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CHAPTER TWO

Bree Smiley wasn’t smiling. She wouldn’t be quirking her eyebrow at anyone anytime soon, either. Blood leaked down her cheek as the Mexican intern sewed her left eyebrow back onto her face. Despite the blood and swelling, the DEA agent’s thoughts were clearly written on her face. She wasn’t happy. Bolan leaned in the door frame with his left hand bandaged. “You did good, Smiley.”

“We lost our prisoner and eight agents.”

“You survived.”

Smiley rolled an eye at the needle going in and out of her brow. “I got mutilated.”

“Scars are sexy.”

“Sicko.” Bree snorted and the effort made her wince. “How’s Mole?”

“He got tossed around pretty good in the crash. Busted ribs, his kidneys are bleeding. His left lung didn’t deflate, but it’s lacerated. Good news is the doctor doesn’t want to operate. They were most worried about infection from our septic stroll down below. They taped him up, put him on antibiotics and sedated him. Rest is what he needs most.”

Smiley looked around without moving her head. “Pretty swank digs for Tijuana. Your controller did good.”

Bolan smiled. Kurtzman would be amused at being referred to as Bolan’s “controller,” but Smiley was right. He had chosen wisely. Hospital Angeles had been built by the Medical Tourism Corporation specifically to cater to patients visiting from the United States and Canada. It was pretty much medical colonialism, but Bolan wasn’t complaining and he doubted LeCaesar would, either. It was a thoroughly modern facility, and the best treatment anyone who had been in a gunfight in Tijuana was likely to get.

“Where are the rest of my boys?” Smiley asked.

Bolan had made some calls. “They’re at the morgue along with what’s left of Cuah and the dead perps. Your men are being prepped for transport to the States. Cuah and company are staying here.”

“What about you?”

Bolan shrugged. “What about me?”

“Well, Cuah’s dead. What’s the status of your liaison-observer apparatus now?”

“Status is I’m going to stick around for a while. Hope you don’t mind.”

Smiley was visibly relieved. “I was kind of hoping you’d say that. You know, if you hadn’t been there Mole and I wouldn’t have made it out alive.”

“Yeah,” Bolan agreed.

“Humble, too.”

He shrugged.

The woman looked at Bolan sincerely through her bruises. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The intern dabbed away the remaining blood with a wipe and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “There.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Bolan asked.

“Twelve stitches.” He gave Agent Smiley a sympathetic look. “There will be a scar.”

“Scars are sexy.” Bree regarded Bolan dryly. “Or so I’m told.”

“Dr. Reyes suspects there may be concussion. It might be best if we kept you for observation until morning and scheduled you for an MRI. Do you—”

“Screw that.”

“Mmm.” The intern looked back and forth between Smiley and Bolan. “Somehow I suspected you would say that. Very well, I recommend you see your personal physician when you get back to the United States as soon as you can. If you experience nausea or dizziness before you return to the United States, come back here immediately.”

“Right, thanks.”

The intern took his clipboard, made some notes and left.

“Right.” Smiley stood up, made an unhappy noise and sat back down again. “Jesus…”

“Take it slow.”

“Shit.”

“Listen, just—”

“No.” Smiley looked past Bolan and rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t catch a break. “We got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Inspector Federal Israel Raymondo Villaluz.”

“Is here.” Bolan gathered.

“Yup.”

“Is he a problem?”

“Well, he did sign over Cuah Nigris to me and Mole. Quite reluctantly, I might add.”

“And we lost Cuah.” Bolan sighed. “Has he spotted you?”

“Not yet.”

Bolan ushered Smiley to the opposite row of beds and pulled the privacy curtain. He peered out the crack between the sheets of fabric. Inspector Villaluz was as tall as Bolan but lankier. He wore gray slacks and a gray suit coat. His dress shirt was starched blinding white and cinched at the throat with a turquoise and silver bola rather than a tie. He carried his Resistol straw cowboy hat in his hand. Pancho Villa himself would have admired the man’s mustache. The five-fingered comb-over crawling across his balding was comical. Bolan made him pushing fifty and definitely old school federale. “Give me the low-down on Villaluz, quick.”

“He’s about as good as Tijuana federales get. I’m not saying he’s clean. Word is he hasn’t paid for a beer or a meal in Tijuana in twenty years, but word is also he isn’t in anyone’s pocket. He’s a ‘peace and quiet or I crack heads’ kind of cop. That’s his problem. He hasn’t kissed his superiors’ asses, and he hasn’t bent over for the cartels. He’ll never rise higher than inspector.”

Bolan watched Villaluz squint around the observation-recovery ward. He was obviously looking for them. There was no tough-guy swagger or bluster about him. He smiled and spoke to a nurse who was clueless as to where Bolan and Smiley had gone. Bolan made Villaluz for a man who was polite until it was time to not be polite, and then relaxed and enjoyed the violence. “You got anything else?”

“He’s also a gunfighter. Real Dirty Harry type. They call him in when things get rough.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Smiley spread her hands. “His nickname on the street is Dos Armas.”

Bolan smiled. “Two Guns?”

“Yup.”

“I think I’d like him.”

“Yeah, well, he isn’t going to like you. After losing three of the Barbacoa Four in custody? The federales put Villaluz and the team he got to pick himself in charge of babysitting Cuah.”

The shit storm was definitely on the horizon. “And then his superiors forced him to hand Cuah over to us.”

“You got it. Still want to meet him?” Smiley asked.

“Definitely.”

“You know I knew you were going to say that.”

Bolan shrugged. He pulled back the privacy curtain and made a show of solicitously examining Agent Smiley’s wound. Within seconds heavy cowboy boots drummed the linoleum toward them and stopped. The soldier turned. Anger passed across Villaluz’s face, but he was looking at Smiley’s wound. Bolan noted that the Mexican agent didn’t like seeing women hurt. Up close he noted the broken nose and scar tissue around the eyebrows that bespoke a former boxer. Villaluz spoke the easy, smoothly accented English of a man who had worked the U.S.-Mexican border all his life.

“Agent Smiley, allow me to express condolences on behalf of myself and the Agencia Federal de Investigación for the loss of your men.”

“Thank you, Inspector.”

The man seemed sincere. He turned sincerely cold as he gave Bolan a hard look. “I have not met your companion. He is with your DEA?”

Smiley threw one out blind. “He’s associated with the Justice Department.”

“Ah.” Villaluz looked Bolan up and down again. “May I ask in what capacity?”

“I was called in to facilitate the transfer of Cuauhtemoc Nigris into U.S. custody,” Bolan said.

A lot of rejoinders clearly occurred to Inspector Villaluz, but he kept it simple. “And?”

Bolan didn’t bat an eye. “I failed.”

It wasn’t the obfuscation Villaluz had expected. “I see.”

“Three of the Barbacoa Four died in Mexican custody,” Bolan continued. “The fourth died in mine. You and I need to talk.”

“Yes, I believe I would like that very much. Agent Smiley, I gather you want to stay close to Agente LeCaesar?”

“At least until some backup arrives. I owe him, and he made enemies tonight.”

“Well, I will tell you, the food for the yanqui visitors in the cafeteria here is bad and the coffee is worse. The staff cafeteria is much better. I know many of the doctors and staff here. I will see about getting us something decent to eat. It is Sunday morning, I suspect they will have menudo.”

They followed the inspector to the elevator and went up four floors. Villaluz spoke a few words to a nurse and took over a medical conference room covered with Aztec murals. Within moments steaming bowls of tripe soup, baskets of tortillas and urns of coffee appeared. Smiley tucked in like a she-hyena with manners. Bolan took her hunger as a good sign. They shared a few moments of quiet save for table noises. Out of pride Villaluz wouldn’t bring even a despised guest to someplace he wouldn’t eat in himself.

Villaluz regarded Bolan with hospitable suspicion. “You like menudo, señor?”

“You have to look for it in the United States, and look just as hard to find a good bowl.”

“Ah.” Villaluz had no problem believing one couldn’t get decent menudo in the United States. “You prefer the broth red or green?”

Villaluz was playing chess. Bolan swiped a tortilla through his soup and wolfed it down. “Clear.”

“Ah.” The inspector nodded at the wisdom of the statement. “Simple is best.”

“Inspector, I’m very concerned that the cartel knew our route.”

“I am very concerned about that, as well.” Villaluz let some reproach creep into his voice. “However, I was not consulted on Señor Nigris’s extradition.”

“I concede the point, and it’s regrettable,” Bolan said. “However, three of the Barbacoa Four died in Mexican federal custody. We only came in after Señor Nigris demanded extradition to the U.S. in exchange for his testimony.”

“Yes.” Villaluz eyed Bolan archly. “You acceded to the request of a known cannibal.”

“Actually it was your Federal Investigation Agency that acceded to his request.”

Villaluz’s face soured. “I concede that point, and I assure you I find it regrettable as well.”

“Inspector, I believe you and I are on the same side.”

“No, actually you are both from the northern side.”

Bolan sighed inwardly as he sought a way to salvage the situation. “You come with a very high reputation, Inspector Villaluz.”

“Thank you.” The inspector accepted the compliment, but it didn’t seem to engender any sense of obligation on his part. “However, I am afraid I do not even know your name.”

Bolan nodded toward Smiley and shook his head. “Neither does she.”

Smiley shrugged helplessly. “It’s true.”

The inspector was momentarily caught off guard.

“But you can call me Cooper,” Bolan said.

“Very well. Let me be direct. I believe you are some sort of yanqui paramilitary, Señor Cooper. A specialist, brought in to help bring in Cuah Nigris alive. But by your own admission you have failed. Your mission is over, and I think it would be best if you filed your after-action report in the United States, or at the CIA station in Mexico City if you must remain within our borders. But I believe you will find that you have worn out your welcome in Tijuana. I think you must be a brave man, and skilled, but my superiors are not pleased with this evening’s activity, and to be honest, neither am I.”

“I can see how you might feel that way, Inspector. So let me be equally frank. An international DEA counternarcotics operation got compromised in the worst way possible. Our informant is dead, and so are eight veteran agents. As far as I’m concerned, my mission has just begun.”

Villaluz’s color began to rise. “Señor Cooper, you—”

Bolan threw his changeup. “However, as I said, you come with a very high reputation, and I realize we took over your operation, over your objections, and we dropped the ball. Fact is you walk heavy on the streets of Tijuana. I’m a yanqui of unknown origin, and you must suspect I have access to assets and resources you don’t, and vice versa. I suggest we pool them.”

Villaluz leaned back in his chair, remeasuring Bolan. “An intriguing offer, but I am not sure my superiors would approve.”

“Then don’t tell them.”

Villaluz blinked.

Bolan pulled out a business card with nothing but a number on it. “They don’t have to know. But if you call that number, you’ll have access to all the resources I can provide toward the case of Cuah, whether I’m removed from the situation or not.”

Villaluz took the card and stared at it warily. “My own…secret Uncle Sam?”

“Something like that.” Bolan nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Villaluz tucked the card away. “You may ask.”

“Is my leaving town a suggestion or an order?”

The inspector considered. “It’s a suggestion, for now, but do not expect much in the way of cooperation with the state or local authorities here in Tijuana.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let me say—” Villaluz frowned as his cell rang. “Forgive me.”

Bolan watched the inspector’s face as he took the call. He said very little, and Bolan could tell by Villaluz’s body language it wasn’t good news.

“You need some privacy?”

“No, thank you.” The inspector thanked his caller and clicked his phone shut. “As you know, any good policeman has his own intelligence network.”

“Of course.”

“I, of course, have put my machine into motion listening for any aspect of the Cuah Nigris case.”

Smiley pushed her plate away and stifled a belch with the back of her fist. “Cuah’s dead.”

“Yes, that is true, and now a woman I happen to know in the Tijuana’s fire department dispatch has just informed me a fire has been reported at the city morgue. Does this not strike you as an interesting coincidence, Agent Smiley?”

Smiley pushed away from the table. “Let’s go.”

“No.” Bolan rose and checked the loads in his Beretta. “We’ll never get there in time to do any good.”

Villaluz stood and broke open a heavy, snub-nosed Colt .38. “Your associate is right.”

Bree drew her weapon. “So why are we drawing down, then?”

Bolan pushed his weapon’s selector to 3-round burst mode. “If the bad guys just took care of loose ends in the morgue, then our main concern is keeping Mole alive.”

Villaluz donned his cowboy hat and tipped it at Smiley. “And you, señorita.”

“Oh, well, thanks.” Smiley checked her pistol. “I should have thought of that.”

“It’s the brain damage.” Bolan said.

“Hey!”

“Stay behind us. Stick close.” Bolan nodded at Villaluz. “Inspector?”

“Sí, the observation ward is on the first floor.” Bolan and Villaluz fell into formation as they left the medical conference room. Doctors and nurses scattered to get out of the way of the two large, armed and grim-faced men as they strode down the hall. Smiley had to run to keep pace. “Hey! Wait up!”

A braver than average nurse stepped toward them as they entered neonatology. “Sirs, this area is—”

Villaluz held up his badge. Bolan held up his gun. “Staff elevator, where?”

The nurse gawked and pointed to the door down the corridor. Smiley caught her breath as they reached the elevators and Bolan punched the button. “How likely do you figure?” she asked.

The inspector scowled. “Agent Smiley, there have been two gunfights in Mexican hospitals this year. After what has happened this night nothing would surprise me.” The elevator pinged and they stepped inside the car. Bolan glanced at the Colt Marshall in Villaluz’s hand. “Heard they call you Two Gun on the street.”

The inspector lifted his coat to reveal an identical revolver in a cross-draw holster. “It is faster to draw a second gun than to reload the first. It is perhaps the most important thing my father ever taught me.”

Bolan nodded. Villaluz Senior sounded like a man to be reckoned with.

Villaluz smirked at the machine pistol in Bolan’s hand. “Yanquis and their big guns…”

The elevator door opened to the sound of screaming. Doctors and nurses were running in different directions down the halls. A worst-case scenario came through the wide double doors that led into the observation ward. Six Hispanic males walked in three by three. All six wore trench coats, which were open, revealing body armor. All four men carried submachine guns. For just a second before the doors swung shut, Bolan saw the dead bodies littering the floor, testifying to the fact that civilian casualties weren’t a problem for the enemy. A crowd of doctors and nurses stampeded down the corridor like sheep before a pack of wolves.

“Everybody down!” Bolan roared and fired a 3-round burst into the ceiling.

“¡Todos abajo!” Villaluz thundered.

Medical professionals hugged walls, hugged the floor or threw themselves over counters or through open doors. A few still ran willy-nilly in blind and deaf panic. Bolan brought his Beretta 93-R on line in both hands. “They’re wearing armor!”

“Sí!” Villaluz shouted. He held his .38 one-handed in front of himself like an old-style target shooter and shouldered a scurrying intern to the floor. Smiley dropped to a knee between Bolan and the inspector.

The killers shouted and swore in defiance. Everyone’s weapon ripped into life at once. There was nowhere to run and no cover to be had.

Observation, Records and Receiving turned into the OK Corral as Team Bolan went for the head shots.

Bolan’s first triburst collapsed a killer’s face. Another gunner screamed as Villaluz’s pistol erupted and shot his ear off. The screaming stopped as the inspector’s second shot slammed through the man’s septum and blasted apart his brainpan. Both dead men had the decency to collapse into their compatriots behind them and spoil their aim. Long bursts ripped into the ceiling lights, and half the corridor went dark. Smiley’s auto-pistol cut loose as fast as she could pull the trigger. She caught mostly shoulder, but it was enough for Bolan and Villaluz’s cross fire to crush the third killer’s skull beyond recognition. Bolan’s next triburst tore out a killer’s trachea, and two huddling nurses screamed as they were struck by the arterial spray. Villaluz clicked on empty and slapped leather for his second gun. Smiley’s Glock cracked on like clockwork and another gunner fell. The inspector raised iron, and the last hard-man staggered beneath a full broadside from Bolan and company.

The battle was over in a matter of heartbeats.

Smiley rose and ejected her spent mag. “Jesus, that was—Jesus!”

Fresh screams ripped through surgery as the double doors flew open beneath the boots of two more killers. Bolan’s burst scattered the skull of one, but then the Beretta slammed open on empty. Villaluz punched a shot into one armored shoulder and clicked on empty. Both men simultaneously shoved Smiley to the floor and dropped to a knee. The action made both men’s pant legs ride up and expose the ankle holsters they wore. Bolan’s snub-nosed Centennial revolver rose up in his hand. Villaluz leveled a tiny, antique Colt .32. Bolan felt the wind whip of bullets passing close to his head as he and the inspector’s revolvers spit fire.

The killer collapsed to the floor with his face cratered into a bloody moonscape.

Smiley pushed herself up snarling. “God…damn it!”

Bolan and Villaluz rose and swiftly reloaded. The Executioner eyed the inspector’s cocktail-sized hideaway weapon. “So how come they don’t call you Three Gun?”

“Before tonight—” Villaluz let out a long shaky breath as he reloaded his menagerie of metal “—I have never had to pull the third one.”

Bolan considered leaving. Sirens sounded in the distance. The Hospital Angeles fire suppression system finally made up its tiny silicon mind about the gun smoke in the air and recessed sprinkler heads deployed out of the ceiling and brought on the rain. The goat-screw trifecta was complete as a baker’s dozen of armed and soggy security guards roared through the surgery doors, guns drawn, telling everyone to get down a day late and a dollar short.

CHAPTER THREE

FIA Headquarters, Tijuana

The shit storm of recrimination was long, enduring and heartfelt. La Agencia Federal de Investigación wasn’t happy and its collective, bureaucratic brain blindly pinned the tail on Mack Bolan as the donkey of its discontent. They threatened him with incarceration, litigation and deportation. Bolan weathered the storm. He had operated in Mexico before, and he had a few friends who owed him. Bolan called in markers, and the Tijuana FIA chief’s jaw dropped as Bolan handed him the phone saying, “He wants to talk to you.” It ended with stern warnings to behave himself in future. Bolan walked out of FIA Tijuana station a free man but all chances of further cooperation with local law were shot.

Bolan was radioactive in Tijuana.

The only people who would touch him would be the bad guys. Bolan walked out feeling a bit naked, as well. His Beretta 93-R machine pistol and his snub-nosed, 9 mm Smith had been confiscated. Both weapons were hard to come by, and both were probably about to become some cartel member’s prize possessions as soon as the FIA evidence people could process them, declare them destroyed, then sell them on the black market.

Something was going to have to be done about that.

Bolan had a full war load in the CIA safe house, but he didn’t want to go there until he was sure he didn’t have any tails, and he suspected he had a lot of them.

Bree Smiley walked beside him, livid beneath her bruises and stitches. “Sons of bitches. See if the Mexicans ever get reciprocity again on my—”

Bolan lifted his chin. “There’s our reciprocity right there.”

“¡Hola, amigo, muchacha!” Inspector Villaluz leaned against a gleaming black Toyota Tundra pickup and tipped his hat at them. “How was your visit?”

“We’re pretty much persona non grata,” Bolan said.

“Ah, yes.” The inspector held open the door for Smiley. She climbed in the back. Villaluz gave Bolan a solicitous grin. “So, they…ripped you a new rectum?” He savored the American colloquialism.

“They tried.”

“To be honest I was quite surprised to see you both walk out of the agency without shackles or escorts.”

“They forced me to make some phone calls,” Bolan admitted.

“I cannot imagine what that might mean.”

Bolan sized up Villaluz. Cop. Gunfighter. Corrupt, but brave, and honorable by his own lights. Bolan rolled the dice. “It means that card I gave you means something.”

Villaluz looked meditative as he pulled out into traffic. “So how do you feel? Are you hungry?”

Bolan patted the empty place where his Beretta should have been. “Actually, I’m feeling a little light.”

“Ah.” Villaluz nodded. “I think I can do something about that.”

“Lunch wouldn’t hurt either. Where do you recommend?”

“Mexicali,” Villaluz answered.

Bolan consulted his mental map. Mexicali was more than a hundred miles due east of Tijuana. “Why Mexicali?”

“Why?” Villaluz smiled happily. “They have the best Chinese food in all of Mexico!”

“And to see who follows us,” Bolan concluded.

“That, too.”

“And because I’m feeling light.”

Villaluz shrugged.

“You sure your superiors are going to approve?”

“I am getting you out of Tijuana, and I am keeping an eye on you,” the inspector replied.

“And reporting our every move?” Bolan surmised.

“Well…” Villaluz pursed his lips judiciously. “As I believe the situation requires.”

Bolan nodded. The inspector wanted the guys who had taken down Cuah Nigris, and he was willing to play both ends against the middle when it came to Bolan and his own superiors. They both knew Bolan and Smiley would be the fall guys if it went sour. It was a situation the soldier was willing to accept. “Fair enough.”

Villaluz pulled onto Highway D2 heading east. It was Sunday, and most people were heading the other way for home. The brown landscape was lined with shrines. They were constructed out of tombstones, piles of bricks or adobe, and covered with collages of curled photos, dried-up postcards of the Virgin Mary, desiccated garlands of flowers and spent votive candles. They were shrines to the dead. Most Mexican roadsides were dotted with them, but here along the border they were mostly shrines to the murdered. Along the D2 they marched like dominoes to the horizon and were a testament to the endemic violence that convulsed the country.

They made good time. Traffic wasn’t bad, and the inspector liked to drive fast. The only things that slowed them were the military and police checkpoints. Villaluz could have breezed through them on his FIA inspector’s badge but he stopped at each checkpoint and chatted up the men manning them. Bolan watched as the inspector pressed flesh and clapped shoulders. He seemed to know most of the uniforms by name, and all seemed eager to bask in the inspector’s reputation and machismo. Villaluz was dropping a net of lookouts and informants behind them on the road to Mexicali.

Bolan eased his seat back. “He’s good.”

“Mole worships the ground he walks on. Even the dirtiest cops do. The cartel street thugs respect him, and the cartel jefes in Tijuana have a hands-off policy. He doesn’t mess with them and they don’t mess with him.”

“He’s messing with them now.”

“He’s sticking his neck way out on this one, and that is uncharacteristic.” Smiley shook her head. “Cuah and the Barbacoa Four all going down while in custody has him riled up. As far as he’s concerned, someone has crossed the line, and now he’s going to cross it, as well.”

“There’s going to be a war soon.”

“Soon? Buddy, last night was World War III. I can’t wait to see what you consider a real war.”

“Stick around.”

Villaluz hopped back into his truck and peeled out with screaming tires to the cheers of the khaki-clad federales. Bolan brought up the million-dollar question. “You ever seen the cartels attack like that?”

“I have seen them brazen, bold and reckless,” the inspector said.

“You ever seen them suicidal? You ever seen them go kamikaze?”

The inspector pushed in the cigarette lighter in the dash and took his time lighting a Montana cigarette.

“You’ve seen this before tonight, haven’t you,” Bolan stated.

The usually loquacious Villaluz examined the glowing end of his cigarette. “Yes.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“The taking of heads as a terror tactic is not new among the Mexican crime syndicates. I have seen them behave—what is the English idiom—crazy-brave to prove themselves. But ruthlessly willing to die, to sacrifice themselves to kill their target, that was, as you said, kamikaze. That is new.”

Bolan shot the inspector a shrewd look. “That’s not what bothers you the most.”

“No, it is not. What bothers me most,” the inspector continued, “is the code of silence.”

“All criminal gangs have it,” Bolan said.

“That is correct,” the inspector agreed. “The Italian mafia calls it omertà, in Mexico it is simply called silencio, but as you say, in all cultures, it is basically the same. If you are a member, you do not talk.”

“And?”

“I have never seen such a silencio as I have seen now. Cartel men talk about a code of honor, but in the end? They do not have one. That much money, that much drugs? They betray one another all the time. Now I fear there is some new player in the game, and his silencio is absolute. All of the Barbacoa Four died in custody, three in ours, and finally Cuah in yours. That is just the tip of the iceberg. Many have died in federal custody and witness protection, and whoever is doing this? He takes the heads of his enemies, and he takes the heads of his own fallen. No one is talking. You saw Cuah Nigris. He was wetting himself in fear, like a dog. What does it take to inspire such fear in a known sociopath?”

It was an ugly question and Bolan didn’t have an immediate answer.

Smiley spoke from the backseat. “The DEA fears that al Qaeda has somehow infiltrated one or more of the border cartels.”

Villaluz snorted. “I wish that was the case.”

Bolan raised an eyebrow but waited for Villaluz to elaborate.

Smiley was less circumspect. “That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“It is the truth, Agent Smiley. I am sure terrorists from the Middle East with money could pay the cartels to smuggle men and materials across the border. But a bunch of foreigners taking over the streets of Tijuana? With an iron silencio? Forgive me, señorita, but I was born here. I have been a policeman all my adult life. I promise you, getting Mexican gangsters to get behind Muslim sharia law and sacrificing their lives unflinchingly in the name of the Holy Koran? I do not find it credible. Something else is going on.”

Bolan found himself on the same page as the inspector. “What do you think?”

“I do not know.” Villaluz stared into the smog clouding Mexicali city in the distance. He suddenly perked up as they hit the city limits. “Let us get onto business.”

“The Barbacoa Four?” Smiley asked.

“No, the best Mongolian Barbecue in Mexico.” Villaluz roared into town as if he owned it, and now he whipped through the checkpoints with a flash of his badge. He drove to the famous intersection of Avenida Madero and Calle Megar and took a turn into La Chinesca, Mexicali’s famous Chinatown. The buildings were a mix of old and new, but most had Chinese flourishes like pagoda accents and painted doors. What La Chinesca had more than anything was restaurants. They crowded every street, each one declaring in Spanish, Cantonese and English that they served the auténtico Chinese-Mexican cuisine.

Bolan had never seen so many Chinese people dressed like cowboys in his life.

Villaluz pulled down an alley and rolled up the windows against the flies and the rotting stench of the offal littering the ground from all the butchering going on to fuel over a hundred restaurants in less than four city blocks. The feral cats and dogs were some of the fattest Bolan had ever seen. He smiled at the inspector. “You were born here.”

The inspector grinned back. “You are a very astute man. I was born in Mexicali, but as you may suspect, particularly for a man of my age, when I was coming up through the ranks, if you had ambition, Tijuana was the only place to be. But this is where I grew up. Right across the street. When I was a boy, you could cut the line between La Chinesca and the rest of Mexicali with a knife, and we were always fighting the Chinese gangs.”