The skin on his back tightened as the car roof began to sizzle. He sawed as fast as he dared, gashing his wrist more than once. The strands of nylon began to fray and spread like the head of a hydra. He imagined he could smell meat cooking and growled deep in his throat, a sound of frustration and defiance.
Many times in his career the Executioner had been close to death. The hornet-kiss of a bullet, the scorpion-sting of a blade or the sweaty grip of a strangler’s hands had all brought him down to the shores of the Styx, but he’d never yet crossed over, and he’d be damned if he’d do it in this fashion.
The twist of Detroit steel dropped from his bloody fingers and he almost howled. His body bucked as every square inch of skin burned. With a convulsive heave, Bolan jerked at his bonds, thrashing, hoping he’d cut deep enough into the cord.
He heard the sound of something popping and realized that it was the few remaining threads of nylon. He tore his right arm loose and sat up as the tension on his left arm immediately went slack. He groaned as his skin peeled away from the car roof. He fumbled at the knots around his left ankle and worked them loose after several long minutes. Legs free, he rose up and immediately rolled down the front of the car. He hit the hood hard enough to jar his dislocated arm. He yelped and crashed onto the ground in a brief flurry of dust.
Breathing hard, he lay there for a while, his blood pooling around him, his thoughts rattling around in his head like shards of broken glass. After a short time, his good hand reached up and his fingers curled in the car’s grille. Slowly, painfully, Bolan pulled himself up onto his knees. Breath whistling in and out of his nostrils, he pressed his left shoulder against the hood. Then he whipped it back and smashed his shoulder into the front of the car. It took two more tries to put his shoulder back into its proper place and Bolan gave a yell with each attempt.
Weakly, he lurched to his feet, his body trembling. His blurring vision caught sight of the shard of metal he’d used to cut his wrist loose and he scooped it up, nearly falling over in the process. Swaying, he looked around. He caught sight of the saguaro stretching dumpy limbs toward the sun above and staggered toward it.
He needed water. A bird fluttered out of the cactus, startled by the apparition looming over it. It shrieked and rose into the air, wings humming as Bolan nearly collapsed against the cactus. It rose nearly higher than his head and he eyed its spines with apprehension. It was bigger than he’d thought, and more fragile looking. He’d heard about people killed by collapsing cacti, crushed beneath their spines. In his current debilitated state, he wasn’t sure he could trust his reflexes to do their job properly.
But there was no option B. No door number two. It was find water immediately or most certainly die later. And Bolan didn’t intend to die here.
He looked back at the car. The slender shape of tire iron was visible in the dirt beside its back wheels. Bolan dropped to his haunches and excavated the rusty tool. He crammed the metal into the socket and turned back to the cactus. If he could puncture it, there’d be water inside. It was a felony to damage one of them, but he’d worry about that after the threat of death by dehydration was taken care of.
Behind him, the car creaked. Bolan stopped and glanced over his shoulder. A black king snake slithered through the scrub brush. Bolan waited, counting, his every sense extended to its limits. When nothing revealed itself, he turned back to the saguaro.
The sound of delicate padding reached his ears a moment before he heard the rumble of the jaguar’s growl. He spun, but saw nothing, save a flash of black rosettes splashed across tawny fur. The spiky shrubs shifted and whispered as the animal moved through them. It was in no hurry. Bolan couldn’t bring himself to be insulted.
The Sonoran Desert was the only place within the boundaries of the United States that the big cats were found, and they were running close to being endangered. In other circumstances, Bolan would have done everything he could to avoid the animal and give it the run of the land. But this wasn’t other circumstances. He glanced down at his bloody hand and grimaced. The smell of blood had likely drawn the cat.
He turned slowly as it circled him, never quite letting itself be seen by its intended prey. Bolan fought the atavistic urge to flee that threatened his ragged composure. He was in no shape to outdistance the animal, and he’d rather face it than have it behind him anyway. His grip on the tire iron tightened.
Bolan knew that if the jaguar came at him, he’d have to dispatch it quick. If the animal got its claws or teeth into him, Bolan’s chances for survival were on the sharp edge of nil. He swung the tire iron, trying to loosen up his protesting muscles. Adrenaline flooded him, but it wouldn’t be enough. He was barely on his feet as it was.
“Walk away, pal,” he said hoarsely. “Go look for dinner somewhere else.”
The only reply he got was the sound of the animal moving through the brush. He caught the flash of a tail out of the corner of his eye, and the animal chuffed. Green eyes met his and Bolan froze, hoping not to provoke it. The eyes broke contact a moment later.
Bolan began to get a clear idea of why the cat was taking its sweet time. It was moving slowly and awkwardly, as if it was hurt. Some farmer had taken a potshot at it perhaps, or it had gotten caught in a trap. Regardless, it was looking for slower prey than rabbits.
The sound of his blood dripping onto the thirsty soil was loud in Bolan’s ears, louder even than the thump of his heart. He wondered, almost idly, if the jaguar could hear it. Did it sound like thunder to its sensitive feline ears?
Metal squealed beneath wicked claws as the cat abruptly scrambled up onto the roof, seemingly unconcerned about the heat. Tail lashing, it gazed at Bolan with interest. A wide tongue lathered its chops and its eyes were bright with hunger.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen eyes like that, or, rather, an eye. He wondered how far he was from the town with no name, and the man called Tuerto. Mr. One-Eye, the man who’d beaten Bolan down and left him to cook under the Sonoran sun. Tariq Ibn Tumart, the man who had taken Bolan’s ally and who had likely killed him, despite Bolan’s best efforts.
“But my best wasn’t good enough,” Bolan snarled. He let the tire iron slide through his fingers until he was gripping the end. He’d get one swing, he knew, just one. “So it had better be good, right?” he said harshly, his dark gaze meeting the cat’s own. The jaguar snarled and Bolan’s lips skinned back from his teeth.
“Come on then, pal. You want me? I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Tuerto thought he was dead. And maybe he would be. But he wouldn’t go quietly or easily.
The jaguar paused, as if confused by his tone. Then its muscles bunched abruptly, and its tail went rigid. Bolan tensed. The cat sprang, a death machine built over the course of millennia, designed and streamlined by evolution into a tawny thunderbolt. And the Executioner, a man not far removed from the beast facing him, his body honed into a weapon second to none, lunged to meet it.
Chapter 13
Tanzir opened her eyes as she heard the chains on the door rattle. It was light outside, the sun spilling through the gaps in the boarded-over windows. She shifted, stretching lithely, one muscle group at a time. The doors opened and food was brought in—loaves of grocery-store bread and bologna, and a bucket of water. People crowded around, shouting questions, but not too loudly. The coyotes ignored them, save for the leader, Sweets, who raised his hands and grinned like a naughty schoolboy.
“Folks, I do apologize about the accommodations and the disruption to your itinerary, but it could not be helped. Safe to say, we are going to be on our way this fine day, if nothing else serves to distract us.” His eyes shifted through the faces, settling on Tanzir. “Some of you faster than others, I will admit.”
Her heart beat faster. Had Agent James talked? Had he even seen her? Recognized her? Adrenaline flooded her weary limbs and she fought to control the sudden surge of panic.
Sweets trotted toward her and she prepared to strike, her muscles knotting in readiness.
“Ain’t you a pretty one?” he said, dropping to his haunches in front of her. He rubbed his chin and grinned. “Guess I can see why he likes you....”
Tuerto. He must mean Tuerto. She relaxed slightly, looking at him through lowered lashes. She said nothing, waiting for him.
“After last night, he needs to work off a bit of frustration. Get up, girl,” Sweets continued in Spanish. He snapped his fingers and she rose obediently. He smirked and looked at the others, eating as if they hadn’t done so in days, and then he looked back at her. “Guess every batch of raisins got one grape in it, huh?” he said in English.
He led her out of the building and across the street. In the hot light of day, the town looked worse. There were unpleasant stains congealing in the dirt of the street. Here and there, bodies lurked under tarps and moth-eaten bedsheets. A truck and van clung to one another like lovers, a building slumping over them. Someone had tried to give the town a makeover, Tanzir noted. Perhaps she hadn’t given Agent James enough credit.
Sweets saw her looking and clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Now, don’t go getting distracted, sweet pea. You got a big day ahead. Yes, indeed.” She stopped herself from peeling his hand off her, one broken finger at a time.
The building had once been a bar. These days it was a den for two-legged scavengers—Tuerto’s men. They were hiding from the oppressive gaze of the sun, and watching her with avaricious intent. “Just up the stairs, sweetness,” Sweets said, patting her rear. “He’s waiting for you up there. Fairly salivating, he is.”
She took the stairs slowly, as if hesitant and unsure. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager when she saw Tuerto. Infatuation could turn to suspicion fairly quickly. Her palms were sweaty and the boards sagged beneath her feet.
He was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. But it wasn’t Tuerto. She could hear him panting, and her hackles bristled. “Hello,” he said in his little boy’s voice.
She stopped, saying nothing. She glanced back down the stairs. Sweets waited at the bottom, arms spread to either banister. He looked at her knowingly, and she felt like a lamb fed to a lion. She looked back at Digger and essayed a smile.
He held out a hand. She took it gingerly. He was sweaty, and she could smell the nervousness bleeding off him. “You’re pretty,” he murmured, stroking her hair. His touch sent a thrill of revulsion through her, but she continued to smile.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something real nice...” His hand grasped hers with a spasm of strength, and he led her toward a door. “Real nice,” he said again, opening the door.
The room was almost spartan in its bleakness. A bed that had seen better decades and a set of drawers that hung crookedly. Dust covered everything, and the room smelled hot and unpleasant. A trained observer, she spotted the telltale spatter of what was likely blood on the old wooden floorboards. It was still sticky.
“I only ever saw it once,” he said, seating her on the bed. “But I been looking for it ever since. Here and there, you know. Django helps, when he can, but mostly it’s me.” He looked at her almost guiltily. “He’s never seen it, so he doesn’t know. I want to show him, but...” He trailed off and shrugged.
“Show him what?” she said. He started.
“You can talk American?” he said wonderingly. Big fingers stroked her hair. “I ain’t never known one as could yet. Maybe you are the one.”
“The one what?” she said, conscious of the strength in those fingers. She reached up and took his hand and he shuddered. He jerked his hand loose and stepped back. Both hands went behind his back and he smiled like a baby seeing its mother for the first time.
“The one who’s going to show me the black bird,” he said as he revealed the wide-bladed KA-BAR knife he’d been holding behind his back.
* * *
TARIQ STEPPED OUT of the jeep in a swirl of dust. They’d had it hidden behind one of the buildings when Bolan began his destruction of the trucks, so it had escaped his attention. Tariq slapped the burning metal of the hood and laughed a clear, light sound. Abbas glared at him. “Why are you so happy?” he snarled. “We still know nothing about him!”
“And so? By the time his people, whoever they are, look for Mr. Cooper, he will be a strip of cooked meat. A fitting punishment for a man who tried to subvert Allah’s will, eh?”
“We should have shot him,” Abbas insisted. “And the other one, as well!”
“Abbas, we cannot shoot everyone,” Tuerto said. “More, I tire of it. You are a traditionalist, man. You should appreciate what we just did!” He spread his hands. “A more fundamental death I cannot imagine.”
“I can! It involves a bullet!” Abbas said, yanking at his beard. His mad-hawk eyes jittered around, seeking possible complaints. “We should leave today.”
“And how would you do that? Where would you go? Do you know how to slip over the border undetected? Do you even know where the border is?”
Abbas fell silent, but his glare spoke volumes. Tuerto sighed. “Complain all you wish, but my plan is still sound. And when you kneel before Allah, you will know I was right.”
Abbas stomped away, grumbling under his breath. The mercenary watched him go and shook his head. Abbas was becoming more of a problem every day, in every way. Something might have to be done about him, and soon. Tuerto was loath to dispose of tools, but needs must. He shrugged and looked around the town.
A dusty flyspeck, much like the one he’d grown up in. Granted, the one he’d grown up in had never felt the sting of a cowboy’s spurs.
“Feh,” he murmured. “Mr. Cooper. You are swift, but not swift enough.” He turned back toward the desert, and wondered idly if the big American had woken up yet, and if he had, what he was feeling...was the man frightened? Or was he attempting to free himself? Or was he dead already, from the dozen and one hurts they had levied on him?
“Ma’sa’Allah,” he said to himself. Smiling, he made for the building where their “camouflage” was being held. He’d made certain that food and water was brought to the captives, as well as blankets and other comforts, insomuch as a pesthole like this had them. There was no reason to treat them like cattle. He could sympathize with them, in truth.
They wanted a better life, just like peasants the world over. They wanted to be safe, to have full bellies and to be free of the overseer’s whip. There was no sin in that.
It was a shame that most of them would die before achieving that goal. He stroked his beard. He had ordered that they be spared, but, he knew his men were not all so inclined to listen. Abbas, for one. It was a waste of bullets, but they would do it nonetheless, so assured of their passage into paradise, that a few extra infidel souls would not weigh their consciences down overmuch.
A few would listen though, and would feel much the same. America was their enemy, not a ragged peasant seeking to pick strawberries.
Thinking of that, however, put him in mind of the woman. Her face swam before his eyes, still so familiar, but he couldn’t say why. She seemed more intelligent than the run-of-the-mill border rat, but then, who could say why people ran one way or another. Some of those in that group were just as likely to be doctors and lawyers as well as fruit pickers or day laborers. He wondered what she was.
“Maybe I should ask her, eh?” he said to himself. Decided, he ambled toward the building. He was, by nature, a hopeless romantic, he knew. A girl in every port, with two in every city. He liked women more than he ought, and found their company infinitely preferable to that of men.
One of the coyotes, Eddie, he believed the man was called, was sitting outside the doors, nursing a warm beer. He looked askance at Tuerto. “She ain’t in there, Sheikh.”
“What,” he said, stopping. “Who?”
“That piece of a
ss? She gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?” Tuerto said, a premonition bristling across his mind. “Sweets,” he said before the other man could answer.
“One of them, yeah,” Eddie said, rising from his seat. He emptied his bottle and slung it against the building. “I hope you weren’t too fond of her.”
Tuerto turned and sprinted for the saloon.
* * *
THE KNIFE WAS NOT A SURPRISE. Tanzir had read the files on the men involved, and more, she had read between the lines. This sort of profession attracted the sadistic sorts, the sexual predators and the brutalizers of women. It was a profession of power over the powerless. No, the knife was not a surprise.
Digger’s speed, however, was. She caught his grasping hand and her thumb found the bundle of nerves in his wrist, jabbing it and rendering the paw numb. He yelped, more in surprise than pain, and the knife swept out faster than she could follow. It slid across her cheek like a kiss and Tanzir fell back onto the bed. Her feet shot out, mule-kicking into Digger’s manhood. His yelp became a strangled moan and he bent double. He uttered a rasping gasp, as if he was about to be sick and she took the opportunity to jump over him and race for the door.
A hand tangled in her hair, yanking her back with almost neck-cracking force and she slid across the splinter-laden floor and slammed hard into the wall. Digger, breathing hard, glared at her with something approaching religious fervor.
“Don’t want to come out, do he, that old black bird? But I’m gonna see him, damn for sure,” he breathed, the big knife spinning in his hand. “I can hear him rustling between your ribs.” He dived on the last word, the tip of the knife digging for a point between her breasts. She rolled aside and the blade gouged the wall. Her leg swept out, the sole of her feet cracking against his ear and sending him tumbling.
She’d had enough training to know that if he got his hands on her, she’d be dead. No fancy tricks or nerve strikes would be enough to compensate for his raw strength. Tanzir had to get out, to get away from him before he got a permanent grip on her. She just needed a distraction....
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