Devil's Mark. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ about at the brutal landscape. “We should have packed a picnic basket.”

      “God provides,” Villaluz assured piously.

      It was Villaluz who provided, and what he provided was a goat ranch. The land was too hard for cows and sheep. It was too hard for BMW 7 series sedans, as well. They took a left turn into a box canyon that was nearly invisible from the road and came to a halt outside a cubist adobe. Steam tea-kettled out from under the hood.

      Bolan got out and examined the inspector’s redoubt. It was pueblo-style and used the rock face of the soaring brown cliffs as the back wall. The few windows were little more than firing slits. Bolan made most of it for original Yuman Indian construction. The satellite dish, prefab shed to the side and corrugated tin lean-to/garage with camouflage netting for a door were more recent. The small cottonwood corral for shearing and slaughtering was open and currently empty, though a few incredibly shabby-looking, random goats stared at the newcomers in slow, square-pupiled incredulousness from various vantages around the pueblo.

      A donkey stood in the shade of the satellite dish and looked at the newcomers with little enthusiasm. Bolan noted the clumps of boulders and tombstone-sized shards of rock all around. Looking backward, the approach was flat save for the ugly dips and bumps that had had their way with the BMW’s suspension. The pueblo was defensible, at least by Old West or possibly the conquistador’s standards and the approach was a nice killing ground. Bolan couldn’t immediately see the bolt-hole, but he knew it had to be there.

      “Nice,” Bolan acknowledged.

      Villaluz sighed happily. “I am one-quarter Yuman Indian. My ancestors once lived here.”

      Smiley took in the pueblo and clearly wondered about the state of the facilities. “Little slice of heaven,” she observed dryly.

      Wang kicked his driver’s side tire in anger. No one was ever going to tow his beautiful black vehicle out of the Laguna Salada. “Fuck!” he opined.

      Villaluz cupped his hands over his mouth. “Fausto!” His voice boomed off the box canyon walls. “Fausto!”

      Long moments passed before Fausto shambled out of the pueblo. He looked like Charles Bronson might have had he lived to be a hundred. His denim jeans and cowboy boots looked about as old and faded as he did. His cotton shirt was bleached blinding white. A red headband held back his shoulder-length gray hair. His face was a sun-raddled baseball mitt with two eyes a nose and a mouth. Duct tape held his cowboy boots together. The old man carried a Mexican army surplus M-1 Garand loosely in both hands. The weapon was missing a great deal of finish, and the stock was chipped and dinged but the metal and the wood gleamed with oil.

      Fausto took in the panorama of interlopers stonily and finally turned his gaze on Villaluz. “Israel.”

      “Fausto!”

      Fausto’s features glacially moved into the semblance of a smile. “Che, amigo.” He looked back at the unexpected guests. “Yanquis?”

      “Sí.” The inspector nodded.

      Fausto contemplated this weird and wonderful turn of events. “Trouble?”

      “Sí.” The inspector nodded.

      “Ah.” Fausto turned and headed back into the pueblo. Villaluz nodded for them to follow. Bolan popped the trunk, and he and Villaluz manhandled Gomez out of the trunk. The man blinked dazedly in the glare and nearly toppled over. Villaluz produced a switchblade and cut the riot cuffs on his ankles. Gomez shuffled under the inspector’s direction on feet stupid from lack of circulation. Bolan and Smiley grabbed gear bags heavy with ordnance. Wang spent a few mournful moments gazing at his stricken vehicle before his shoulders sagged and he grabbed some gear and followed suit.

      Bolan had eaten well the past twenty-four hours, but his stomach rumbled as he entered the brown cube of the pueblo. A pot of pinto beans and bacon loaded with chilies bubbled over the hearth. They dropped their gear, and all took seats around a table made out of two sawhorses and planks. Villaluz shoved Gomez in a corner. Bolan put a Chinese pistol on the table and sat facing him. Fausto put out earthenware plates and began slopping beans and bacon and put out corn tortillas that had been steaming in a pan in the coals. Fausto gave Villaluz a questioning glance and the inspector nodded. The old man took up a clay pot and began splashing liquid into the mismatched coffee mugs around the table.

      Bolan peered at the fresh pulque and smiled at Fausto. “Tlachiquero?” Fausto nodded. Tlachiqueros were men who harvested the juice of the maguey plant and made pulque. Tequila and mezcal were distilled liquors from the same plant. Pulque was simply fermented like beer, had roughly the same alcohol content and was as ancient as the Aztecs. Villaluz clapped Fausto on the shoulder. “Tlachiquero? Ranchero? Pistolero? Fausto does it all. He is a—” Villaluz savored the English euphemism “—jack of all trades.”

      Fausto favored Bolan with a smile. “You like pulque, señor?”

      “In the United States all you can get is the urine-in-a-can brands at the super mercado. But fresh made is always a pleasure.”

      Fausto cackled like a rooster with a herniated testicle as Bolan poured back his pulque, keeping the grimace off his face. Pulque was definitely an acquired taste, and could charitably be described as milky-, musty- and sour-tasting all at the same time. But most of its manufacture across northern Mexico was an artisanal industry, and Fausto had definitely put the time and love into his trade.

      Smiley and Wang shuddered down a sip each. Villaluz hit his mug with gusto. Fausto gave Gomez his attention for the first time. “Who is this man?”

      “He was trying to lean on our friend Wang,” Bolan said.

      Fausto took an ancient buck knife out of his pocket and flipped it open with a snap of his wrist. The blade had been sharpened so many times it was starting to resemble a scalpel. He looked to the inspector. “You want I should cut him?”

      Gomez flinched but barely.

      The inspector held out his mug for more pulque and measured Gomez. “Not just yet.”

      The ride through Laguna Salada hadn’t done the beaten man any favors. “Perhaps he’d like a little something to cut the dust,” Bolan suggested.

      “A waste,” Fausto proclaimed.

      “He won’t talk with a dry throat,” Bolan replied.

      Gomez drummed his heels on the floor and thrashed as Fausto pried open his mouth with fingers like cold chisels. Fausto poured a mug’s worth of pulque down the sicario’s throat. Gomez gagged and sputtered, and the old man treated him to another.

      Bolan finished his meal, then rose. “I’m going to make a call. Keep our buddy Balthazar hydrated.” The Executioner scooped up a Chinese assault rifle from one of the bags and stepped outside. He owned one of the latest satellite phones in existence, but in the box canyon he just wasn’t getting full bars. Bolan pulled on a faded Boston Red Sox cap and took a hike out of the canyon. He squatted in the shade of a stand of mesquite trees and got a signal.

      Aaron Kurtzman’s craggy face appeared on his touch screen. “Striker! Where are you?”

      “Laguna Salada,” Bolan answered.

      Kurtzman frowned for just a moment as he searched the massive database that was his mind. “What are you doing there?”

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