Border Offensive. Don Pendleton

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      “Normally, they do. The Interpol liaison with the Mexican government swears up and down that she hasn’t been made. The cartels are bringing up a load of two-legged cargo as far as the border...”

      “And she’ll be coming with them,” Bolan said, catching on quickly. “Just one more face in the crowd.” He had to admit, privately at least, that as far as plans went, it wasn’t bad. Two operatives stood a better chance at succeeding than one, especially in a situation like this, which was bound to go to hell, regardless of the people involved. “This Tuerto... They tracked him here?”

      “Not just him. Mexican authorities thought they had identified at least six other terror suspects.” James held up his fingers for emphasis.

      “And?” Bolan prodded.

      “Undercover Federales got a picture of Sweets meeting with somebody they think is Tuerto in Mexico City. He was arranging a job.”

      “And since you were already in place—”

      “Two birds, one stone,” James said, holding up two fingers. “I love that saying.” At a look from Bolan, he sped on, his words nearly tripping over one another. “Anyway, Sweets contacted me a day ago. Said he needed drivers for a shipment, and promised equal shares, good money, no questions. He wants me to come to a meeting in some no-account shit hole he’s holed up in. I said yes.”

      “Then what was this?” Bolan said, gesturing toward the burning truck.

      “I was keeping up appearances.” James shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt, just in case our leak decided to dime me out. A good coyote is greedy, plus, hell, if I’m going to sacrifice my op for somebody else’s. I put too much effort into finding out where Ernesto’s supplies were coming from—”

      “Sinaloa—I already took care of it,” Bolan said almost absently. The agent looked at him, mouth open.

      “You what?” he said.

      “I took care of it, about a day ago.” Bolan smiled. “You’re welcome.” James shook his head, his face a study in conflicting emotions.

      “I’ve been looking for that damn field for almost a year now. He’s been shoveling so much pigment into border runners that half of them have been dying on the ground before they get two feet into Tucson. How the hell did you—?”

      “Trade secret,” Bolan said, patting his weapon.

      “Trade—? You know what? I don’t give a good goddamn, man. I really don’t. You say it’s done, I figure you know what you’re talking about,” James said, motioning toward the burning truck for emphasis.

      Bolan was silent for a moment. He examined the man in front of him. James was young, but he had the look in his eye that Bolan had come to associate with professionals of high caliber—a determination to see things done, and done right. He made his decision that instant, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

      “What now?” Bolan said.

      “Now, he asks. Now, Agent Cooper, I try to salvage what I can,” James said. “I get my ass to that meeting, do my shuck-and-jive routine, and get things moving. Hopefully my erstwhile partner is already in place, then we see how shit goes down, you dig?”

      “Which means?”

      “The plan was to figure out where we were going—what the destination was—and have people waiting. I’d roll them right into custody, with Tanzir riding shotgun. Then, from there, we’d wrap up the rest of them.” James rubbed his temples. “It sounds a lot simpler than it is.”

      “You’ll have to get it exactly right,” Bolan said in agreement. James grinned.

      “I’m good at my job, man. There’s no one better.”

      “But you wouldn’t turn down help,” Bolan said.

      “What?” James said, blinking.

      “I’m going with you,” Bolan said. Normally, Bolan would have left them to it, but there was too much riding on this, and too much dependent on all the wrong people, in Bolan’s estimation. The more complex a plan, the more likely it was to go wrong at the worst moment.

      If even one of Tuerto’s men got through, it could be a disaster of hideous proportions. It only took one man to set off a bomb, after all.

      “Whoa, hold up there, chief!” James held up his hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea! You aren’t exactly the subtle type.” He gestured at the burning truck. “If we do it my way there’s no fuss, no muss.”

      “But my way, they don’t get near the border,” Bolan said. He hefted his UMP meaningfully. The other man was quiet for a minute, and then he grinned.

      “Oh, we’re going to be the best of friends, Agent Cooper. I can see that right now.”

      Chapter 3

      The town, such as it was, did not exist. It was not on any map, and the roads leading into it and out of it were not paved. It was one of a hundred such towns in the Sonoran Desert that clung to the edge of the map unseen and unclaimed by either of the two nations in a position to do so.

      It had no name because such places needed no name. It was simply “the town.”

      Tariq Ibn Tumart—also known as Tuerto—had, in his life, been to many such places the world over. They were easy enough to locate, if you knew what you were looking for.

      Sitting in the passenger seat of the military-surplus jeep as it rattled and groaned its way across the desert, Tumart contemplated again the twists and trials that had brought him to this point. Money figured heavily in these ruminations, as it always did. He reached up and slid a finger beneath the eye patch covering the gaping socket of his left eye, probing for an itch that was never quite there.

      “Is this it?”

      Tumart didn’t bother to turn around. He removed his finger from his socket and examined it carefully. Then he said, “No. This is a completely different town. I thought we could sightsee. I hear they have the world’s largest saguaro cactus and I simply must see it.”

      “What?”

      Tumart sighed. “Of course, this is it. Quiet down.”

      “What was that about a cactus?”

      “A joke... It was just a little joke, my friend.”

      “You joke too much, Berber. We are on a holy mission.”

      “Forgive me, Abbas. Now, if you do not kindly shut up, Arab, I will shoot you and our mission—holy or otherwise—will be one man weaker.” Tumart turned then, an H&K USP appearing in his hand as if by magic. He aimed the pistol in a general fashion at the man occupying the seat behind him. Abbas, a thin, long-beaked Saudi, recoiled, his dark eyes widening. Tumart smiled pleasantly and tapped the barrel of the pistol to his eye-patch in a mock-salute.

      “Thank you,” he said, turning back around. He allowed himself a moment of petty triumph СКАЧАТЬ