Border Offensive. Don Pendleton

the side of his van, arms crossed. “I met Sweets.”

      “Who’s Sweets?” Bolan said, lighting a match. He dropped it and stepped back in a hurry. The tiny flame caught and zipped back along the gasoline trickle.

      “Sweets is Django Sweets. Big-time king coyote. Runs people, drugs, guns, car parts, whatever you want, whichever direction you want them going in. Coyotes have sort of an informal union, if you can believe it.”

      Bolan could. He’d seen it again and again with various types of criminals. Someone invariably put themselves on top. “Yes,” he said. When he didn’t elaborate, James went on.

      “Sweets put himself in the top spot a few months back. He’s in slick with the cartels, and, unfortunately, it looks like he’s got an in with us as well. He’s been running mules—illegal migrants carrying drugs—into Tucson and such, and he’s skated out of at least two sure-thing sting operations.”

      “So you are saying you have a leak?” Bolan said. The truck was engulfed in flames, taking the heroin and the bodies of the transporters with it.

      “Worse. We think Sweets has got people covering for him. Don’t know who though. We were hoping to scoop them up in the middle of all this.”

      “All what?” Bolan said. “All my contact knew was that it was a mess.”

      “Sweets was contacted a few weeks ago by a guy named Tuerto,” James said.

      Bolan blinked. “One-Eye?” he said, translating.

      “Mr. One-Eye, actually, or at least, that’s how Sweets referred to him.” James shook his head. “We had no clue who he was at the time, but then we got a panicky shout-out from Interpol.”

      “Terrorist?”

      “Worse. He’s a mercenary, and a good one. His sticky fingerprints are all over a number of incidents going from one end of the world to the other.” James shrugged. “At least, that’s what Interpol said. And they should know, because they’ve been tracking him for three years.”

      “Your partner,” Bolan said, reading between the lines. James nodded.

      “Yeah, she’s some hot shit, according to her bosses. Undercover work, tactical assault, all that jazz.”

      “And what do you make of her?” Bolan asked shrewdly. Tanzir sounded competent, if nothing else.

      James was silent for a moment. Bolan could practically see the gears turning in his head. When he finally answered, he chose his words with care. “She’s...intense. Tuerto’s...” He trailed off. “Listen, have you ever read any Melville?”

      Bolan caught his meaning instantly. “He’s her white whale,” he said.

      James shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. “Something close to that.... She’s not obsessed, but she’s real focused.” James made a gesture. “Tunnel vision, you know?”

      “I know.” Bolan felt a pang. More than one person had accused him of something similar over the years, and he couldn’t say that they were entirely wrong. A small part of him was looking forward to meeting Ms. Tanzir more and more.

      James looked at him. “Yeah, I bet you do,” he said, not unkindly. “I only met her once, really. She wasn’t happy about the situation. Nor was I, for that matter.”

      “I bet you weren’t,” Bolan said.

      “Neither was her fellow,” James added, chuckling.

      “Fellow?” Bolan said, curious despite himself. “As in significant other?”

      “Very significant,” James said. “One of the head honchos of the Interpol contingent. Some French guy. Boy-howdy, that guy was not happy about her being there.”

      “Worried about her?”

      “To be honest, I couldn’t tell...it was either her, or the mission, with even odds as to which. Maybe both, for all I know.” The border patrol agent shook his head. “Guy was all hot and bothered, in a bad way, about her part in things.”

      “Speaking of which, if you’re here, where is she? You said something about the back end?” Bolan said, trying to pull them back to the topic at hand.

      James grunted. “Interpol has been helping the Mexican authorities with the cartels. They’ve got people on the inside just like the DEA and the Spooks.”

      “In my experience the cartels run a tight ship,” Bolan said dubiously. “They cause leaks...they don’t have them themselves.”

      “Normally, they do. The Interpol liaison with the Mexican government swears up and down that she hasn’t been made. The cartels are bringing up a load of two-legged cargo as far as the border...”

      “And she’ll be coming with them,” Bolan said, catching on quickly. “Just one more face in the crowd.” He had to admit, privately at least, that as far as plans went, it wasn’t bad. Two operatives stood a better chance at succeeding than one, especially in a situation like this, which was bound to go to hell, regardless of the people involved. “This Tuerto... They tracked him here?”

      “Not just him. Mexican authorities thought they had identified at least six other terror suspects.” James held up his fingers for emphasis.

      “And?” Bolan prodded.

      “Undercover Federales got a picture of Sweets meeting with somebody they think is Tuerto in Mexico City. He was arranging a job.”

      “And since you were already in place—”

      “Two birds, one stone,” James said, holding up two fingers. “I love that saying.” At a look from Bolan, he sped on, his words nearly tripping over one another. “Anyway, Sweets contacted me a day ago. Said he needed drivers for a shipment, and promised equal shares, good money, no questions. He wants me to come to a meeting in some no-account shit hole he’s holed up in. I said yes.”

      “Then what was this?” Bolan said, gesturing toward the burning truck.

      “I was keeping up appearances.” James shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt, just in case our leak decided to dime me out. A good coyote is greedy, plus, hell, if I’m going to sacrifice my op for somebody else’s. I put too much effort into finding out where Ernesto’s supplies were coming from—”

      “Sinaloa—I already took care of it,” Bolan said almost absently. The agent looked at him, mouth open.

      “You what?” he said.

      “I took care of it, about a day ago.” Bolan smiled. “You’re welcome.” James shook his head, his face a study in conflicting emotions.

      “I’ve been looking for that damn field for almost a year now. He’s been shoveling so much pigment into border runners that half of them have been dying on the ground before they get two feet into Tucson. How the hell did you—?”

      “Trade secret,” Bolan said, patting his weapon.

      “Trade—? You know what? I don’t give a good goddamn, man. I really don’t. You say it’s done, I figure you know what you’re talking about,” James said, motioning toward the burning truck for emphasis.

      Bolan was silent for a moment. He examined the man in front of him. James was young, but he had the look in his eye that Bolan had come to associate with professionals of high caliber—a determination to see things done, and done right. He made his decision that instant, and hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

      “What now?” Bolan said.

      “Now, he asks. Now, Agent Cooper, I try to salvage what I can,” James said. “I get my ass to that meeting, do my shuck-and-jive routine, and get things moving. Hopefully my erstwhile partner is already in place, then we see how shit goes down, you dig?”

      “Which means?”

      “The