There was yelling from below, and then the rush of feet on the stairs. Digger paused and turned, like a wary animal. She tensed, preparing to move.
The door slammed open and nearly fell off of its hinges as Tuerto’s foot connected with it. The pistol in his hand cracked and the knife in Digger’s hand went flying in a serpentine curl of crimson. Digger shrieked like a child and stumbled, clutching his hand.
Tanzir took the opening, diving past Tuerto and out into the hallway. It was easy enough to play the terrified rabbit, what with the adrenaline thundering through her. Tuerto glanced at her, and then turned his attention back to Digger. The big man’s hand was bleeding, but not damaged seriously. The bullet had cut through the web of flesh between his thumb and finger before lodging in the wall. He swung his head like an angry buffalo and took a hesitant step.
“No,” Tuerto said. “This is the second time I have almost shot you. Do you want it to be the last?”
“Put that gun down!” Sweets snarled, stalking up the stairs, his pistol clutched in one steady hand. “I swear to the Lord Our God Jesus Hisownself, if you so much as twitch, I will blow you to hell, Mr. One-Eye!”
“Your brother will be there to open the gates for me, Sweets,” Tuerto said icily.
Sweets’s demeanor abruptly changed. He held up his hands. “Now, hold on, hold on, maybe we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. Said some heated stuff. Waved guns around, no reason we can’t come to terms, I think.”
“The original price,” Tuerto said.
“What?”
“We will no longer be paying you double,” Tuerto said, not looking at Sweets. “The original price stands, yes?”
“I—” Sweets began, face coloring.
“I am comfortable with death. Is your brother?” Tuerto said.
“Django?” Digger said, looking at his brother.
“Fine!” Sweets snapped. “Fine, damn you!”
“And the girl, of course,” Tuerto said. Tanzir didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted. He did not look at her as he stepped back.
“No,” Digger said.
“Yes, fine,” Sweets said, waving the larger man silent.
“And there will be no replacements, eh?” Tuerto said.
Sweets’s face had assumed a placid look. “Fine. I’ll keep him on a short leash while we’re here,” he said, glancing at his brother, whose hands clenched into meaty fists. He looked back at the man with one eyed. “I said it before, but you’re awful squeamish for a fellow planning to blow up nursery schools.”
“There is a difference between war and murder, Mr. Sweets,” Tuerto said, holstering his pistol. “I admit that the line is a fine one, sometimes, but it is there nonetheless.”
Chapter 14
Bolan knew that he’d blown it, even as the tire iron whistled through the air. The jaguar tumbled to the side, its lunge aborted by Bolan’s own. The tire iron missed it by inches and Bolan was forced to stumble back as the cat clawed at him. With its snarl rippling in his ears, the Executioner gripped the tire iron in both hands and took a batter’s swing.
The tire-iron connected with the jaguar’s outthrust paw, and Bolan heard bone snap. The animal shrieked and spun in a circle as Bolan tried to stay out of its way. Limping, the jaguar began to stalk him as he backed away. Exhaustion crept through Bolan, and black spots danced across the surface of his vision. Even if the cat was hurt, it still outmuscled him, especially given his current physical state. Even adrenaline could only keep him on his feet so long.
The jaguar’s tail lashed and it circled him, its eyes blazing intensely. Bolan followed it, turning slowly, his stomach heaving and his head spinning. The tire iron felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds and the round head dipped as Bolan’s arm began to shake. But iron nerves strummed and Bolan raised his improvised weapon, forcing his sluggish muscles to respond through sheer will.
“Sorry, pal, there’s no such thing as a free lunch,” Bolan said hoarsely. The jaguar growled. A moment later it charged, kicking up a cloud of dust. Bolan fell backward and rolled aside as the cat scrambled through the space where he’d been standing. Even as the cat turned, Bolan shot to his feet and brought the tire iron down, hoping to connect with the animal’s skull.
He caught the cat a glancing blow on the head and it screamed and fangs fastened on his wrist with bone-crushing force. Bolan couldn’t contain a scream of his own as the tire iron tumbled from his grip. His shoulder burned as he yanked the cat around. His free hand snagged it by the ruff and, body protesting, he rammed its skull into the car, denting the metal.
The cat released his wrist and went limp. Bolan dropped the jaguar and fell to his knees beside it. His chest was heaving like a bellows and sweat covered him. The animal was still breathing and might rouse at any moment. Cradling his bleeding wrist, he scrambled toward the tire iron. Even as his fingers touched the tool, the jaguar gave a querulous grunt and rose up onto three shaky legs, its head hanging low.
Bolan scooped up the tire iron and rolled onto his back as the cat turned and started toward him again. It sprang at him, crashing into him even as he sat up. Its hot breath washed over his face as he battered at it with the tire iron.
Suddenly, the cat stiffened and slumped, its weight pressing down on him. Bolan rolled it off and straddled it, raising the tire iron. He noticed the dart sprouting from its leg at the same moment he heard a shotgun being readied.
“Drop it, mister,” someone said. Bolan let the tool fall. “Now stand up. And do it slowly.”
“Wish I could oblige you,” Bolan croaked. He got off the jaguar and fell heavily onto his back, his vision blurring. He heard voices, but at a distance. And then everything went black as the world crashed in on him.
When he awoke, the black was replaced by the gleaming white of a hospital room. Bolan tensed, and felt a stab of pain, first from his arm and then from everywhere. With a grunt, he made to sit up.
“Easy, fellow,” someone said. “Easy does it.”
A strong hand on his shoulder helped him up. Bolan looked at the hand’s owner. A square grin greeted his examination, nestled in a craggy face the color of baked clay. Dark eyes returned the favor. “That cat tore you up but good, my friend.”
“I was in bad shape before he got there,” Bolan said, rubbing his shoulder. The man was stout and built like an inverted triangle. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped almost painfully short, and he wore a tan shirt and dusty black denims. “What happened?” Bolan asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Someone shot that cat with a load of buckshot and I was out seeing to it. Nothing worse than a pissed-off jaguar with a hide full of iron, especially since it’s part of my job seeing that no one kills one of them. Or vice versa, come to that. I caught it with a tranquilizer dart right before she gave you a lobotomy with them teeth of hers.”
Bolan flashed back to the sight of the jaguar’s teeth looming over him, and the smell of the carnivore’s breath and added the memory to the pile of close calls he’d endured throughout his long war. “Thanks. If I can ever return the favor...”
“Yeah, about that...I’m Joel Watts, chief of police for Tapowo, and I was thinking I might have a few more questions for you, if you’re feeling up to it.” Watts pulled a tiny notebook and a stub of pencil out of the breast pocket of his uniform shirt and set them down on the bed.
“And if I’m not?” Bolan said.
“I’ll ask anyway, but you’ll enjoy it less,” Watts said, smiling. “See, usually we don’t find folks strapped to cars out there. Now, we might find them wandering, or in a gulley, or on the side of the road, if they make it that far, but never, at least in my time, strapped to a car, as it appeared that you were, if we are to believe the evidence.”
“Glad to hear that I’m special. Where’s Tapowo?” Bolan
said.
“Here, or hereabouts,” Watts said, gesturing. “We’re in the local clinic.”
“Free?” Bolan asked, looking around.
“Veterinary, actually,” Watts said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Tapowo is too small for a proper hospital. You got to go up to Tucson for that. We make do with the horse doctor. Your sparring partner is in the room next door.”
“Glad to hear it,” Bolan said.
“You actually sound like you mean it,” Watts said. “Mind telling me what you were doing on our property, beating up on our animals?”
“Who’s ‘our’?” Bolan said, feeling as if he’d come in halfway through a movie.
“This is all Tohono O’odham land, friend,” Watts said. “It’s not much, but we call it home.” Bolan recognized the name, though only vaguely. A southwestern Indian tribe, with a reservation that actually sat on both American and Mexican territory; a fact which had caused them no small difficulty in recent years as border conditions grew harsher. “Care to tell me why you were in our backyard?” Watts pressed.
“Not really.”
“Shame. Maybe I should have left you for the damn coyotes. They travel in packs out there big enough to bring a guy like you down without breaking a sweat,” Watts said. “Why were you out there?”
Bolan slumped back. “How long was I out?” he said, avoiding the question.
“Six hours, give or take. You took a pounding,” Watts said. “How about a name...”
“Cooper. Matt Cooper. I’m with the Justice Department,” Bolan said. Six hours. Dark thoughts pried at the lid of his composure. God alone knew what could happen in six hours. He might already be too late. His mind shied away from the thought. He sat up again. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“You’re not going anywhere, not until we figure out what you were doing out there,” Watts said, taking hold of him, albeit gently. “Just lay back.”
“No,” Bolan said. “There’s no time.” Chain rattled and he looked down at his bandaged wrist. It was handcuffed to the examination table. He shot a look at Watts, who sat back and shrugged.
“I don’t take chances with fellows who can down a jaguar with his hands.”
“I had help from a tire iron. Chief, you’ve got to let me go,” Bolan said intently. “There are some very bad people out there planning to do some very bad things, and they’ve got friends of mine as prisoners.” He rattled the cuffs. Friend, anyway. If Tanzir was smart, she was laying low. But James...
“You’ve been beat up, burned, baked raw and gnawed on by a cat, Mr. Cooper. I’d be remiss in my duty as a law enforcement professional if I let you go now.” Watts picked up his notebook. “Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll put in a call to the tribal council, see what they say.”
“I’d rather you call my bosses,” Bolan said.
“I bet you would. But this is Tohono O’odham land and we don’t intend to let the Feds back in if we can help it. It didn’t work out so well last time,” Watts said. “Talk, Cooper. Why were you out there? Who did that to you?”
Bolan slumped back. “Call my bosses. I’ll give you the number.”
Visibly frustrated, Watts stood and stuffed his notebook back into his pocket. “Is that the way you want to play this?”
“Only card I got, Chief,” Bolan said. He rattled off a number. Watts left in a huff, and Bolan lay back. Eyes closed, he meditated, trying to push his hurts aside and clear the medicinal fog that coiled about his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to antagonize the chief, but he knew what awaited him down that road. Confirmation and double confirmation, answers leading to more questions as his story was filtered to any one of a number of federal agencies, none of which might be in the loop where the joint Interpol/border patrol operation was concerned, but all determined to be, even at the expense of botching the whole thing.
It wasn’t, Bolan reflected, that the people who staffed those agencies weren’t competent individuals, but the bureaucracy that they worked within was far too limiting for them to accomplish what needed doing in the time necessary to do it. People died while forms were filled out in triplicate and secretaries shuffled paperwork.
He dozed for longer than he’d intended, and when he snapped back to full wakefulness, he was keenly aware of the passage of time. He heard the yowls of cats and the cries of birds and dogs and remembered that he was in an animal clinic.
Well aware that there was likely a man on guard, Bolan leaned over and grabbed the railing that he’d been cuffed to. It took more effort than he liked to bend it out of shape enough to slide the cuff free, but he did it. They’d left him his pants. Filthy as they were, Bolan shrugged into them, laced on his boots and moved stealthily to the door.
If he could get to a car, he could make his way...where? He was reasonably certain he could find the town where Tuerto and the others had been hiding, but there was no guarantee that they were still there, even though he’d disabled almost all the vehicles. And it wasn’t likely that anyone still there would talk to him.
That wasn’t even taking into account his lack of weapons. He grimaced. He’d have to improvise on the fly. One way or another, he’d take them down.
Gently, he eased the door open, but saw no one on duty. If Tapowo was as small as Watts had intimated, he might not have left a guard after all. Or, there might be three.
Even as Bolan stepped out into the hall, the three men in suits saw him and started to hurry forward. The closest reached for him even as he opened his mouth to speak. Bolan didn’t give him the chance, snapping his hand out to grab the newcomer’s wrist and bend it back even as he jerked the man forward and thrust him face-first into the wall, rattling it hard enough to send a notice board clattering to the floor.
The second man came at him, displaying at least a passing familiarity with something approaching martial arts training. Bolan slid under the punch despite the protestations of his muscles, and gave his opponent a quick rabbit punch in reply.
The click of a government-issue Glock was loud in the hallway. Bolan straightened, frowning. He turned to face the third man, who aimed the weapon at him from several feet away.
“Who the hell are you?” the federal agent barked. “Answer me!”
Chapter 15
“You saved me,” Tanzir said in Spanish, trying to sound grateful. She sat with Tuerto in the room he’d commandeered for his use, stroking the front of his shirt.
“Of course I did. But I haven’t even learned your name yet,” he replied in the same language. He took hold of her chin and made her face him. “So...what is it?”
“Alma,” she said.
“Alma,” he said, rolling the name around in his mouth. “That is a pretty name.” He dipped his head for a kiss, and she pulled back. He snorted. “No, I suppose not. Not after what you’ve been through.” He rolled off the bed and stood, walking to the sink. He rinsed out two plastic cups and filled them with water, offering one to her. She took it gladly and gulped down the water greedily. She hadn’t realized just how thirsty she was.
“I knew that there was something wrong with him the first time I saw him. He stinks of blood and madness. Like a tiger that’s been lamed.” He tapped the side of his head. “He is sick, up here. So is his brother, but his is a more common madness, I think.” He sniffed. “Still, Ma’sa’Allah.”
“As God wills it,” she said.
He nodded, smiling. “Yes, exactly. As God wills it. We work with what we have.” He drained his cup and set it aside. “A dancer, perhaps?” he said.
“A dancer?” she repeated.
“You, I mean. Were you a dancer? Your movements were elegant, despite the situation. It was something involving coordination and agility, surely. A vaquero, perhaps?” he said, sinking to his haunches in front of her.
“I was a...policewoman,” s
he said haltingly.
His eyebrow quirked in surprise. “Oh?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, using her best rueful smile. She spread her hands. “I made some mistakes, you know?”
“Oh, yes, I know,” he said, nodding. “Would one of those mistakes be why you are now smuggling drugs for the cartels?”
She allowed her features to tighten. “Yes,” she said quietly.
He smiled. “I like a woman with character.”
“How much do you like me?” she said.
“Oh, very much indeed... What are you planning to do once we cross the border, Alma?” he said, eyeing her intently.
She shrugged and leaned back. His smile grew. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I see. Would you like to go with me, Alma?”
“Where?” she said.
“Canada, I think. It has been some time since I visited friends there, and I would not stay within the borders of the United States for all of the tea in China, I think.” He stroked his beard, looking at her contemplatively. “Such a trip is always more enjoyable with...company, shall we say? And there is no company better than a lovely woman.”
Canada, she thought. They had known he wasn’t planning to stick around; Tuerto was an organizer, not a terrorist. He was a consultant in the field, but not a practitioner, as Control had put it more than once. Canada made sense. Tuerto wouldn’t stop after he crossed the border, he’d simply head for the next as quickly as possible, to be out of the United States before the inevitable occurred.
“You are not staying in America?” she said, trying her best to sound confused.
He looked at her. “No. This country holds no pleasure for me.” He smiled crookedly. It was an almost charming expression, if you hadn’t seen a similar look on his face as he shot an informant. She had been several miles away that time, watching him through a satellite feed. The men sent to capture him had been minutes too late.
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