Desert Impact Page 3

“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 build
ing—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.”