IMMEDIATELY MADE his way to the small Texas town close to the border to make his first contact.
The young woman, dark-haired, slim and pretty, from what Bolan could see, clutched a small cloth bundle, and her cautious manner told Bolan she should not have been in the apartment. His curiosity was aroused. The young woman was his first possible lead to Manners. At the moment he had no idea how important her relationship with the agent might have been, but he had to find out.
His rented Ford 4x4 was parked across the street from the cantina. Bolan watched as his lead walked quickly by the frontage. As Bolan leaned forward to fire up the engine, he saw two figures detach from the shadows of the alley beside the cantina and fall in behind the young woman. It looked as if others were interested in her, too.
Beyond the cantina were a couple of closed and shuttered stores, then an empty lot covered with weeds and refuse. Bolan eased open the truck’s door and stepped out. He crossed the street and trailed the pair following the woman. The men remained at a discreet distance until she turned to cross the empty lot, then they upped their pace. Bolan did the same, his long legs covering the distance with ease. As he rounded the end of the last store, he saw the duo closing in on their mark, heard her startled gasp as one of them reached out to catch hold of one of her arms and jerk her to a stop. One of the men spoke, his Spanish so rapid that Bolan only caught a few words. Understandable or not, the menace in the guy’s tone was unmistakable. The woman replied, her words defiant.
“Puta,” the man yelled, and slapped her across the face. The blow knocked the woman off her feet. “Puta madre.”
The second man leaned down to snatch at the bundle from her arms. She yelled at him, clinging to the package. The guy kicked at her side.
That was when Bolan reached the group. He went for the guy who had kicked the young woman, grabbed a handful of his thick black hair and yanked hard. The man yelled, trying to turn. Bolan slammed a hard fist into the goon’s exposed ribs. He put all of his strength into the blow and heard the faint crack of bone. The man groaned. The Executioner drove the toe of his boot into the back of one knee. The leg buckled, the man losing balance, and as his opponent fell backward the soldier snapped an arm around his lean neck and dragged him close. He stamped down on the man’s calf, breaking the limb. The man screamed as Bolan let go and swiveled to face the first guy, who had produced a knife from his belt. He lunged wildly at his adversary, and from the way he moved it was obvious he was no expert.
“Bastardo.”
The knife had a thick, heavy blade and it slowed the guy’s desperate slashes. Even so, Bolan kept his eye on the weaving length of steel. He was an experienced knife fighter, and even the clumsiest attacker only had to get lucky once.
Bolan avoided the first couple of uncoordinated thrusts, watching the blade as it completed its arc. In the moment it swung at him again, Bolan stepped in, caught the knife arm, turned his body into his opponent’s space and used his free arm to hammer the point of his elbow into the man’s face. The blow was delivered without hesitation and with crippling force. The knife man’s cry of pain was reduced to a choking gurgle as blood from his crushed nose and shattered teeth filled his mouth. When Bolan added pressure, the knife slipped from limp fingers. The soldier reached back and gripped a handful of the guy’s shirt. He yanked forward, bending so that his adversary was pulled over his shoulder. The man slammed onto the hard ground with a solid thud, with Bolan standing over him. He never saw the heavy swing of the Executioner’s boot. It connected with the back of his skull and slammed him into oblivion.
A warning yell from the dark-haired woman drew Bolan’s attention. He turned and saw the first guy reach for something tucked into his belt. He saw the dark outline of an autopistol rise. Stepping to the man’s blind side, Bolan delivered a brutal kick to his head. The hard impact drove him facedown on the dusty ground. Leaning over, the soldier picked up the pistol and jammed it beneath his own belt, under the black leather jacket he was wearing. He checked their pockets but found little except tight rolls of paper money. Bolan took them. Cash was sometimes a handy way of smoothing over complications.
Then he bent over the slim form of the woman, gently grasping a bare arm. She resisted, still dazed from the attack, but there was not a lot of fight left in her.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bolan said. “Just want to get you away from here. ¿Entiendes?”
She looked up at him, brushing black hair away from her pale face. A thin line of blood seeped from the corner of her soft mouth.
“Yes, I understand English.”
“Good,” Bolan said, “because my Spanish isn’t always that clear.”
He helped her to her feet. She swayed a little, then steadied herself. She still clutched the bundle to her.
“Let’s go,” Bolan said.
She hesitated, her eyes wide and cautious.
“Go where?”
“Somewhere away from these people.”
She stared at him for long seconds, and Bolan sensed her mind was whirling with thoughts. He understood her suspicions.
“You were a friend of Don Manners?” A quick nod. “Then we’re on the same side. Now let’s get the hell out of here in case those two have backup.”
He took her slim hand in his and led her back toward the street, across to where his 4x4 was parked. Bolan saw her into the passenger seat, then climbed behind the wheel and fired up the engine. He eased along the street, heading for the center of town where there were more people, light and his motel.
The young woman had slumped back in the seat, her face turned away from view, hugging the bundle she carried. The way she held on to it was working on Bolan’s curiosity. He didn’t ask her about it. There was time for that once he had her off the street.
It was close to eleven p.m. The town’s main drag was crowded. The street was busy with traffic, so it took Bolan a while to reach the turn for the motel. He eased through the pedestrians, cleared the town. It was quieter here, the street almost deserted. The motel was a half mile along the strip of road. Bolan drove into the courtyard through the adobe arch, angling the truck to a stop outside his room. He cut the engine and stepped out, then circled the vehicle to open the passenger door.
“Best room in the house,” he said. “I promise.”
The woman climbed out. Bolan guided her to the door and unlocked it. He pushed the door open and stood back to let her go inside. She stood in the center of the room, staring at her surroundings. Bolan quietly closed and locked the door. He shuttered the window blind and put on the main light, leaving her alone while he went into the bathroom and ran warm water in the basin. He chose a small towel and soaked half of it in the water, squeezing out the excess. When he got back in the main room, the woman was sitting on the end of the bed.
“For your face,” Bolan said, holding out the towel.
She took it and held it against her mouth. Bolan noticed she had placed her mysterious package on the bed next to her. He ignored it, crossing to the armchair facing the bed. He sat, giving her time to tend to her injury. A bruise was forming on her lower cheek, discoloring her tawny complexion.
In the room light he could see she was attractive, her face dominated by large brown eyes and softly plump lips. Her shoulder-length black hair was thick and shiny. Beneath the soft cotton shirt and faded jeans, her figure was lithe and feminine.
