Desert Impact

“It sounds sticky. We’ll talk more when I get there,” he said, then disconnected the call. Brognola was right about at least one thing, he thought—he was going somewhere warmer.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_4b89124f-d27f-5faa-80fe-0143d34a0138)

The contrast between the stark, icy white of the Antarctic and the brash gold and tan of the desert had been more than a little startling. After a long flight into Phoenix, Bolan had picked up a car and driven east, passing through Tucson, then cutting south through Sierra Vista and finally arriving in Douglas, Arizona. The dry desert winds blew tumbleweeds across the highway as Bolan drove into the outskirts of the small town.

It was a bit eerie—a town with main streets that hadn’t seen much in the way of updating since the seventies. The only modern storefronts he saw were those of a Wal-Mart and a McDonald’s, which he passed without slowing. Douglas was positioned directly on the border with Mexico, and the flow of immigrants—both legal and illegal—was enough to make Caucasian people a minority. On the other side of the border was Agua Prieta, a much larger city, with much bigger problems. Drug trafficking and illegal immigrants were big business in Agua Prieta, and many honest cops on that side were killed with disturbing regularity.

Bolan pulled up to the gas station where he was meeting Rivers and waved off the entrepreneurs selling fresh tamales out of the trunk of their car. Bolan didn’t try to hide the fact that he was carrying, and he kept a wary eye on those milling about. Enough crime occurred in this one little corner of the universe to keep county, state and federal law enforcement busy every day of the year. It wouldn’t do to become a statistic.

Bolan continued to eye the comings and goings when a car pulled up to one of the pumps. The music was blaring loud enough that the bass thrummed through the gas station until the car shut down. Three guys in white tank tops stepped out of the souped-up Malibu from the eighties that looked like it was halfway through its restoration. One guy went into the gas station while the other two lagged behind and went to the old lady selling tamales.

“Hey, grandma, we could use some food.”

“Five dollars for five.”

“No, grandma, we just want the food.”

They moved forward and Bolan felt like he was watching a bad movie as the two men approached her. Their harassment of the old lady wasn’t entertaining at all.

Bolan approached and tapped the closer of the two on the shoulder.

“What do you want?” he asked Bolan.

“You’re going to leave this lady alone.”

He lifted the edge of his T-shirt to reveal the .38 he was carrying in his waistband.

“I think I do what I want.”

“Oh, well, you should have said that from the beginning.”

The thug started to turn when Bolan caught his shoulder and spun him around, using the added momentum to drive his fist into the man’s face, shattering his nose and dropping him to his knees. Bolan whipped the Desert Eagle out of his holster and trained it on the other man before either of them knew what had happened.

“Now, explain to me what it is you want to do. After all, we decided that you get to do what you want. I just thought there should be a little more discussion on what that might be.”

“I’ll leave, I’ll leave.”

Bolan nodded as they scurried to their car. When the third man came back outside, they peeled out of the gas station and sped down the road. He turned to look at the old woman, who reached into her bag and handed him a tamale.

“Gracias.”

“De nada.”

Bolan leaned against his car and munched on his tamale. He didn’t have to wait long for Rivers to pull up in his SUV. The people who’d been milling around recognized the Border Patrol agent and found better things to do with their time. Rivers pulled his tall frame out of the SUV and offered a strong handshake. “Cooper,” he said, a thin smile crossing his face. “Thanks for coming so fast.”

Returning the handshake, Bolan nodded. “No problem. I could use a little sunshine, and I’m happy to help any way that I can.”

“Good,” he said. “Why don’t we drop off your car at the station? No one will bother it there, and then we can take a little ride.”

Bolan agreed, got back into his rental and followed Rivers to the local Border Patrol station. It was a lot larger than many other stations, due in part to the amount of illegal immigrants they had to deal with and to the on-site holding facility. They passed through a heavy security gate, and Bolan parked his car while Rivers picked up a pass from the guard shack and stuck it on his windshield.

After signing back out, they headed north out of Douglas, and Bolan glanced at the man he’d helped before, his gaze asking an unspoken question.

“I have a friend I want you to meet,” Rivers said. “He’s a retired freelancer. Did undercover work for the U.S. Marshals, tracking for the Border Patrol, and if some of the rumors are true, he started his career in the Drug Enforcement Administration. Anyway, he’s been out here forever, knows every nook and cranny between Douglas and Sierra Vista. He also knows all of the local bad guys. All of which make him very useful.”

“Local bad guys?” Bolan asked.

“This part of the world attracts a lot of different types—and one of them is the person looking to disappear. If the Old West still exists anywhere, it’s right here, Cooper. A lot of black hats live in single-wide trailers or old camp shacks and have a record as long as your arm—or longer.”

“What a charming place,” Bolan replied.

“It’s not that bad,” Colton said. “Plenty of good people are here, too. Lot of folks who just want to live their lives in peace.”

Bolan nodded and watched as the desert landscape slipped past his window. The small highway carved a path between small mountain ranges.

A couple of miles before the border with New Mexico, Rivers turned off the highway and onto a dirt road that resembled a dried-out creek bed.

“How far out does this guy live?”

“We’re almost there now. He likes to keep to himself. Has this thing about wanting to see people coming.”

“Well, I get that. I’m just not sure moving to a remote desert is the answer.”

“I don’t know—after all the things you’ve seen and done, don’t the peace and serenity sound good?”

“It sounds good, but even when I’m on the other side of the world they seem to track me down.”

The desert was open around them, and in the distance Bolan could see free-range cattle and some of those trailers Rivers had mentioned. The road itself was filled with divots and holes, rocks, cow pies and at least one turtle basking in the late afternoon sun.

“Tell me more about this man we’re meeting,” Bolan said. “How long have you known him?”

“Most of my life,” Rivers replied. “I grew up in Sierra Vista and Tony and my father worked together. He was to be my godfather, but he didn’t think it was appropriate considering his line of work.”

“Makes sense,” Bolan said. “That kind of life doesn’t lend itself to long life expectancies.”

“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.”