Border Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  Abbas’s mouth sagged open and he flailed backward. The others stepped aside and he fell to the floor in fear, his eyes locked on the barrel of the gun. For a moment, Tuerto felt a brush of sympathy for the man. Abbas was not a coward—no man who intended to martyr himself could be—but there was a difference between dying for a purpose and being shot out of hand for talking too much. Allah, perhaps, in his wisdom, did not deliver a bounty of virgins upon those who entered paradise via the latter route.

  “‘Oh, my warriors, where would you flee? Behind you, the desert. Before you, the enemy. You have left now only the hope of your courage and your constancy. Remember that in this country you are more unfortunate than the orphan seated at the table of the avaricious master. Your enemy is before you, protected by an innumerable army. He has men in abundance, but you, as your only aid, have your own swords, and, as your only chance for life, such chance as you can snatch from the hands of your enemy,’” Tariq recited as he lowered his pistol. He looked around the room. “That was said the first time my people—our people—invaded the lands of the infidel. Hopefully, we will be just as successful as that ancient conqueror.”

  * * *

  JAMES TRIED HIS BEST not to look nervous as Sweets gathered the drivers together. No one had noticed that they were one man short yet, and James intended that they never did. The head coyote stood on the cantina steps, sipping a beer. “Alrighty, boys, we got us twenty until we start to haul ass, so here’s how we’re breaking this down. When it’s time to go, you go and grab some local color and head to your vehicle. Mr. One-Eye here will see to the dispensation of his people, as it were, and your passengers will be waiting. After that, you got your route and your usual dump points, so you just do what you do best and we’ll all be kicking back on the beach with more money than God.”

  “Who drives out of here first?” someone said.

  “I’ll do it,” James said.

  Sweets looked at him. “Eager to get out of here, Jorge?”

  “Eager to count that money, Django,” James said.

  “Ha. I bet you are. But no, Digger is going first.” Sweets nodded to the big man, who was slumped against the wall, hands in his pockets.

  “Why him?” Eddie said.

  “Because I say so, Eddie. And after Digger, it’ll be Franco. Then Henshaw and Morris, and you, Eddie. Then Purfoy, Creasey, Jorge and Maxie. And last, but not least, myownself.” Sweets tapped his chest for emphasis. “That’s fair, right?” he said, looking at James.

  “I suppose,” he said, shrugging. “When do we get our money?”

  “Half up front and half when you make your drop-off,” Sweets said, crumpling his beer can and tossing it aside. “I already put the envelopes under your seats. Quick enough for you?”

  “It’ll do.” James’s mind whirled. He needed to keep them talking and keep them distracted. “What’ll we do with the regulars when Tuerto’s men get off? Or are we just dropping the whole load?”

  “The ragheads will handle it,” Franco said, snickering. “Right, Sweets?”

  “Right as the rain in Spain, Franco.” Sweets swept the gathering with his eyes. “Make no mistake, boys...this’ll be the easiest money you ever made, so long as you don’t screw it up. Speaking of which, where did Cousin Frank go, Jorge? Looking for the bathroom again?”

  “I ain’t his keeper,” James said.

  “Oh, but you are,” Sweets said. He scratched his nose and hopped off the steps. “You are indeed his keeper, Jorge, just like I’m Digger’s keeper. Family watches out for family. Unless they ain’t really family. Is that the case here, Jorge?”

  James hesitated. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m saying a little bird told me, in the most delightful accent, that you might be playing a game on us, your fellow brothers in brigandry.” Sweets’s smile spread like fire across oil. “I got a call from a friend of mine in the Federales, Jorge.”

  James’s blood turned to ice. Bolan had been right. “Look, Sweets, I can explain...”

  “Explain what? That you turned us all over to the Mexican cops? Lucky for us, they’re slow as molasses and we’ll be gone before they show up. But you...I figure you’ll be here waiting for them. You might not be in any condition to talk, though. Somebody grab him, please.”

  James swept his pistol out and swung it around, forcing the other men to back off. “You got this all wrong, Sweets!” he said, trying to salvage something.

  “I had hoped so, but then I saw you come into town with Cousin Frank. I told you not to bring nobody, Jorge. That was mistake one. Mistake two, if you’re interested, was letting your pal Frank go snooping around. In this business, Jorge, old buddy, you don’t get no mistake three.” Sweets pulled his pistol. “Drop the gun and it’ll be quick.”

  “Sweets, you need me!” James said, shouting. Maybe if Cooper heard him, he’d know to go to ground and stay out of sight. He had no doubt that the man from the Justice Department could take care of himself, but even he couldn’t fight this many men by his lonesome.

  “We’ll make do, I expect. The world abides, Jorge. Never think it doesn’t,” Sweets said.

  James shook his head. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you that I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about half the time, Sweets.”

  “I’m a philosopher, what can I say? Drop the piece, Jorge.”

  “Nope,” James said, looking around at the men surrounding him. In the wild, coyotes often turned on the sick or injured. So it was with the men who had taken this animal’s name as a badge of honor.

  “I guess we do it the hard way, then,” Sweets said, grinning. A second later, he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 10

  Bolan glanced back at the town just as the setting sun caught on something metal. “Hold on a minute,” he said, pulling the phone away from his ear. His eyes narrowed. Was that a gun? His fingers flew to his harness and he unclipped the small binoculars neatly folded up there. The town sprang into focus and he saw Agent James surrounded by hostiles. Bolan cursed.

  “Striker?” Hal Brognola said, his voice echoing out of the phone. “Striker, respond!”

  Bolan jerked the phone up as he began to make his way down the slope. “I’m here. You’ve got the coordinates?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know if I’m going to be able to pull enough strings to organize something like this. Wouldn’t you rather have a team from the Farm?” Brognola said almost pleadingly. Bolan would have laughed, if he’d had the time. While politics was Brognola’s bread and butter, sometimes the byzantine bureaucracies of Washington were almost too much for even the ex-FBI man to bear. Add in Interpol and the Mexican government and you had one hell of a jurisdictional mess, even before Bolan had stuck his nose in, and it was just going to get worse.

  “Do what you can,” Bolan said.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be doing what I can,” Bolan said. “Striker out.” He turned the phone off, stuffed it out of sight and hefted his H&K. Sliding past the vehicles, he edged into town. He could hear James’s voice loud and clear, and knew that the man was attempting to warn him off. A burst of admiration filled him. It wasn’t every day that he encountered someone who was willing to throw his own life away to warn a man he’d just met. He would have to find some way of repaying that debt.

  Sighting several lounging terrorists, Bolan crept toward them, around the back of the building. They were armed, but watching the confrontation intently, though more like spectators than sentries. Bolan grinned mirthlessly. Raising the H&K, he sighted on one of the coyotes, the one standing closest to Franco. Creasey, he thought. Then, with a yell, Bolan cut loose. The coyote did a whirling dance and then toppled to the ground. Franco spun, his eyes going wide. Bolan ducked down even as Tuerto’s men stood and looked around.

 
“Goddamn ragheads!” Franco snarled, firing his pistol. “It’s a setup!”

  Yes, but not the kind you think, Bolan thought. Franco shot the closest of Tuerto’s men, his pistol sowing a crop of red flowers across the man’s torso. The terrorist’s companions raised their weapons with alacrity and returned fire, stitching Franco with enough lead to open a pencil factory. The coyote fell back, and his body hit the dirt, and the town exploded in gunfire.

  Bolan ripped a smoke canister off his harness, popped the pin with his thumb and tossed it out into the chaos. Then he did it again, tossing another canister in the opposite direction. Soon the street was filled with colored smoke as bodies stumbled through it, coughing. Bolan dived into the smoke, a handkerchief wrapped around his mouth and nose. He had to find James and quick.

  A form stumbled toward him, pistol swinging around. Bolan didn’t recognize the outline and he stepped aside, bringing the butt of his H&K down on the back of the man’s skull, dropping him flat. Bullets punctured trails of air through the smoke as he headed for the last place he’d seen James. The last he’d seen of him, he’d been nose to pistol with Sweets, which wasn’t a healthy place to be, in Bolan’s opinion.

  Behind him, he heard the scrape of boot heels on sand. “Hiya, Cousin Frank,” Sweets said, coughing. Bolan, always light on his feet, threw himself aside as the Parabellum spat angry hornets into the dirt. Bolan rose to his feet and drove the length of the H&K into Sweets’s belly, causing him to double over. Bringing the weapon up rapidly, he caught the coyote beneath the chin, knocking him onto his ass. Sweets groaned and tried to crawl to his feet and Bolan gave a moment’s thought to letting him. Then, common sense made him bring his gun around.

  Before he could fire, however, a shadow fell over him. Two seconds later, it was followed by two heavy hands, which wrapped themselves in his combat harness and jerked him from his feet. He was lifted into the air and thrown like a round of shot out of a cannon. Rolling through the dust and smoke, Bolan dug his fingers into the hard, sunbaked clay of the street and righted himself. Digger charged toward him like a bull-elephant, hands reaching, teeth bared. The big man didn’t look as if he’d be stopped by anything short of death.

  Bolan fired, but not quickly enough. A wide hand swatted the barrel aside even as it spoke and a fist like a sledgehammer caught him a glancing blow on the side of the head. Dizzy, the Executioner twisted, reaching for thick wrists and planting his foot on one large instep. Despite the ringing in his ears, he managed to toss Digger over his hip. As the coyote ate dust, his brother was already jogging toward Bolan, pistol extended.

  James crashed out of the smoke and into Sweets, his fist cracking across the other man’s jaw. Sweets fell and James stumbled past, into Bolan’s arms. “Think our cover is blown, Cooper.” He coughed weakly. There was a red patch on his shirt, and Bolan felt a chill course through him. Unfortunately, there was no time to check on his well-being.

  “You might be right,” Bolan said, swinging around to put himself between James and the three men who stepped out of the dispersing smoke, automatic rifles raised. The Executioner beat them to the punch, firing as he shoved the border patrol agent into a run. “Go! Go!” James began to run awkwardly and, without stopping to see whether he’d taken down his targets, Bolan followed.

  “Sorry about this, Cooper.” James coughed. “Guess...guess you were right, huh?”

  “It happens,” Bolan said. “We need to get to one of those trucks and get out of here, fast. This way... Damn it!” He heard shouting and men rushed out from between the buildings ahead, weapons clutched tight. They hesitated, not recognizing the situation for what it was. Bolan didn’t give them the chance. He opened up on the tightly clustered group, cutting them down like chaff. James’s pistol echoed his gun by mere seconds, Bolan was pleased to note. There was fight left in the young man yet. He dragged James past the bodies and into a space between buildings. The man’s head was lolling and the stain on his shirt was larger than Bolan remembered.

  Setting James down as gently as possible, Bolan ripped open his shirt and examined the wound, determining swiftly that the bullet was lodged in the meat of his chest. A brief pressure test revealed that the other man’s collarbone was likely cracked, as well, if not broken. He ejected the spent clip and reloaded the H&K before he knelt beside the wounded man.

  Pulling his KA-BAR out, he dug the tip into the wound and enlarged it slightly, just enough for him to dig a finger in and dislodge the bullet. Then, pulling a sterile field dressing out of his harness, he slapped it on the wound and made a bandage out of James’s shirt, binding him up and immobilizing his arms and shoulders. With a grunt, Bolan scooped him up into a modified fireman’s carry. James groaned.

  “You’d rather I leave you?” Bolan said, hurrying forward.

  “Can’t a man groan without somebody making a case out of it?” James whimpered.

  A moment later, they sighted the vehicles. Bolan heaved James into the passenger seat of the man’s van and climbed up into the driver’s seat a moment later. A bullet plucked at the door frame even as he opened it, and he turned, the H&K giving a burp as he stroked the trigger.

  “Stop them!” someone yelled.

  Bolan threw himself into the cab and started the engine. “Hold on!” he roared, slapping the gear to R and stomping on the gas. The van shot backward and there was a short sharp scream as something squelched beneath the big all-terrain wheels. Growling in satisfaction, Bolan jerked the gear to D and the van rumbled forward. But not for long.

  A wood-paneled truck lunged forward and T-boned Bolan. Both vehicles spun, locked together in a mess of mangled metal. Broken glass peppered Bolan’s face and hands and he clawed for the Desert Eagle on his hip as his vehicle slammed sideways against a building that gave out a titanic groan of bruised timbers. Bolan rolled around and kicked out the broken windshield. Ignoring the bone-deep ache in his limbs and joints, he clambered out. Smoke and steam jetted out from beneath the crumpled hoods of both vehicles. Bolan, dizzy from the impact, took unsteady aim at the other truck’s windshield and fired twice, shattering it.

  His mind tried to catch up to his body, and he turned to see to James, but a number of bodies climbed up onto the trucks and tackled him. Big and strong as he was, Bolan was in no shape to take on multiple opponents. He was thrown to the ground and found himself face-to-face with several very familiar pairs of feet. Spitting dirt and blood, Bolan looked up at Django Sweets.

  “Cousin Frank, damned if you didn’t disappoint me,” Sweets said. Then he drove the toe of his boot into Bolan’s temple, further scattering his thoughts into a disjointed cloud. The last thing he heard before blackness hit him was Sweets saying, “Get his ass up.”

  * * *

  THE SIZZLE OF BURNING MEAT awoke Bolan from his daze. A moment later, the pain hit and with a grunt he began to buck in his seat, his muscles spasming unconsciously. The knife was pulled back from his neck, its white-hot blade hissing softly as it whipped through the cool air of the Sonoran night, trailing greasy smoke. Bolan shook the sweat from his face and looked around. He was in a chair, held in place by a tow chain that had been wrapped around him and padlocked. The skin where his neck and shoulder met ached and he grimaced as he felt blood trickle down his bare chest.

  “What do you see?” Digger said softly, stabbing Bolan’s KA-BAR back into the coals that glowed redly in the small portable grill. Bolan’s chair was in front of the big man’s bed, and Digger had a host of unpleasant-looking implements scattered across its surface. He thrust Bolan’s knife deeper into the coals and shifted it with his fingertips. “Do you see it?” the big man said, looking at him in an almost plaintive manner.

  “I see something,” Bolan said harshly.

  “What?”

  “A dead man.”

  Digger blinked and then nodded. “Okay,” he said, pulling the knife out of the coals and
pressing it lightly against the skin of Bolan’s stomach. Smoke hissed upward and Bolan tightened his muscles, resisting the urge to scream as his flesh cooked and curled. “What about now?” Digger said gently.

  The windows were open, and Bolan could hear men arguing and metal crashing. He focused on the sounds as he tried to block out the pain. He had been tortured more than once in his long war, but it wasn’t something you could truly prepare yourself for. All you could do was suck it up and take it. Eyes closed, he concentrated on his breathing as the flat of the knife slid up and around across his belly. Boots scraped on wood and Bolan’s eyes opened as a thin shape pushed away from the wall.

  “Stop it, Digger. I want to talk to him,” Sweets said.

  Digger didn’t stop. “You said I could,” he said.

  “And I’m saying stop, baby brother.”

  “But—” Digger tossed the knife aside and lumbered to his feet, face twisting. Sweets met the mad glare with an empty stare and the two men looked at each other for long moments before Digger let out a breath and looked away. “I hate you,” he said petulantly.

  “No, you don’t,” Sweets said, patting him on the arm. “Go get a drink. I’ll let you get back to it in a bit. Go on.” He chivied his brother out of the room and closed the door behind him. He looked at Bolan. “No worries, Cousin Frank. I’ll make this quick as critters.”

  “Don’t...don’t hurry on my account,” Bolan wheezed, fighting to keep his head up. He felt like an overcooked sausage. His skin was flushed and his arms and shoulders were hurting.

  Sweets laughed. “Still got a sense of humor? That’s good. Look on the bright side, that’s what I say.”

  “There’s a bright side?” Bolan said, surreptitiously testing the chains that held him. Sweets sat on the bed in front of him.

  “Well, you’ll be dead soon. That’s got to count for something,” Sweets said, grabbing a handful of Bolan’s hair and yanking his head back. “Pay attention. I got some questions.”