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  It was five o'clock, and sunrise was less than twenty minutes away. High in the sky, toward the south, a long slash of brilliant white light, so elusive he wasn't sure he had even seen it, crossed the sky just above the horizon. He made a note to ask Alfredo if it could have been one of the communications satellites they were tapping into.

  The light was gone almost as soon as he noticed it, but he continued to stare at the place where it had been. He slid one of the doors to one side and stepped out onto the balcony, feeling his skin tingle as it shook off the artificial cool and began to respond to the predawn heat.

  Walking to the edge, he set the drink on a table and leaned forward with his hands on the rail. He noticed a ropy smudge to the north and nodded. Below him, dimly lit by a few ground lights scattered among the shrubs, his garden took on an otherworldly appearance. Fronds waved in a slight breeze, and small frogs jumped in the fountain pools. Here and there a fish rose to the surface to catch a bug. He walked to a control box beside the doors, opened it and threw a pair of switches.

  Back at the railing he could see the golden carp swishing back and forth, circling around the underwater lights he had just turned on. He had everything he had ever dreamed of, and felt cheated now that he realized it wasn't enough. Part of him wanted to turn his back and walk away from it all, as if he were being slowly crushed by the sheer weight of his material possessions. Another part of his being wanted him to accept what he had, find satisfaction and surrender himself to the fact that he was a wealthy man. But deep inside, so deep he couldn't even be sure he could find it if he wanted to, something kept challenging him, daring him to do more, to want more, to take more.

  As the sun started to rise, he sat on a lounge chair, cradling the drink in his hands, swirling it idly in the glass. It was time to take the last steps to consolidate. It was all laid out, and he wondered why he should feel nervous. It seemed unnatural not to have some doubt, but then he was an unnatural man. He tilted his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth. A moment later he was asleep.

  * * *

  Calderone jerked awake with a start. The hand on his shoulder continued to shake him, and he reached up to grab it before he realized where he was.

  "Don Carlos," Alfredo said, "Don Carlos. It is seven o'clock. You'll be late."

  Calderone rubbed his eyes with one hand. His head ached, and he was thirsty. It was the closest he had come to a hangover in years, and he looked distastefully at the half-empty glass on the table beside him. The tomato juice had clotted, leaving a thick skin of reddish-brown pulp on the sides of the glass. His stomach turned, and he got up hurriedly.

  "Are you all right, Don Carlos?"

  "Yes, Alfredo, I'm fine. Just a little queasy. I'll be down in a few minutes."

  Alfredo excused himself, and Calderone walked to the rail again. The sun was well above the horizon now, its color a pale orange. It was going to be a scorcher, not the kind of day for a trip into Arizona. But he had an appointment with Big Jaime Tyack at eleven. Turning his back on the sun, he opened the door and stepped inside, the cool air luxurious as it washed over him. He walked quickly to his bedroom suite and stripped for a shower.

  The hard spray lashed at his skin, washing away the stickiness, and he tilted his head back to fill his mouth with water. He swirled it around, then spit back at the shower head. The dry powdery taste in his mouth disappeared, and he shivered as he turned the water to full cold.

  His doubts were all but gone. The momentary uncertainty was only natural, he told himself. But he had worked too hard, and come too far to turn back, even if he wanted to. He turned the water off and stood in the elaborately tiled shower, letting the draft of cool air from the vents dry him. His skin tingled and, wide awake now, he rubbed himself down with a thick towel.

  Once he completed the deal with Tyack he would be on his way. A simple handshake would secure his future, and the border would be his, from Baja California to the Gulf of Mexico. Already news of the conference — and what had happened to those who would not accept his proposal — had begun to circulate among the coyote community. In a matter of weeks they would all be his. There was no room in his system for competition.

  He dressed carefully, choosing one of his best suits. It was a good thing to impress the yanqui growers, and he wanted them to know they were dealing with a man of substance. The days of field hands straggling in on foot under the cover of darkness were over.

  Calderone walked quickly down the stairs, brushing his hair back with one careless hand. Through the glass wall on the far side of the foyer, he could see the chopper, its blades turning slowly, the rotor wash fluttering the leaves in the garden beyond it. He stepped out into the sun and ducked as he had seen politicians do. Ramón and Diego, his new bodyguards, were already on board.

  "Let's go," Calderone ordered. The pilot seemed to sense rather than hear the command, and he pulled back on the throttle. The blades, flashing overhead, whirled more rapidly, throwing off showers of sunlight, and the craft shuddered a little, then drifted slightly to the left as it started to climb.

  Calderone looked out the side window as the chopper rose straight into the air and the house and grounds fell away beneath him. The higher he rose, the smaller and more insignificant it all looked. The gardens were little more than green smears on the desert. The thick walls surrounding the compound seemed as thin as paper, incapable of defending him against those who would try to bring him down. Even the buildings themselves were diminished by the perspective. They looked like a child's toy.

  He tried to console himself with the knowledge that from this altitude everything was reduced. But it was still his, all of it.

  And he knew it wasn't enough.

  Not for a man of his substance.

  As the compound fell away behind him, he turned and looked north. That was where the real money was, and he intended to have as much of it as he could gather.

  Don Carlos was master of all he could see, and all he could see was desert — he was the king of the void. There would have to be more, there had to be something he could do. He stared as if hypnotized as the helicopter sped over the desert, the muted colors blurring.

  The trip passed as if he were in a trance, and he was unaware of the chopper dipping low to fly under the radar at the border, was unaware of anything, until the rich green of the citrus groves began to appear scattered at first, then increasingly densely packed, until they stretched out ahead like a solid green carpet.

  It was then that Calderone saw what he had to do. Supplying the labor was only a first step. It was a sap's job for chump change. Why should he settle for being a labor contractor when he could own the groves themselves? Once he cornered the market on the labor supply, he would be in a position to destroy any grower he chose.

  When a grower tied into the system, he would be helpless. His crops would be at Calderone's mercy. Don Carlos could demand a piece of the profits, become a silent partner. It would be no harder than herding cattle. He could cut a grower out of the herd, brand him, then move on to the next.

  The sky was the limit.

  The thought revived him, and Calderone began to shake off the gloom that had enshrouded him since leaving the ground. He could even start today, with Tyack. The man had no pickers. He was at the Mexican's mercy. It wouldn't be a bad idea to make the proposal this very morning.

  The huge white house at Waywayanda loomed up on the left as the chopper settled into the broad semicircle of grass surrounded by the driveway.

  Calderone jumped lightly onto the grass, ducking his head to avoid the whirling blades. Ramón and Diego followed, racing to catch up. Calderone was on the steps when Tyack appeared in the doorway. Like the last time, he was dressed in coveralls and a checkered shirt. Unlike last time, however, he had a Winchester cradled in his arms, one thick finger inside the trigger guard.

  "Señor, good to see you again," Calderone said, extending his hand as he mounted the steps.

  "G
et the hell off my land. You're leaving a grease stain on the lawn," Tyack barked.

  Calderone stopped and looked back at his bodyguards. His face was twisted and confused, the brows knit together. "I don't understand. What is the problem, Señor Tyack?"

  "The problem is you murdered two of my people and run the rest of 'em off. I'm way behind, and probably gonna lose a third of my crop."

  "But that is no problem, Señor Tyack. I have already made arrangements for new workers."

  "There wasn't nothing wrong with the ones I had. Now get out of here before I use this." The man nodded toward the shotgun in his arms, then swung it around to point at Calderone's chest.

  "I thought we had a deal. We did, didn't we? Have a deal?"

  "I told you I'd think about it. Nothin' more. You had no business intimidating my people."

  "Your people? Is that what you said? Your people?"

  "That's what I said."

  "But they are not your people, Señor Tyack. They are my people." Calderone struck himself in the chest with a clenched fist. "I own them, all of them. And you will burn in hell before a single one of them picks so much as one orange for you."

  "If you're trying to threaten me…" Tyack suddenly brought up the Winchester"…don't do it." Ramón had taken a step toward the porch, his hand inside his jacket. "Get your hand out where I can see it."

  Calderone cursed, turned on his heel and walked down the steps. As he passed between his bodyguards, he whispered, "When I tell you, kill the bastard." He continued on across the lawn toward the waiting helicopter.

  In the polished Lexan of the cockpit, he watched as Ramón and Diego gradually backed away, widening the gap between them at the same time until the big man could no longer cover them both. When he reached the chopper, Calderone turned. "Now!"

  Ramón and Diego went for their guns at the same time. Tyack, sensing what was about to happen, stepped back. He fired once, catching Diego in the chest with a load of heavy shot. The bodyguard flew backward, his chest a mass of blood and shattered bone. One hand, its fingers wrapped around the butt of a pistol, was still half inside his jacket.

  Ramón had drawn his own gun and fired three times. The first shot went wide, the.357-caliber slug blowing out one of the tall windows in the doors behind the grower. The second slug struck Tyack high on the left shoulder as he was raising the Winchester to get off another shot. The third round struck him in the left temple. The remaining window behind him turned red. Calderone watched for a moment as the blood streaked the glass, then he waved to Ramón, who was struggling toward the helicopter with Diego's body.

  "Leave him. He's useless now. Burn the house and let's get out of here."

  28

  Carlton finally found the keys in Buck Allenson's pocket. Realizing his hands were covered with blood, he scooped up a handful of sand, rubbed it on his palms and fingers, then wiped them on his jeans. Bolan was sitting on the running board of the Renegade, and Carlton knelt to unlock the shackles and handcuffs.

  "That was closer than I like to come."

  "What do we do now?" Carlton asked.

  "We're going back."

  The younger man looked at his watch. "Ray Conlan should be here any minute."

  "What?"

  "Oh, unofficially. But Ray has had about enough of this crap. He told me Tyack was blown away. The old man's house was burned to the ground. They found his body, what was left of it, on the front porch."

  "Who killed him?"

  "I don't know all the details. Ray'll fill us in as soon as he gets here."

  "How's he going to find us?"

  Carlton tapped his temple with a long finger. "Used the old noggin. I've been watching you, Mike, and I've learned a lot. I gave him a rough idea where to look, then figured the frequency on one of the beacons."

  "Nice work, Randy."

  "You hungry? I got some food and water in the car."

  Bolan stretched, trying to relieve the cramping in his stiff muscles, then sat on the running board beside the driver's seat while Carlton grabbed a canteen from the back of the Renegade.

  A black smudge to the south caught his eye. The smoke began to thicken on the horizon as it caught the first rays of the rising sun. Bolan shifted his weight on the running board, guzzling the cool water the patrolman poured from a canteen. "I don't like the looks of that smoke."

  "Neither do I," Carlton agreed, "but I can't figure what the hell it could be. There isn't anything over there. Nothing grows thick enough to support a blaze like that, so it's got to be man-made."

  "Judging by the color of the smoke," Bolan said, "I'd guess there's a lot of gas or oil at the bottom of that column."

  "Maybe we should take a look."

  "No maybe about it. If Conlan can find us here, he can find us a few miles south." Bolan stood and stretched his arms again. The circulation had been cut off so long that he still felt pins and needles in one shoulder, and his wrists ached from the cuffs.

  Carlton slipped the metal cup back into his canteen cover, slid the canteen back inside and folded the canvas flaps, snapping them shut with a pair of brittle cracks. He walked around the front of the Renegade, drumming his fingers nervously on the hood. Bolan leaned over to open the passenger door. The big kid winced slightly when he bumped his shoulder on the doorframe, but tried to hide the pain that sliced through his upper torso.

  When he yanked the door closed, one hand automatically went to his collarbone, and he took a few moments to massage his shoulder.

  "You all right?"

  "No problem. Let's take a look. By the way, I got something for you." Carlton reached into the rear of the vehicle and retrieved Bolan's weapons. "Buck had them in his truck. Guess he knew a good thing when he saw it."

  Bolan smiled and turned the ignition, the Jeep roaring to life. Jerked into gear, the 4x4 bit into the desert, and its deeply treaded tires churned up clouds of gritty dust.

  The thick black smoke was framed against the sun, the top of the column flattening to a cloud and beginning to spread in all directions. Bolan muscled the powerful truck through the desert growth with precise control, like a skier in a giant slalom. He skirted some of the taller saguaros so closely that Carlton thought he could hear the tips of the needles squeal on the Renegade's skin as they flashed by.

  He turned to the rear of the truck again, this time grabbing a gun belt for himself. Bolan glanced out of the corner of his eye at the powerful.357 Magnum as the patrolman checked the action and chambered a round. The kid slipped the automatic into the holster, then swung it over his shoulder.

  The sky ahead was so bright now that visibility was reduced to a few hundred yards. The smoke had begun to thin a little, turning from black to dark gray, and Bolan realized the fire at its source was burning itself out. He hoped they found it before it vanished altogether.

  A pyramid appeared just below the edge of the sky. It seemed to grow as they rushed toward it, like some bizarre plant rising into the air. Bolan couldn't quite make out what it was, but he drifted slightly to the left and lined it up over the center of the hood.

  "What the hell is that thing?"

  "We're about to find out, Randy." The structure was less than a mile away, and it continued to rise above the surrounding desert as they raced toward it. Bolan estimated its height to be fifty or sixty feet. Its near side was wrapped in shadows, and no detail other than its general outline was visible.

  The smoke was everywhere, a pall, rather than a cloud. Another, paler haze began to mingle with the gray of the dispersed smoke. Bolan covered the diminishing ball of the sun with an extended thumb. At the base of the pyramid a huge bulldozer had begun to move along one edge, filling the air with dust.

  Bolan eased up on the gas, not wanting to rush into something he didn't have a handle on. He spotted two more vehicles, a gigantic Mack tractor and flatbed trailer, its loading ramp down, obviously used to transport the bulldozer, and a jet-black van. The dozer continued to scrape away at the bottom of the
huge mound, then tilted back sharply and began to climb its steep face, its blade high over the cab like the coiled tail of a scorpion.

  Near the peak of the pyramid the driver dropped his blade and started back down the other side, shoving a thick wave of soil ahead of it. The driver backed and filled, scraping the peak of the mound to a narrow plateau. Bolan braked the Jeep and watched.

  Carlton grabbed field glasses and scanned the mound. "Just look at that. What the hell is he doing?"

  He let the glasses drop, and Bolan picked them up. He was more interested in the van. The blocky black vehicle seemed deserted. Sweeping the glasses to the right, he checked the bulldozer again; the plateau on top had nearly doubled in size. The pyramid was being disassembled.

  It seemed odd, but no more odd than its having been built in the first place. Tracking down one edge, Bolan caught a glimpse of thick oil smoke rising in wispy tendrils, apparently from the ground. Refining the focus, he realized it was emanating from some sort of excavation.

  "What do you make of that?" Bolan asked.

  "Make of what?"

  "The pit. You know anything about construction planned for this area."

  "No way. This is stone desert, first of all, and nobody in his right mind, on either side of the border, would build anything out here. What the hell for?"

  "Then I think we better take a closer look. The smoke was coming from the left of that mound." Bolan turned off the engine, reached into the back and pulled Allenson's machine pistol into the front seat. "You better get the other Skorpion, Randy. I've got a feeling we're going to need the firepower."

  The two men left the vehicle quickly, anxious to get as close to the pyramid as possible before anyone spotted them.

  Across the desert floor the snarling bulldozer sounded like an angry beast. It lumbered back and forth across the broadening plateau as it continued to chop away at the huge mound. Great waves of loose earth slid down the steep slope and tumbled out of sight into the pit.

  When they had come within two hundred yards of the foot of the pyramid, Bolan hit the deck and dragged Carlton down with him. The kid landed hard on his shoulder, but before he could ask what was going on, Bolan pointed toward the van. One of the rear doors had swung open and jutted out past the van's near side.