Border Offensive

by Don Pendleton

  Greaves flushed. “Mexican sovereignty wasn’t violated,” he said tersely. “Besides which, the bad guys aren’t on your patch anymore.”

  “No, but you were quite rude,” Ortega said. “And they are lurking in the no-man’s-land between our two countries...that makes them both our responsibilities, to my way of thinking.”

  “This is very amusing, but what exactly do you mean by a ‘training exercise’? Need I remind everyone that I still have an agent in play?” Chantecoq spoke up, his voice growing heated. Bolan looked at the Frenchman, reappraising him.

  “Has she reported in?” Rittermark said.

  Chantecoq hesitated. “No. Not since yesterday.”

  “Then, I am sad to say, we must assume she has been discovered,” the German said bluntly. “Even as Agent James was, unfortunately.”

  “Hey, he had some help on that score, if I recall correctly,” Greaves snapped, glaring at Bolan.

  “Playing the blame game isn’t going to get anything done,” Brognola said, speaking over everyone with a practiced parade-ground bark.

  “Agreed,” Rittermark said sharply. “If the Mexican government is mobilizing, then we must assume that Tuerto will make a run for it.”

  “You think he’ll abandon his mission?” Bolan said.

  “No,” Chantecoq said, speaking up. “No, he will simply adapt his plan. We know that he intends to leave his men before they begin their attack, wherever and whenever that is scheduled. He will follow through with that part of it, at least.”

  “He’s a jackal in a trap,” Rittermark said.

  “Sweets will run, too, if he’s got the capability. Deal or no deal, he’ll move like his ass is on fire if he sees tanks on the horizon,” Greaves said, gesturing to Ortega.

  “But Tuerto won’t let him leave without him,” Bolan said. Upon learning One-Eye’s true identity, the Interpol agents had managed to put together a surprisingly comprehensive file on Tariq Ibn Tumart. Reading it, Bolan was struck by the similarities between himself and the mercenary. Algerian by birth, Tuerto, or Tumart, had become involved with the Berber Arouch Citizens’ Movement and had apparently lost family, as well as an eye, in the Black Spring Disturbance of 2001. After that, he had seemingly resurfaced as a terrorist-for-hire, ostensibly pitting himself against the sorts of men he blamed for his family’s deaths.

  “What do we know about this Sweets?” Ortega said. “Could he be pressed into turning your man over to us?” He looked at Rittermark. The latter glanced at Greaves, who frowned.

  “Maybe...” he said doubtfully.

  “No,” Bolan said. “I’ve met Sweets. He’s a rattlesnake. There’s no telling which way he’ll strike.”

  “If our people are still alive, they might try to use them as bargaining pieces,” Chantecoq said.

  “Or kill them,” Carter said. It was the first thing the FBI man had said in some time. Bolan looked at him, considering. Then he looked at the helicopter that had brought Brognola and Ortega.

  “How many of those can we get?” he said, pointing.

  “What? Why?” Brognola said. “What are you thinking, Striker?”

  “I’m thinking that we take a page from Tuerto’s playbook,” Bolan said. “While Ortega’s people are keeping them busy, we hit them hard and fast from the air. We can keep them off balance long enough for someone to get your people out, and to get Tuerto in custody.”

  “Someone?” Brognola said, smiling. “You mean you, right?”

  “I owe it to them,” Bolan said simply. “I can get into the town and keep Agents Tanzir and James pinned down long enough for the cavalry to arrive. And I can make sure that neither Tuerto nor Sweets manages to weasel out of our trap.”

  “Now wait a minute...” Greaves began. “Why don’t we just—”

  “What? Argue some more?” Chantecoq said. Rittermark shot a glare at his subordinate, but nodded sourly.

  “Our original plan has been compromised, obviously. We must adapt. How long until your people hit the target?” the German said, looking at Ortega. The big Mexican rubbed his chin.

  “Probably nightfall, give or take.”

  Bolan stepped out of the shade of the tent and looked up at the sky. Squinting, he calculated against the position of the sun. “Then I’ve got maybe three hours.” He looked back at the crowd of suits. “I’ll need gear.”

  “We don’t even know where this town is!” Carter said.

  “Of course we do,” Bolan said. He looked at Chantecoq and Rittermark. “I assume you’ve already triangulated Agent Tanzir’s position from her last communication? Just in case?”

  Chantecoq looked at his superior, and then nodded. “Yes. Though the odds of them still being there—”

  “Are pretty good,” Bolan interjected. “I managed to damage most of their transportation. There’s no way they’re getting all those men out of that town, and both Tuerto and Sweets damn well know it, which is why we need to get James and Tanzir out of there ASAP.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Carter said. The FBI agent patted his pistol. “When do we leave?”

  “We don’t,” Bolan said firmly. “I do. As much as it pains me to say it, we need to keep any more potential hostages out of the bad guys’ hands.”

  Carter flushed. Bolan knew how the agent felt, but he didn’t allow himself to feel pity. He looked at Brognola. “I’ll need gear...”

  “In the chopper,” the big Fed said, smiling slightly. “Kissinger says hello, by the way.”

  “Tell him I love him, too,” Bolan said, smiling bluntly.

  “What do you intend to do?” Greaves said. “Are you planning on taking on a whole town of mujahedeen by yourself?”

  “Not for long, if things go according to plan,” Bolan said. “Granted, things haven’t been going according to plan so far, but I trust you gentlemen can make it work. You’ll have to.” He began to walk toward the helicopter.

  Chantecoq caught up with him. “You’re in no shape to do this, Cooper. Not by yourself.”

  Bolan looked at him. Despite his words, he knew the Frenchman wasn’t so much concerned with him as with someone else. “I’ll keep her safe,” he said.

  Chantecoq blinked and stepped back. “What?”

  “Amira,” Bolan said softly. He put a hand on the other man’s arm. “I’ll make sure she gets out of this alive.”

  Chantecoq’s cheek twitched, and he seemed to want to say something. Instead, he simply nodded brusquely. Bolan nodded back and climbed aboard the helicopter. It took off a moment later, carrying him back into the desert. Ignoring the variety of aches and pains that plagued him, Bolan began to gird himself for war.

  Chapter 19

  “It is a shame you had to kill Fahd. I quite liked him, despite the odor,” Tuerto said, looking down at James. His men had tied the border patrol agent to the bed, and his skin was going an unhealthy gray. Stress and his wounds had robbed him of vitality, but his eyes flickered.

  “S-sorry,” James croaked.

  “Yes, well...” Tuerto pulled up a chair. “Your value has diminished substantially, my friend. You’re probably wondering why I’m keeping you alive, hmm?”

  James didn’t answer. Tuerto sniffed. “In truth, I am keeping you around merely to annoy Mr. Sweets. He is rabid for your death. Amazingly, I think your betrayal personally affronted him,” he said. He looked at the agent and nodded. “I know. I am shocked, as well.”

  He rose. “You live because you are still useful to me, as a hostage, if for no other reason. I have been at this long enough to feel a noose closing about me. I may soon need bargaining chips.”

  So saying, he left James alone in the room and went out into the hallway. He paused, scratching his eye socket. He could still smell smoke on the air, and recognized it for the portent that it was.
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br />   “Things fall apart, the center cannot hold,” he murmured. “The falcon must fly,” he continued, paraphrasing. He chuckled bitterly. Failure was not unfamiliar to him. He had had operations blown out from under him before, but familiarity did not impart enjoyment.

  He needed to see to his escape, and soon. He walked down the hall, toward the room where they were keeping Alma—no, Amira Tanzir. A surge of anger cut through him. Maybe Sweets’s feelings concerning James weren’t so shocking after all...betrayal was never pleasant.

  It had taken some time, but he had finally recalled why her face was familiar. He had seen her once, in a little market town. Presumably she had been with the Interpol team sent to apprehend him before he set off the explosive device he’d planted in a certain man’s bag.

  The man had been the leader of a terror cell; ineffective and awkward, he was to be disposed of to make way for a more dynamic leader, a service which Tuerto had been only too happy to provide, considering the paycheck involved. Like many organizations, al Qaeda felt it necessary to keep a bit of distance between itself and internal assassinations. It wouldn’t do to be seen sanctioning the killing of the Faithful, even if it was in good cause.

  He’d seen Agent Tanzir in the crowd minutes before he’d set off the device, and had been struck then by her beauty. Just two ships passing in the night, he’d thought. Instead, she’d been an iceberg he’d narrowly avoided.

  “Twice now, in fact,” he said out loud. He paused in front of the door. There was a murmur of voices inside. The smoke had indeed been an omen. His holy warriors were growing restless. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  “We should kill the bitch,” Abbas was saying, looking at the woman tied to the bed. “If she is in the pay of our enemies, she deserves to die!” The others in the room nodded solemnly. Tuerto closed the door behind him and cocked his head.

  “You are not a gambler, are you, Abbas?” he said, causing heads to turn.

  “What?” Abbas snapped, turning to look at Tuerto.

  “Would you dispense with a bargaining chip out of spite?” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Tuerto looked at the woman. She was either unconscious, or doing a very good impression of it. “Or is it because she’s a woman? Is your misogyny so virulent that it blinds your reason?”

  “What?” Abbas said again, blinking.

  “I said that you are an idiot, Abbas.” Tuerto tapped the side of his head. “A fool. She works for Interpol, yes? Then she is worth more to us alive at this juncture than dead. The same as the man.”

  “Who says?” Abbas snorted. “Your plan crumbles as we speak, Berber. We will follow you no longer, I think. You have proven yourself to be less than competent.”

  The man with one eye frowned. “Have I?” He stood. “You mean, I assume, that it is my fault that you idiots allowed an American agent to convince you to shoot at our drivers and kill several of them? Not to mention lose a number of our own men in the ensuing incident? Or is it my fault that I managed to prevent you ungrateful dogs from killing each other in your fear that we had been betrayed? Or, perhaps, you’re referring to the fact that I managed to convince Sweets and his remaining men, men who have no reason not to simply bugger off and leave us stranded, to stay and continue on despite the aforementioned incident?” Tuerto threw out his hands. “You’re right, of course, Abbas. Do forgive me. The levels of my incompetence are obvious even to the dimmest of us. Please, by all means...take charge.” Tuerto turned to Abbas. “That is what you want, correct? To be in charge? To lead our holy warriors into the land of death?”

  “I—” Abbas began, stepping back. He stiffened as Tuerto snorted. “Yes. Better a true servant of Allah than a moneygrubbing creature such as you,” he snapped. “You only want the woman alive because you fancy her!”

  “And so? I take my pleasures here, rather than in the afterlife. What business is that of yours?” Tuerto said, dropping his hands.

  “It is my business when it is obvious that your pleasures have become a liability!” Abbas said, pulling his pistol. “And liabilities must be disposed of!”

  “I agree,” Tuerto said. His arm whipped forward in one smooth motion and a throwing blade sliced into Abbas’s hand, causing him to drop his weapon with a squeal. Tuerto unholstered his own pistol and stepped forward. “Goodbye, Abbas, my friend.” With barely a twitch of a smile, he shot Abbas in the head. The body toppled backward and landed on the floor with a heavy thump. Tuerto looked around the room at the other nine men. “Organize what remains of the Holy One Hundred. Get them ready to go. Those who can, will be leaving within the hour. Go. Now!”

  His men filed out quickly, not a one of them looking at Abbas’s corpse splayed out on the floor. Tuerto looked at the bed, and Tanzir. Leaning over, he patted her cheek. “You are welcome, little policewoman,” he whispered before he turned and left. Closing and locking the door behind him, he wondered if he had made the right choice. In truth, he had been planning to kill Abbas sooner or later. The man had been an annoying pig. And the woman might prove useful, in one fashion or another.

  Shaking his head, he started downstairs. Sweets was waiting for him, a shot glass spinning on the table in front of him. “You shoot him?” the coyote asked.

  For a moment, Tuerto thought Sweets meant Abbas, and then he shook his head. “No. James still lives. He may wish otherwise soon enough, however.” He picked up the shot glass and set it upright. “We will leave soon, I think.”

  “Groovy. Just need to renegotiate first,” Sweets said, seemingly unconcerned about the shot he had heard. “Less men means more work and I lost four guys, counting Jorge.”

  “And I lost ten,” Tuerto said. Then he corrected himself. “Eleven.”

  “More than that. Jorge killed two of ’em. And the broad sure as hell killed that poor bastard she lit up.”

  “There are plenty left,” Tuerto said, shrugging.

  “Still leaves eighty-odd boys for six trucks. No, excuse me, two vans.” Sweets held up two fingers. “Cousin Frank busted up the trucks. And the fire fucked ’em up beyond repair. And them cheap-ass vans we got ain’t going to make it over the border.”

  “You’re sure?” Tuerto demanded.

  “Yep,” Sweets said. “We got two vehicles that can go-go gadget. Scarcity means prices go up. That’s just simple economics.”

  “At this point, I wonder whether we should simply cut our losses,” Tuerto said, rolling the shot glass around and around with one finger. He fixed Sweets with a contemplative eye. “If you cannot drive, you are not useful, Mr. Sweets.”

  “Use is relative,” Sweets said calmly. “Any way you slice it, me and Digger are the most useful motherfuckers you got.”

  “And the others?”

  “Screw ’em. But me and Digger can get gone ASAP, which is probably what you want about nowish.” Sweets pulled a wireless radio up off the floor and set it on the table. “You speak Mexican?”

  “I speak Spanish,” Tuerto said.

  “Right,” Sweets said, baring his teeth in an ugly grin. “Give this a listen, if you would.” He turned the radio on and spun the knob. Static settled into a babble of voices. Tuerto listened and then cursed. He recognized military jargon when he heard it, regardless of the language.

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as can be. The Federales are on the way. Someone tipped them off to this little operation, we knew that. But now somebody up north has goosed them into actually moving, and brother, they are hauling ass in our direction. Care to guess what that means?”

  “They are waiting on us,” Tuerto said quietly. He cursed again and the shot glass shattered as he hurled it across the room. He brought himself under control and looked upward, frowning. The noose was no longer just some ephemeral feeling, but instead a very physical threat. “We can still salvage this.”

 
“Of course we can.” Sweets leaned back and threw his boots up on the table, crossing them at the ankles. “As soon as we renegotiate, that is.”

  “And you believe that now is the time?” Tuerto said, somewhat impressed despite himself.

  “When better, I ask you,” Sweets said.

  “Anytime other than now, ideally,” Tuerto snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “Nah, but I’m not greedy. Double, split between me and Digger,” Sweets said, gesturing with his finger. “Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy...we can get shed of this place before the Federales get here, and whoever is left behind, well, they’ll provide one hell of a distraction, right?”

  “Right,” the mercenary said dubiously. He wasn’t that enamored of his men that leaving them behind bothered him, but he didn’t trust Sweets further than he could throw him. “What about the others? What about our would-be immigrants?”

  “Screw them, too,” Sweets said cheerfully. “They ain’t useful no more, not now that we’ve been made. Shoot them, burn ’em or let them go. I couldn’t give two shits.”

  Tuerto sat back, considering. His paymasters wouldn’t be happy if he failed, and he could do without being hunted by vengeful terrorists who thought he’d taken their money and run. And Sweets and his brother would be easy enough to dispose of, when they inevitably got too frisky and tried something.

  “Fine. Double the original fee, split between you and your brother,” Tuerto said.

  “And the woman,” Sweets added.

  “What?”

  “The woman,” Sweets said. “You might think you need her for a hostage, but Digger needs her more. And you need Digger more than you need her.” He smiled. “Give him to her, and he’ll take you wherever you need to go.”