Don Pendleton - Stand Down

“Green beans, salad, or a cup of soup?”

“Beans will be fine.”

“That’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” Bolan sipped his coffee, served in a thick-walled ceramic mug he hadn’t seen in years, and found it very good. For a few seconds, he relaxed in the anonymity of the moment—just another casual traveler grabbing lunch on his way to wherever. His reality couldn’t have been more different.

He was giving the rotating dessert carousel a twice over, debating whether to have the cherry pie or the apple tart afterward, when the low conversations throughout the restaurant suddenly died. Bolan looked over to see what was causing the disturbance and saw a group of four well-dressed Hispanics, accompanied by a lone Anglo girl, cut to the front of the line and saunter into the restaurant. They were dressed in formfitting jeans, hand-tooled, silver-edged cowboy boots, and soft, shapeless, button-down designer shirts, with expensive sunglasses covering their eyes or perched on their heads. Their short black hair shone in the overhead lights. The eyes of the locals either followed the group or looked away. No one made a move to stop them.

Not even glancing at the line of waiting customers, the group headed toward the large corner booth, where the kids there scrambled to get out of the way. Their leader stood in front of the booth, staring over his glasses at the dirty dishes left in the group’s wake. Dead silence filled the restaurant, punctuated by the sizzle of grease on the grill and the tap-tap-tap of the young man’s foot on the floor.

The busboy scurried out and cleared the table, but apparently not fast enough. Although Bolan couldn’t see exactly what happened, he saw the boy carrying the plastic container of dishes stagger and go down with a crash of breaking dishes. His gaze darkened.

The group sat down, and conversation began around them again, even quieter now. Bolan looked up to catch his waitress staring daggers at the corner booth. “Who’re they?”

She glanced at him and blushed. “Don’t mind me. The one struttin’ around like he owns the place is Everado De Cavallos.” She drew the name out in a derisive drawl. “The other ones are his flunkies, a cousin and other friends from south of the border. He’s the son of one of the big shots at Cristobal, so he thinks this town owes him whatever he wants. Plus he never leaves a damn tip either.”

“Hmm.” Bolan sipped his coffee again, then turned his head just enough to watch the group out of the corner of his eye. They were huddled together, awaiting their drinks, apparently, which were just arriving. The waitress set the glasses down and turned to go, but not before one of the boys on the end smacked her behind. A man with iron-gray hair in a bristle cut who was watching started to rise from his chair, but was restrained by his lunch companion, a woman with curly red hair, who shook her head. Still glowering at the group, the man sat down again, staring hard at the young men, who just as studiously ignored him.

That’s two, Bolan thought, easing back on his stool as he kept an eye on the table.

“He does that again, he’ll have me to deal with, Cristobal or no Cristobal,” the waitress, whose name tag read Elaine, grumbled.

“Those boys might learn their lesson sooner than you think,” Bolan said. The comment earned an odd look from the counter waitress before the cook called, “Order up!”

His blue-plate special arrived, and Bolan dug in, finding it as good as promised. As he ate, he kept an eye on the corner booth, waiting for them to act up again. But when it happened, it came from within the group itself.

“Goddamn it, Everado, I said knock it the hell off!” The shout was punctuated by the crack of a hand on skin. The next thing Bolan knew, the blonde girl burst from the booth and stalked off. The boys stayed behind for a few seconds, then their leader stood up and walked out, followed by the rest of the group, all of whom were still sniggering. Halfway through, he turned and glared at them, and the laughter died in their throats. They walked out to a gleaming midnight blue Mercedes-Benz convertible, where the girl was waiting with her arms crossed.

Bolan forked up another bite of his steak and turned to see the conversation get heated, with the girl and the guy both starting to gesticulate. She seemed unaware of the potential danger she was in, with the other boys starting to crowd around the couple.

That’s three, Bolan thought, tossing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and heading for the door. Once outside, he didn’t even have to look over to see which way the argument was heading.

“—damn it, Everado, you don’t paw me in public like I’m some piece of meat. I’m not one of those Mexican whores you can just fuck and forget!”

“Chica, just get in the car and we’ll go somewhere quiet and talk about this,” the young man said. He sounded reasonable, but his voice was pitched low.

“Fuck you, just take me home!”

Bolan shook his head. This girl really didn’t realize the fire she was playing with. He’d heard that kind of tone in a man’s voice more times than he cared to count. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, violence was sure to follow.

Sure enough, the young man’s hand came up, the girl’s expression turning from anger to incredulousness to fear in a second. Bolan gave it a one-count, then said, “Hey.” He’d pitched his voice at the exact same timbre, just loud enough to carry to the youth’s ears, but not to attract any attention outside the six of them.

Everado’s hand froze, and he whirled, as did his friends, everyone staring at the interloper.

“Where I come from, any man who’s worth a damn doesn’t hit women. It’s not very—” Bolan paused, as if searching for the right word “—macho.”

The leader looked at Bolan as if the older man had just walked up and slapped him. Everado took a step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. “Is that right?” His cohorts fell in behind him as their leader approached the Executioner.

Bolan nodded curtly.

“You aren’t from around here, are you, amigo?” The young man stopped a few feet away from Bolan, his posse fanning out around them.

Bolan stood casually and confidently, hands at his sides, his eyes on the leader. He knew the others wouldn’t make a move unless Everado did first. They all thought they had the advantage with their numbers. It would take less time to show than tell them just how wrong they were.

Bolan shook his head slowly.

“Did you have a good meal in there?”

“I did, before it got interrupted,” Bolan stated.

“Hey, no one asked you to stick your nose in, asshole!” This came from the girl, who was slouched against the convertible, apparently annoyed at not being the center of attention anymore.

Bolan and Everado ignored her. The young man took out a thick roll of bills and peeled off a fifty, tucking it into the soldier’s shirt pocket. “Here’s a little advice. Walk back inside, finish your lunch, order two more, I don’t care. Then come back out, get into your car and keep on driving. That way nothing bad will happen to you.”

Bolan had to work hard at suppressing his smile. Normally he’d give anyone who got in his face a bit of credit, but this kid was already in way over his head; he just didn’t know it yet. “That wouldn’t be a threat, now, would it?”

The young man smiled broadly and shook his head. “Not at all, man! But the prairie out here—so desolate. Travelers who are unprepared can lose their bearings pretty quickly.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Bolan looked beyond him to the girl. “She isn’t going with you, by the way.”

The young man had started to turn back to his car when Bolan spoke. He froze again. “What did you say?”