Читать книгу Border Offensive - Don Pendleton - Страница 12

Chapter 4

Bolan watched the natural beauty of the Sonoran Desert roll past as James drove. It never failed to amaze the man known as the Executioner that the same world that could produce men like those he fought could also hold sights like this. He wouldn’t go as far as to say that it was life affirming, but it was close enough for him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t want to talk to your own people,” Bolan said without turning around.

James started, as if deep in thought. “What?”

“About me,” Bolan said, turning away from the window.

James laughed. “Yeah, that would have accomplished a lot, wouldn’t it?” he said snarkily.

“I could have been anybody,” Bolan said.

“You’ve got an honest face, my friend.” The agent grinned at him, and then shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I’m just too trusting, right?”

“Maybe,” Bolan said, eyeing the man. He had pegged James right, he knew. Like Bolan, the younger man played fast and loose with proper procedure in favor of getting things done, even if it meant possibly endangering himself. It was for that very reason that Bolan had decided to deal himself in. If things went wrong, at least he would be there to play damage control and maybe keep the feisty young man alive. And if that wasn’t enough...well, bravado aside, there wasn’t much that the Executioner couldn’t handle, one way or another. “Still, your superiors won’t be happy...”

“Ah, Greaves is a good guy, but he’s out of his depth,” James said. “Jim Greaves, I mean, my handler. Dude’s so tight he craps diamonds, you know?” He hesitated. “Not literally, mind.”

“I know,” Bolan said, ignoring the joke. He’d met his fair share of government desk jockeys in his time who had little understanding of how things worked in the field. He’d also met his fair share of men forced into a command position that they were supremely unqualified for. “What about the Interpol contingent?”

James made a rude noise. Bolan laughed. “That bad?” he said.

“Rittermark—or Control, as they call him—is as tight-assed as Greaves, but less pleasant. Stiff-faced German guy, all business. I suppose he’s good at his job...otherwise, he wouldn’t be in charge of this thing, would he?”

“I suppose,” Bolan said. Privately, however, he wondered about that very thing. Too often, men with good connections failed upward, and this sort of assignment would be a plum for any man. “What about the other one...the French guy you mentioned.”

“Right, Tanzir’s guy—Chantecoq,” James said. “Too cool for school, that guy. Top flight detective, with eyes like marbles.”

“Sounds like he made a good impression on you,” Bolan said, curious.

“Yeah...better than his boss, at any rate,” James said, as if embarrassed.

“Django Sweets... What can you tell me about him?” Bolan said, changing the subject.

James cleared his throat and frowned slightly. “Like I said before, he’s a big-time king coyote. Story is he was a gunman for one of the cartels for a while on the red, white and blue side of the border, then he turned smuggler. He’s a cool customer, though. We brought in one of those pop-psych teams the Feebs enjoy so much and they said he was a ‘high-functioning sociopath,’ whatever that means.”

Bolan smiled slightly at the reference to the FBI. While he knew more than a few agents—or former agents in Hal Brognola’s case—he would trust with his life, the organization had its share of annoying bureaucracy the same as any other federal agency. James had obviously run afoul of it at one time or another, the same as any federal agent. “It means he’s dangerous,” Bolan said.

James snorted. “Oh, he is that. I didn’t need some armchair psychologist to tell me that. I’ve known Sweets maybe a month, and it’s been the longest one of my life. Not to mention most tense, too.” He slapped the steering wheel with a palm as he parked the van. “He’s got a mouth. He likes to talk, and he likes to poke and prod. So just play it loose, let it roll off, and don’t flash him any sass. That’s my advice.”

“Not something I’m good at, I’m afraid,” Bolan said.

“Try hard. He’s rattlesnake mean, and fast on the draw. He ain’t playing gunslinger, get me? Guy is the real deal.”

Bolan grinned mirthlessly. “I’ll do my best, Scout’s honor.”

“You don’t strike me as the scouting type, Cooper,” James said. He grimaced. “And anyway, it isn’t just Django you’ve got to worry about. There’s also Digger...”

Bolan blinked at the raw distaste evident in James’s voice. “Digger? Unusual name.”

“Yeah, Django’s baby brother,” the man said, shaking his head. “And I use the term ‘baby’ loosely. He’s seven feet if he’s an inch and he’s all muscle. He looks like an elephant.” James looked straight ahead, his eyes narrowed. “Django is ice, but Digger is something else entirely...he’s crazy, and not in a fun, party-animal sort of way. You hear stories about him...” He shook his head again. “Anyway, he’s Django’s attack dog. If you make a run at Django, Digger will have his teeth in your ass before you take three steps.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Bolan said. Up ahead, he caught sight of a skeletal shape slouched in the desert, like the remains of a dead dragon.

“This is it...the town with no name,” James said.

“The town with no name?” Bolan said.

“That’s what Sweets calls it, anyway,” James said. “It used to be one of them border towns, not really Mexican or American, but catering to folks on both sides of the line. The usual stuff...guns and whores and drugs and booze. That sort of thing,” James went on. He grunted. “By the Second World War, when they started tightening up on things out here, a bunch of these little towns like this got caught up in things and they were all abandoned.”

“All? How many are there, exactly?” Bolan asked. He had heard about these phantom towns, but he’d never seen one before. It was like driving into a snapshot of his country’s history.

“Dozens,” James said. “And Sweets knows them all, believe you me. He uses them like hideouts, you know?” He shook his head slightly. “Him and Digger, they don’t do well in high-population-density spots, if you get me.”

Bolan did. There was a certain type of man for whom civilization, with all its benefits and burdens, was simply intolerable. Modern wolfheads, they clung to the fringes, making their way as best they could. For a while, Bolan himself might have been counted among their number, but he had never truly given up society. He simply took issue with certain aspects of it.

The van moved up slowly through the dusty streets, trailing a cloud of the same behind it, the shadows cast by the sagging, arthritic buildings crawling across its roof and windshield. But where another man might have just seen empty buildings falling into ruin, Bolan saw a hundred potential snipers’ nests. He’d been in numerous towns just like this one over the years, in Eastern Europe, Africa, Asia. They were corpse-towns—ghoulish reminders of worse times, forgotten and lonely.

“Funny,” Bolan said as he calculated angles of fire and entry and exit points. “This Sweets is a fan of Westerns, I take it.” He plucked at the loose shirt he had changed into. His body armor and fatigues were stowed beneath the seat, and he presently wore more appropriate garb for his cover—a loose floral-pattern shirt and denims.

“Out here, it’s practically a profession,” James said, reaching across Bolan to flip open his glove compartment. Battered paperbacks featuring faded cowboys and outlaws on the covers slid out as James dug around for something. He plucked a rag-wrapped bundle out and tossed it into Bolan’s lap. “Here, take this.”

“What is it?” Bolan said as he took the bundle. It proved to be a stubby .38 with peeling electrical tape wrapped around the grip. He looked at James. “I think I prefer mine, thanks,” he said.

“Oh, I’d prefer yours, too, but nobody in our line runs looking like they’re ready for war, man,” James said. “Hardware like yours attracts too much attention, you know? The knife is fine, if a bit fancy, but that H&K and the Desert Eagle have got to go, you dig?”

Bolan immediately understood James’s point and was impressed with the man’s attention to details. He popped the cylinder on the revolver, spinning it gently with his palm. It was already loaded. He pulled a round out and bounced it on his palm for a moment before sliding it back into place and snapping the cylinder shut. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”

“There’s a cubbyhole beneath your feet. It’s where I keep my badge and some other odds and ends most times. Drop your gear in there.”

Bolan found the hatch and popped it open. He blinked as he took in the assortment of hardware revealed to him—grenades, two heavy-caliber pistols and what looked like a disassembled combat shotgun, as well as a pack of MREs—Meals, Ready-to-Eat—and a satellite phone. Bolan glanced at James, who grinned sheepishly. “Man’s got to be prepared out here, Cooper.”

Bolan snorted and dropped his weapons into the hatch and sealed it back. “There’s prepared and then there’s paranoid, Agent James,” Bolan said, tucking the .38 into the ratty elastic holster James had scrounged for him. It clung to his hip loosely and he wished he had thought to bring a small-caliber pistol with him. It never hurt to have a holdout piece, and at least he knew it would have been tended to by the loving hands of Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John Kissinger.

“Undercover work does that to you, I’m afraid,” James said. “And you can just call me Jimmy or Jorge—no formalities out here. Speaking of which...what am I calling you?”

“LaMancha,” Bolan said, rifling through his memory for a suitable name. It was an old identity, and it had served him well in the early years of his war. “Frank LaMancha.” He hadn’t used that name in several years, but it was a good one. Don Quixote was a favorite of his, though the correlations between his quest and that of the Man of La Mancha’s were sometimes a bit too on the nose to be entirely comfortable.

“All right,” James said, nodding. “Sure you can remember that, though?”

“I think so.”

“Keep It Simple, Stupid. Rule one of undercover work,” James said.

“A good rule in general,” Bolan said.

“All right then. You’re my cousin, you need money and you’re helping me out on a few runs, to see how you like it. Simple?”

“Simple,” Bolan said.

“Groovy. Now, let’s introduce you to the guys, shall we?” James said. He and Bolan got out of the van. The wind was blowing sand and grit through the air hard enough to sting.

Bolan shaded his eyes as they ambled toward the broken-down cantina. There were more people about than he’d expected; not just would-be undocumented workers, but also a certain class of social parasite that flocked to almost every illicit gathering Bolan had ever had the misfortune to attend...pimps, prostitutes, drug-dealers and the like.

“Oh, good, you’re finally here,” someone sneered as they made their way up the steps to the cantina. Bolan turned and saw a portly, middle-aged man sitting in one of the creaky chairs that littered the boardwalk around the cantina. “You ain’t still on strawberry-picking time, are you?”

“Hey, Franco,” James said, his distaste evident. Bolan examined the man unobtrusively. What he had taken for fat at first glance was actually muscle. Franco was short and shaped like a fireplug. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and across his bare arms and neck. A prominent swastika rested between the edge of his jaw and his ear. “Is Sweets here yet?”

“Yeah, and now that your lazy ass is here, we can get started. Time is money, greaser.” Franco cocked an eye at Bolan. “Who’s this guy?”

“My cousin Frank,” James said.

“No shit. He’s big for a beaner.”

“I eat my vegetables,” Bolan said mildly. He looked at James. “This isn’t Sweets, I take it.”

“Nope, this here is Franco, which is not his real name, but is likely one he picked out of one of them Time-Life collected histories of Second World War books,” James said. “Franco, say hello to my cousin, Frank LaMancha.”

“Hello, Cousin Frank,” Franco said. “Why are you inflicting your august personage upon us today?” He stood, bobbing up onto the soles of his cowboy boots and flexing his wide hands. His knuckles popped audibly. Bolan sized him up at once; a petty bully, spoiling for a fight.

“He needs money, Franco. And it ain’t your business,” James said.

“Damn well is my business if you bringing someone new into this deal,” Franco said. “I don’t know him. Sweets don’t know him. How do we know he ain’t working for somebody?”

“Because I’m vouching for him,” James said.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Franco said, shrugging. Then, lightning quick, his fist jabbed out, catching James in the gut. As the border patrol agent folded over wheezing, Franco rounded on Bolan and launched a kick at his knee. Bolan blocked the blow with his palms and resisted the urge to draw his weapon. People were gathering, eager to see the fight. Franco hopped back, raising his ink-covered fists. “Good reflexes for a Mexican,” he grunted.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bolan said, sliding forward lightly. He tossed off a loose blow that Franco easily deflected and then hammered a sucker punch into the other man’s kidney. Franco coughed and stumbled and Bolan circled him like a wolf, jabbing and tapping at him with featherlight strikes. Then Franco uttered a wordless cry and rushed him.

Bolan knew immediately that letting Franco get his arms around him would be a mistake. The muscles in the smaller man’s arm looked like steel cables for all that his belly was soft. Bolan stepped aside at the last moment and drove his elbow into the back of Franco’s neck, dropping him to the ground. The thug groaned and made to stand, but Bolan stuck a boot between his shoulder blades and shoved him down. He drew the .38 then and took aim. “Stay down,” he said. “I’d hate to have to shoot a man I just met.”

“I feel the same way myself,” someone said over the sound of a pistol being cocked. “So how about you drop the hogleg, pal?”