“Hey, G-Man, sorry you guys got dragged down here.”
“Hey, TR. We’ve got the best assignment in the agency. Big Bend National Park and beautiful rangers.” He could say that without worrying about being labeled a sexist or accused of harassment. They’d known each other for many years.
She offered him a genuine smile. The ranger’s full name was Theresa Ragan, a super nice woman and a class act. Like Border Patrol agents, she wore a sidearm—all federal park rangers did. Compact and blonde, she looked a lot like his sister, probably the reason he felt so comfortable around her.
“Tuck, how you making out with this crusty old codger? You must be tired of hearing the same old fish stories over and over and over.”
“It’s unbearable,” Tucker said.
“Hey, what’s wrong with my stories?”
“How much time do you have?” she asked.
He smiled. “So can we get all the way down there?”
“Most of the way. We’ll have to hoof the last three hundred yards or so.”
“We aren’t going to get too close. You heard about the tire fire west of Ciudad Juárez the other day?”
“Yeah, it exploded,” she said.
“Like I said, we’ll keep a safe distance.”
“That’s a foul-looking smoke column,” Tucker said.
“It’s tires again,” she said. “I went down there for a closer look before you guys got here. It’s a crappy thing to do. That stuff’s toxic.”
Even though the dark roiling smoke rose high above them, a slight stench of burned rubber hung in the air. Grangeland used his field glasses but couldn’t see the fire’s source through the trees. “Were you down this way yesterday?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t see anything. I mean I didn’t see a pile of tires.”
“Then somebody dumped them there last night and waited until this morning to torch them. Why wait? Why not torch them last night?”
“Hard to say.”
“Could it be a trash burn?”
“It’s possible, but the locals are pretty respectful of the park. I’ve never seen this before. One thing’s for certain: there aren’t enough vehicles in Santa Elena to produce that many old tires. Somebody brought them into town.”
“Do you know any of the locals? Anybody we could talk to?”
“Not really. It’s a tiny community and they keep to themselves. If we see someone across the river, we can ask. Your Spanish is better than mine, though. I checked at Cottonwood Campground. No one saw or heard anything. It’s pretty far away.”
They didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“How’s Jackson doing?” TR asked.
Grangeland shrugged. “I honestly can’t say. I don’t really know her. From what I’ve heard, she’s still on paid leave and planning to return to patrol someday. In my opinion, she should get as much time as she needs.”
“I totally agree. Well, let’s go down there and see what we see,” TR said. “Our access road is just past the Castolon turn.”
Grangeland already knew that. He’d been down to the old Santa Elena crossing many times, just not lately. Out of respect for TR, he didn’t say anything. He’d been patrolling this area of the river long before the park ranger had been assigned to Big Bend.
El Lobo’s irritation grew with each passing minute. Where the hell were they? Didn’t anyone work at the Castolon ranger station? Perhaps it was too early in the morning. If the response came from Boquillas, it could take a while.
He supposed another pile of burning tires didn’t warrant a “drop everything and respond” type of call, but the last time he’d torched tires, there’d been a nice explosion to go with it. If the cavalry didn’t show up in the next half hour or so, there might not be any response at all. This section of the river was, after all, extremely remote. Even so, the fire’s proximity to the two-bit town of Santa Elena should merit some level of investigation, if only a drive-by.
So far, the USBP was batting a thousand. They’d arrived to investigate and log every bonfire he’d created along the border over the last week, and he expected they’d do the same thing here.
Patience. They’ll come. They’ve got nothing else to do.
It didn’t feel bitterly cold, but he was far from comfortable. It triggered a childhood memory of being cold. He and his sister used to stay away from the house until well after dark, waiting for their father to fall asleep, or more accurately, pass out drunk. He remembered being cold, huddling with his sister in the bushes of a neighbor’s yard. A skinny dog used to keep them company. It smelled bad, but they still liked it. It never hit them or yelled at them. They’d save some of their food from dinner and feed it. Then one day, the dog didn’t come inside the bushes to visit them. They looked for it the next day but never found it. He remembered feeling sad.
Never get close to anything; it might not be there tomorrow.
El Lobo shivered. Even with a heavy camouflaged jacket, he began to feel the onset of a chill. What he felt next was a huge pang of relief when a vehicle with a light bar came into view, too distant to know if it belonged to a park ranger or the Border Patrol . . . He’d have to wait until it got closer.
A minute later, he had his answer—a park ranger. He’d seen enough of their white SUVs to distinguish the difference. It kept coming and rolled past the Castolon junction. He had the impression a woman was behind the wheel.
A few minutes later, it emerged from the line of cottonwoods lining the sandy wash along the river. The ranger, definitely a woman, didn’t get out. Maybe he’d have his way with her someday. Maybe someday soon. He liked law enforcement women . . . liked dominating them, in particular.
The park ranger used field glasses to study the fire for a few seconds, then backed away and disappeared back into the trees. A few minutes later, her vehicle returned to a position above the Castolon junction and parked on the shoulder. A good sign. She was obviously waiting to meet someone, presumably the mighty US Border Patrol.
He took a swig of water and focused on the fire with his scope. Some of the locals had crawled out of their holes to watch.
If no one showed up soon, he’d be forced to scrap this mission and try again. Problem was, the big move across the desert was about a week away, and he needed to make sure the Border Patrol assets were deployed where he wanted them. He had a backup plan to stage an incident at the Boquillas port-of-entry crossing, but he’d rather have the Border Patrol’s efforts focused farther west, here at Santa Elena.
Boquillas. What a joke. He couldn’t believe how idiotic the Americans were. Rafts full of people were legally allowed to cross the Rio Bravo and dump their occupants onto American soil. If the migrants didn’t mind getting wet, they could just wade or swim across—legally. Once on the American side, the “visitors” walked up a short trail to the ranger’s station where they were required to check in at a kiosk run by the US National Park Service. A kiosk . . . really? Didn’t that assume they could read and write? During their stroll up the path, “visitors” could accidentally stray away from the tree-lined trail, hide out until dark, then catch a ride north. In reality, they didn’t even need to wait until nightfall. He’d used the Boquillas crossing many times, and no, he and his charges didn’t bother to check in. He always got a big kick out of the Department of Homeland Security emblem plastered on the kiosk. America, home of the great naive class. His profession as a coyote would be so much harder if America ever got serious about its border security. Until then, he’d just have to keep making obscene amounts of money.
His one fear was going to prison. He’d never survive it, being cooped up all day long, spending hour after hour, day after day, and year after year in a tiny cell. Ever since childhood, he’d hated being told what to do, and prison embodied that. No way. He’d rather die than rot in prison.
El Lobo scanned the highway’s horizon with his optic and saw something. A speck on the road. He watched the speck turn into a vehicle. After several minutes, the v
ehicle became white. The white vehicle slowly transformed into an SUV with a light bar and a diagonal green stripe on its sides. Stop the presses. The US Border Patrol had finally arrived.
He smiled when it pulled alongside the park ranger. Oh, that’s so quaint. Say hello. Make small talk. Exchange some doughnuts.
The Border Patrol vehicle followed the park ranger’s SUV when it pulled away. He’d scouted this area with binoculars thoroughly and knew the exact route they’d take down to the old crossing, but he lost sight of their vehicles after they passed the turn to the old Castolon station. The cottonwood canopy along this stretch of the river made tracking them all the way to the water impossible. He wouldn’t see them again until they emerged on foot. If they didn’t dillydally, that ought to happen in just under four minutes. The two vehicles had to navigate the crappy road through the trees.
Right on schedule, he saw them emerge from the cottonwoods and park at the edge of the dry wash. They stopped at the same place where the park ranger had used her field glasses to look at the fire.
The two beeps got out and began walking with the ranger toward the river.
He’d chosen this spot because it had an ideal exit. All he had to do was make a downhill run to where Quattro waited with the Range Rover, then casually drive away, staying well south of the main part of town, if you could even call this dump a town.
He wondered what they were saying as they walked toward his trap. He didn’t have any hard feelings for the park rangers, but business was business, and those other assholes in green were on his shit list. The mighty US Border Patrol was nothing but a bunch of overpaid bullies.
Maybe that’s why he hated them so much . . . They were too similar to himself.
El Lobo gauged the wind and added another left click.
“Come to Papa,” he whispered.
Grangeland drove behind TR through the trees and shrubs lining the dirt track, branches scraping their vehicles’ doors. TR hadn’t been kidding. Bumpy didn’t begin to describe this. The Santa Elena crossing wasn’t really a crossing unless you had one of those silly boats on wheels tourists liked to ride.
The low vegetation began to thin as they got closer to the wash. Just ahead, where a huge stand of cottonwoods towered over their heads, the road ended at a wide dry wash.
“We’ve got some lookie-loos,” Grangeland said.
“I see them,” said Tuck. On the Mexican side, several men, women, and children stood at a safe distance, watching the fire. “I guess we have our answer about talking to the locals. They’re leaving in a big hurry.”
“Yep, they see us for sure.”
TR climbed out and walked a few steps toward the river. “You guys always scare away the wildlife.”
“We’re truly loved,” Tucker said.
“Well, let’s get over there and see what we see,” Grangeland said.
“We’ll see murky water, sand, driftwood, and rocks.”
“Come on, Tuck,” she said. “Where’s your sense of adventure? We might discover some fresh footprints.”
“You can’t know how much that excites me.”
“We have to walk over there anyway to get the coordinates,” said Grangeland.
“If you say so. Can we avoid getting too close? I’d rather not take a molten-rubber shower.”
“I second that,” TR said.
The three of them emerged out of the trees. To reach the river’s edge, which ought to keep them a safe distance from the burning pile, they had to hike about a thousand feet across open sand intermixed with river rock and driftwood.
TR took point. “At least the smoke column’s leaning away from us. I wouldn’t want to breathe that crap in.”
“It looks nasty, all right,” Grangeland agreed.
Separated by several yards each, they walked in silence for a few minutes. Too bad some idiot ruined a beautiful morning by torching a bunch of tires. What a dumb-ass thing to do. Monkey see, monkey do. Bonfires had become a disturbing trend recently. Agreeing with Tuck’s sentiment, Grangeland didn’t plan to get too close. The last thing he wanted was a burning chunk of rubber to ruin his magnificent hat. He liked wearing his formal cover rather than a ball cap. It kept the sun off his face and neck.
The fire’s source was plainly visible now . . . and something else. Like a fuse, a line of burned tires extended away from the pile. They hadn’t been able to see it from Santa Elena Canyon Road. “TR, hang on a sec. I wanna check something with my binoculars. Tuck, you see that burned line coming out of the pile?”
His partner brought his binoculars up. “Yeah, what do you make of it?”
“I think it acted like a fuse. Whoever set this fire wanted to delay the main burn.”
“Why would they do that?”
He stopped walking. “I don’t know. TR, did someone call this in to you guys? A camper or anyone? The park service called us, right?”
“Yeah. We got a report of a fire near the old Santa Elena crossing.”
“I don’t like the feel of this anymore. I think we should—”
A loud crack tore the air.
Shit! Grangeland knew the sound well. A supersonic bullet.
He yelled, “Sniper!”
More than a full second later, the distant thud of the report from the Mexican side of the river reached their position.
Her face contorting with pain, TR spun and collapsed.
“Theresa!” Grangeland crouched to make himself a smaller target. “Go, Tuck! Weave as you run! I’ve got TR. Call it in and get the M4! Go. Go!”
More supersonic cracks rang out, and thankfully, all the bullets missed.
As he scooped TR up from the sand, he heard Tuck shouting into his lapel mic for backup.
A fourth bullet screamed off a melon-size river rock next to his face. Chunks of shrapnel cleaved into his cheek and nose. Shit, that could’ve been my eyes. The sniper’s attempted head shot hadn’t missed by more than a foot.
“I’ve got you, TR.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m okay.”
She didn’t sound okay.
In retrospect, the wash had been an ideal ambush location. Nothing but open ground in every direction. No gullies or deep depressions to provide cover.
Making matters worse, they had no way to return fire on the shooter, so he didn’t have to relocate. Based on the gap between the arriving bullets and the delayed report of the rifle, Grangeland put the sniper at one thousand yards, probably atop the low ridge to their southwest. It might even be El Lobo himself. Grangeland knew the coyote had taken Special Forces training in the Mexican Army, which would’ve included sniper school.
Whoever lay behind that rifle was a damned good shot.
The sand continued to explode at his feet as he ran.
“Keep going,” TR said. “Go, go!”
“Yeah, that’s the general idea.”
The intensity of the supersonic cracks lessened as the shooter switched over to Tuck. Fortunately, his partner was on the move, and all the bullets missed. He hoped the sniper was really fast at operating a bolt-action rifle because the alternative meant they were on the wrong end of a semiauto and could be facing upward of twenty rounds without a break.
Not a pleasant thought.
This whole thing? A setup. The location. The delayed burn. The smoke column to gauge the wind. All of it reeked of El Lobo.
No time to lament.
With TR securely in his arms, he ran as fast as he could toward the tree line to the northwest. It was farther to go, but if he ran due north, he’d be an easier target to acquire. While running, he slowed down and sped up in an unpredictable pattern. Three strides, two strides, four strides. Every so often, he’d nearly stop then start again.
The feeling of being in a sniper’s crosshairs had to be the worst dread he’d ever experienced. He sensed the shooter trying to get a solid bead on him.
Ignoring the early signs of muscle burn, Agent Grangeland kept pumping his legs.
Things progressed exactly as planned. It couldn’t have been scripted better. El Lobo watched the three of them walk along the exact route he’d predicted. Looking through his $10,000 scope, his excitement built with every step they took.
Then they stopped.
What the hell are you idiots doing? Keep going!
They hadn’t reached the spot he’d chosen at nine hundred meters. They were still a good one hundred meters too far away. If they didn’t come any closer, his elevation adjustment would be way short. He ran a quick estimate in his head, calculating the additional bullet drop out to their current position. He’d need four additional minutes of angle, maybe a little more. Since adjustments were made in quarter-minute increments, he’d have to click his elevation knob sixteen times. Rather than do that, he made the decision to hold at about a meter above the target, which ought to be fairly close.
Even with the unplanned hitch, he loved the exhilaration and excitement of having their lives in his hands.
Then his mood changed, like a balloon popping.
Excitement turned into rage.
One second he felt power and authority; the next he felt teeth-grinding ire and resentment. His stupid mother had allowed the abuse to continue for years. She should’ve done something about it or reported it to the police. Something. Anything. But she did nothing. Nothing! Living in an orphanage would’ve been infinitely better. What hurt the most? The brutal truth. If the monster was beating him, he wasn’t beating his mother. She’d traded her pain for his.
Simple as that.
At the last second, El Lobo moved the crosshairs from above the bigger Border Patrol agent to a spot above the park ranger.
Screw her.
After a full breath, he blew half of it out and began to apply increasing pressure on the trigger. He never knew precisely when the rifle would buck. It always surprised him, as it should, right about—
Boom!
The circular image in his scope jolted. The concussion from the Lapua Magnum raised a wispy dust cloud in front of his position, but he reacquired the woman in time to see her spin and fall. Beautiful! He’d drilled her for sure.
Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7) Page 14