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  Calderone watched the tiny figures scurry into the trees and disappear. For a long moment he sat motionless, his face conscious of the coolness of the glass inside the air-conditioned car. Finally, when he realized the men would not soon return to the aisle, he rapped on the glass partition and the car moved on.

  He had been looking forward to the morning's meeting for a long time. Waywayanda Farm was one of the three largest growers in the Tucson area. If he could convert its owner, a man noted for the shortness of his temper and his general contempt for organization of any sort, he would be well on his way to dominating the traffic in illegal labor. That he would be able to do it eventually, Calderone had no doubt. But the sooner he managed it, the happier he'd be. And the owner of Waywayanda, Jim Tyack, Big Jaime to friend and foe alike, was a crucial link in the chain.

  The grove came to an abrupt end and the interminable lane suddenly burst into a broad clearing. To the left, huge barnlike buildings towered over the clearing. Refrigerated storage barns and sorting sheds open to the weather on all sides shouldered one another for dominance. Calderone could see the sorting conveyors churning in infinite loops, the sorters hefting the heavy crates to dump them into the feeder bins at one end. Others danced back and forth, closing the wire loops on full crates of sorted oranges and lugging them to low flatbed trailers where they were stacked for transport to the refrigerated storage barns.

  Even through the closed windows of the Cadillac, he could hear the hum of the engines and the clank of the conveyors. Calderone knew the mind-deadening racket firsthand. He'd spent more than a few years nipping back and forth across the border, taking what work he could find, for what pay the growers were willing to give him. More often than not, there had been little enough of either.

  Exploitation was a strange thing, Calderone thought. It was like a tunnel, and once in it, it seemed endless. All a man could think about was getting out. It pressed in on you, squeezing the air in your chest, making you gasp for breath. It was dark and it was terrifying. No matter how long you were trapped inside it, you never forgot there was something else, a world outside the tunnel. You might surrender any hope of ever seeing the light of day again, but you never forgot it was out there somewhere.

  Carlos Calderone was no fool. He knew that the more money you had, the less likely it was that you'd be sucked back into the tunnel. He'd be damned if he would let that happen, no matter what the cost to anyone else.

  Opposite the work buildings stood a monument to the rightness of his choice. A huge white house, porches running the length of the front on both first and second floors, stood on a slight rise. A circular driveway of crushed blue stone looped away toward the house then curved back toward the lane. A half-moon of the greenest grass in Arizona filled the inside of the driveway. Tyack had turned his back on the local fashion of cactus gardens, choosing to spend a little precious water to prove just how little the desert intimidated him.

  Behind the house, ten thousand acres of cotton basked in the sun. As Calderone got out of the car, he could see several bright yellow machines, like Martian insects, lumber across the cotton fields, throwing plumes of dust high into the air where they merged and cast a thin shadow like that of a coming storm across the harshness of the sunlit fields.

  A big man with a beard stood on the first-floor porch in front of double glass doors. The man wore coveralls and a checkered shirt, its sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Tipped forward against the sun, a straw hat, carefully shaped into a cattleman's roll, completed the studied portrait of country bumpkin. But Jim Tyack was anything but. A shrewd businessman, he was content to let others react to the image, then caught them off guard and cut their legs out from under them. It had made him a fortune and a legend at the same time.

  He watched Calderone approach, stroking his chin with one huge hand and chewing on an unlit cigar. The Mexican climbed the steps, painting a brilliant smile on his face as he reached the top stair. He extended a hand, which Tyack examined without interest. When Calderone realized his host had no intention of shaking hands, he let it drop, wiping the damp palm on his white cotton pants.

  "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tyack."

  "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" The big man didn't smile, and Calderone wondered whether he had made a mistake in coming. "Guess you might as well come in, since you come all this way."

  He turned and opened one of the tall doors and stepped inside, holding it wide for his visitor, then flipping it closed with his wrist. Without a word he led the way into the interior of the large house. They passed through a high-ceilinged living room, which was furnished simply but comfortably. Calderone noticed the Indian artifacts with some confusion. Woven rugs and blankets hung on the walls, and a huge rug bearing a thunderbird design occupied the center of the room.

  Tall bookshelves occupying one full wall bore an assortment of art books and a large collection of native American poetry. Calderone commented on the pottery and Tyack shrugged. "That shit belongs to my daughter. I make the money and she spends it, is how it works out. A pot's a pot to me. Far as I'm concerned you only need one to piss in."

  Calderone smiled. Tyack didn't return it.

  The big man veered left and led the way into a large office that still managed to feel claustrophobic. It was cluttered without being messy and was dominated by a large metal desk of the kind the Mexican had seen in government offices. The walls of the room were bare. One wall was glass and looked out over the sorting sheds, while another was lined with filing cabinets of the same scarred gray as the desk.

  Tyack walked to a refrigerator, opened it, yanked a couple of cans from their plastic web and slammed the door. Sitting down behind the desk, he unceremoniously tossed a beer at Calderone and gestured to a pair of chairs on the other side of the desk. He snapped the tab open and took a short sip of the beer. "Now, what can I do for you, Señor Calderone? You were kind of mysterious on the phone."

  "Not really, Mr. Tyack. It's just that I have found it better to discuss matters of business face-to-face. It reduces the possibility of misunderstanding."

  Tyack grunted. "That'll be the day. I haven't seen a business meeting yet didn't have its share of misunderstanding. Sometimes I think that's all business is, sortin' out confusion that shouldn't have been there in the first place. But go ahead, it's your nickel."

  "May I ask you a few questions?"

  "Sure. If I don't want to answer, I don't have to."

  "How many people do you employ?"

  "Depends. Anywhere from twenty to about three or four hundred during peak harvest."

  "How much do you pay them?"

  Tyack looked sharply at Calderone, then took a long pull on his beer. When the can was empty, he slapped it down on the desk and stood up. "I don't want to hear any union bullshit this morning. This meeting's over."

  "This isn't about unions, Mr. Tyack."

  "No, then what the hell is it about? And make it quick."

  "How much do you pay your pickers?"

  "Forty-five, fifty cents a box."

  "How would you like to pay less?"

  Tyack looked at the ceiling. He half closed his eyes and fixed Calderone with a suspicious stare. "What's the catch?"

  "No catch. I supply the men. You pay me thirty cents a box, and I pay them. I handle all administration. No headaches, no paperwork. All very neat."

  "You telling me you can cut my labor cost nearly forty percent and you still make a profit? I don't believe that."

  "What have you got to lose?"

  "I already got my crews for this year. I don't like messing around this late."

  "That can be handled. You don't have to worry about a thing. I'll take care of everything."

  "Tell me a little more. I might maybe could give it a try, you persuade me a little."

  "Persuasion is my business, Mr. Tyack."

  9

  Carlton eased to his feet, the glasses dangling from his neck. He could no longer see the Bronco, but the plume of dust h
ad stopped rising, so he knew Will had stopped. He scanned the area immediately ahead with the glasses, then sat and waited patiently for several minutes, hoping to catch a flicker of reflected sunlight, or some other indication that the 4x4 was under surveillance. He listened patiently but heard nothing.

  Keeping low, he used the sparse vegetation as best he could, dodging from saguaro to cholla to Joshua. He felt like a botanist in hell, bouncing from one thick-skinned plant to the next. The heat was still rising as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Beyond the chimneys he noticed the haze burning off. The purple of the San Antonio Mountains was brighter, almost incandescent, throwing the bright light off with what seemed like increased energy.

  He stopped for another survey with the binoculars at the base of a huge saguaro. Above him he heard a soft rustle and an inquisitive hoot. He looked up into the face of an owl peering down at him from a hole in the cactus about fifteen feet off the ground. The bird won the staring contest, and Carlton turned his attention back toward the chimneys.

  Just ahead was a wide area with no cover. Before chancing it, he wanted to make certain he and Ralston were alone. The objectives of the binoculars were covered with a layer of fine dust, which splintered the sunlight and rimmed his view with a rainbow glare. He tilted them back and blew at the dust, which seemed to cling as if magnetized. He wiped at it with the tail of his shirt, then blew again, watching the bulk of it puff away and disappear.

  The view was sharper now, and he checked both sides of the chimneys. Wider at the bottom, they seemed to grow from a common base. For no apparent reason, he wondered whether they were the remnants of some ancient volcanic activity, and made a mental note to read up on the geology of the desert. He was only a quarter mile from the base of the rocks now, but still couldn't see the Bronco.

  He dropped the glasses and leaned forward into a crouch. Sprinting into the open, he kept one eye on the sky and zigzagged toward the next cover. He hadn't seen a sign that indicated they weren't alone, but it was better to assume they weren't. Just as he reached the next line of greenery, he heard something that sounded like a distant thunderclap. He strained his ears, but it wasn't repeated. Carlton dropped to the ground and swept the glasses up the chimneys. Then he heard the steady, unmistakable sound of a helicopter. A moment later a McDonnell Cayuse swept around the left column of rock, swooping in a circle like a gigantic bird of prey.

  Swinging the glasses up, he nailed the chopper. Three men were visible through the Lexan bubble windows of the cockpit, sitting almost motionless, like figures in a paperweight, as the chopper swung its narrow tail in his direction and spiraled to the ground. The men were obscured by the tail for a moment, and Carlton cursed. "Turn around, dammit. Turn the hell around."

  The chopper suddenly pivoted on its axis, and the bubble was once again facing him. The pilot was busy with the controls and talking into a headset. The other two men sat behind him, each holding an automatic rifle.

  Randy got up to run toward the chopper, but it dropped suddenly straight down. The sliding windows to the rear of the cockpit bubble were open, and the passenger on the right side leaned forward as the pilot banked while swinging the chopper in a tight circle.

  The hammer of the rifle was just audible over the pulsating whup-whup of the chopper, magnified as it bounced off the solid rock of the chimneys and echoed across the valley floor. Dropping to his knees, Carlton swung the Winchester around and sighted through the scope. The chopper was slipping back and forth now, like a pendulum on a short line. Both passengers were busy firing at the ground.

  Timing the cycle of the chopper's undulations, Carlton counted down and squeezed. The bubble glinted in the bright sunlight for an instant, then the chopper swung back. Through the scope, the young patrolman saw one of the shooters doubled over, his right arm across his chest, the hand clasping the opposite shoulder.

  He sighted in a second time as the second passenger looked around nervously. This time the pilot made a big mistake. Instead of climbing until he could figure out where the shot had come from, he hung in the air, nearly motionless. Carlton fired again and the chopper suddenly swerved. It started a downward plunge, pivoting on its rotor shaft, then slipped sideways like a piece of cardboard in a stiff breeze, skipping on the current of hot air rising along the chimneys.

  Carlton grabbed the glasses and tried to pin the chopper in the center of his field, but it kept slipping away. In fitful glimpses he saw the pilot slumped forward over the controls. The uninjured passenger had dropped his rifle and struggled to shift the pilot to one side, then the helicopter was gone again.

  Letting the glasses fall, Carlton watched the spinning chopper as it began to wobble. Without the binoculars he could see nothing in the bubble. Bright blades of sunlight stabbed out into the desert as the chopper swung back and forth into the zone of sunlight between the two columns of rock.

  It started to rise, still out of control. The passenger must have made some headway, but not enough, and not nearly soon enough. Like some metallic bug, drunk on its own motion, the chopper staggered between the chimneys. Its tail spun to the left and slammed into the shaft of reddish-brown rock. The antitorque rotor buzzed with a whine, sending a brief shower of white sparks cascading down along the chimney as it tore itself to pieces.

  The slender tail snapped in two. A small orange bud appeared at the broken end, seemed to skitter along the tail and suddenly blossomed into a huge orange flower wreathed in thick black leaves. Then it was gone. A smoky black cable rose between the chimneys, as if the crippled helicopter had sent out a lifeline, hoping to hook the flat top of the chimney and haul itself up to safety by main force. The cartwheeling fragments spiraled and flashed for an instant, splinters of shiny metal turning over and over, their motion slow, almost stately, like the slow-motion replay of someone overturning a drawer of cutlery. Then Randy heard the boom and realized the certainty of what he'd seen. The chopper had gone to perdition, taking its three inhabitants with it.

  * * *

  "You sure you know where we're going?" Bolan asked.

  "I sure as hell hope so," Sipe answered. "Carlton and Ralston could be in big trouble."

  "It could also be a setup."

  Sipe nodded grimly. "I thought of that. But what choice do we have?"

  "No more than usual." Bolan lapsed into silence while Sipe watched the road. The attorney's Renegade was tightly sprung, and every ripple in the highway tossed them into the air. He hung a hard right, slipping onto a narrow asphalt strip, the black band stretching out ahead, its width slowly diminishing to a point.

  For more than a half hour they hadn't seen a car. There was no one behind or ahead of them, and they hadn't been passed by anyone heading in the opposite direction.

  "Sometimes I wonder who built these roads and why they bothered," Sipe muttered. "All the things we have to do in this country, and the goddamned highway lobby gets whatever they want."

  Sipe wrestled the Renegade off the road and stopped. He took a pair of field glasses from the dash and scanned the horizon, moving the glasses slowly, as if he were looking for something specific. To Bolan's naked eye, it was a seamless fabric of beige and blue. The attorney grunted and handed the binoculars to his companion. Pointing with a thin finger, he guided Bolan's eye.

  "What am I looking for?"

  "See those two points about eleven o'clock?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's it. That's where they were headed."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Buck Allenson said they got a call to meet somebody there. That's all I know."

  "Well, we came this far. There's no point in turning back now, is there?" Bolan reached into the back for a compact leather case and placed it across his knees. Sipe reengaged the gears, and the vehicle jumped forward, transmission grinding.

  Bolan opened the case and hastily assembled the rifle it contained while Sipe watched him out of the corner of his eye. "That's really something. What is that ugly thing?"


  "A Weatherby Mark V, modified a bit."

  "You're not going to need that, you know."

  "Maybe not. But it doesn't take long to break it down."

  Sipe began to whistle, his breath hissing between teeth and through compressed lips in a nearly tuneless stream. When Bolan was finished assembling the rifle, he checked the scope and mounted it.

  "I suppose it's beautiful in its own way," Sipe said. "The rifle, I mean."

  "I take it you don't like guns much."

  "You could say that."

  "They're tools, just like any other."

  "I don't get nervous when a man opens a toolbox."

  "Maybe you should."

  Sipe laughed. "You might have something there. My old man always wanted me to learn a trade. He said plumbers were never out of work."

  "Neither am I." Bolan stared through the windshield in silence for a few moments, then reached for the glasses. He twiddled the focus knob, then shouted for Sipe to stop.

  "What is it? What did you see?"

  "I'm not sure. It was just a flash of light, a reflection of some sort, high up alongside one of the columns. There it is again."

  "Any ideas?"

  "None that I like. Can you think of any reason a helicopter might be out here?"

  "Only two. Border Patrol or smugglers. This is no-man's-land. Nobody else has any reason to be out here."

  "Step on it."

  The terrain in front of them was rough; small hills and sharply etched gullies interlaced in the valley floor already had Sipe wrestling with the steering wheel. As he stepped on the accelerator, the jouncing Renegade became almost unmanageable. He tried to say something to Bolan, but his teeth snapped together with a sharp crack and he bit his tongue. He wiped a small trickle of blood on his sleeve.

  The Executioner kept the glasses trained on the top of the chimneys, but he saw nothing else. Suddenly a plume of oily smoke appeared between the rock towers. Bolan rolled the window down, but the roaring engine and whining gears smothered all other sound. He tossed the glasses into the back and cradled the Weatherby across his knees, the muzzle toward his door. Unconsciously he took the safety off with his thumb.