feet out from under him. As the smuggler fell, Bolan kicked the machete away.
Colored smoke hung thick on the air, and he could hear the scratch of rubber soles on dirt. Bolan jabbed his opponent quickly in the face, then, as the smuggler reeled back, clutching at his nose, the big American rammed his fist into the man’s throat. Cartilage crumpled and the man collapsed, gagging. Bolan swept up the machete and reversed it with a twirl of his wrist, driving it down into the smuggler’s skull with a wet crunch.
Bullets plucked at the ground at his feet and he sprinted forward, toward the van. The owner—Jorge—was a light-skinned man, built stocky, and he backpedaled, hands up, despite the pistol on his hip, as Bolan thundered toward him out of the smoke.
“Wait, wait, wait—” he shouted as Bolan slammed into him, shoulder first. They went down together, but only Bolan came up. He grabbed Jorge’s shirtfront and slung him bodily behind the van.
“Damn it, wait!” Jorge yelped. Bolan knocked him sprawling and joined him behind the van.
“You keep quiet. Maybe you’ll live through this.”
Ernesto and two men, both armed with AK-47s, moved forward out of the smoke, looking around wildly. Bolan pressed his foot to Jorge’s throat and twisted around the edge of the van, bringing his weapon up even as he slammed a full magazine home.
“Hey! Gringo, you going to—” Ernesto began.
The UMP burped. Ernesto screeched, and his pistol discharged as he toppled. His companions fell more quietly. Bolan waited a minute, then two. He relaxed slightly. No movement from the truck.
All in all, it had taken only a few minutes. It had been a textbook takedown. Bolan slid his foot away from Jorge’s throat, but kept his weapon aimed at the man.
“Good afternoon. Jorge, was it?” Bolan said, squatting and yanking the pistol from the man’s holster. He tossed it aside.
“Jimmy-Jorge James actually,” the man croaked. “Who the hell are you?”
“Interesting name,” Bolan said, ignoring the question.
“Blame my parents,” Jimmy-Jorge James said. “So, you kill Ernesto?”
“Yes.”
“Crap. I’m going to reach into my pants, get something you probably need to see.” James waited for Bolan’s nod, then reached into his trousers and pulled out a bill folder. He tossed it to Bolan. Bolan flipped it open and quirked an eyebrow in surprise.
“You’re border patrol?”
“That’s what it says on the badge, hombre.” James rubbed the back of his neck. “And you, my friend, just potentially blew two very important federal operations! Now, who the hell are you?”
“I’ll ask the questions. What were you doing here?” Bolan said.
“I was running a sting operation on poor old Ernesto there. Got a problem with that?” James said belligerently. He made to get up, but Bolan motioned for him to stay down.
“Not yet,” he said pleasantly. “Not until I know you are who you say you are. And that you were doing what you claim you were doing.”
“Yes, because I’m the untrustworthy one here,” James said harshly, indicating the bodies all around.
“A little paranoia is good for the soul,” Bolan said calmly. He eyed the badge, looking for telltale signs that it was a fake. Finding nothing to indicate that it was anything other than what it seemed, he let the UMP fall to dangle from his shoulder and reached up to detach the satellite phone from his harness. It would be a simple enough matter to have someone check out the badge number and the identification.
James, however, didn’t seem inclined to wait. As Bolan dialed, the younger man suddenly rolled toward his pistol with the speed of a rattlesnake on the strike. As Bolan cursed and brought his weapon up one-handed, James scooped up the pistol and twisted around, sighting down the barrel.
Bolan ducked to the side even as Jorge fired. Behind him, someone screamed. Bolan spun, and his UMP hummed as he let off a burst into Ernesto’s already sagging body. James’s bullet had torn a neat, round hole in the smuggler’s cranium, sending him into the darkness just ahead of Bolan’s own burst. Lowering his smoking weapon, Bolan turned back to James, who smiled at him weakly.
“Sorry. Instinct, man,” James said, letting his pistol spin around his trigger finger until the butt was facing Bolan. “You can have it back now.”
“Keep it,” Bolan said simply.
Chapter 2
“He’s legit,” Hal Brognola said, his voice echoing oddly through the receiver of the satellite phone. “He’s been with the United States Border Patrol for ten years, straight out of college. He’s a good one, Striker.”
“He mentioned Interpol,” Bolan said.
“Seconded, recently,” the big Fed said. “He and his partner.”
“Partner?” Bolan looked at James, where he squatted beside Ernesto’s body, going through the man’s pockets. “He didn’t mention a partner.”
“Why would he? He doesn’t know if you’re legit, either, Striker,” Brognola said, sounding amused. Bolan grunted. There was truth in that.
“I guess I don’t have one of those faces, huh?”
“Not even close.” Brognola cleared his throat. “From what I can tell, you just dropped into the middle of something that’s been in play for a while, barring recent changes.”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Bolan said.
“No, not really. It’s a mess, and only going to get messier. Interpol’s involved, Border Patrol wants the coyotes shut down and all the other federal agencies are screaming about being kept out of the loop. No one really knows what’s going on out there.”
“Including us,” Bolan said.
“How is that new?” Brognola said.
“It’s not,” Bolan said. “Well, whatever the game is, I’m dealing myself in.”
“Why did I have a feeling you’d say that?” Brognola sighed. “Look, I’ll try to find out what’s going on, on my end. Keep me posted on yours. Oh, and, Striker? Let’s keep the property damage to a minimum until we know whose field we’re playing in, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Bolan said and turned off the phone. He clipped it back on his rig and started toward James. “You didn’t tell me you had a partner,” he said. The border patrol agent stood, clapping dirt off his pants.
“Figured if you were really who you said you were, you’d find out, Cooper.” He rubbed his cheek. Bolan had given James the name of his Justice Department cover identity, Agent Matt Cooper, reasoning that it was the quickest way to get the man to trust him. So far, it seemed to have worked.
“Well, I have. Who is he?”
