along the butt of his pistol. “What was that Franco said? Are we really escorting Jihadists or some mess?”
“What if we are?” Eddie said, looking at the other man. “Their money is as green as anyone else’s.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Boys, let’s be realistic here,” Sweets said, interrupting. “What we’re talking about is likely treason on some level. Then, so is running undocumented workers or Nicaraguan gunmen into Santa Fe or Dallas. And, if it’s tweaking your shriveled little patriotic impulses, need I remind you that every redneck for a hundred miles of the border has a small armory in his basement? It ain’t like we’re escorting these fellows into the Promised Land. They might blow up a department store or erase a preschool, but at the end of the day, they’ll die in the dust same as every other bad man. And we’ll be sitting pretty with a nice chunk of cash.”
“Yeah, but what about the next time, Sweets?” James said. “We get these guys through and the border is going to close up tighter than blazes.”
“Probably, but not for long,” Sweets said confidently. “People got short memories. And we provide a necessary function.”
Bolan thought that Sweets was kidding himself. There would always be cracks in a border as long and as crooked as the Mexican-American border, but if this scheme succeeded it would mean a death sentence or life imprisonment for every man of Sweets’s ilk. Looking around the room, he saw not a few faces that reflected his opinion back at him. None of them, however, were speaking up. Greed could put iron in even the most pliable spine, it seemed.
“Look, I ain’t going to force nobody. Give it a minute, talk it over. Have a drink. Let me know,” Sweets said, filling up his glass again.
The meeting broke up a moment later. Two or three men stood and wandered outside, lighting up cigarettes as they went and speaking quietly. Bolan stood. “Toilet?” he said. Eddie grinned at him.
“Nervous?”
“Something like that.”
“Up them stairs there,” Henshaw said, gesturing. Bolan nodded and shot a look at James. The other man inclined his head. Bolan turned toward the stairs, satisfied that the younger man had understood him. He needed to scout the area.
Instincts honed in countless undercover operations prickled in warning as he made his way up the stairs. Like as not, the bulk of the terrorists were waiting for an “all-clear” signal to come into town. But there would have to be someone here to give that signal. And if Bolan were any judge, that man would be the one called Tuerto.
At the top of the stairs, Bolan let his fingers drift toward the pistol clipped to his belt. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but he couldn’t let pass the opportunity to take the head off the snake first thing, even if he’d have to shoot his way out of town after the fact. His partner wouldn’t like it, but Bolan was damned if he was going to let a hundred armed terrorists get anywhere near the American border, sting operation or no sting operation.
The corridor was narrow and there were four doors, two to either side, plus a bathroom that Bolan smelled well before he spotted it. Stepping lightly down the hall, he let his senses drift in such a way as to catch the smallest sound. If you tried to listen for one thing, you almost always missed everything else. But experience had taught him that listening to everything was a sure way not to miss anything.
There was a low buzz of what might have been conversation coming from one room. But from another... Bolan’s nostrils wrinkled. He smelled blood and lots of it. He pulled the pistol and went to the latter door, a wordless warning siren pealing in his head as he turned the knob. The door opened on darkness and Bolan stepped through.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The blinds were pulled tight and only a thin drizzle of orange Sonoran light was available to see by. Head cocked, he looked around. There was a bundle wrapped in red-stained sheets on the bed, and the abattoir smell was getting worse for every moment he stood there.
“Who are you?”
Bolan spun quick as a cat, but not quickly enough. A meaty paw slammed down on his wrist and the Executioner found himself jerked into the air and slung back the way he had come before he could do more than blink.
Chapter 6
The Executioner hit the door at high speed, taking it off its hinges, and bounced off the opposite wall. He rolled to his feet, weaponless, his ears ringing. A monstrous shape filled the doorway. Hands like slabs of cured ham stretched toward him and Bolan narrowly avoided what he knew would surely be a crushing grip. “Who told you that you could come in here?” the man-mountain squalled, sounding more like a petulant child than a monster.
“I was looking for the bathroom, actually,” Bolan said, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Guess I made a mistake.”
“That was my room! Nobody goes in my room!” A big fist looped out and punched clean through the drywall, showering Bolan with dust. He tried to return the favor, digging his knuckles into a spot just beneath his opponent’s sternum. The big man grunted and twisted, pushing Bolan and sending him sprawling down the stairs. “Nobody!”
Bolan clambered to his feet, using the wobbly banister for help. He hadn’t been punched that hard in a long time, and he didn’t intend to let it happen again. The man was big, a little over Bolan’s own six and change in height, and built wide, with a layer of cherubic flab over muscles built by labor, rather than exercise. He was quick, as well, not so much as Bolan, but light on his feet. His eyes bulged and his mouth worked silently as he advanced on the Executioner. Bolan’s palm itched for the feel of a pistol. Lacking that, he went for his knife. He ducked under a backhanded swipe and pulled the blade. It closed the gap with his opponent’s belly, but viselike fingers swallowed his own, forcing the blade aside. Knuckles scraped his cheek and Bolan brought his knee up. The big man uttered a shrill cry and threw Bolan over the banister as if he weighed no more than a bale of hay.
Bolan hit a table and it broke in two at the point of impact. All the breath had been forced from his lungs and it was all he could do at the moment to roll over and grope for the KA-BAR, which had landed point first into the rough wooden floor. But even as his fingertips found the handle, he heard the ominous click of a gun being cocked. He looked up. The big man glared down at him, a Glock aimed at a point somewhere between Bolan’s eyes. Bolan tensed, preparing to roll aside.
A second before his opponent fired, however, there was a second click. The big man stopped dead, his eyes widening as a dark-skinned, one-eyed man pressed the barrel of Bolan’s dropped .38 to one pudgy cheek. “I was attempting to sleep,” the one-eyed man purred.
“What the hell is going on here?” Sweets cried out, kicking aside the broken chunk of table. He glared first at Bolan, and then up at the tableau above. “Damn it, Digger! What did you do?”
“He came into my room, Django,” the big man said, cutting a glance at the man pressing a pistol to his face. “Nobody comes into my room. You said, Django. You said nobody would come into my room.”
“I was just looking for the toilet,” Bolan said, getting to his feet slowly, the KA-BAR in his hand. Sweets eyed him suspiciously.
“Were you now? Cousin Frank, you do seem to get into fights.”
“It’s a bad habit,” Bolan said, trying for nonchalance. He sheathed the knife. “If
