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 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.