Border Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  “I have always wanted to visit Canada,” she said. He smiled and stroked her cheek. She wanted to bite him. The door rattled as a fist pounded on it. Tuerto snarled and turned toward it.

  “What?” he snapped. “What is it?”

  “Open up!” someone shouted. “I want to talk to you!” Tanzir recognized the voice as belonging to one of Tuerto’s men, the thin one called Abbas. “Open up, Berber!”

  “It is a punishment, is it not?” he said, looking up. “Oh, Allah, why do you inflict these devils upon me, your faithful son?” He looked back at her. “Up. Back to your accommodations you go.”

  “But...” She hesitated, looking for some excuse. Something was going on. “What if the big one comes back for me?” she said, seizing on the question.

  “He won’t, but if you wish, I shall post one of my men to watch over you. They need to stay alert anyway,” he said calmly, chivying her toward the door. The other man was still knocking, and Tuerto stepped past her and jerked the door open, allowing Abbas to stumble into the room. The man stopped himself before he fell, but recoiled comically at the sight of her.

  “Filth!” he barked.

  Tuerto swatted Abbas’s head. “Be polite.” He turned to her. “Come, I will see that you are escorted safely. Never fear, Alma, my dear.”

  “We don’t have time for this—this playacting! Fahd thinks that American is finally ready to talk!”

  Agent James! Tanzir fought to keep her face from showing her shock. She had assumed the worst, and thought that he was dead. But if he wasn’t, he could still blow her cover. Panic flared and then guttered out, stamped down by determination.

  If Agent James was still alive, then she could make up for not helping him earlier. And she could take Tuerto in the bargain.

  Tuerto closed the door on Abbas, shutting off the man’s diatribe as effectively as if he’d hit him a second time. He led Tanzir downstairs and motioned for one of his men, a young Afghani, to follow. “This is Yusuf. Yusuf, take Alma back to the others and stand guard, hmm?”

  Tuerto grabbed him by the shoulder and leaned close, murmuring quietly. The young man nodded, his eyes narrowing. Yusuf led her away, and she didn’t look back. She was too busy planning a rescue.

  When she was back inside the building where the others were being held, a few people quietly asked questions, but most ignored her. No one wanted to become involved in anyone else’s problems, and if she was unlucky enough to have attracted the coyotes’ attentions, well, it was too bad for her. Tanzir knew that this was less callousness than survival instinct, but it still made her long for an ending to the whole charade.

  She looked around the old dance hall. It had been used to store more than just people in its day. Tarpaulin-covered hills abounded against the back wall. Most were likely empty boxes and crates or broken furniture from better days gone by, but there might be something useful in there, nonetheless. As she drew close, she realized why no one else was back here. The stink was strong, and her eyes watered. It was a familiar odor, however. Following her nose, she pulled one of the tarps back and smiled. A dozen gasoline cans sat stacked in a rough pyramid. She pulled the tarp fully aside and knocked on them, hoping to hear even the faintest slosh. Several minutes later, she calculated that there was enough left to enact the plan forming in her mind.

  She sank down and rocked on her heels, thinking. She reached up to touch her communications link, but then let her hand drop. If she contacted Control, they would order her to sit tight. But if she did that, she ran the risk of being discovered once Agent James was forced to talk, and of him dying as well.

  Neither option held an especially pleasing prospect. She stood and stretched, turning toward the others. “Does anyone have a lighter?” she asked.

  * * *

  JAMES SWALLOWED BLOOD and wondered whether Cooper had gone out the same way. They hadn’t mentioned the big man again, and he knew it was likely because he was dead. James had liked the Justice Department agent, though he’d only known him for a day or so, and guilt for not dissuading him from joining him nestled in his belly.

  The man had dealt himself in to help, but had only wound up getting killed trying to save James’s hide. He’d thought that if things were going to go bad, it would have been Cooper’s fault. But instead, his own hubris had brought him low, just as his momma had warned him so many times before.

  How long had Sweets known? Had they found out about Agent Tanzir, as well? James hoped not. He hoped the woman from Interpol was still safely hidden in plain sight, or, failing that, a long way away.

  Outside, someone screamed. It was a terrible sound, long and high-pitched enough to make James’s teeth itch at the roots. It sounded like a soul in torment. At the first warble, the big Arab slapped James, knocking him over. The chair cracked and split as it struck the floor, but Fahd didn’t notice. There was shouting outside on the street, and James could smell smoke in the one nostril that wasn’t full of dried blood.

  The agent feigned being stunned. He was in what was likely the worst shape of his life, with bruises forming on bruises and things inside him rattling around like marbles in a tin can. Through the slit in a swelling eye, he saw a jagged splinter of wood separate from the chair and skitter across the floor.

  Hope flared within him. The chains were loose and he slipped an arm out and clawed for the splinter as if it was the last rung on the ladder to paradise. As Fahd stooped and peered out the window, James got to his feet, splinter in hand. With one swift motion that he knew he’d regret later, he grabbed the man’s beard from behind and rammed the splinter up through his back.

  Fahd gave a surprised grunt and James sawed the strip of hard wood up, angling it just so. The big man shuddered and then slumped. An exhalation of breath escaped his lips as James lowered him to the floor.

  Thinking quickly, he squatted. “Ha,” he said, finding the pistol holstered on the dead man’s hip. He pulled it free of its holster and checked the magazine automatically, then the slide. It was an old Beretta, but well taken care of. “Small miracles,” James said. He looked out the window. Smoke was rising steadily into the bright blue sky.

  Pistol held down by his side, James eased the door open. There was no one in sight. He took a moment to let his strength build. Every limb felt loose in the socket, and his muscles felt like wet taffy.

  It was a long shot, but if he could make it to one of the vehicles, he might be able to get clear of the town and get help.

  * * *

  TUERTO WAS ARGUING with Abbas when he heard Yusuf scream. The cry spiraled up and up and up, piercing the ears of everyone within sounding distance. Both men ceased arguing and began to run, heading for the stairs.

  “That was Yusuf!” Abbas said, clawing for his weapon.

  “I know!” Tuerto snarled. It was the coyote again, he knew it. He knew it! Red visions of what he would do to the oversize brute filled his head as he raced through the saloon and out into the street. He skidded to a stop as he saw what awaited him—Yusuf staggered toward him, wrapped in a shroud of flame!

  The Afghani screeched like an animal as he extended his arms pleadingly. Then he sank to his knees and fell flat, wreathed in the stink of burning meat. Tuerto had seen bad deaths before, but this one...he wrestled down the bile that threatened to crest over his palate and grimaced as the smell reached him.

  “What the hell is that?” Sweets said, skidding to a stop nearby.

  Tuerto growled and hauled his pistol out, swinging it toward the coyote. “You! You filth of the world! No more chances! Now you die!”

  Chapter 16

  “Easy,” Bolan said. “We’re all friends here.” He raised his hands and stepped back, putting the two agents he’d downed between him and the barrel of the pistol pointed at a spot directly between his eyes. Everything about them screamed Fed, and Bolan had had e
nough encounters with their kind to know that a false move could get him dead as quickly as a jaguar’s bite.

  “Hell with that—Stop moving!” the agent barked.

  “I’m stopped,” Bolan said, reflecting that he was in the absolute last place he wanted to be. The two men on the floor were getting up, albeit slowly and groggily. “What’s this about?” he said, already knowing the answer. Watts had obviously made a call, though possibly not the one Bolan had hoped he’d make. It had sent up flags, and men had been dispatched to take him into custody. Whose custody, however, he couldn’t say. It didn’t matter, in any event. Bolan wasn’t planning to go into custody. Not when there were lives at stake—lives depending on him.

  “Shut up!” the man with the gun snapped. “Yeovil? Adler? You guys okay?”

  “They’re fine,” Bolan said. “My name’s Cooper. I’m with the—”

  “I said shut up!” the gunman said. “Get on your knees. Now!”

  “No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that,” Bolan said. His eyes swiveled, taking in the gun butts protruding from the rising men’s shoulder holsters, and then the fire extinguisher on the wall. If he went for the guns, there was a good chance someone would get shot. But the extinguisher... Bolan spun, snapping a kick into the closest man, sending him staggering back into the gunman. The pistol went off, tearing through the chipboard ceiling. Bolan ripped the extinguisher off the wall and turned it on, blasting all three men with foam.

  “Sorry, boys, I hate to do this, but needs must,” Bolan said, emptying the extinguisher. Sliding forward across the slippery floor, he jammed the end of the canister against the hands holding the pistol and dislodged it, snapping it up before it could hit the floor. Then with quick, athletic movements, he sprang over the tangled men and headed for the door, the pistol in his hand.

  If he could just get to their car, he could—

  “Drop it,” Watts said, pressing his gun to Bolan’s head even as the Executioner bolted out through the doors the Federal agents had entered through. The police chief had been waiting on the other side. “Drop it nice and slow, Mr. Cooper, and I won’t have to add to your list of woes. Neither one of us wants that, do we?”

  “Maybe not, but they certainly do,” Bolan said, nodding back toward the men he’d downed. The agents were on their feet and charging at him, blood in their eyes. Bolan grinned and tossed the pistol down, stepping back as the trio bulled through the doors.

  Watts eyed them, and the barrel of his pistol drifted toward them nonchalantly. “You three guys feel like identifying yourselves?”

  “Carter, FBI,” said the one who’d drawn down on Bolan. He pulled a badge out of his sopping coat and flashed it. “We’re taking this man into federal custody...”

  “Bull puckey. He’s my prisoner until the tribal council says different,” Watts said. “Now, get them guns out of my face, or I’ll get twitchy.”

  “Chief Watts, this comes from directly on high—” Carter began.

  “I don’t care if it comes from Jesus, Buddha or Allah, Agent Carter,” Watts said. “Settle down or I’ll settle you down.” He glanced at Bolan. “You, too, Cooper.” He jerked his chin at the handcuffs dangling from Bolan’s wrist. “You’re paying for that examination table, by the by.”

  “I assume you called the FBI?” Bolan said.

  Watts shrugged. “Probably somebody higher up than me on the local food chain, but until I hear what’s what, nobody is taking anyone in my custody anywhere.”

  “Look, we’ve got a warrant. This man has information on a sensitive matter,” Carter said, frowning. He glared at Bolan. “We need to know what he knows. It’s a matter of national security.”

  “On that, I agree,” Bolan said. “I’ll talk to your bosses, but not until I’ve made a phone call.” And not until I know for a fact that they—and I—haven’t already screwed things up beyond all repair, he thought.

  “No phone calls, I think,” someone said. Bolan and the others turned. Several men in suits stood in the doorway of the clinic. The one who’d spoken turned his attention back to the cell phone he cradled against his ear. “We’ve found him, Control.”

  Bolan detected the slightest accent curling around the man’s words. “Interpol,” he said, not looking at Watts.

  “Very good, Agent...Cooper, was it?” the man with the phone said. The suit was Italian, but the accent was Gallic, if Bolan was any judge. The phone was clicked shut. “You will come with us, yes?”

  “No!” both Watts and Carter barked simultaneously.

  Bolan crossed his arms. “I’m not going anywhere, with anyone, until I make a phone call.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Agent Cooper. Time is of the essence,” the Interpol agent said. He jerked his head and the three men who’d come with him moved forward. Two of them wore border patrol windbreakers. All three were armed.

  Bolan tensed. Then, abruptly, he relaxed. There was nothing for it. “Fine, I’ll go.”

  “We’ll all go,” Carter said, stepping forward and snapping a pair of handcuffs onto Bolan. Bolan didn’t resist, not wanting to waste any more time. Watts, however, protested.

  “Hey, now, if anyone is cuffing him, it’ll be me.”

  “Sorry, but you’re sitting this one out. The Federal Bureau of Intelligence thanks you for your assistance in apprehending this man. But, frankly, you can shove off now. Get back to rousting drunks or whatever it is you do out here,” Carter said brusquely.

  Watts frowned. “That’s it, huh?”

  “That’s it,” the FBI man said. Watts looked at Bolan, who gave a slight smile and shook his head. Watts squinted, and then nodded, rubbing the back of his head.

  “Guess I’ve been kicked out of the circle, huh?”

  “Trust me, the air is better out here than in there,” Bolan said, seething inwardly but trying to present a calm face. He moved toward the door, followed closely by the border patrol agents and the dripping Feds. Hopefully, Watts had taken his meaning. If not, Bolan was in for a long day.

  “You do not care for our company?” the Interpol man said, falling into step with Bolan. They left the building and Bolan squinted at the rising sun. He’d lost a day, possibly two. He couldn’t lose any more time. If that meant he had to play nice with the big boys, then he’d simply have to do so.

  “Not the company, but what it means,” Bolan said.

  “Ah. Red tape, you mean,” the other man said. “My name is Chantecoq, by the by. I am Amira Tanzir’s direct superior.”

  Bolan looked sharply at Chantecoq. “You’ve heard from her?”

  “Not since yesterday. That is why you are in custody, Cooper.” Chantecoq looked at him through the lenses of dark glasses. “I want to know where my agent is. And what you have done with her.”

  Bolan fell silent and looked away. A pretty face swam to the surface of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside. Guilt was a useless sort of balm in situations like this, especially when no one was truly at fault. “Not me,” he said finally.

  Chantecoq smiled blandly. “No? We shall see.”

  There were two black SUVs waiting for them outside. Bolan was motioned into the first, and Chantecoq and Agent Carter climbed in after him. The FBI man glowered at him as he employed wadded handfuls of paper towels to clean the fire-retardant foam from his suit.

  “You shouldn’t have pulled your gun,” Bolan said.

  “You shouldn’t have thumped my partners,” Carter said.

  “Be fair, he did not know who you were,” Chantecoq murmured. He looked at Bolan over the rim of his sunglasses. “Then, we do not know who he is. Just who is Agent Matt Cooper, Justice Department, answerable to?”

  “I have a number you can call,” Bolan said.

  “So you keep saying.” Chantecoq’s gaze moved over to Carter. “I find it interesting that he sho
wed up at a critical point in our operation.”

  “Not ours,” Carter said. “Or did you forget that you decided not to mention your little sting to the Bureau?”

  Chantecoq made a flippant gesture. “FBI, NSA, BPA, so many letters, so little time.”

  “I’ll give you a letter, you—” Carter began.

  Bolan cleared his throat. “May I ask where we’re going?”

  The two men looked at him as if suddenly remembering his presence. Chantecoq rubbed his chin. “We set up a temporary headquarters near the border. We’ll take you there and debrief you.”

  “You aren’t debriefing anyone until we get our people down here!” Carter snapped. “You don’t get to play around on American soil and not follow proper procedure, mister.”

  Bolan sat back as they continued to argue. Under different circumstances, it would have been funny. But every cross word and harsh look was another minute wasted while evil men carried a cargo of death toward innocent Americans.

  “El Tuerto doesn’t care about procedure,” Bolan said.

  Chantecoq looked at him sharply. “What do you know about Tuerto?”

  “I know that his real name is Tariq Ibn Tumart,” Bolan said. “He’s a Berber. He’s been classically educated. And he’s less interested in martyrdom than money.”

  Chantecoq sat back, a speculative look on his face. “That’s...quite a bit, actually. More than we know, in fact. How did you come by this information?”

  “Simple,” Bolan said. “He told me.”

  Carter laughed. Chantecoq frowned. “Why would he do that?” he said.

  Bolan shrugged. “He thought I would be dead before I could tell anyone.”

  “Guess he misjudged you, huh, Cooper?” Carter said, grinning. “It seems like you put everyone on the wrong foot, not just us.”

  “It’s a flaw,” Bolan said. The Fed nodded appreciatively. Chantecoq said nothing, simply examining Bolan silently for the remainder of the ride. The agent was a tough egg, Bolan could tell. He wasn’t a desk jockey, and his concern for Tanzir was palpable. Bolan felt some sympathy, but not enough to say anything else.