Don Pendleton: Border Offensive

He wrapped his tools up—his knives and his hooks—and set them gently into his satchel. He gave it a fond, almost guilty pat, and began cleaning himself.

“My mother showed it to me, the first time. The black bird,” he said. “It whispered things to me but I can’t remember them. You understand.” He glanced at the ruin on the bed. “I keep looking for it, but I can’t find it.” He paused. “Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place.”

Cleaned and dressed, he left the room, carefully shutting the door behind him.

Downstairs, Franco took a seat at the bar as Digger came down not long after, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sweets nodded to his brother as he led his guests inside and motioned toward a table.

At another table in the corner, two other men sat. Like Franco and Digger, they had the look of rough men. A Mossberg shotgun sat on the table in front of one. The other was spinning the cylinder on a .38. They eyed the newcomers with interest, but otherwise didn’t react.

“So,” Sweets said, plopping himself down in his chair once more. Tumart sat opposite him.

“So.”

Sweets leaned forward. “I’ve talked to several of my, ah, peers. There are niblets of interest.”

“Niblets?” Tumart said, amused.

“Mostly for the money.” Sweets leaned back, fingers interlacing behind his head. He swung his boots up on the table, eliciting a grunt of disgust from Abbas.

“Well. That is good news. How many?” Tumart said, ignoring Abbas.

“Ten. Me, Franco there. Henshaw and Morris.” As Sweets said the latter, he motioned toward the two men in the corner. “My baby brother, there. And four to arrive tomorrow.”

“Ten. And ten men each.” Tumart sat back. He frowned and glanced at Abbas, who nodded. “That will work, I believe.” He looked back at Sweets. “Your men know what to do? What we need them to do?”

“You need us to get them boys across the border at different points, mixed in among the usual assortment of wetbacks. From there, we head into the Yoo-nited States proper,” the man with the .38 said. He popped the cylinder closed and scratched his unshaven cheek with the barrel. “Easy peasy.”

“Yes,” Tumart said, looking at the speaker. The man did not inspire confidence. Still, one worked with what one had. “Fine. You’ll be paid when each group reaches their destination.”

“Nope,” Franco said. “All up front, or we ain’t going nowhere.”

“You—” Abbas rose to his feet, groping for the pistol that wasn’t there. Tumart grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

“And that’s why we didn’t let you bring weapons,” Sweets said. Tumart inclined his head.

“Wise move. No.”

“No?”

“No. After.” Tumart knocked on the table with his knuckles. Sweets frowned and swung his legs off the table.

“I heard you guys liked to haggle...”

“Us guys?” Tumart said.

“Ragheads,” Franco supplied. Tumart glanced at him. He made a pistol with his fingers and pointed at the man.

“I am starting to dislike you.”

“I’ll live,” Franco grunted.

“The day is yet young,” Tumart said. “No dickering. The agreed-upon offer was after.”

“Maybe we’d like to renegotiate,” Sweets said. Tumart nodded, as if this made sense. Then, smoothly, he was up, over and onto the table before anyone could react, a leaf-shaped blade sliding from his sleeve and dropping into his palm. The tip of the blade poked Sweets’s Adam’s apple, eliciting a thin trickle of blood. The other coyotes reacted slowly, aiming weapons in a general fashion. Tumart ignored them.

“You should have frisked me. Negotiations are closed,” Tumart said, pressing lightly.

“Maybe,” Sweets said. Tumart looked down. Sweets’s hand held an M-9 Parabellum pistol, and it was pressed to the other man’s crotch.

“Ah,” Tumart said. “Well. This is awkward.”

“Yeah, you done made your point,” Sweets said.

“Ha.” Tumart raised the blade slightly and slid back, getting off the table. “Would you settle for half and half?”

“That seems fair.”

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.