Border Sweep Read online

  Annotation

  The brutal elimination of several small-time Mexican coyotes and the discovery of a boxcar full of dead illegals tell the Arizona Border Patrol that something big is up - someone is trying to corner the market in cheap labor.

  It's a slick operation, always one step ahead of Mack Bolan — until the bullet-riddled trail leads the Executioner to a man with the money, power and killing urge to turn the dreams of the destitute into a life of misery.

  Carlos Calderone trades in a perishable commodity - human flesh. It's time to put the greedy maverick out of business. Bolan is ready to foreclose.

  * * *

  Don Pendleton's

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  * * *

  Don Pendleton's

  Executioner

  Border Sweep

  Justice is the constant and perpetual wish to render everyone his due.

  Justinian c. 482-565

  The worst kind of man tries to cash in on the hopes and dreams of his fellow men — individuals striving to build a better life for themselves and their families. That man will one day stand judgment for his actions. And the price he will pay will be costly.

  Mack Bolan

  To the men and women of the Border Patrol

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Charlie McDade for his contribution to this work.

  1

  Measured by the standards of Architectural Digest, the place was gauche. A snide columnist would probably christen it "Taco Chic" or some other such clever insult. To the people over whom it towered, it was the epitome of taste and lavishness. By any objective standard it was huge. The buildings themselves weren't that tall, but the compound sat on a low hill, its thick, reinforced steel walls coated with clay-colored concrete to simulate adobe.

  Six feet high at their lowest point, the walls undulated around the hilltop, rising and falling with the contours of the hill, sometimes reaching a height of twelve feet where the land dipped beneath them for a few yards. It wasn't pretty, but it sure as hell was impressive. Inside the walls there was less in the way of pretense. The rambling buildings, connected by tiled ramadas to keep the brutal sun off the flagstoned walks, were two stories high for the most part. All tinted glass and stucco, they were as faceless as the desert that stretched away to the north.

  A huge fountain, its water tapped from hundreds of feet below the desert floor, burbled softly. Thick greenery, full of colorful birds and lazy lizards, shrouded the kidney-shaped pool surrounding the gentle arc of water. On a small island in the center of the pool a statue of a man wearing a serape and a tacky Hollywood sombrero added its own meager stream of water. There was something contemptuous in the statue's face and in the obscenely offhand manner in which its disdain hissed into the pool.

  Inside the largest building the man who had built Casa La Paloma cracked thin heels on the hardwood floor. He reached the head of the stairs, stopped for a minute and pulled absently at the ends of a scraggly mustache. His coal-black hair was unkempt, the curls more tangled than usual. Thin and tan, he looked fit. Hard muscles, as taut as cables, quivered just under the skin.

  Finally, as if he had decided a difficult question, he smiled and resumed his descent to the basement. A huge man, fat as only a Mexican Buddha would be, shifted in his chair at the foot of the steps. Dressed in denim and hand-tooled boots, he might have been a ranch hand. In a way he was. Across his ample lap was an Uzi submachine gun, the only discordant note in the otherwise tranquil surroundings.

  "Good day, Don Calderone," he said.

  Calderone nodded but said nothing. He was too busy for pleasantries this morning.

  A huge mahogany door stood half-open at the far end of a long, wide hallway. The parquet floor, runnered in thick Persian carpet, gleamed in the soft, indirect light from recessed ceiling fixtures. When he reached the door, Carlos Calderone stopped, his hand on the gleaming brass knob. He ran the fingertips of his hand slowly across the wood, admiring its smooth surface, then raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed the sweet fragrance of lemon oil.

  Pushing the door open wide, he stepped through, then closed it behind him. Two men, talking softly, sat at an elaborate console built into one wall. Above them several screens, each alive with its own swarm of winking electronic ants, cast a green-and-amber glow over their faces. Calderone watched them for a few moments. If they had seen him enter, they gave no sign.

  Busy at clicking keyboards, they summoned screen after screen of data, scrutinized it, then passed to the next. Calderone was proud of himself. Computers were alien to him. He understood little of how to use them and less of how they worked. But this roomful of the latest in high-tech equipment belonged to him. He knew that you didn't have to understand anything as long as you could afford to buy those who could. And Carlos Calderone could afford to buy anything, even an army of men to help him to obtain whatever his heart desired.

  Finally breaking the silence, he asked, "So how is your new toy working, Alfredo?"

  One of the two men at the console spun in his swivel chair. In the dim light Calderone was little more than an outline. Alfredo exaggerated his smile, hoping the man could see it. "Very well. Fantastic even. Better than I hoped."

  "And can you do what you said you can do?"

  "Yes, Don Carlos. The intercepts work perfectly. We can track anything on the rail system in the entire southwest. All we have to do now is figure out the rest of the coding. It's not at all complicated, more like learning a new language than solving a puzzle. It should be relatively easy."

  "I hope so, Alfredo. Your toys aren't cheap."

  "I know. But they'll be well worth it. The railroads are controlling everything by computer now. Once we have access to the scheduling data, we can figure arrival and departure times as well as points of origin, destinations and intermediate stops for every freight and passenger car in the system. That ought to be useful information in and of itself. But we also have the ability to enter the system and change logging. You can send a car anywhere you want, and no one will think anything of it."

  Calderone grunted. "We'll see."

  "It will work. I can guarantee it. The dry run is scheduled for tomorrow."

  "I'll have a flock of chickens for delivery near Tucson. Can you be ready for that shipment?"

  "No problem."

  "I hope you're right."

  "Don't worry about it, Don Carlos. We will have everything in working order in a few hours. I have already made a few simple destination changes, tracked the cars through their altered routes. No glitches."

  "Glitches I don't know about. If you say it works, I believe you… until I have reason not to." Calderone walked to the console and ran his fingers over one of the screens. For a moment he imagined the creeping letters and numbers were alive. It made him feel good to see them. It felt like God must have felt on the seventh day.

  He said something under his breath, but Alfredo didn't quite catch the words. "You said something, Don Carlos?"

  "It is good."

  Alfredo was pleased with himself. He smiled.

  * * *

  San Carlos was just large enough to be called a town. Its buildings range
d from dilapidated to ramshackle. On the edge of town a tall smokestack belched dense black clouds into the air. The thick smoke seemed to hover over the mouth of the stack just long enough to realize it was too heavy to float, then slid sideways and thinned out, sifting down like black snow over the nearby houses. The streets, little more than packed dirt, were littered with everything from Coca-Cola cans to yesterday's newspapers.

  Gangs of barefoot children played noisily, their thin legs a blur as they ran up and down the streets, ducking between unpainted buildings and dodging broken glass and ragged, rusty cans. Their dark eyes glittered in flat, emotionless faces. Their laughter was forced and tinny, almost strident, in the hot afternoon.

  San Carlos had one church, no school and a dozen cafes and cantinas. But what set it apart from the surrounding towns and villages was its bus station. The single strip of asphalt for miles around passed through its heart and once every day, heading north or south on alternate days, a bus came…if it was running. And because of the bus San Carlos had more than its share of visitors. Farmers visiting family wandered in on foot, as well as others, more transient, eyes darting nervously at every passing face. No one knew who they were, but everyone knew what they were… pollos, chickens, people desperate to cross the border. Most planned only to work for a few weeks or a few months at most, just long enough to scrape a few dollars together, enough to keep them and their families fed for a year.

  And where one found chickens, one also found coyotes.

  Hard men wearing expensive shirts and cheap jewelry wandered in and out of the cantinas. Alongside the farmers they looked sophisticated, like men of the world. And so they pretended to be. Merchants of an unusual kind, trading in an expensive and perishable commodity, they cruised the side streets, looking for too furtive an eye, sudden haste as their cars drifted by.

  As often as not an old Chevrolet, fenders rattling against rusty bumpers, blared loud disco music from elaborate tape decks. Inside, the cars were as garish and glamorous as they were decrepit outside. In the dirt parking lot behind the San Carlos bus station, it wasn't uncommon to see two or three such cars at a time. Their drivers, hair modishly long, slicked back with a little pomade, silk shirts smelling of cheap cologne and heavy sweat, circled the station like bloated hawks, their talons all but hidden in thick flesh.

  There was nothing new in the hunt. It was as old as the border. But under the surface, things were changing. The coyotes themselves were now among the hunted. They had as little to fear from the police as ever. A few pesos in a furtive palm still bought the same unofficial license. But someone had decided that centralization, corporate organization and the efficiency of coordination were long overdue. Unlike most of the people they preyed on, the coyotes had a choice: they could go along with the new program, they could find another line of work, or they could take a ride into the desert, lie down and bleed to death in the sand.

  It was a choice because Carlos Calderone was a reasonable man — to a point. In an age of corporate mergers and vertical monopoly, it made sense to him to consolidate. Smuggling was no longer a crime; it was a science. It was economics at its most refined. There was a demand for cheap labor north of the border. South of the border was a plentiful supply. Enterprise and common sense suggested that a man who could control the supply and establish contact with those making the demand could make himself not only rich but indispensable.

  Many of the growers in Arizona were no less reasonable than Carlos Calderone. What they wanted was quick hands and strong backs, the quicker and stronger the better. The price was negotiable, within reason, and if someone was willing to handle the logistics — and the headaches — it made good business sense to cut a deal. Once that had been established to the satisfaction of both sides, the rest was a simple tactical exercise. Starting small was fine. Staying small wasn't in the cards.

  Felipe Mendoza was about to find that out.

  Parking his 1977 Camaro behind the bus station, Felipe listened to the end of a Donna Summer tape, his left arm keeping time on the hot black metal of the driver's door. When the tape finished, he listened to the hiss for a few seconds, then clicked off the tape deck. He climbed out of the car just as a battered blue Buick slipped in beside his Camaro. He glanced at the three men in the vehicle, then closed the door of his own car. He didn't turn back, even when the hard prod of something small and round slammed into his lumbar vertebra. He knew better.

  A thick hand grabbed the keys dangling from Felipe's fingers, the hot breath in his ear smelling of jalapeño. "Get in the back, Mendoza. Then slide over."

  Felipe did as he was told. He climbed into the Buick as the rear passenger slid over to make room for him. In his lap, pointed vaguely in Felipe's direction, was the biggest pistol he had ever seen. He had dreamed of such a gun, but never expected to see one. The front passenger was already in the driver's seat, and Felipe watched as the third man climbed into the Camaro and started its engine.

  Smiling broadly, his thick, wide teeth a yellow smear under his mustache, he said, "Nice stereo, my friend." Then he backed out of the parking space and nosed out into the street. The Buick lurched after it. Felipe watched his captors nervously. He wanted to make small talk, maybe exchange anecdotes on the oddities of the job. But something told him he'd better not.

  The sun was almost straight ahead as the Buick chased the Camaro into the desert. The blue-white of the horizon looked like a knitting scar where someone had sewn earth and sky together. After an hour it was no closer to healing. The cars were well off the road by now, their suspensions creaking as they tracked over the barren earth. Since the compliment to his stereo, no one had said a word to Felipe.

  When the Camaro's brake lights flashed, Felipe inhaled deeply. He watched his fingers in his lap, which wriggled like a ball of snakes no matter how hard he tried to keep them still. When the Buick braked behind the Camaro, the drivers of both cars got out, the man in the Buick walking around to Felipe's door. He opened it and jerked a thumb. Felipe climbed out slowly.

  He looked at the man in the rear of the Buick, who still held the pistol, its chrome finish glinting in a blade of light slashing through the windshield. It was truly a beautiful weapon, Felipe thought.

  "So, Felipe, how's business?" the man with the thick teeth asked. "Good?"

  Felipe shrugged. "I'm out of business."

  "No, Felipe, no, no, no. That isn't true. You are supposed to be out of business, my friend. But you aren't."

  Felipe turned slightly, looking for the shiny pistol. If he had to die, and there was now no question that he had to, it might as well be with such an exquisite pistol. He watched the man holding the big gun. The man noticed him watching the pistol and smiled slightly. He raised the muzzle a bit and smiled more broadly.

  Felipe crossed himself, and the man with the gun grew somber, as if not wanting to desecrate such a moment. Then, when Felipe was done praying, he smiled again, this time with an easy radiance. Felipe watched the pistol, his attention totally absorbed by the glittering weapon, its finish flashing small bits of fire as it moved in the sunlight. It was almost hypnotic.

  He didn't feel the wire as it was slipped around his neck.

  Not at all.

  2

  Mercy Hospital wasn't the sort of high-tech institution Ronny Sipe was used to. On the other hand, there was little choice in ten thousand square miles. If you needed medical attention, you went to Mercy. If you couldn't make it to Mercy, regardless of the reason, either you didn't really need help, or no amount of help would do you any good.

  Sipe padded across the lobby, the soft rubber soles of his desert boots squeaking on the clean but faded asphalt tile, squares of black and white alternating in a pattern as old as greasy spoons. He stopped at the desk to ask where the new arrival was being treated, thanked the young nurse who answered him absently before turning back to her crossword puzzle, and walked down the hall to the elevator. The hospital was only three stories high, and had one elevator that served
both visitors and patients alike.

  Sipe pressed the button to call the car, then listened to it rattle on its cable. The doors groaned open, and he stepped onto the pebbled metal floor and pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors closed, the car had already begun its climb, swinging gently from side to side. Sipe hadn't felt that queasy twinge of motion sickness since his first — and last — Ferris wheel ride.

  On the third floor the night nurse sat behind an oaken fortress of a desk directly opposite the elevator. He told her who he wanted to see, and she explained, with that mixture of patience and exasperation that must be taught in nursing school, that the patient was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. Besides, which, she informed him, he was under guard.

  "Then tell the guard Ronny's here," Sipe said, smiling.

  Slapping her crossword onto the scarred oak, she rose with a rustle of starched cloth and walked down the hall. Her practical shoes squeaked with every step, and she glared over her shoulder to discourage either his following her or optimism that he might get to see the patient. Probably both, Sipe realized. He sucked on an old filling while he waited.

  She was back in two minutes, her confidence badly shaken. "The officer says you can come down," she snapped. Then, as if to taint his victory, she warned, "You can have five minutes. No more."

  "Thank you," he said, leaning forward slightly to read the name tag on her crisp lapel, "Nurse Martinez."

  She snorted her contempt and sat down.

  Sipe walked quickly down the hall and backed up a step when he almost missed the open door. The room was backlit by a small bulb in a wall sconce, its pale fan of light splashing up the wall and across the ceiling. Randy Carlton slouched in a low-slung chair next to the bed, his hands folded across his belt. He'd changed from his uniform to a pair of jeans and a checkered shirt.