Border Offensive. Don Pendleton
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like they’re ready for war, man,” James said. “Hardware like yours attracts too much attention, you know? The knife is fine, if a bit fancy, but that H&K and the Desert Eagle have got to go, you dig?”
Bolan immediately understood James’s point and was impressed with the man’s attention to details. He popped the cylinder on the revolver, spinning it gently with his palm. It was already loaded. He pulled a round out and bounced it on his palm for a moment before sliding it back into place and snapping the cylinder shut. “Fine. We’ll play it your way.”
“There’s a cubbyhole beneath your feet. It’s where I keep my badge and some other odds and ends most times. Drop your gear in there.”
Bolan found the hatch and popped it open. He blinked as he took in the assortment of hardware revealed to him—grenades, two heavy-caliber pistols and what looked like a disassembled combat shotgun, as well as a pack of MREs—Meals, Ready-to-Eat—and a satellite phone. Bolan glanced at James, who grinned sheepishly. “Man’s got to be prepared out here, Cooper.”
Bolan snorted and dropped his weapons into the hatch and sealed it back. “There’s prepared and then there’s paranoid, Agent James,” Bolan said, tucking the .38 into the ratty elastic holster James had scrounged for him. It clung to his hip loosely and he wished he had thought to bring a small-caliber pistol with him. It never hurt to have a holdout piece, and at least he knew it would have been tended to by the loving hands of Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John Kissinger.
“Undercover work does that to you, I’m afraid,” James said. “And you can just call me Jimmy or Jorge—no formalities out here. Speaking of which...what am I calling you?”
“LaMancha,” Bolan said, rifling through his memory for a suitable name. It was an old identity, and it had served him well in the early years of his war. “Frank LaMancha.” He hadn’t used that name in several years, but it was a good one. Don Quixote was a favorite of his, though the correlations between his quest and that of the Man of La Mancha’s were sometimes a bit too on the nose to be entirely comfortable.
“All right,” James said, nodding. “Sure you can remember that, though?”
“I think so.”
“Keep It Simple, Stupid. Rule one of undercover work,” James said.
“A good rule in general,” Bolan said.
“All right then. You’re my cousin, you need money and you’re helping me out on a few runs, to see how you like it. Simple?”
“Simple,” Bolan said.
“Groovy. Now, let’s introduce you to the guys, shall we?” James said. He and Bolan got out of the van. The wind was blowing sand and grit through the air hard enough to sting.
Bolan shaded his eyes as they ambled toward the broken-down cantina. There were more people about than he’d expected; not just would-be undocumented workers, but also a certain class of social parasite that flocked to almost every illicit gathering Bolan had ever had the misfortune to attend...pimps, prostitutes, drug-dealers and the like.
“Oh, good, you’re finally here,” someone sneered as they made their way up the steps to the cantina. Bolan turned and saw a portly, middle-aged man sitting in one of the creaky chairs that littered the boardwalk around the cantina. “You ain’t still on strawberry-picking time, are you?”
“Hey, Franco,” James said, his distaste evident. Bolan examined the man unobtrusively. What he had taken for fat at first glance was actually muscle. Franco was short and shaped like a fireplug. Jailhouse tattoos ran up and across his bare arms and neck. A prominent swastika rested between the edge of his jaw and his ear. “Is Sweets here yet?”
“Yeah, and now that your lazy ass is here, we can get started. Time is money, greaser.” Franco cocked an eye at Bolan. “Who’s this guy?”
“My cousin Frank,” James said.
“No shit. He’s big for a beaner.”
“I eat my vegetables,” Bolan said mildly. He looked at James. “This isn’t Sweets, I take it.”
“Nope, this here is Franco, which is not his real name, but is likely one he picked out of one of them Time-Life collected histories of Second World War books,” James said. “Franco, say hello to my cousin, Frank LaMancha.”
“Hello, Cousin Frank,” Franco said. “Why are you inflicting your august personage upon us today?” He stood, bobbing up onto the soles of his cowboy boots and flexing his wide hands. His knuckles popped audibly. Bolan sized him up at once; a petty bully, spoiling for a fight.
“He needs money, Franco. And it ain’t your business,” James said.
“Damn well is my business if you bringing someone new into this deal,” Franco said. “I don’t know him. Sweets don’t know him. How do we know he ain’t working for somebody?”
“Because I’m vouching for him,” James said.
“Oh, well, in that case,” Franco said, shrugging. Then, lightning quick, his fist jabbed out, catching James in the gut. As the border patrol agent folded over wheezing, Franco rounded on Bolan and launched a kick at his knee. Bolan blocked the blow with his palms and resisted the urge to draw his weapon. People were gathering, eager to see the fight. Franco hopped back, raising his ink-covered fists. “Good reflexes for a Mexican,” he grunted.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bolan said, sliding forward lightly. He tossed off a loose blow that Franco easily deflected and then hammered a sucker punch into the other man’s kidney. Franco coughed and stumbled and Bolan circled him like a wolf, jabbing and tapping at him with featherlight strikes. Then Franco uttered a wordless cry and rushed him.
Bolan knew immediately that letting Franco get his arms around him would be a mistake. The muscles in the smaller man’s arm looked like steel cables for all that his belly was soft. Bolan stepped aside at the last moment and drove his elbow into the back of Franco’s neck, dropping him to the ground. The thug groaned and made to stand, but Bolan stuck a boot between his shoulder blades and shoved him down. He drew the .38 then and took aim. “Stay down,” he said. “I’d hate to have to shoot a man I just met.”
“I feel the same way myself,” someone said over the sound of a pistol being cocked. “So how about you drop the hogleg, pal?”
Chapter 5
“Your professionals are brawling in the street,” Tumart said, letting the threadbare curtain twitch back in place. He turned and looked at Sweets, sprawled lazily in the small room’s only chair. He seemed unconcerned by both the violence below and the glares that Abbas and Fahd were tossing his way.
“They do that. High spirits is all it is. I’ll stop them in a minute,” Sweets said.
“This room smells of fornication,” Abbas said.
“Probably because it’s a whorehouse. Or used to be,” Sweets drawled. Abbas flushed and spun to face Tumart.
“He insults us!”
“He insults you,” Tumart said, scratching at the corner of his empty eye socket. “My nose is not so sensitive as yours.” He looked at Sweets. “I do smell blood, however.”
“Blood?” Sweets said, sitting up. Tumart couldn’t be sure, but he thought the coyote’s face blanched slightly.
“Yes. In the room opposite ours. One of your men is staying in there, is he not?”
“Digger,” Sweets said. “My brother.”
“Is that his name? How unusual. Is he hurt? Ill perhaps?”
“No. Not as such,” Sweets said, choosing his words with obvious care. “He’s just a bit odd is all. I watch out for him now that our momma is gone to Jesus.” He pushed himself to his feet and trotted to the window.