Mark of Evil by Tim Lahaye, Craig Parshall Page A

she needed answers, and she needed them quick. So she pressed. “Is Jo Li’s barter system mixed in with the Triad here in Hong Kong? The brothels and drug trade? That’s what I’m worried about. Or is there a legitimate way to buy and sell, underground, without worrying about being part of all that dirty money?”
    Brooking studied her closely. “In the old days, when someone gave you a dollar or a pound note or some other currency, did you ever have any assurance that the last person who used that currency before him wasn’t a criminal? I don’t know you very well, Rivka. For a stranger, you’re asking some very intriguing questions.” Then he added, “From everything that I’ve heard, Jo Li is an economic genius. And a pure capitalist. I know plenty of people, good solid people, who say his system works—and it avoids the unpleasantness of knowing that all your transactions are being watched by Big Brother.”
    Rivka thought Brooking was playing it coy, giving her the “from what I’ve heard” line. He could be an insider in Jo Li’s underground economy; when she’d had her boot at Chow’s throat, he’d confirmed Brooking might know something.
    “Is there any downside to Jo Li’s system?” Rivka said. “For us ‘Jesus people,’ as you refer to us?”
    Brooking looked as if he was still sizing her up. Rivka could see that something was at play, something about Hadley Brooking that remained hidden under the surface. “Let’s talk more about this soon,” Brooking said as he slid his card across the desk. “Call me. We’ll talk. I would like to help you. If I’m able, that is.”

NINE
    MAVERICK COUNTY, TEXAS
    The two border patrol agents lay flat on their stomachs, hidden in a grove of sand sage and yucca, each of them peering through binoculars.
    The junior agent said, “I hate doing this on my belly. I’ve heard about the coral snakes.”
    “Maybe,” the senior agent replied, “but at least those are easy to spot, the colors being what they are. Rattlers are more likely around here.” He tensed as he saw something off in the distance through his binoculars. “Speaking of snakes. Down there, coming up over the ridge. See them?”
    The other border patrol agent shifted his focus and saw what his senior partner was looking at: three blue Humvees mounted with machine guns coming over a slight ridge. They were flyingblue-and-white Global Alliance flags. He cussed loudly. “Okay, now what?”
    “We report back, then get out of here.”
    “That means they’re now fifteen miles inside the borders of the United States. We need to do something—”
    “Just report back,” the other agent spit out. “Nothing more.”
    “I say we request authority to use force.”
    “Right. We’re going to fire our Smith & Wessons at that armored convoy? Think again.”
    “Man, oh man. First the Mexican kidnappers and the drug cartels. Now this.”
    “Let’s go,” the senior agent said. They both raised themselves slightly off the ground and half duckwalked, hunched over, through the brush until they neared their white vehicle with the diagonal green stripe. The patrol vehicle was on top of the ridge about fifty feet away, but in an area clear of underbrush or cover.
    The senior agent said, “We’d better make this fast. Once we climb into our ride, I’ll call it in to HQ and then we can bug out of here.”
    They were still hunched over as they scuffled through the dirt toward the patrol Hummer. Then the junior agent stopped and half turned around. “Did you see that? A puff of smoke! Couple of feet behind me, coming off the ground. They just took a sniper shot at me!”
    “Keep heading to the Hummer,” the senior agent growled.
    As he continued toward the patrol vehicle, the other agent raised his profile a bit, unholstered his Smith & Wesson, and aimed it at one of the Global Alliance vehicles.
    “Drop your weapon!” the senior agent yelled. “Don’t give them—”
    But it was too late.