbed his gear, sliding the body armor on and then the web gear. He slung his H&K over his shoulder and hefted the satellite phone. One call to Brognola, and he would be done.

  “Time to call in the cavalry,” he muttered, retreating up the hill.

  * * *

  THE WOMAN HAD WINGS beneath her skin, Digger knew. He watched her as she climbed out of the back of the truck with the rest, her hair as black as oil and her skin like cinnamon. She was all smooth muscle and grace and his palms itched to see the black bird nestled in her breast. He gave a grunt and pushed away from the clapboard wall, his nostrils flaring. Sweets was trotting toward the cantina, beating dust off his clothes. Digger grabbed his arm. “I want that one in my load,” he said, gesturing to the ragged group of migrants being herded into a building.

  Sweets looked at him, then back at the girl. “This ain’t the time for you to be indulging, baby brother. We got more important things to worry about.”

  “I want her,” Digger whined.

  Sweets tore his arm loose from his brother’s grip. “You always want them!” he hissed. “And don’t I give them to you? Don’t I take care of you? Like that girl today, huh?”

  “Yes, but—” Digger cut his eyes away. Sweets grabbed his chin and forced the big man to look at him.

  “No buts! Now ain’t the time!” Sweets snarled. “And clean up that damn room. The ragheads can smell your leavings.”

  Digger’s face flushed and he pulled away, head bowed. He looked like a scolded child. Sweets knew that in some ways that was exactly the case. In other ways his brother was as far from a child as it was possible to get and still be human. He had taken care of Digger since their mother’s unfortunate passing, the less said of which, the better, as far as Sweets was concerned. He loved his brother, but on occasion he wished that he had shot and dumped him in a ditch somewhere on that nasty day he’d found him crouched over their momma.

  But he hadn’t, and he didn’t really know why. Sweets was a hollow man, full of cold and dark, but his brother was something else entirely. Digger was fit to bursting with something raw and bright and sometimes, when he got agitated, Sweets thought he could catch a glimpse of it. He sighed and patted Digger’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Digger. Do what you need to do... I’ll see that she’s in there. But you wait, hear me? You wait until you dump them ragheads. I’m counting on you. Business before pleasure.”

  Digger’s face twisted up into a smile. “You can count on me, Django. I’ll see to it. I’ll do it good.”

  “Yeah, I know you will,” Sweets said, clapping him on the back and leaving his brother to stare longingly at the object of his desire.

  * * *

  “EVERYONE IS HERE THEN?” Tuerto said, checking the clip of his pistol with exceeding care. “Everyone knows their part?”

  “The Holy One Hundred have assembled,” Abbas said with the air of one intoning Holy Scripture. “We will drive the lance of Islam into the belly of Satan!” The other eight men in the room above the cantina murmured agreement. Along with Abbas and Tuerto, they made for the ten heads of the Holy One Hundred; nine men, handpicked by Tuerto for their expertise in motivating large groups and their unyielding fanaticism.

  “Ma’sa’Allah,” their leader said, holstering his pistol. “Do not count the dragon slain before you have gotten the lance in position, my friends.”

  “Is that not what we are doing now? Getting our lance into position? What can stop us?” Abb
as said.

  “A depressingly large number of things, I’m afraid. That is why I had Farouk and Hassid watch the vehicles,” Tuerto said. “We are not in America yet, gentlemen. There are still any number of hurdles we must cross, not including the border. When you reach your destination, terminate your transportation.”

  “And the others? The Mexicans?”

  Tuerto hesitated. “Leave them. They will scatter. The authorities will not be able to track them.”

  “But—”

  “Leave them, I said. They are neither a threat nor a target in our war upon America. This has to do with them not being Americans, you see,” he said bitingly. “We will shed no blood save that which is necessary.”

  “Is this because of the woman, Berber?” Abbas said, his eyes narrowing. “Is that whore’s welfare such a concern, and you having only just met her?” He snorted. “I saw the way you eyed that one as you returned.”

  Tuerto paused, and turned a slow, steady eye upon the other man. Abbas blanched and stepped back. But, seeing his comrades around him, he regained some of his backbone. “Well? Explain yourself? I saw you fawning over her...it is disgraceful to see a holy warrior act so!”

  Tuerto laughed. “Holy warriors? Is that what we are? I was under the impression that you were terrorists and I was a mercenary,” he said disdainfully. “I make no judgments on your cause, Arab, but do not call it something that it is not. And do not presume to lecture me on morality.”

  Abbas flushed and his hand went for his gun. Tuerto was quicker. The barrel of his pistol pressed the end of Abbas’s nose flat. “Your leaders have given me leave to do as I see fit to carry out their work. That means I can use and abuse my tools as I see fit, as long as it serves their purpose. You are a tool, Abbas. A blunt object I will employ to facilitate al Qaeda’s operations efficiently. If you have any objections in that regard, please feel free to take them up with Allah, in his infinite mercy, when you see him.” Tuerto smiled and cocked the pistol. “Of course, an appointment can be arranged immediately, if you cannot wait.”