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  "As you wish, Don Carlos." He didn't mean it, and everyone in the room knew it.

  19

  Randy Carlton was out front when Bolan pulled up. The rangy lawman bent gingerly to pick up a canvas bag and threw it into the back of the Renegade before climbing up into the passenger's seat. He pulled the door closed with a stiff arm, but it didn't catch. He had to reopen it and use the weight of his body to secure the latch.

  "The shoulder's still bothering you, I notice."

  "Not much. I don't have a good hook shot at the moment, but it's stiff more than anything else."

  "You get all the stuff we need?"

  "I think so. I got to tell you, though, getting electronic gear out the office without letting on was no easy job. I've been thinking about what you said, and I realize you were right. The thing is, if Buck's in somebody's pocket, you can bet he's not the only one."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "The easy answer is that Buck's afraid of the dark. A fuller answer is that the only way it could possibly be worth it to some big-time chicken merchant is if he could get everything he needs to know. There's no point in getting dribs and drabs, because the big picture is where it's at. Buck is no fool, but he's also no honcho. He wouldn't have access to everything he'd have to supply, at least not without high-level participation."

  "Any ideas?"

  "Nothing concrete, but I'm working on it. Anyhow, I couldn't take the chance that somebody might wonder why I need the gear, so I had to run a backdoor play. A couple of head fakes and some fancy footwork and here we are." He reached into the back and patted the canvas sack. "I hope you know how to use all this stuff, because anything with winking red lights and little buttons is beyond me."

  "Don't worry about that part of it. How come you're wearing sneakers?"

  "The boots were killing me. Every step seemed to rattle my bones, so I dug the old high-tops out of the closet. Pretty tough, huh?" Carlton laughed easily, tilting his head a little and letting it come from the gut.

  Bolan started the Jeep. "Let's go see what Mr. Allenson is up to."

  Carlton clapped his hands. "All right, show time!" He started whistling "Sweet Georgia Brown," accompanying himself with a catchy offbeat rhythm on his knees and thighs. Suddenly he stopped whistling and sighed.

  "God, I love the Globetrotters. When I was little, I was so naive, you know. I mean, they always won, and I never thought anything about it. Hell, they were so good. It just made sense they would win. They were the good guys." He shook his head, and Bolan saw the gesture reflected on the inside of the windshield. "Too bad…"

  "What's too bad?"

  "That life isn't like that. Too bad I grew up. Too bad the good guys don't always win."

  "Who says they don't, Randy?"

  The patrolman laughed again, the momentary depression already a thing of the past.

  He directed Bolan through a complicated series of suburban streets. The houses were spaced farther and farther apart until eventually long stretches of desert separated them. In the rearview mirror Bolan watched the lights of Preston change, first to isolated points, then to a dull haze, an upside down bowl of faint illumination against the black desert sky. The moon ahead of them bleached the night, then passed behind the first cloud Bolan had seen since arriving in Arizona.

  A gigantic cumulus, the cloud glowed at its filamentary edges as if it pulsed with an inner fire. Its passage across the moon was more like that of something alive, the density changing from moment to moment and the light behind it throbbing, almost breaking free, then vanishing altogether.

  "All right, slow down, now," Carlton said, whispering as if he thought Allenson might overhear him. "It's just ahead on the right."

  Bolan eased the Renegade off the road. Nearly a mile away a blocky shadow sat fifty yards or so back off the road. There was virtually no vegetation, and distance was their only cover. He turned off the engine and let the 4x4 coast away from the road until its momentum was exhausted. Then he reached over the back seat and hauled the canvas sack into his lap.

  With a small flashlight in one hand, he unzipped the bag and spread the flaps on the bag with the other. A small mound of black plastic boxes of varying sizes and shapes sloped down and away from the center of the bag. Bolan rummaged through the contents until he found what he was looking for.

  "That's one," he said. "Now for the receiver." He tossed a few instruments aside, then grabbed a pair of look-alikes and set the bag on the floor. "One of these ought to do it."

  Finally he withdrew a small leather pouch and unsnapped the fastener. The pouch unfurled to reveal a set of miniature tools, including several screwdrivers, needle-nosed pliers and an assortment of hex wrenches.

  The warrior balanced the twin receivers on his knees and clicked both on. Then he switched on the smaller transmitter. Neither receiver responded to the beacon. Handing the light to Carlton, he said, "Here, hold this."

  Turning the transmitter over, he thumbed open a sliding panel on the back, then brought the transmitter closer to the small pencil of light. The glittering green and copper of a printed circuit reflected the beam. In the lower left he found what he was looking for — a recessed setscrew, its tiny head tapped for a hex wrench. Slipping one of the wrenches from his tool kit, he tried it in the setscrew, but it was too large. He replaced the wrench and tried a smaller one. This time the wrench slipped easily into the screw head.

  Turning the setscrew, he watched the receivers with one eye. Suddenly small red LEDs on both receivers started to wink. He continued to turn the screw until the lights winked off again, then backed up until the flashing red was brightest. With the frequency adjusted, he put the tool kit away and slipped the plastic lid back into place.

  "That's it." Bolan turned off both receivers and slipped one into his shirt pocket, along with the tiny transmitter. He rezipped the canvas bag and returned it to the back seat. Yanking the door open, he stepped down to the desert floor. "Wait here, Randy."

  He closed the door gently, and Carlton watched as he walked away in the moonlight, his clothing a pattern of neutral grays in the lusterless illumination. A moment later he was gone.

  Bolan looked over his shoulder once or twice, trying to fix the location of the vehicle in his memory, then drifted slowly to the right, getting farther away from the highway. The big man settled into an easy lope over the dry earth, occasionally ducking low to pick up the blocky outline of Allenson's cottage. As he drew closer, he slowed his pace a little, conscious of the quiet around him, and of how easily sound traveled in the night air.

  A faint crack of light slowly materialized out of the darkness, probably around a drawn curtain, and became a beacon for him. He was close enough now to distinguish contours among the shadows, and the details of the rear of the cottage began to take shape. Two dark bulks, probably vehicles, glinted in the shade against the house, and as he shifted direction, the front bumper of one fell into the moonlight, reflecting it from its chrome.

  He slowed to a fast walk. Patting his pocket to make certain he hadn't lost the transmitter or the receiver, he dodged among a few scattered saguaros, which seemed more closely spaced as he drew closer to the small house.

  When he was no more than a hundred yards away, he stopped. The house was isolated, and Allenson had no reason to expect an unwanted visitor at this time of night, but it didn't pay to be careless. Bolan got a fix on the rear of the cottage and dropped into a tight crouch. Easing forward cautiously, he angled for the left rear corner, where the car bumper was still visible. He was close enough to see the second vehicle, this one a chunky, squarish 4x4.

  The light around the curtain seemed to flutter a bit, and Bolan realized the window was open. A soft purring sound, probably a fan, hummed in the darkness. The Executioner aimed for the window and slid in between the two vehicles. The car, a steel-blue Camaro with its spoiler painted the flat gray of primer, was up on blocks, and he was thankful he didn't have to decide which one should carry the trans
mitter.

  Slipping between the Subaru four-wheeler and the house, he inched toward the front of the building and ducked down to find a suitable place to conceal the small radio beacon. A pair of powerful ceramic magnets would hold it fast to almost any part of the body or frame, but making sure it wouldn't be accidentally discovered wasn't as easy. He passed on the well behind the rear-mounted spare on the off chance of a flat tire.

  Dropping to his stomach, he slid under the rear bumper, groping up in the darkness with one hand. Finally settling on a tight crevice where a flat strut with rolled edges supported the left rear panel, he rubbed mud and dirt off the metal until the surface under his fingers was smooth and free of grit. He slid the beacon up along the underside of the quarter panel while fighting the pull of the powerful magnets. When he had it where he wanted it, he let go and heard the sharp click as the magnets caught and slapped the hard plastic against the strut.

  While he worked he heard the mumble of conversation drifting through the open window above him. It wasn't possible to understand what was being said, but Bolan was certain he'd heard no fewer than three voices. Hauling himself out from under the Subaru, he got to his feet and brushed the sand from his clothing. Unholstering the Beretta 93-R, he eased back between the 4x4 and the wall of the house.

  He stopped at the window and leaned up against a screen. Through the narrow gap between the window frame and the curtain, he was just able to make out two men. He could see neither of their faces, but the size and coloring of the man on the right matched that of Buck Allenson. The other, visible only from the elbows down, was dark-skinned and slender. They were playing cards, but seemed more interested in their conversation than in the game. They were talking softly, as if they were afraid of being overheard.

  Bolan strained to pick up their words, but the fan, sitting on a table just to the left of the window, was too loud. He worked his way around the back of the cottage. Another window, this one uncurtained and set high in the wall, was probably a bathroom. Bolan stood on tiptoe and could see over the high sill. The room inside was dark, but the door was open, and he could see all three men through the doorway. He'd been right about Allenson. The other two were both dark, either Chicanos or Mexican nationals. While he watched, Allenson stood and walked toward the doorway. Bolan ducked and pressed in against the wall.

  Allenson continued to talk over his shoulder, raising his voice as he stepped into the room. A sharp block of light fell on the sand, and Allenson said, "Listen, let's get some shut-eye. I'm leaving at 6:00 a.m. sharp. If you boys don't want to walk, you'll be up and ready. I have to see Calderone at nine-thirty."

  The rest of his words were drowned by a rush of water, but Bolan had already heard enough. Calderone wasn't a new name; he'd heard it before in Tyack's orange grove.

  Now they were getting somewhere.

  20

  The light was very dim. A single pair of fluorescents, each with two of its four tubes dark, flickered from the ceiling. The whole room reeked of the acrid smell of burned ballast, the tarlike odor seeming to drip like fine mist throughout the room. Four hard wooden benches, arranged in a tight square end to end, sat at the center of the room, their backs surrounding a closed space full of old papers and crumpled paper cups.

  The entire place had that stale, sweaty smell of a gymnasium locker room. Around the outside edge of the square formed by the benches, dark stains of old coffee seeped out in half-moons with tattered edges. Three of the outside walls were lined with wooden folding chairs, loosely chained together. Slats were missing from several backs, and more than one was missing a seat.

  The desk was closed, its dark bulk occupying the fourth wall. A single bulb on a long chain dangled from the ceiling, shifting gently back and forth in the slight breeze churned up by a ceiling fan. The fan turned only slowly and wobbled from side to side, thrown off balance by its missing blade. The remaining three, coated with dust clinging to a sticky layer of oil, seemed uninterested in moving more than a token amount of the hot air filling the room.

  Most of the chairs with seats were occupied by small men, little more than sinew and bone wrapped in rough cloth. They sagged and drooped, trying to get a little sleep in their discomfort, and looked like nothing so much as a band of destitute zombies suddenly stripped of life for a second time. The lucky ones, those who had come early and been willing to hold their ground, sprawled on the hard wooden benches, small bundles of spare clothing bunched into rough pillows under their heads and folded arms.

  The San Carlos bus station was often closed but never empty. The northern edge of Sonora seemed to draw people like a magnet, from Guerrero and Yucatán in the distant south and Nuevo León in the east. There was no river between San Carlos and Arizona, just a line as imaginary as the comfort most of them would find if they managed to cross it. Generations had made the journey up and back, some men every year for as long as they could remember. They knew what it was like, and were stubborn enough to ignore that knowledge.

  The disillusioned ones, those who had made the trip and come back with less than they had brought north, said nothing when they returned home. They remembered ignoring those who had been disillusioned before them. And they had themselves been ignored too often to bother trying to preach any longer to the unconvertible. But they no longer bothered to come to San Carlos. And no one missed them. In Mexico, as everywhere else, no one was so out of mind as he who was out of sight.

  To those who did come, San Carlos was not merely a dusty, ragged town just large enough to escape being called a village. It was a staging area for dreams, a place where a rusty bus was as good as a golden chariot. If you wanted a ride, San Carlos was where you bought your ticket.

  In the parking lot behind the bus station, a three-year-old Buick sat with its engine idling. Two men sat in the front seat. The passenger fiddled his hands in his lap, watching the man next to him in the driver's seat. The driver had angled the fur-covered rearview mirror down and to the left. With the dome light casting a yellow pall over the car's interior, he was busy rearranging the grooves in a thick, stiff pompadour. The car smelled of hair oil and imitation Aqua Velva.

  "Shit, come on, man," the passenger said. "There's no ladies in there, Antonio, man. What you have to waste all this time for? Huh, man?"

  "Fuck you, Angel. I got to look right. I don't look right, I can't work right, man."

  "Next thing you tell me that sissy shirt you got on is extra especial."

  "You don't like this shirt, man?"

  "No, man, I don't like it."

  "Why not, man? How come you don't like my shirt?"

  "Because, man. That's why. Besides, man, it make you look like a fucking American candy-ass, man. That's another reason why I don't like your shirt, man."

  "You know how much I paid for this shirt?"

  "No, man. I don't care, neither."

  "I bought this shirt in Neiman-Marcus, man. In Dallas. I paid two hundred dollars for this shirt, man. Feel that. Raw silk, man. Feel it."

  "I don't want to feel your shirt."

  "I tell you what, man. When we done tonight, I give you this shirt, man. You like that?"

  "You give it to me?"

  "Yeah."

  "That shirt, you give it to me? For nothing?"

  "Yeah. For nothing."

  "All right, man. Thank you, man, really. I like it. I like that shirt. What color you call that?"

  "Royal burgundy, man. That's what that color is."

  "I like it. Thank you, man. That's a nice color."

  "You welcome, man. Let's go to work now, okay."

  "Yeah, sure. Okay."

  "You really like the shirt?"

  "Yeah, man. I do. It looks good on you. Real macho, like Omar Sharif or somebody, man. Really."

  The driver slipped his comb into the pocket of the shirt and opened the car door. "I changed my mind, man. I think I'll keep the shirt."

  The passenger shrugged. "Okay, man, whatever you say. You want to look like a faggo
t, go ahead." He opened his own door and got out of the car.

  The two men continued to bicker as they walked around to the front of the bus terminal. Antonio grabbed his partner as soon as they reached the double doors leading into the waiting room. "Don't you fuck up now, Angel."

  Angel looked hurt. "Aw, Tony, man, why you always putting me down? I know what to do."

  "You say so. But you mess up, and you can forget about me, man. Calderone will be on your ass. Mine, too. I don't need that shit. I want to kill myself I can go home and stick my head in the stove. At least that won't hurt."

  "You always worryin', man. Don't let Calderone get to you. He's a big talker, but he's interested in business. That's all he cares about. We deliver, we got no problem. And we always deliver, Tony, right?"

  "If you say so. Let's go, then." Antonio pulled the doors open. "And, Angel, let me do the talking, all right?"

  "Whatever you say, Omar."

  Before Antonio could respond, Angel stepped through the open doors. Antonio followed him, then brushed past to get in front of his colleague. He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the room for likely freight. This was only his second recruitment trip for Carlos Calderone, and he was anxious that it go smoothly. The first one had been only marginally successful, and Calderone was notorious for his short temper. The whole program was new, for Calderone as well, and Antonio knew he had some slack. What he didn't know was how much. And how he'd know when it had been played out.

  He didn't want to find out, either.

  Making his mind up was a complicated process. Choosing a likely candidate for transport was part instinct and part divination. The mystical element seemed to be the determining factor, and Antonio approached the problem with all the reverence of a newly ordained priest lifting the chalice for the first time. Reaching inside the royal burgundy shirt, he fingered a heavy gold crucifix and mumbled, "Here goes."

  He crossed the room toward the benches, working on the assumption, inherently logical, that anyone on the bench was serious enough to have come early and persistent enough to have hung on. That seriousness and persistence translated into desperation in Antonio's mind. But that wasn't the hard part. The hard part was deciding, or rather divining, who had enough money to make it worth his while.