Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3)

by Stephen Edger

  The van edged forward again. Aaron started the ignition and moved forward slightly before turning it off again. He fished the phone out of his pocket and scanned for news stories from back home, but the reception was too poor. He pushed the phone back into his pocket and tried stretching. He rotated his head around to stretch his neck muscles, then his wrists and ankles.

  The procession continued for another forty minutes, until it was finally his turn at the checkpoint. He pulled the car over to the small cabin to his left and lowered his window. The guard at the station thrust a hand out, without even a greeting and Dylan handed his passport over. The guard opened the small burgundy book, studied the picture and made two cursory glances in Aaron’s direction, before scanning the book and then handing it back, and signalled for Aaron to move forward. He breathed a huge sigh of relief and raised the window once more, putting the car into first gear and pulling away. He could see the van owner had been asked to open the rear doors so that the U.S. border guards could look in the back. He had a small laugh to himself, glad that he’d opted for a mundane Prius.

  He was just looking for an alternative station when three uniformed men stepped in front of the car, causing him to brake suddenly. The three men were pointing their semi-automatic weapons at the windscreen and one was holding out a hand to warn him to stop. Aaron’s eyes darted left to right as he tried to decide if they meant him, or if there was another car they were actually aiming at.

  His pulse quickened.

  The guard who had held a hand out now moved around to Aaron’s window and indicated for him to lower it once more. Aaron couldn’t take his eyes of the barrel as it moved closer and closer to the glass.

  There has to be some kind of mistake, he thought as he desperately tried to avoid panicking.

  The guard repeated the hand gesture and Aaron complied.

  ‘Out of the car,’ the guard said, his accent obvious.

  ‘What’s going on? What have I done?’ Aaron stammered.

  ‘Slowly, señor. No sudden movements.’

  This isn’t happening.

  His mind raced as he tried to think of any reason he had given them to doubt his good intentions, whilst also trying to think of whether he needed to bring anything with him from the car. He started to look around for his phone, uncertain whether he’d returned it to his pocket or left it out.

  ‘Slowly, señor,’ the guard closest to him repeated. ‘Out of the car.’

  Aaron slowly reached for the door handle and slowly swung it open. He could see the guard’s index finger resting on the weapon’s trigger.

  Any sudden move, and you’re dead, the voice in his head told him. Relax, it’s just a mistake; you’ll be on your way soon enough.

  A second guard moved from the front of the vehicle, his weapon trained on Aaron’s chest.

  ‘Please,’ Aaron began, ‘I’m not armed. This is all a big mistake. You don’t need your guns.’

  The first guard lifted his weapon slightly to indicate that Aaron should now get out of the car. He carefully swung each leg around and placed his feet on the ground. His knees wobbled slightly. The second guard took a step back, allowing him space to stand. As he did, he suddenly became aware that the rest of the port was still running normally. The family in the car behind his was watching the scene unfold, but everybody seemed oblivious to the fact that three armed guards were ready to kill him; as if it was an everyday occurrence.

  Aaron gripped the doorframe as he tried to pull his unsteady body up. As soon as he was upright, the second guard lowered his weapon and grabbed Aaron’s upper arms, spinning and pinning him to the side of the car. The guard yanked Aaron’s wrists back before securing them with a plastic cable tie. Aaron looked over to his left; he was fewer than ten metres from the security of American soil, but it felt a million miles away now. The van with the bumper sticker was being waved on, and the two U.S. guards who had searched it were now watching the unfolding scene. He wanted to call out to them; to tell them that The Cadre were responsible for what they were seeing and that they should intervene, but he knew it was useless. The second guard spun him around once more and, gripping Aaron by the left arm, began to escort him across the lanes of traffic towards a small brick building.

  *

  Aaron’s wrists were aching. He’d been left alone in a small room with no windows for twenty minutes. All he had for company was a table and the chair he was sitting on. A large mirror to his right suggested that his actions were being monitored.

  He’d remained in the seat the whole time, his eyes closed and his head down to steady his breathing. His naval training had taught him there was nothing less helpful than panic and fear in stressful situations. Regardless of the lies The Cadre had concocted to initiate his detainment, the important thing was he was still alive. The door at the far side of the room opened and a short, overweight man entered. He was wearing a navy blue uniform emblazoned with the letters C.B.P. in a mustard colour. He was carrying an A4-sized paper wallet, which he placed on the table in front of Aaron. He remained standing, watching him. Aaron kept his head down and focused on his breathing. The guard returned to the door, opened it and barked a command to someone outside of the room. A moment later a second agent entered the room carrying a small bottle of mineral water and a chair. He placed the items down without making eye contact with Aaron and hurried back out of the room. The overweight man closed the door again and returned to the table, this time sitting down in the newly arrived chair.

  ‘Como se llama?’ he said suddenly, catching Aaron by surprise.

  ‘You have my passport,’ Aaron replied evenly. ‘My name’s in that.’

  The agent studied him for a moment longer. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he eventually said, his accent native but with strong diction.

  Aaron shook his head.

  ‘I am Agent Jesus Reyes. I am a Customs and Border Protection Agent. Do you know why you have been detained?’

  Aaron shook his head without looking up.

  ‘There was an incident on one of the back roads late last night. A man matching your description was in a major collision, which resulted in the deaths of one state police officer and two members of the British Embassy in San Diego. Witnesses described a man such as you in the Embassy vehicle when it left the road.’

  Aaron kept his head down, breathing as slowly as he could manage.

  ‘It seems that the state police were chasing an armed robber who had evaded arrest. The pursuit lasted for twenty minutes and caused significant damage to several other vehicles who came into contact with the fleeing criminal. It is alleged that the stolen car collided with the Land Rover, causing it to career off the road. Unfortunately one of the pursuing police cars was also forced from the road and the officer died of his injuries. You were seen entering the Land Rover when it left the police station last night, but you were not present at the scene when the response teams arrived. A witness statement is required of you.’

  Aaron slowly raised his head, the look of confusion evident to any observer. ‘A witness statement? You dragged me from my car under an armed escort for a witness statement?’

  The agent held up his hands passively. ‘I’m sorry that my colleagues misunderstood the situation. When your passport was scanned, a warning flag was raised and they were told to detain you, but they did not know what for. I am sorry for any distress this caused.’

  ‘Why are my hands still tied?’

  The agent craned his neck so he could see Aaron’s bound wrists. He stood quickly and removing a small pen knife, he cut the ties. Aaron rubbed his wrists to improve the circulation of blood.

  ‘I do not know why you were left like that. I am sorry again. Now, I have a written statement here which affirms you were not in the Land Rover when it was involved in the collision. It says you were released at your hotel so you could collect your items.’

  ‘Wait, that’s not what happened…’

  The agent held his hands up again to calm Aaron. ‘Yo
u were left at your hotel and were not in the vehicle when it left the road. You did not see what happened to the state police officer or Mr Dickinson and his driver. You were not there. The sooner you sign your typed statement, the sooner you can be on your way, Mr Cross.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘If you need more time to think about your statement, Mr Cross, I can have one of my colleagues reapply the cable tie and we can leave you to your silent contemplation for as long as it takes. Of course that would also give me time to search your vehicle for the satchel of pesos you stole from Officer Marquez. But, if you’d prefer to be on your way, all I need is a signature.’

  Aaron’s eyes widened at the mention of the money. He’d stashed it inside the spare tyre beneath the car; hidden well enough from a cursory search, but no more than that. He studied the agent’s body language. ‘You’re one of them aren’t you? You work for The Cadre.’

  The agent’s face did not move. ‘One of who, Mr Cross? I told you I work for the Customs and Border Protection Agency.’

  The agent slipped a single piece of typed paper from the wallet and slid it across the table. Aaron skim read the statement. It was exactly as the agent had described.

  ‘What time is it?’ Aaron asked, holding out a hand for a pen.

  ‘It is five past eleven, Mr Cross,’ he said, handing over a biro.

  Aaron scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page and dated it. He pushed the sheet of paper back to Reyes and rolled the pen with it. ‘Where’s my car?’

  ‘Follow me, Mr Cross and I will escort you to my U.S. counterparts. Thank you for your cooperation.’

  18

  TIJUANA, MEXICO

  12:30 (P.S.T.)

  Two bus trips and three hours since he’d left Aaron at the mall, Dylan was now walking along the road back to Las Iguanas bar. The road, which had looked so unwelcoming the night before, just looked desolate in the cold light of day. He now saw that the shadows that had danced dauntingly next to him, in fact belonged to the many palm trees that lined the street. The houses that didn’t have broken windows were still in a moderate state of disrepair. He imagined that there must have been a time when living on a street such as this held some appeal, but he now pitied those who had been forced to stay. The abandoned houses were boarded up and coated in gang tags; bullet hole signatures adorned the struts too.

  He kept his head down and hood up as he walked, anxious not to draw unwarranted attention to himself.

  They’ve been known to behead Yankees in these parts, you know.

  The old man’s words still troubled him. He’d been lucky that the police had arrived to break up his encounter with the waitress’ overprotective brother. Why couldn’t they see that he just wasn’t looking for trouble? All he wanted was to be reunited with Maria and Elena and then just disappear. As the minutes ticked by, the dream seemed to slip further and further away.

  He’d taped most of the money Dylan had given him to his lower legs, but he still had a few notes in his wallet; he hoped it would be enough to buy him the information he needed. He began to climb the steps to the bar, not noticing the black Sedan pulling up across the street, some fifty or so yards behind him.

  On entering the building, his first instinct was to look for the bearded brother who had hit him. He quickly scanned the bar, but there was no obvious sign of him or his skinny pal. Relieved, he walked casually to the bar and pulled out a stool to sit on. There was one woman working behind the bar, but she was much older than the girl who’d been serving the night before. This again brought welcome relief. She was busy chatting to a customer at the end of the bar, so Dylan waved his hand to get her attention.

  She started to approach him the moment she noticed the wave. ‘Hola, what can I get for you?’ she asked.

  ‘You speak English? That’s great.’

  ‘Gracias, you want a beer?’

  ‘Please,’ he said, smiling to show he meant no harm.

  She placed a bottle in front of him and took the note he placed on the bar, returning his change on a small plate, before heading back to her previous conversation. Dylan gulped from the bottle, realising he hadn’t had a drink since breakfast. The fizz tasted good and, before he knew it, the bottle was empty. He lifted the bottle in the woman’s direction until she began to walk back towards him. He placed another note on the bar as she grabbed a second bottle from the fridge.

  ‘The girl who was working last night: she’s not working today?’

  ‘Conchita? No, she starts at seven. I’d be careful with her; she is from a dangerous family. Last night, her brother started a fight with…wait,’ she paused as she noticed the slight bruising on Dylan’s cheek. ‘It was you, right? You’re the guy who got beaten up last night?’

  Dylan shrugged. ‘I wasn’t looking for a fight, I promise.’

  ‘Okay, well you better go by seven.’

  ‘I will be,’ he said. ‘Wait…can you help me with something? The thing is: I was supposed to meet my wife here last night but she didn’t show up before the fight.’ He pulled the folded photograph from his jacket and flattened it on the bar. ‘Do you recognise her at all? Has she been in here at any point?’

  The woman glanced briefly at the photo. ‘No.’

  ‘Please? He said pushing the plate of change towards her. ‘It’s really important I find her. Can you look again and try and remember if you’ve noticed her? She may have had a young girl with her; our daughter.’

  The woman pushed the plate back towards him. ‘I don’t want your money. I have not seen this woman, or your daughter. Not all Mexican people want to cheat others.’

  With that, she stomped off back to her conversation. Dylan wasn’t prepared to let it rest and hurried after her.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just….I think something bad may have happened to her. I think maybe someone has taken her and I need to find out if she was ever here. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  The man she’d been speaking to grunted something but she put a hand out to pacify him, before leaning forward and whispering, ‘If she is missing, try Woodford.’

  ‘Woodford? Who’s Woodford?’

  ‘He is a local investigator. He has an office two blocks down this road. If anybody can help you, it’s him.’

  ‘Two blocks away? How will I know which office is his?’

  The woman smiled. ‘You’ll know.’

  Dylan walked back to his drink and drained the bottle in one. As he turned and headed out of the bar he felt a little light-headed, but was filled with renewed purpose. He broke into a jog and covered the distance in a matter of minutes. The woman in the bar had been right: his office was easy to spot. Above a small grocery shop was a big faded white sign stating ‘J. W. Woodford P.I.’. A bright red arrow at the end of the sign indicated a door to a staircase up to the office. Next to the door was a column of buzzers with names scrawled on them. He pressed the one for Woodford but there was no answer. He pulled on the door to see how secure it was, and was surprised when it opened.

  Some security, he thought.

  He took the stairs two at a time, passing a door on the first floor for a lawyer’s office, and then a door on the second floor for a masseuse. He was relieved to reach the third floor and discover Woodford’s office. He felt a little out of breath and took a moment to compose himself. He was about to knock on the door when he heard a commotion on the other side, followed by a low moan.

  He forced the door open and followed a narrow corridor down to the open plan office. Two young men in their early twenties were punching and kicking something on the carpet beneath them.

  ‘Hey,’ Dylan shouted, ‘Which of you is Woodford?’

  The punch bag on the floor groaned and attempted to raise a hand, which was swiftly stomped on by one of the two assailants.

  ‘Salida, hombre,’ the larger of the two men demanded.

  ‘Dylan removed his jacket and hung it from a stand in the corner of the room. ‘I need to speak to
that man and it’s pretty urgent. If I have to go through you two first, then so be it.’ He raised his fists to his face.

  The larger man nodded to his accomplice who stepped forward swinging an arm in Dylan’s direction. Dylan pulled his head back out of the way, whilst raising his knee into the man’s gut. He followed this with a swift elbow into the man’s back, allowing him to fall winded to the floor. The larger man then moved forward, charging towards him. Dylan tried to move out of the way again, but this time his assailant anticipated the move and arched to the right using his shoulder to barge Dylan into the wall. The coat stand toppled over as Dylan’s trailing leg connected with it. He ducked down just in time to avoid the man’s boot. It slammed into the wall instead. Thinking quickly, Dylan stretched out for the coat stand and swung it up, connecting with the larger man’s chin, causing him to take a dazed step backward. Dylan used the opportunity to launch his own charge, forcing his shoulder into the man’s gut and sending them both crashing into Woodford’s desk. The larger man wrestled Dylan off him and prepared for another attack. Dylan looked around for anything he could use to defend himself and, seeing a brown leather briefcase to his right, he grabbed it and thrust it towards the Mexican. He batted it away with an arm, but the reaction was enough for Dylan to strike him with a wild right hook to the jaw and the man crashed to the floor.

  Dylan rushed around the desk and helped Woodford into a chair.

  ‘Big mistake, hombre,’ the larger man said, both men now back on their feet.

  Dylan turned and raised his fists again, but Woodford opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small pistol, cocking the hammer and pointing it at the two Mexicans. ‘I think our business here is done. Be on your way!’ Woodford slurred. ‘Go on now.’

  The two men did as they’d been instructed and left the office.

  ‘You’re Woodford?’ Dylan asked when they were gone, recognising the former journalist who had warned him the night before. ‘I thought you said the locals trusted you.’