BORDER ASSAULT

The murder of several border patrol agents in a moonlight attack seems like an average Mexican cartel ambush…until the killers’ weapons turn out to be U.S. military grade. There’s a leak in the local army base, and it needs to be plugged before more ordnance trucks south—and more innocent lives are taken. Mack Bolan heads into the desert to investigate.

But when an old ally is killed in a second assault, Bolan realizes he’s underestimated the threat. Whoever is behind the attack is not only smuggling weapons into Mexico, but also building a private army. And the kingpin is intent on spreading his reign of terror into America. With an unofficial war about to break out on the border, he must plan a strategic strike to take down the empire and eliminate all its key players. And this time, for the Executioner, it’s personal.

The Desert Eagle’s booming roar filled the air

Bolan took down the two men who tried to rush his position. That left two, both of whom had taken cover on the far side of his truck, shooting wildly. Panic was a wonderful field tool.

He opened up once more, hitting each man in the lower leg. The powerful weapon all but tore limbs off at this range. He worked his way around to the far side of the truck and finished the job.

Bolan scanned the area and saw nothing but bodies. On the ground near one of them, he spotted the radio and could hear his enemy demanding information.

He picked it up and keyed the mike. “That’s just the beginning,” he told the man. “I’ll see you and Sureno real soon.” He threw the radio to the ground and moved toward the nearby group of vehicles, hoping to find some supplies for his trek across the desert.

Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps he was simply too focused on his search. Either way, Bolan didn’t see the man who’d taken shelter in the backseat of the first car he approached until he lunged forward, gun in hand.

Desert Impact

Don Pendleton

Fast is fine, but accuracy is final.

—Wyatt Earp

I’m not interested in speed for its own sake. But I will do what it takes to catch up with those who would try to outrun their own judgment.

—Mack Bolan

THE

LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a com-mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

The borderlands were nothing more than long stretches of desert, patches of sage and prickly mesquite trees. Old wooden fences and faded barbwire strands, and from time to time, a decent fence that some desperate rancher put up only to have it torn down by the illegals crossing everywhere but at the actual checkpoints. During the heat of the day, the sun glanced off hills and rocks, filling the arid land with shimmering illusions in the rippling heat. But the night...the night was altogether different. Under a full moon, the desert became a luminescent landscape filled with creatures on the hunt, no longer pinned down by the oppressive heat. Shadows pooled beneath rocky outcroppings and the hunting cries of owls echoed in the wind.

Colton Rivers, a field operations supervisor for the United States Border Patrol, stared out at the desert night, waiting to see if the intelligence they’d obtained was accurate. From California to Texas, some portions of the border were more porous than others. The Arizona border was Swiss cheese. He was based in Douglas, right across from Agua Prieta, Mexico, and every year the situation got worse. There was no explaining to the politicians that it wasn’t the number of officers that mattered, but the fact that a night in one of their cells was still a trip to heaven for many of the people who crossed over. Mexico was all but an undeclared war zone, and the drug lords were running most of the countryside. Sadly, fewer and fewer families were actually crossing the border in search of a better life—many families were just trying to get away. Other immigrants were drug and weapon runners—mules—and the thugs who transported people into the United States for outrageous fees.

The working life of a Border Patrol agent was getting more dangerous, too. Fewer men and women were willing to take the risks, in spite of decent pay and benefits, and of those who did, many were injured or killed every year. It wasn’t an easy job, and it was often damn thankless, but Rivers was proud to be doing it. Every time they made an arrest, it was one small step toward making the border more secure. Still, it was only a matter of time until the flood waters overwhelmed them, or worse, some terrorist found a way through the desert and into the United States with a dirty bomb. Rivers shook his head, bringing his mind back to the night’s mission.

A runner arrested two days before had told them that a large arms shipment was coming in, but Rivers was having a hell of a time believing that was the case. The full moon was practically a spotlight. A large vehicle would be far too easy to spot moving across the barren landscape.

“What do you think?” the man standing next to him asked. His name was Craig Jennings, and he was so fresh from the academy that the shine still hadn’t worn off his badge—or his face. He was surveying the desert floor through a pair of night vision goggles, a bundle of nervous energy. At thirty, Rivers felt like the old man of the group and was not as prone to get excited with every tip they were given. Too often, leads were nothing more than dead ends or even purposeful misinformation. The drug and weapon dealers on the other side of the border were many things, but the successful ones were far from stupid.

Rivers scanned the empty desert once more, and then shook his head. “I think we’ve been out here for over an hour and haven’t seen shit. Even if it was going to happen, they probably called it off on account of the moon.”

“Pack up?” Craig asked.

He nodded. “Yeah, let’s pack it in for the night. This was overtime duty for all of us anyway. If we get our asses back to the station, we might actually get a few hours of sleep before the next shift. It might be nice to see my little girl, if she can remember what her dad looks like.”

Rivers smiled at Jennings’s crestfallen expression, but he really was ready to go home and see his family, and he knew the rest of his team was too. His squad was the best trained in the area and people vied for a position on it, but with the training came the hours, and with each passing day the hours felt longer. Field work was really best left to men without families—or social lives. Probably should include it in the official job description, he thought morosely as Jennings jumped down from the Ford Expedition’s running boards.

Rivers lifted his binoculars for one last look. Just as he was ready to end the operation, he saw a faint gleam of light at the edge of a distant sand hill, only to watch it disappear. A flicker and it was gone.

“Hold on...” he said, looking again. Nothing. “Give me your night vision, Jennings.”

Jennings handed over the goggles. Rivers didn’t bother slipping the straps over his head, just held them up to his eyes and adjusted the distance. Other than a few small heat signatures from random desert creatures, the landscape still looked quiet. He knew that in these situations, patience was a field agent’s best friend, so he focused in on the hill where the light had briefly flickered and waited.

Beside him, Jennings started to speak, but Rivers shushed him and continued to watch. Finally, along the base of the mound, people began to appear, followed by a large truck. How the hell they’d gotten it into the hill was a mystery for later. Right now, the primary goal needed to be an arrest. “Hold on, guys,” Rivers said after keying his mike. “We’ve got company.”

Over several minutes, five trucks lined up, and more were emerging. The tunnel must have been huge and taken months to build. Headlights were now clearly visible. “Everyone stand by,” Rivers added, continuing to watch the developing scene. This was a big group, sure, but they were brazen as hell.

“What’s that?” Jennings asked, as the sound of heavy engines filled the air.

From a space somewhere between the squad’s position and where the illegals were gathering, two massive spotlights burst to life. Rivers yanked the goggles away from his eyes but not before he was half-blinded. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and almost panicked as two modified assault vehicles—ultralight and modeled after rock-crawling dune buggies—came tearing toward them. Rivers caught a quick glimpse of mounted guns a second or two before they opened fire.

The unforgettable sound of two .50 caliber machine guns cut through the night. “Get down!” Rivers yelled, jumping free from the Expedition as bullets pierced the armored vehicle and strafed the ground.

His men ran for cover as Rivers rolled, got to his feet and spun back to jump behind the wheel of the truck. He turned the motor over and threw the truck into gear. After serving four years in the Army Special Forces and nearly eight years in the field as a Border Patrol agent, he knew the illegals’ expectation would be that they’d run like hell. He punched the accelerator and drove straight at the nearest buggy, even as rounds from the machine gun chewed holes in his hood. He yanked his Glock 17 free from the holster and began blasting through the window as he careened sideways.

Rivers’s charge forced the buggy to turn, but that didn’t stop the other one from taking its own shots at him. Rivers spun the wheel, and the Expedition’s tires clawed for traction. He nearly rolled the truck before it slammed back onto the rocky ground. Jennings had somehow made it into the vehicle, but all he could do was hold on. His face was white as a sheet.

“Either get your ass down, or do something,” Rivers snarled, wishing that spots on his team could be limited to men with at least a few years of field experience.

The new recruit grabbed the dash and ducked onto the floor as the second dune buggy closed in on them. Rivers dropped the transmission into reverse and slammed on the gas. The assault vehicle tried to adjust but hit a rock outcropping and flipped over twice before landing on its wheels and coming after them again. Hitting the brakes, Rivers jammed the transmission back into drive, then floored it, ramming the buggy at full speed. Men screamed as the two vehicles crunched together with the sound of tearing metal. One man flew forward and smashed into his windshield, leaving a smear of blood and brains on the bulletproof glass before sliding off the hood. With that buggy finally finished off, Rivers backed up and turned around, heading for where his other men were holed up.

He could see two agents on the ground by their vehicles. A jeep had joined the other dune buggy and had the remaining agents pinned down. Rivers swerved to hit a berm, which launched the Expedition into the fray and gave the agents cover. Gunfire from the automatic weapons on the dune buggy and the jeep knocked out two of the Expedition’s tires, dropping the hulking three tons of steel into the desert sand and throwing him into the windshield.

A sharp spike of pain lanced through his skull as his nose broke and the skin of his forehead split on impact. He leaned back, wiping the blood out of his eyes with a pained grunt.

“Are we going to die?” Jennings asked from the floor.

“If we just sit here, we will,” he replied. “It’s move or die time.”

Rivers reached into the backseat, the armor on the modified truck giving them at least a couple of moments before they’d be completely overwhelmed, and opened the lid for more weapons. He pulled out three grenades, giving one to Jennings, who was trying to pull himself together. Rivers tucked the other two grenades in his belt, then grabbed an FN SCAR assault rifle and two extra clips.

He’d been given the weapon to field test it and he sure hoped it proved to be reliable. Rivers popped two smoke grenades and chucked them out the window for cover, then burst out of the vehicle’s passenger side with Jennings close on his heels. They worked their way along the side of the Expedition, joining the two agents that had been pinned down behind a cluster of boulders.

Rivers heard Jennings yelp and turned back, his Glock 17 in his hand. Jennings looked terrified as his captor wrenched his head backward.

“Drop it,” the man said.

“I don’t think so,” Rivers replied.

The shot from the Glock was smooth and the look of surprise was etched on the captor’s face for a small moment before the bullet in his skull killed the lights. Rivers barely broke stride as he grabbed Jennings and pulled him in his wake.

It looked like the illegals were assessing the situation, so Rivers took advantage of the delay and lobbed one grenade into the dune buggy and the second into the jeep. The explosions lit up the night—and the two vehicles—ensuring that, at least for the moment, everyone was on foot. The thugs who had been pressing closer ran for cover.

“Rivers,” one of the other agents said after the echoes faded away. “I called for support before it all went to hell, but I don’t know how long it will take to get here.”

As if on cue, they heard a helicopter making its way toward them. Rivers popped a flare from his vest, the trailing orange smoke showing the agents’ location. The gunship moved in for a strafing run, giving the agents time to fall back to one of the other vehicles. They piled inside as the chopper moved in sweeping patterns, keeping them safe. The rest of their assailants moved back into the desert, disappearing almost as quickly as they’d appeared.

The chopper landed and Rivers moved back in for a closer look. The paperwork on this would be tremendous, and he was still very uncertain how the hell they ended up in this mess in the first place. Where had the illegals all come from, and how had they gotten their hands on those kinds of weapons and vehicles?

He walked over to one of the wrecked dune buggies. There would be no questioning the mangled bodies that littered the area. He ran his flashlight beam across the wreckage, then paused as he came upon the .50 caliber machine gun. It was a Browning all right and carried U.S. Army serial numbers and badging. He ran his hands along the raised lettering.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “I don’t believe it.”

“What is it?” Jennings asked.

Rivers ran his light across the letters again. He nodded at Jennings’s indrawn breath.

“Those are Army weapons,” Jennings said. “Now what do we do?”

“Now we get some help,” Rivers replied. “Because if this means what I think it does, we’re going to need it.”

Chapter 2

From the top of Holtanna Peak in Antarctica, Mack Bolan took a deep, cleansing breath. The landscape was pure, white snow, broken only by jagged shards of brown rock. Here, there were no human enemies to fight, no wars to win. The cold, the wind, the challenges of climbing, skiing and BASE jumping in this region were daunting, but for a man known as the Executioner, this kind of activity was his idea of rest and relaxation.

The tall pillar of Holtanna topped out at almost nine thousand feet. Standing alone in the middle of the Antarctic, the “hollow tooth” was an obstacle meant to be conquered. Bolan and his climbing companion, Gerard Casias, led the way, setting ropes for the other two climbers. Even with his winter gear, the cold penetrated deep into his bones. Each time he pushed in with the ice spikes on the soles of his boots, sharp pins of pain radiated through his frozen skin and up his leg. He wiggled his toes to increase the circulation before he looked for his next foothold. The chimneys within the rock were choked with snow, making the climb slow and arduous. Bolan paused to look out over the pristine white landscape. The sheer beauty of the environment pushed him onward. He placed the next piton to hold the permanent rope for the rest of the crew to climb behind him.

At two a.m. in Antarctica, the sun was high, but the temperature was not. The light beard Bolan had grown to help protect his face was frozen. The trek had taken them twenty-four hours of straight climbing.

Standing now on top of the bottom of the world, Bolan saw an incoming aircraft and pulled out his field goggles to identify it. A P3-K Orion, which meant that his time off was about to be cut short. Someone was using U.S. Naval resources to find him.

He took one last look at the beautiful surroundings, then zipped the last of the closures on his wingsuit. The material created the illusion of wings and a tail.

“Who will count it off?” Gerard called out.

“I will,” Bolan said.

He waited by the ledge, took two strides and launched himself into the abyss. The wind rushed past him, but the edges of his suit broke the speed and created a nice glide through the air. Bolan experimented with the directions of his arms and the angle of his body as he played on the breeze. Closing in on his mark, he deployed the parachute and glided safely to the ground. The others were right behind him. He unclipped the parachute, waved to the other climbers and sprinted off toward the plane as it taxied to a halt.

Gerard would see to it that the others got back to camp and would most likely stay for another few weeks, enjoying a life of adventure that didn’t involve the kinds of dangers the Executioner faced most every day of his life.

The cabin door opened on the aircraft and a ladder was tossed through the opening. Bolan stopped and looked up to see a grizzled E-7 staring down at him. “Colonel Stone?” the man shouted, trying to make himself heard over the props.

“That’s me,” Bolan yelled. “You must be my ride.”

“Yes, sir! We’ve got orders to get you back to the States as fast as possible.”

Bolan started climbing the ladder, and after a couple of minutes, he stepped on board. The chief petty officer gave him a quick once over. “You don’t look like a colonel,” he quipped.

“I’ve been off-duty,” Bolan replied. “Let’s get moving.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, pulling in the ladder and slamming the cabin door shut.

Bolan moved to the cockpit and opened the door. Two officers—the pilot and the copilot—were inside. “Gentlemen,” he said.

“Colonel Stone,” the pilot said. “I’m Captain Sikes, and this is Lieutenant Commander Olsen. Glad we were able to find you so quickly. We’ve got orders.”

“I figured as much,” Bolan replied. “What’s our route back?”

“We’ll go via South America,” Sikes said. “We’ll take on a new crew there, and then get you home.”

“Sounds like a long, boring flight,” he said.

“That’s just how we like them, sir,” Olsen replied.

“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable in back,” Sikes added.

Bolan nodded and headed to the cabin, where he found the other man already seated in the front row. He stopped in the galley long enough to grab some hot coffee, then moved to the back of the cabin and took a seat. The props began to spin faster and the plane completed a long turn, then started down the rough landing strip before heading into the sky.

From his inside jacket pocket, Bolan pulled out his handheld and powered it up. It took a good minute for it to sync with the satellite system it used for communications. As soon as he had a good signal, he put his thumb on the screen and unlocked the device. He opened his contacts and hit a speed-dial number. It took several seconds for the call to connect but only one ring before Hal Brognola, the director of the Sensitive Operations Group, based at Stony Man Farm, to answer.

“Tell me you’re on the plane, Striker,” he said, skipping any formalities.

“I’m on the plane,” he assured him.

“We’ve got a situation and I need you in on it.”

Stony Man Farm was a clandestine organization whose action teams fought terrorism and crime all over the world. When the mission was such that official agencies couldn’t openly take it on, Stony Man stepped in, thus allowing the U.S. Government to disavow involvement. Bolan worked with the Farm at arm’s length, taking on missions when it was crucial or appropriate and bringing in new missions when he needed backup in terms of technology, weapons and sometimes manpower. For Brognola to have back-channeled him into a Navy plane using his Colonel Stone identity, the situation must be pretty dire.

“What’s the problem, Hal?” he asked.

“Well, the good news is that you’re going somewhere warmer.”

“Anywhere is warmer than here,” Bolan said.

“True enough,” he admitted. “The situation is this—one of our field assets in Phoenix got in touch with us two days ago. She was contacted by a U.S. Border Patrol agent named Colton Rivers.”

“Hmm...there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Bolan said. “He’s one of their field ops guys on the border. We crossed paths a while back when I dealt with that rash of agent kidnappings.”

“Same guy,” Brognola said. “He didn’t know how to find you, so he asked around and eventually connected with me.”

“So, what’s going on that Rivers thinks he needs help from people like us?”

“The smuggling situation down there has taken a turn for the surreal. He was out with a team in the desert near Douglas and they were ambushed by illegals from the other side.”

“That’s probably not all that unusual,” Bolan replied. “It’s a war zone, Hal. A quiet one, but still war.”

“If that were all, I wouldn’t be talking to you. There’s more. The weapons the illegals were using were U.S. Army issue. Not surplus, either. Someone is selling them military weapons, and if it’s hot down there now, a cartel armed with God-knows-what could turn that quiet war-zone into a full-scale disaster area.”

“That’s attention-getting, all right. Does this have anything to do with the whole Fast and Furious mess the ATF created? If so, isn’t it the government’s problem?”

“I don’t think so,” Brognola said. “Most of that has been cleaned up, and those were small weapons. These are .50 caliber machine guns, mounted on all-terrain dune buggies. The men were armed with standard-issue assault rifles, too.”

Bolan whistled. That was heavy hardware. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call Rivers now if you can forward me his number. Where am I landing in the U.S.?”

“Phoenix, by way of Dallas,” Brognola replied. “According to our Naval contacts, you’ll be on the ground in Arizona in less than twenty-four hours.”

“All right,” Bolan said. “I’ll need a vehicle and a basic field set—you know what I need.”

“It will be waiting for you at the airport. Do you want me to organize backup for you? I can hook you up with a Phoenix-based agent, Nadia Merice.”

Bolan considered it for a moment. “Not just yet,” he said. “Send me her dossier and contact information. Let me go down and assess the situation first. If I need her, I’ll get in touch.”

“You’ll have all of it shortly, Striker. Keep me informed, please. We don’t want this spiraling out of control.”

“Will do,” Bolan said, then hung up the phone. A few moments later, the number for Colton River came through as a secured text message. He dialed it.

“Rivers,” the vaguely familiar voice answered.

“Agent Rivers, Matt Cooper,” he said. “I heard you were trying to find me.”

“Cooper! I didn’t think I’d be able to track you down. Not really.”

“It’s a small world,” Bolan said. “What can I do for you?”

Colton quickly explained his situation, and it lined up with what Brognola had told him. “I know you’re not...well, official, but I think that’s just what we need. Especially if official people are involved.”

Bolan lay back in his seat and listened, rolling the information over in his head. Rivers was a good man, and he was obviously in a bit of a panic. He’d stopped talking, but Bolan was unwilling to speak for the moment. The silence made the agent nervous.

“Cooper, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said, staring out the window. Below, the edge of the ice was giving way to the choppy waters of the Southern Ocean.

“Thank you, Cooper. I didn’t know who else could handle this kind of thing.”

“It sounds sticky. We’ll talk more when I get there,” he said, then disconnected the call. Brognola was right about at least one thing, he thought—he was going somewhere warmer.

Chapter 3

The contrast between the stark, icy white of the Antarctic and the brash gold and tan of the desert had been more than a little startling. After a long flight into Phoenix, Bolan had picked up a car and driven east, passing through Tucson, then cutting south through Sierra Vista and finally arriving in Douglas, Arizona. The dry desert winds blew tumbleweeds across the highway as Bolan drove into the outskirts of the small town.

It was a bit eerie—a town with main streets that hadn’t seen much in the way of updating since the seventies. The only modern storefronts he saw were those of a Wal-Mart and a McDonald’s, which he passed without slowing. Douglas was positioned directly on the border with Mexico, and the flow of immigrants—both legal and illegal—was enough to make Caucasian people a minority. On the other side of the border was Agua Prieta, a much larger city, with much bigger problems. Drug trafficking and illegal immigrants were big business in Agua Prieta, and many honest cops on that side were killed with disturbing regularity.

Bolan pulled up to the gas station where he was meeting Rivers and waved off the entrepreneurs selling fresh tamales out of the trunk of their car. Bolan didn’t try to hide the fact that he was carrying, and he kept a wary eye on those milling about. Enough crime occurred in this one little corner of the universe to keep county, state and federal law enforcement busy every day of the year. It wouldn’t do to become a statistic.

Bolan continued to eye the comings and goings when a car pulled up to one of the pumps. The music was blaring loud enough that the bass thrummed through the gas station until the car shut down. Three guys in white tank tops stepped out of the souped-up Malibu from the eighties that looked like it was halfway through its restoration. One guy went into the gas station while the other two lagged behind and went to the old lady selling tamales.

“Hey, grandma, we could use some food.”

“Five dollars for five.”

“No, grandma, we just want the food.”

They moved forward and Bolan felt like he was watching a bad movie as the two men approached her. Their harassment of the old lady wasn’t entertaining at all.

Bolan approached and tapped the closer of the two on the shoulder.

“What do you want?” he asked Bolan.

“You’re going to leave this lady alone.”

He lifted the edge of his T-shirt to reveal the .38 he was carrying in his waistband.

“I think I do what I want.”

“Oh, well, you should have said that from the beginning.”

The thug started to turn when Bolan caught his shoulder and spun him around, using the added momentum to drive his fist into the man’s face, shattering his nose and dropping him to his knees. Bolan whipped the Desert Eagle out of his holster and trained it on the other man before either of them knew what had happened.

“Now, explain to me what it is you want to do. After all, we decided that you get to do what you want. I just thought there should be a little more discussion on what that might be.”

“I’ll leave, I’ll leave.”

Bolan nodded as they scurried to their car. When the third man came back outside, they peeled out of the gas station and sped down the road. He turned to look at the old woman, who reached into her bag and handed him a tamale.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Bolan leaned against his car and munched on his tamale. He didn’t have to wait long for Rivers to pull up in his SUV. The people who’d been milling around recognized the Border Patrol agent and found better things to do with their time. Rivers pulled his tall frame out of the SUV and offered a strong handshake. “Cooper,” he said, a thin smile crossing his face. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

Returning the handshake, Bolan nodded. “No problem. I could use a little sunshine, and I’m happy to help any way that I can.”

“Good,” he said. “Why don’t we drop off your car at the station? No one will bother it there, and then we can take a little ride.”

Bolan agreed, got back into his rental and followed Rivers to the local Border Patrol station. It was a lot larger than many other stations, due in part to the amount of illegal immigrants they had to deal with and to the on-site holding facility. They passed through a heavy security gate, and Bolan parked his car while Rivers picked up a pass from the guard shack and stuck it on his windshield.

After signing back out, they headed north out of Douglas, and Bolan glanced at the man he’d helped before, his gaze asking an unspoken question.

“I have a friend I want you to meet,” Rivers said. “He’s a retired freelancer. Did undercover work for the U.S. Marshals, tracking for the Border Patrol, and if some of the rumors are true, he started his career in the Drug Enforcement Administration. Anyway, he’s been out here forever, knows every nook and cranny between Douglas and Sierra Vista. He also knows all of the local bad guys. All of which make him very useful.”

“Local bad guys?” Bolan asked.

“This part of the world attracts a lot of different types—and one of them is the person looking to disappear. If the Old West still exists anywhere, it’s right here, Cooper. A lot of black hats live in single-wide trailers or old camp shacks and have a record as long as your arm—or longer.”

“What a charming place,” Bolan replied.

“It’s not that bad,” Colton said. “Plenty of good people are here, too. Lot of folks who just want to live their lives in peace.”

Bolan nodded and watched as the desert landscape slipped past his window. The small highway carved a path between small mountain ranges.

A couple of miles before the border with New Mexico, Rivers turned off the highway and onto a dirt road that resembled a dried-out creek bed.

“How far out does this guy live?”

“We’re almost there now. He likes to keep to himself. Has this thing about wanting to see people coming.”

“Well, I get that. I’m just not sure moving to a remote desert is the answer.”

“I don’t know—after all the things you’ve seen and done, don’t the peace and serenity sound good?”

“It sounds good, but even when I’m on the other side of the world they seem to track me down.”

The desert was open around them, and in the distance Bolan could see free-range cattle and some of those trailers Rivers had mentioned. The road itself was filled with divots and holes, rocks, cow pies and at least one turtle basking in the late afternoon sun.

“Tell me more about this man we’re meeting,” Bolan said. “How long have you known him?”

“Most of my life,” Rivers replied. “I grew up in Sierra Vista and Tony and my father worked together. He was to be my godfather, but he didn’t think it was appropriate considering his line of work.”

“Makes sense,” Bolan said. “That kind of life doesn’t lend itself to long life expectancies.”

“Yeah.”

“I see why he’s a resource. He lived long enough to retire, and that’s saying something.”

They pulled into the driveway. Rivers slowed as guinea hens scattered in front of the SUV. The double-wide trailer had been modified with a screened-in porch, and large portions of the property were fenced and cross-fenced for the livestock.

Tony, a stout, silver-haired man, stepped out of the trailer, a woman perhaps ten years younger at his side. The two of them waved.

“That’s his wife, Eleanor,” Rivers said. “I hope you didn’t eat much today because she’ll insist on feeding you and be insulted if you don’t put away enough for two.”

“Is the food any good?” Bolan asked.

“Worth the drive.”

“Then I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.”

The SUV rolled to a stop and they both climbed out as Tony stepped forward and opened the gate that marked the edge of the small yard around their property. Two dogs, mixed-breed Labs of some kind, barked wildly and Tony snapped at them in Spanish, waving them away.

“Colton,” he said, a broad grin lighting up his face. “Welcome, as always. I see you brought a friend.”

The older man stepped forward, his left hand on his thigh supporting a small limp, but he didn’t falter as he shook hands. His eyes assessed Bolan quickly, and the smile that had lit his face a moment before faded a bit. “A dangerous friend, I think.”

“You’re a fast study,” Bolan said, extending a hand. “Matt Cooper.”

Rivers started to speak, but Tony held up a hand to silence him. “Okay, Matt, though I’m not sure the name fits quite right. If Colton says you’re okay, then I can believe that, but before you come in, we need to have an understanding.”

Bolan kept his silence, waiting.

“I know a man,” Tony continued. “He does mercenary work of one kind or another in parts of the world with names I can’t pronounce and most of which I’ve never heard of. You know the type?”

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “I do.”

“I figured you would,” he replied. “Anyway, this man is the nicest guy you would ever want to meet. He’s a good man to share a meal with and a better man to share a drink with. I like him a lot.”

“I’m not sure I get your point.”

“My point,” Tony said, “is two things. First, that man I was telling you about? He’s also the most dangerous sonofabitch I know. When it comes to killing, something I guess we both know a little about, there’s maybe no one who does it better.”

“Tony,” Rivers began. “Maybe we should...”

“Second,” the old man continued, “is that you remind me a bit of him. Actually more than a bit. So you’ll understand when I tell you that if you bring trouble to my door, that man I told you about, well, he owes me a favor, and I suspect he’d take it as no hardship to bring trouble to yours, Matt—or whatever your real name is.” He crossed his arms as he finished and stared hard at Bolan.

Bolan felt a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, tried to stop it and then gave up. The old man hadn’t lived an easy life, but his eyes were still damn sharp. Most likely, the threat was an empty one, but when a man reached a certain age, it was the only kind of threat he could really make. “I like you, Tony,” he said. “You’ve got enough brass for any three men on your own, and now you’ve threatened me with sure death if I come bringing trouble. I don’t. Matt may not be a perfect fit, but it seems to work out okay. I won’t bring trouble to you, old timer. On that, you have my word.”

Tony stared at him a minute more, then smiled and stuck out a hand. “Done and done,” he said. “Come on up to the house. Eleanor will want to feed you both, I imagine.”

The woman had waited on the porch, watching the exchange with interest, but now she stepped over to greet them. Bolan offered his hand but was pulled into a short, friendly embrace. Into his ear, she whispered, “Thank you for understanding,” then pulled away again, giving Rivers a hug, too. She smelled like baking apples and corn bread and all the wonderful scents of home, but as they entered the trailer, he noted pictures on the wall of her riding horses and any number of trophies to go with them. She was just as extraordinary as her husband.

“Now you boys get in here, but leave all those guns by the door.”

Rivers was already removing his weapons, and Bolan glanced at Tony.

“Don’t worry, son. There’s nothing to fear here. I have a suspicion that if you wanted it bad enough, you could get it quickly sitting here by the door.”

Bolan pulled the Desert Eagle from the holster and placed it on the table next to the door. He was halfway across the room before Eleanor stopped him.

“You must be as forgetful as Tony,” she scolded, “but you have an excuse. You don’t know that I won’t serve an armed man at my table. You can leave the ankle gun over there, too.”

Rivers and Tony both smiled as they followed Eleanor and left Bolan to pull the small pistol tucked into his ankle holster and place it on the table next to the Desert Eagle.

“Now, you boys sit down and I’ll fix you up something nice while you talk.”

Bolan began to argue, but Rivers shook his head, dissuading him. Bolan took his seat at the table.

Once they were all seated, Tony leaned back in his chair and cocked an eyebrow at Rivers. “So, what brings you, Colton? We love it when you visit, but I’m pretty sure you didn’t bring Mister...Cooper here without a reason.”

“True enough,” he said. “I figured you might have a bead on a situation we ran into a couple of days ago.”

Rivers ran through the fight on the border, showing them photos on his phone of the weapons and the serial nomenclature. Tony nodded a few times but didn’t interrupt until the younger man was finished, ending the story with his call to Bolan. Tony stared at Bolan and then looked at Rivers again. “This hasn’t been in the papers or on the news,” he said thoughtfully.

“We’ve managed to keep it quiet so far,” Rivers replied. “But I don’t think we can keep a lid on it forever—and it will blow sky high if it happens again.”

Tony nodded, turning to Bolan. “What do you think of all of this?”

“The border’s been a mess for years, and it’s getting worse. Without evidence, I can’t be sure of anything.”

“You know, I ran this area for a long time. Nothing came in our out of here without me knowing. Some things we let by to keep the peace and some we laid down the law on. I’ve worked undercover for the worst thugs and then tracked them across half a continent to bring them to justice. I’ve learned to trust my gut, and it tells me your suspicions may be as good as most people’s facts, so please, share them with us.”

Bolan leaned back and pondered the man before him. Few people Bolan met in his life he felt he could trust, but there was something about this man that said he might just make the list. That was a very rare thing in his world.

“Normally, I’d say Mexican Mafia, maybe. They’re a little more organized than most of the drug lords. Still, taking on U.S. military weapons is a little out of their league. On the other hand, with things heating up down here the way they have been, I wouldn’t cross anything off of the list.”

“Ten years ago, maybe even five, I would agree with you,” Tony said. “But as you say, the border here is worse than it has ever been. Mexico can’t keep a handle on any of their cartels and small paramilitary groups are all vying for power. The government is powerless, and they’re basically fighting a civil war with about a dozen different factions wanting a place at the table. We can find out who is responsible on the other side of the border, but the selling of U.S. arms on this side is more concerning.”

“We’re going to poke around in Sierra Vista next,” Bolan said. “A lot goes on at Fort We Gotcha that happens behind the scenes.”

Tony and Rivers both nodded, apparently amused that Bolan knew the more colloquial name for Fort Huachuca.

“In the meantime,” Tony said, “I’ll make a little noise and see who I can roust from their dens south of the border. You boys be careful, though. Something about this feels downright dangerous.”

“I’m always careful,” Bolan said. “It’s a habit.”

“Not too careful to eat, I hope,” Eleanor said, setting a plate piled high with tortillas on the table. “That’s enough business talk. Eat first, solve problems after.” The smells from the kitchen were mouthwatering and all three men dug into the meal with gusto. Sometimes, a good meal before battle was all a man could hope for.

Chapter 4

Fort Huachuca was situated just outside the small town of Sierra Vista and was home to the U.S. Army Intelligence Center as well as the 9th Army Signal Command, among other electronic communications and intelligence-driven units.

The gate guard took one look at Bolan’s identification, offered a quick, casual salute and sent him on his way. He’d offered the credentials that would get him access to damn near every military installation he could want: Colonel Brandon Stone.

In the distance, past the manicured lawns of the buildings closest to the heart of the fort, Bolan could see the yellow hangars of Libby Airfield, which was used by both military and civilian aircraft.

The building Bolan was looking for wasn’t hard to find—a quick internet search on his handheld revealed that a civilian company, Kruegor Enterprises, was in charge of the weapon warehousing and storage facilities on the base. Although Kruegor couldn’t actually hand the weapons out, they provided the building maintenance, basic security and administrative personnel, while the armory itself was manned by Army regulars.

Bolan found the main administrative office quite easily. He parked his vehicle, then decided to try something. Instead of entering through the main office doors, he strolled around to the side of the building, where a set of bay doors, large enough for trucks to pass through, were wide open. He entered, whistling to himself. At the moment, no vehicles parked were inside, and other than a bored-looking sergeant at a checkout desk, no one was around. A quick visual inspection showed no weapons in the main area, but a sign on the door behind the sergeant indicated that only authorized military personnel were allowed beyond that point.

Bolan gave a friendly wave to the man and flashed his credentials. When the sergeant waved him through, he continued into the main office. There, another man was bent over a file cabinet, oblivious to Bolan’s presence and muttering to himself about the nuisance of inspections. The man’s white shirt wasn’t quite tucked in on the sides, where it was a little small, and small trickles of sweat had formed on his bald head. He gave the impression of a man who knew a lot more about paperwork than building security.

Bolan pulled the door shut behind him, rocking the picture on the wall, as the man wrenched up from his hunched position. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me!” he exclaimed.

Bolan didn’t say anything but eyed the thin wad of papers the man was tucking behind his back.

“Can I help you? I mean...what are you doing here? This is a restricted area.”

“Yeah, I got that from the mountains of security,” Bolan quipped.

“Everything that needs to be secured is, but that’s none of your business anyway. What do you want?”

“That remains to be seen. Either way, I’m looking for Brett Kingston.”

“He’s out of the office right now.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “I’m patient.”

“I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

The main office door opened and a tall man strode inside. Bolan instantly recognized him as Kingston from the personnel file he’d studied earlier. Although he appeared closer to fifty than twenty, he was in excellent shape beneath his black polo and khaki slacks. An Airborne tattoo, along with the insignia from the 7th Special Forces group stood out on his bulging bicep. Bolan took a casual step back, folding his arms. It wouldn’t do to underestimate a man who’d spent time training in guerilla warfare.

The man didn’t seem to notice him right away, snapping, “Hansen, where the hell is that file I need?”

Hansen pulled the papers out from behind his back, clutching them to his chest for a moment before shoving them toward Kingston like they were about to burst into flames. Kingston took them, nodding, then turned his attention to Bolan. A small tic in his face registered how happy he was to see a stranger in his facilities.

“Who’re you, then?”

“Colonel Brandon Stone,” Bolan said, not bothering to offer his hand. “I’m helping out Homeland Security with an issue.” When Kingston didn’t say anything, he offered up his credentials.

Kingston shrugged. “What’s DHS want now? You need more airport screeners?” He laughed.

Bolan considered his response for a moment, then said, “Some things are better done off the books. Surely a man who served in the Seventh knows that.”

Kingston nodded, his face turning serious. “Yeah, all right. What can I do for you, Brandon?”

“That’s Colonel, if you don’t mind.”

Kingston’s jaw clenched again and his lips pursed, keeping something unsaid. “All right, Colonel. What can I do for you?”

“DHS got a confirmed report from Border Patrol of U.S. Army weapons being moved in the desert, northwest of Douglas. Since this is the only Army base in the area, they figured it might be a good place to start asking some questions.” Bolan eyed Kingston for a minute. “Hard questions.”

For a moment, Kingston looked like he’d swallowed a bug—a big, crunchy one—then he shook his head. “Damn it. I don’t believe it. Are you kidding me or something?”

“Wish I were, Mr. Kingston,” Bolan said. “But I’m not.”

Kingston slumped into the chair facing the desk. “Shit,” he said, shaking his head. Then he looked at Bolan. “I’m sorry for how I greeted you, Colonel. Truth is, we were told this morning of a surprise audit and facilities inspection for tomorrow morning, so I’m running around like an idiot and short-tempered on top of it. I didn’t like surprises when I served in the Seventh, and I like them even less now.”

Sensing the man’s attitude changing, Bolan nodded. “Consider it forgotten,” he said. “We all have bad days, and I don’t want to make yours worse. Still, I’ve got a job to do. If those weapons came from this base, we need to know it and we need to know how.”

“You’re completely right,” Kingston said. “I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll do everything I can to help you—just name it.”

“Seems to me the best place to start would be with an inventory,” Bolan said. “If nothing is missing, then that will answer at least one question.”

Kingston nodded. “All right. Let me get through this inspection tomorrow morning, then in the afternoon I’ll go over our warehouses and inventory logs with a fine-toothed comb. If something has gone missing, we’ll find it.”

“Sounds good,” Bolan said. “In the meantime, I’ll be out with the Border Patrol. We’re going to take another look at the site where the weapons were found and see if we can start piecing together the movements. I’ll get in touch with you by tomorrow night or early the next morning to see what you’ve discovered.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Kingston said. “If these weapons are coming out of here, I want to know it. Then the bastards behind it can pay the tab.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Bolan said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

“Anytime, Colonel,” he said, getting to his feet. He stuck out a hand. “I know I was a bit of ass when you came in, but I’d like to offer you my hand and my help.”

The two men shook and Bolan thanked him once more before leaving the building—through the office doors this time—and headed back to his car. Rivers was waiting for him back in Douglas, and they had a long day ahead of them.

* * *

RENE SURENO WATCHED from the balcony as his second, Jesus Salazar, drilled the small group of men in hand-to-hand combat. Rene allowed himself a grim chuckle. For a man named after the son of God, Jesus was anything but a pacifist. He was an icy killing machine who’d served in the Mexican army for several years before traveling to Africa and working for a private military company as a mercenary.

Rene had hired him after Jesus had returned to Mexico and run afoul of one of his distributors. The distributor and several of Rene’s men showed up for months in little pieces all over Mexico City. Rene was no fool and knew that any man capable of that would be a powerful ally, and he’d been right. For the right amount of money, Jesus would do almost anything, but for the past several months, he’d been focused on moving drugs and weapons while training Rene’s soldiers to kill and fight better than any other cartel in the country.

He watched as Jesus quickly defeated a man by dropping him to the hard stones of the courtyard in one swift move and sweeping his legs out from beneath him. As the man lay there, he simulated the finishing move that in real combat would have killed him—dropping an elbow into his throat, then following with a reverse move with his knife that would have opened his neck from one side to the other. Getting to his feet, Jesus turned his attention to the others, explaining why the man had lost.

As Jesus spoke, the man got slowly to his feet and Rene saw the hate in his eyes—and realized his intentions—before Jesus would have had a chance to notice. Drawing his combat knife, the man lunged forward, then stopped cold as the bullet from Rene’s gun took him in the abdomen. The echo from the shot startled everyone, and they looked up at the balcony to see him staring down into the courtyard.

Jesus turned and saw the would-be killer falling to the ground, then moved closer, kicking the knife out of his hands. “Gracias,” he called up to Rene. “Podría haber sido doloroso.”

“Painful?” Rene laughed. “He might have killed you.” He preferred to speak in English, knowing that disappearing inside the U.S. required the ability to speak without an accent.

“Maybe,” Jesus admitted. “But I knew you were there.” He looked down at the man groaning and bleeding on the stones. “It’s never personal,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. “You cannot let it be personal. This man allowed his anger to get the better of his judgment. See what it cost him?”

The other soldiers agreed quite loudly that the man had made a mistake. “You two,” Jesus said, gesturing at two men nearby. “Get him out of here. Put him in the hot box.” Eyes wide at this cruelty, the men did as they were told, and Jesus turned his attention back to the fighters he’d been training.

Rene contemplated having the man killed outright, but Jesus’s choice would send a clear message—those foolish enough to bite the hand that fed them would not just be killed, but would die horribly. Behind him, the phone on his desk rang, and he turned his attention back inside, shutting the balcony doors behind him.

“Hello?” he said, picking up the handset.

“Rene, this is Kingston. We have a problem.”

“What problem?” Rene asked, annoyed. Kingston had proven useful to his weapon smuggling plans and was even more helpful with information. Still, he could be overly jumpy, and he was only one cog in the chain. Paranoia had its place, but a man should still be able to sleep at night.

“There’s a guy sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. He’ll be with that Border Patrol agent who interrupted our last shipment.”

“They’re going back?” Rene asked.

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

“I’ll take care of it. You keep working on the next shipment.”

“Don’t you want to let things cool off a bit?” Kingston asked. “We can’t afford to get caught.”

“Shut up,” Rene snarled. “I said I will take care of this man. You just do your job. Everything stays on schedule. Understood?”

The silence stretched for several seconds. “Understood,” he replied.

“Good,” Rene said, then hung up the phone. He returned to the balcony and called Jesus inside. They had some planning to do.

Chapter 5

Dinner the night before with Rivers and his young family had reinforced Bolan’s opinion of the man—he was one of the good guys. His wife, Olivia, was a down-to-earth, dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty from a wealthy Greek family. They had a wonderful eight-year-old daughter, Katrina, who was the spitting image of her mother and had the laugh of an angel. Bolan was charmed by the little girl. Her dark eyes stared directly into his as she asked very adult questions about everything from where he was born to why he carried such a big gun. The evening had been a pleasure, with good food and laughter and the sharing of peaceful company—a situation Bolan valued more with each passing day of his life. Colton Rivers was obviously a family man of the first order.

Early the next morning, Bolan found himself some black coffee and a woman selling warm tortillas and eggs from a hot cart near his hotel. He drank the coffee and ate his breakfast while he waited for Rivers to arrive. Once he did, they headed out of town, following Highway 80 West, then cutting north toward Tombstone. Rivers explained that there was a lot of big empty nothing out there—mountains, desert, cacti and the occasional cougar hunting free-range cattle when the opportunity arose. “And in between Bisbee, Tombstone and Sierra Vista, there’s an area of about a hundred square miles where we’ve seen a lot of illegal traffic in the past year or so.”

“You do flyovers, right?” Bolan asked.

Rivers nodded. “Sure, but it’s a big desert and we’ve got limited resources. The only reason we were out that night is because one of the unmanned drones picked up some unidentified movement during the day that was too big to be humans. We figured maybe a couple of mules—the guys who run illegals up into Tucson or Phoenix—had some trucks out there.”

Ten miles or so outside of Tombstone, Rivers cut back west, using a dirt track that made the one Tony lived on look like a well-maintained, big-city street.

“The San Pedro Conservation area is about ten miles west of here, but it gets a lot of tourist traffic—bird watchers, mostly—so the illegals tend to avoid it.” Rivers pointed to a series of large, rocky hills in the distance. “That’s where we were when they hit us.”

Bolan nodded, glad he’d brought his sunglasses along. The desert sun was reflecting off every light-colored surface and would have been blinding without them. “Let’s start there, then,” he said. “I want to see where you were positioned.”

Rivers guided the SUV around rocks, saguaro cacti, a few stunted mesquite trees and plenty of low, pointy scrub brush. The wandering route made Rivers chuckle. “Tony says that everything out here will stick you, prick you or kill you. Some of those damn Mesquite needles will puncture a tire.”

They were within a couple hundred yards of the rocky terrain. “This is close enough,” Bolan said. “You came in this way with your men, right?”

“More or less,” Rivers replied. “There’s hardly a path.”

“Let’s walk from here,” Bolan suggested.

The agent shrugged and pulled the SUV to a stop, cutting off the engine. Both men climbed out and into the staggering heat. Rivers unpacked a shotgun from the back and offered it to him, but he shook his head. It wouldn’t make sense for any of the illegals to still be in the area after the recent firefight. Their operations depended on not getting caught in the open.

They moved across the intervening terrain, and Bolan noted that there were plenty of tire tracks and crushed plants to show how much vehicle movement had occurred in the area. “Are all of these from your guys?” he asked, gesturing at the imprints in the sand.

Rivers nodded. “We had to bring in a flatbed to pull our vehicles, plus the ambulance and field people. It was a goddamn mess.”

“I bet,” Bolan said, scanning the horizon. They were in a lousy position, and although he didn’t expect trouble, it never paid to be stupid about such things. They climbed up the rocky hillside and surveyed the lee where the ambush had happened. There was still plenty of evidence that a little gate into hell had opened down there.

“They were moving over there when we spotted them,” Rivers said, pointing to the valley floor and another, still larger set of rocks and hills, perhaps three-quarters of a mile or a little farther away. “We checked it out the next day. They left some tracks, but we still haven’t figured out how they got there.”

“Odd,” Bolan said, thinking. The agents’ post was a good place to watch the area, with plenty of cover. “I’m trying to figure out how they got so close to your position.”

“It happened damn fast, Matt,” Rivers said. “I saw them moving around and they disappeared. We were getting ready to pull out, and I saw them again, and then bam, they were on us.”

“Maybe—” Bolan started to say when a shot rang out, and the back of Rivers’s head exploded in a gruesome shower of blood, bone and brain.

Diving for cover, the Executioner cursed to himself. The Border Patrol agent was dead before his body hit the ground, and now Bolan was out here without any backup and no idea where the shot had come from. He rolled to a well-protected spot behind a cluster of rocks and drew the Desert Eagle from his shoulder rig. Unfortunately, the round that had killed Rivers was from a rifle, and a handgun was not a long-distance weapon.

He heard scuffling feet and rolling rocks and turned, scanning in every direction. From the far side of another collection of boulders, a voice called, “Do you want to die, too, gringo?”

The sounds of movement were now surrounding him from all sides, and Bolan knew he was in real trouble. “Not really,” he called. His assailants had him cornered. All they were trying to do now was avoid casualties on their end. “On the other hand, I’m happy to take some of you with me if this gets out of hand.”

The man Bolan presumed was the speaker stepped out from his cover. He had a Heckler & Koch sniper rifle over his shoulder and was now pointing a simple, tactical shotgun on Bolan. He wasn’t a big man, but he was compactly built, with the lean muscle and steady gaze that said he was not a man to screw with.

“You don’t have to die today,” the man said. “But if you don’t throw down your weapon, you will.”

Bolan nodded and got slowly to his feet. He had considered fighting back, but the moment Rivers hit the ground, he’d decided that would be counterproductive. He was alone and outnumbered, and allowing himself to be captured would give him access to the people behind all of this.

“Easy,” Bolan said. He dropped the magazine out of the Desert Eagle, then worked the slide, emptying the chamber. He reversed the gun and held it out butt-first to the man. “It’s my favorite, so I’d just as soon not throw it on the ground.”

The man nodded and whistled softly. Six more men appeared from hiding, their weapons trained on Bolan, who kept his hands up. “I understand,” the man said, moving in and taking the weapon from him. “I’ll see that it’s well taken care of.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Bolan said. “What now?”

“Now?” the man said. “We drive.”

* * *

BOLAN WAS IN the back of a truck that was rattling along on either a rutted dirt road or barely a road at all. He was blindfolded, and his hands were tied together with plastic zip ties, as were his ankles. The men had searched him, confiscating his wallet, keys and the other documents he had on him.

Gritting his teeth at a massive bump, Bolan tried to hold himself as still as possible and replay the day’s events in his mind. He’d been too casual, thinking the ambush Rivers had called him about was most likely someone—maybe a single individual—selling weapons to a small cartel, who had panicked when confronted by the Border Patrol. Maybe both sides had panicked—it had been dark and confusing. Bolan had underestimated the situation and those involved, and it had cost someone, a good man, his life.

Rivers was dead, and Bolan had to accept some of the responsibility for that. Owning your mistakes, he knew, was at least as important as owning your successes, maybe even more so. He intended to do everything he could not only to put an end to whatever was really going on, but also to ensure that Rivers hadn’t died in vain. Someone had a bill to pay, and the Executioner intended to collect in full.

It seemed like a smart bet that he’d been taken into Mexico, though he couldn’t know for sure how far they’d come. He estimated they’d been driving for at least two hours when the truck slowed, turned and then rolled to a stop.

Bolan heard the tarp covering the back end of the truck get shoved aside, and then his blindfold was ripped off. Several faces peered in at him—every look one of contempt and anticipated violence. Two large men reached in, grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him out into the midday sun. Once he was clear of the tailgate, they hoisted him into the air like a trussed-up turkey and pulled him forward. The toes of his boots trailed dust in his wake.

Bolan did his best to stay upright and scan his surroundings. They’d obviously brought him into the courtyard of an old hacienda. Many of the buildings were little more than basic adobe structures, with no windows and blankets for doors. He saw the main house at the far end of the courtyard, and it was either much newer than the adobe huts or had been massively renovated. Second-floor balconies overlooked the compound below, and on the roof he spotted heavy air-conditioning units and several satellite dishes.

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