Border Offensive. Don Pendleton

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      “But if not?” Sweets looked at him, and that look spoke volumes. Tumart nodded. “Ah,” he said. “Sentimentality is for lesser men, is that it?”

      “It ain’t personal. Just business,” Sweets said and shrugged. “If any of them punk out, we’ll divide by the number we got. We can always make room and still give your boys enough local color to blend in with.”

      “And by make room, you mean...”

      Sweets drew his thumb across his throat in a lazy gesture. “Simple ways are the best, I find. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I got a fight to break up.” He left the room and Tumart closed the door behind him. He turned to look at the others.

      “I believe we made the right choice,” the man said.

      “He is a pig,” Abbas snapped. Fahd, as always, said nothing.

      “Yes. But pigs are dangerous.” Tumart sat on the bed and rubbed his chin. “They will just as happily eat the hand that feeds them as the food they are given. Mr. Sweets is just the same. And, I feel, his men are no different. We will counsel our brothers to maintain vigilance.”

      “And when they have done their job?” Abbas asked.

      “Then we will slaughter our fine fat pigs,” Tumart said softly. “Not with relish, but out of necessity.” He sat back and closed his eye. “Now, Abbas, if you would follow Fahd’s example and be silent, I intend to conserve my energy for when it becomes necessary.”

      * * *

      “SO HOW ABOUT YOU DROP the hogleg, pal?”

      Bolan froze. Then he tossed his pistol aside and stepped off the groaning Franco. “You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” he said, turning around.

      “On purpose, I do assure you,” Sweets said, gesturing with the M-9. “Go stand over there.” He kicked Franco in the side as Bolan moved. “And you, Franco, get your worthless ass up.” He looked over at James. “Hi, Jorge, got yourself a running partner then, eh?”

      “My cousin,” the border patrol agent wheezed, rubbing the spot where Franco’s punch had connected. “He needs money.”

      “Way of the world these days.” Sweets rubbed his cheek with the pistol’s barrel as he examined Bolan. For a moment, the Executioner felt as if he was being sized up by a viper about to take a bite. The feeling passed quickly, however, as Sweets turned away. “Are you vouching for him, Jorge?”

      “He’s my cousin,” James said again.

      “Like blood and water, huh?” Sweets said. He grinned. “I can dig it.” He turned back to Bolan. “Django Sweets.”

      “Frank LaMancha.”

      “Pleased to meetcha,” Sweets said, extending a hand. Bolan took it. Sweets had a strong grip, and his skin was like leather. He pulled Bolan close and the Executioner didn’t resist. “Don’t pound on no one else while you’re on the clock, though. I need all my boys driveworthy,” he said.

      “Franco pushed him, Sweets,” James said.

      Sweets didn’t look at him. “Don’t tattle, Jorge.” He released Bolan’s hand and stepped back. “Y’all are the last to arrive. Get inside so we can get started.” Sweets turned and ambled back into the cantina, a sullen Franco on his heels. Bolan looked at James and raised an eyebrow.

      James shrugged. “That’s Sweets.”

      “So I gathered,” Bolan said. James’s estimation had been right on the money, he thought. Bolan had faced many men, and he recognized a nasty customer when he saw one. Sweets wasn’t an especially smart man, or even a vicious one, but he was just enough of both to be intimidating to the men who followed him. Regardless, Bolan made a mental note to never let Sweets get behind him again.

      Inside the cantina were nine more men, counting Sweets and Franco. They were a grab bag of ethnicities and accents, but all had the same starving-wolf look in their eyes. They were hard men, and devoted to their greed. They sat around the few tables in pairs or trios, chatting softly. James led Bolan to a table with two other men. The latter’s conversation stopped as Bolan and James sat down.

      “Henshaw, Eddie,” James said, nodding to each man in turn. Henshaw was a slim man, with eyes like a weasel and a .38, similar to the one Bolan carried, holstered under one sweat-stained armpit. Eddie was heavier, though he looked to be less affected by the heat. He grinned jovially at Bolan and shoved a pair of twenty-dollar bills at him.

      “Here’s your cut, Cousin Frank,” he said.

      “My cut?”

      “I put a C-note on you to clean Franco’s fat ass. Figure it’s only fair we go sixty-forty.” Eddie leaned back and interlaced his fingers over the belly that strained at his shirtfront. “Oh, lordy, that was funny.”

      “Funny,” Henshaw echoed, his eyes elsewhere.

      “Easiest money I ever made,” Bolan said, playing the part and pulling the bills toward him.

      “Franco’s a chump. Now, you want a real fight? Digger is your man,” Eddie said conspiratorially. He tapped the side of his bulbous nose. “Bastard is as big as a house.”

      James looked around. “I don’t see him.”

      “Upstairs,” Henshaw said. “He’s relaxing.” The emphasis he laid on the word caused Bolan to perk up. He looked at James again, but the other man shook his head in a gesture that Bolan thought meant “I’ll tell you later.”

      Sweets, standing behind the bar, smacked the wood with the butt of his pistol. “Gentlemen, if I could have your attention,” he said. The room quieted down. Bolan found that he was grudgingly impressed. Sweets poured himself a drink and knocked it back, then swept the room with a hard gaze. “We all know why we’re here.”

      “Because we’re greedy sumbitches,” Eddie said loudly. There were a few chuckles.

      “There is that,” Sweets said. “But it’s also because you’re the best I got. You’ve all run tar, tits and Thompsons over the border. Drugs, bodies and guns, and you ain’t lost a load, or if you did, don’t nobody but you knows it.” He poured himself another drink. “But this here run, it’ll be a bit different...” Bolan tensed. Sweets smiled. “There’ll be more money for one thing.”

      “And for the other?” James said.

      Sweets looked at him. “Fellows we chauffeuring have specific places they want to go. They’ll be mixed in with the regulars, and you’ll be taking the whole load to different points across the border. They got a schedule, and they’re sticklers for punctuality.”

      “Who are these guys? Tourists?” another man asked.

      “Ragheads,” Franco spat.

      “Customers,” Sweets corrected. “Good ones, too, though, ah, probably not repeat ones.” He leaned forward over the bar. “There are ten of us and a hundred of them. We’ll each be carting ten of them to where they need to go. We’ll be meeting them here СКАЧАТЬ