Don Pendleton - Border Offensive

“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 then returned to his thoughts.

Why was he here again? Ah, yes...money, he remembered.

He smiled bitterly and glanced at the driver. Fahd, he thought his name was. He was less prone to chatter than Abbas, but with altogether worse hygiene.

“You should trim your beard,” Tumart said. Fahd grunted, but kept his eyes on the desert in front of the jeep. Tumart rubbed a palm over his smooth-shaven pate, and focused on their destination.

The town was the first step in an operation designed not to cripple or destroy, but to simply spread fear. An ephemeral goal, but, considering his paymasters, Tumart wasn’t surprised.

He was a good Muslim, when he thought about it, but fanatical devotion to a concept of divinity was not something he indulged in. Abbas and the others, however...

“When we get there, try to keep your mouth shut,” Tumart said, looking at his companions. “These men are not of the Faithful, nor are they likely to be swayed by threats.”

“I will be silent,” Abbas said. “But if they seek to betray us—”

“Then they will. Ma’sa’Allah.” Tumart idly genuflected. “My plan—”

“Our plan,” Abbas said. Tumart let it pass.

“Our plan hinges on this moment. We will not get another.”

“Then you had best see to its success.”

“That is what you are paying me for,” Tumart said.

* * *

IN THE TOWN, men watched the approaching jeep with hooded eyes. “They’re here, Django,” someone said. And the man known as Django Sweets tipped the frayed edge of his cowboy hat up, out of his narrow face, and grinned.

He was a rawboned individual, and, at a distance, easily mistaken for the stereotypical cowboy. He sat up, the worn-down heels of his cowboy boots snapping against the wood of the floor. He adjusted the hang of the shoulder holster he wore under his denim jacket and stepped outside the empty cantina.

“How many?” he said.

“Three.” The man standing nearby turned. He sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Damn ragheads.”

“Shut up,” Sweets said. “Don’t insult our guests, Franco. We all need this score.”

“So you say,” Franco said.

“So my bank balance says. Yours, too,” Sweets said. “Where’s Digger?”

“He’s, ah, he’s upstairs with that woman he brought,” Franco said hesitantly. Sweets frowned.

“Go get him. I want his ass down here. He should be finished by now anyway.”

“Man...” Franco had turned pale.

“Get him,” Sweets snarled. “Now, Franco!” Franco bobbed his head and moved back into the cantina. Sweets watched him go, then strode out, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. He walked out into the middle of the street and waited as the jeep pulled to a halt a few feet away. Its engine clicked as it cooled.

Tumart stood and leaned over the windshield. “No party? No welcoming committee?”

“Figured you wanted to keep this low key,” Sweets said, spreading his arms. “I got some refreshments, though.”

“We do not drink,” Abbas said, stepping out of the jeep. Sweets looked at him, then at Tumart.

“Means more for me, then. Leave your guns.”

“But—” Abbas began to protest, his hand inching toward the Glock holstered on his hip. Fahd barked at him in Arabic, and the Saudi grimaced. Tumart snatched his pistol out of the holster before he could protest and tossed it into the back of the jeep.

“Our driver will stay here,” Tumart said, handing his own weapon to Fahd. “Are there any objections, Mr. Sweets?”

“It’s your dime, Mr. Tuerto,” Sweets replied, using Tumart’s alias. Tumart smiled.

“Excellent. I may have to add that colloquialism to my repertoire.”

“This way if you please, gen’lmen.” Sweets turned back to the cantina and led the two inside. “We got business to discuss.”

* * *

UPSTAIRS, FRANCO APPROACHED the door to Digger’s room with what he would have hastily denied as trepidation in different company. “Digger? You in there?” Franco said, knocking lightly on the door. The cantina had a second floor with four rooms, one of which had been taken over by the man called Digger earlier in the day.

Such as with all criminals, human traffickers like coyotes had a pecking order. There were those like Sweets, who had some organizational ability and charisma, and those like Franco, who kept their heads down and collected their money.

Then there were those like Digger.

His real name was Philo Sweets though no one ever called him that. He was just...Digger. Not even Grave Digger, which would have made sense given certain rumors. Just Digger. A coyote, like any other, except he was Django’s baby brother and sometimes his cargo didn’t make it where it was supposed to go. Then, accidents did happen and no one wanted to think about it too much. Especially not Franco. Sweets wouldn’t hear a word said against Digger, and he’d buried men who had a mind to take a run at his brother. The door creaked open at the touch of Franco’s knuckles. He hesitated, licking his lips. There was a smell, like spoiled meat, and the whisper of voices. “Digger?”

Bedsprings whined, followed by the sound of bare feet on wood. Franco stepped back. Digger pulled the door open. He was handsome, in a chunky way. Just a tad too much excess weight to be Hollywood pretty, but under the fat was muscle. A lot of it, packed into close to seven feet of height. He smiled childishly, his eyes unfocused.

“Hi, Franco,” he said. His voice was light, like a much younger, smaller man’s. There were dark stains on his cheeks.

“Digger, Sweets wants you downstairs,” Franco said quickly. Digger frowned.

“I’m busy.”

“Now,” Franco said, trying to put some steel in his voice. Digger’s lip wobbled. His fingers, where they clutched the door, were red.

“But I’m busy,” he said again. “Django said I could stay up here. And I’m busy.”

“Yeah, I know. But now he wants you downstairs,” Franco said, trying to ignore the slow trickle of red that slithered down the surface of the door. “The ragheads are here.” Digger shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

“The—” He took a breath. “Yeah, okay. I’m coming. Just need to clean up.” He closed the door in Franco’s face without waiting for a reply. Franco, feeling faintly ill, didn’t wait for him, and started back down the stairs.

As Franco retreated, Digger closed the door and turned to survey the room. It was empty, but for a bed and a bureau and a cracked and rusting sink. And the woman, of course. There was always a woman.

But no black bird.

Digger frowned and looked at his hands. There was a crust beneath his nails, his skin was crimson to the elbow, and his mind felt fuzzy. It was a familiar feeling. He dragged the back of his forearm across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said to the woman on the bed. “I just wanted to see.”

She didn’t reply. Not strange, considering that she had been dead for an hour. What was left of her was hardly recognizable as the woman she had been.

Digger looked at his handiwork, and a flush of shame squirted through him. “I didn’t mean to,” he whined, gathering up his tools and taking them to the sink. He washed them quickly, then his hands. “I just wanted to see the black bird,” he continued. “I have to see it again.”