Edge of Battle

contained the weapon stock, which included the pistol grip, shoulder stock, electronics, fixed and optical sights, and battery holder; two missile launch tubes; and two spherical battery-gas generator canisters.

“Prevoshodnyj,” Fuerza said. “They look to be in excellent shape.”

Zakharov examined each one carefully. “They were painted to look new, but the data plates are missing—I would estimate the gas generator is at least twenty years old, maybe twenty-five,” he said. “And if they used regular lead-based paint on those gas generators, the heat could cause them to catch on fire as soon as the operator pulls the trigger.”

“Are you sure, Colonel?” Fuerza asked angrily.

“I do know my Russian-made weapons,” Zakharov said drily. “Trust me, I know what I am talking about.” He continued his examination. “Overall the electronics and components look to be in good order, but the data plates are missing from the missiles as well, so I would guess they are as old as the gas generators. That means they are at least five and probably ten years over their service life. If you paid more than a thousand dollars apiece for these, Comandante, you got ripped off.”

Judging by the color in his cheeks and the bulge in his eyes, it was obvious Fuerza had paid much more than a thousand dollars for the missiles. “I do not get ‘ripped off,’ as you say, Colonel—I get even,” he said darkly. “The dealer who sold me these weapons will gladly give me a full refund and suitable replacements—especially if he wants to keep his fingers and balls intact.”

“I think you should take one or two fingers anyway just to ensure he does not try to steal from anyone else,” Zakharov suggested. “We have been here too long already, Fuerza. I suggest we split up until it is time to rendezvous again to carry out our next operation.”

“Soglasovannyj,” Fuerza said. “Agreed. You are the chief of security now.”

Zakharov examined the other boxes of weapons, found the ones he was looking for, opened six of them, looped two small cylindrical canisters over his shoulders and gave the other boxes and canisters to an aide. “I will have need of these, I am sure of it,” he said. “My next two squads are scheduled to arrive at the rendezvous point at Esparanza in two days. You will arrange the border crossing for them and transportation to Amarillo, Texas.”

“Two days? Impossible, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “The entire El Paso and Fabens border crossing area will be swarming with American Border Patrol and Mexican Internal Affairs border patrols for at least a week, maybe more.” He thought for a moment; then: “The best chance for a crossing in that time frame will be Arizona,” he said, smiling. “Have your men go to the rendezvous point in Nogales and await my signal. They will…”

“Nogales! That’s at least six hours west of the original rendezvous point!”

“Your first assignment, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “Perhaps your men will get a little field training and target practice in at the same time.”

“What are you babbling about?”

“Your men will come across others on the trail,” Fuerza said. “If and when you do, you must deal with them…appropriately.”

“More Border Patrol agents, Fuerza?” Zakharov asked irritably. “They will be ready for us this time. Pick a different crossing point, Fuerza. What about Agua Prieta or Palomas?”

“Western and central New Mexico are already overrun with migrants,” Fuerza said, smiling. “My intelligence reports indicate that the Border Patrol and perhaps some civilian border patrol groups will concentrate their efforts there.”

“Civilians? You mean the vigilantes? You are going to put my men on the same trail as some of those American commando wannabes?” As Fuerza expected, the Russian terrorist broke out into a grin. “Well, that’s different, Ernesto. My men would enjoy an easy night of target practice.”

“I thought you might enjoy it,” Fuerza said. “But you must deal with them carefully.”

“My men and I are always careful…”

“Do as I suggest, Colonel, and I will create an atmosphere of paranoia and fear that will cause the entire border security debate in America to shatter,” Fuerza said.

“Explain.”

“The Americans are going to put more robots on the border and, if that fails as it appears it has, they will bring armed troops in,” Fuerza replied. “They will do this because they think they have the upper hand.”

“Militarily, that is unquestioned.”

“But in every other respect, they do not,” Fuerza said. “Perhaps on the question of their right to secure their borders from terrorist monsters like you, they win. But in moral, social, political, economic, humanitarian, and cultural terms, they fail. When the Americans realize they do not control what happens on their own immense borders, they will rush to return to the status quo, just as the American people’s response to your attacks just a year ago has been to simply return to the status quo.”

“This is gibberish, Fuerza,” Zakharov said, pouring himself more vodka. “I am not playing along with this cultural psychobabble. You want to kill some American vigilantes, do it yourself.”

“At the very least, you get to practice your night-hunting skills, and save some money on border-crossing fees,” Fuerza said. “At most, you will start an insurrection in this country that I guarantee will result in the borders being thrown wide open for you.”

Zakharov thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well, Fuerza. But if we expend any ammunition or lose any men or equipment, it comes out of your pocket, not mine.”

Fuerza fell silent himself, but only for a moment: “Very well, Colonel, it is a deal.” They shook hands, both eyeing each other warily as they did so. “Nice to do business with you, Colonel,” Fuerza said; then he added, “You still did not tell me what you and your men intend to do in this country, Colonel,” he said. He motioned to the television. “You want those robots, do you not?”

“First I want Richter and Vega as my prisoners, and then I want those robots,” Zakharov said. “They will teach me how those robots are maneuvered and controlled. I will use the robots to capture other robots and other weapons, and soon I will be the most powerful mercenary warlord in the world.”

“Such a force would be extremely valuable to me, Colonel,” Fuerza said.

“Use my robots to protect your dope deals, Fuerza? Not a chance. There are dictators that will pay me a hundred times what you are paying me now to have those robots fighting for them.”

“So you want to capture some of those robots to form a mercenary fighting force?”

“A fighting force, yes,” Zakharov said. “A ‘mercenary’ force—no. I have one specific objective in mind.”

“In Amarillo, Texas? More oil refineries, I assume?”

“You should assume nothing, Comandante,” Zakharov warned, “or if I am discovered, I will ‘assume’ that you told them, and if I survive I will be coming after you.” He paused, then murmured, “They have some things in Amarillo that belong to me, and I want them back.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Fuerza said. “I have excellent contacts throughout Texas, and of course I do a great deal of business there.”

“We will see how good your information is in Arizona first,” Zakharov said. “But perhaps you can be of help to me later on.”

“We will talk, Colonel,” Fuerza said. “If it is money you want, I can get it for you.”

“Keep your end of the bargain and don’t try to screw me, Fuerza, and then you can talk to me all you want.” He got on a small walkie-talkie, checked in with his security detail to be sure the way was clear, and departed.

As soon as the Russian departed, Fuerza ordered, “Keep an eye on them. I do not want those bastards coming back for this money. They have enough weapons now to lay waste to this entire county.”

“No confio en aquel ruso, Comandante,” one of Fuerza’s men said. “I think he would turn us in to the federales in an instant.”

“Concordado,” Fuerza said. He nodded toward the duffel bag filled with money. “Zakharov thinks he has bought our cooperation as well as those weapons. But we do not need his help. We will use him as much as possible, then dispose of him.”

He went into the living room, moved a couch, a rug, and several pieces of plywood, revealing a hidden door. He carefully removed a trip wire on the handle to deactivate a booby trap explosive device, then opened the door. One by one, he started handing out kilo bags of white powder, securely wrapped in duct tape, and more bundles of