“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