by JT Sawyer
She leaned back and grabbed a folded piece of paper off the counter then slid it across the table towards him. Anna sat with her arms folded while narrowing her eyes. “And these coordinates—are these connected with your plans? They are not a part of any of our cartel’s smuggling routes that I am familiar with.”
“‘Our cartel’—just listen to you. I am the police chief and the one who runs everything out of this town. The cartel put me in charge of the operations here.”
“And without my help, you’d still be a lowly corporal busting bicycle thieves on the east side.”
Mateo sprang forward and backhanded her across the right cheek. The powerful blow sent her over the side of the chair. Anna hit the ground and then bolted upright, pressing her back against the counter while keeping one hand near the cutlery tray.
“Cabron!” she said, her eyes registering a volatile mix of shock and fury. In all their years together, he had never struck her before, though she’d endured all manner of his verbal lashings. “What the hell is the matter with you?”
He stood with his fists pressing into the table. “You forget your place, Anna. You are my wife—that is all. I don’t need anything from you beyond the bedroom.”
“What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” She huffed out a breath, feeling the sting in her face. “We’ve made this partnership and this marriage work for years until these past few months when you started keeping secrets.” She grabbed the piece of paper and held it up to his face. “Does the cartel know about this—what you are planning?”
Mateo sighed and tapped one fist against the table. “They will know about it in another day and then they will come to this house to pick me up in a fucking limousine to thank me for what I did. Besides, my secrets can hardly compare to yours.”
She blew a strand of hair off her nose then fixed her gaze on the ceiling for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what,” he growled in a low voice, his eyes widening. “Don’t pretend with me—not about him.” He slammed his fist onto the table. “You always had eyes for Rafael—did you think I didn’t notice?”
“You’re as drunk as you are foolish right now.” She motioned over her shoulder with her thumb. “Go sleep it off and then we’ll talk in the morning.”
He gave her a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing into slits as he hissed out his words. “Desire is a funny thing. It can cause a person to do things they’d never considered—and it can drive a wedge between men like nothing else.”
Anna was certain that her husband knew nothing of the single night she spent with Rafael nearly a year ago or she would be dead by now. She couldn’t let this conversation linger or her own heart could betray her when it came to her feelings for Rafael. “He left because he had a price on his head put there by the reckless undertaking of those two brothers who ran off.”
She glanced over at her son’s bedroom then moved with trepidation towards her husband, speaking in a gentle voice. Anna knew she couldn’t risk further prying open the fiery cauldron of rage that was barely contained behind Mateo’s normally disciplined facade.
“Listen to me. You’ve been successful at everything you’ve done up to this point. You are a skilled officer. We have always worked great together—I can help you.”
He turned and scowled, causing her to step back. “We worked well together only when I sought you out. You make it seem like we are equals when it has always been me washing the blood off my hands, doing the dirty work of the cartel while you sat on the porch sipping tea with your friends.” He waved his hand around the kitchen. “This is all that matters to you—your little pretend world here in this neighborhood.”
The vein in Anna’s neck was throbbing. She tried to contain her anger and glanced at the knife tray again. Then she took a deep breath and planted her feet squarely. “You never kept anything from me before. Why now? Why are you planning something without the cartel’s approval?”
He sat back down and reached for his glass of liquor but then shoved it away and ran a hand through his black hair. “It was for your own protection so you didn’t end up in some burn barrel on the outskirts of town like so many others.”
Anna raised an eyebrow at the obvious lie. “No, here’s what I think—running this town has become less about what is best for the people here and the cartel’s business and more about what you want.”
“It’s always been about me, Anna. You’ve always known that too. That’s why you latched onto me when we first met—you knew I would rise to the top of this murky shithole. At first, I thought it was because you were actually interested in me but later I realized it was to pull yourself up from being the town bike, sleeping with every man who promised you a way out of your misery.”
She felt like a searing red dagger had just been plunged into her stomach; the walls of decorum that she’d built up around her started to crumble. There was no way she would let him get away with reducing her to a street whore. Her sensual charms had always been employed for self-preservation. With the exception of one night spent in Rafael’s loving arms, sex was equated with survival, nothing more. Anna kept balling and unballing her fists as she tried to contain her rage. He was too strong and too drunk for her to risk an outright attack. She found herself focusing on a tiny crack in the wooden table as she tried to regulate her breathing. No, be calm, sit still—and wait for another time when you have the upper hand.
He stood up, shoving his chair back into the wall and waving his finger at her. “I created order in this town. Took it out of the dark ages by cracking down on the in-fighting that went on here every night. Have you forgotten that?”
To be safe, she slid towards the counter, her hand mere inches from the knife rack. “And have you forgotten how I provided you with the information on your enemies so all that could happen?”
He paced around the table. “I never denied your contribution.”
“Then why are you shutting me out now? This is a move that could put all of us, even our child in danger if this mysterious plan of yours doesn’t work.”
He grabbed his jacket off the rack and headed to the front door. “Don’t worry, next week when you are basking in a swimming pool at our new mansion in Nogales, you will forget about all of this.” He swung open the door and stared at her. “And I will forget about your insolence and that murderous look in your eyes.”
Chapter 8
Sonoran Desert, Eleven Miles North of the Border
A faint breeze was rustling the tarp over Ed Bagley’s camouflage tent as he pried his weary eyes open. Sunrise had just cast its red fingers over the valley where the Kestrel Militia encampment was based but Ed could already feel the heat seeping through the nylon fabric. His wiry frame had barely withstood the triple-digit temperature that overtook the desert landscape the previous day and it had seemed to torment him with every footfall over the hostile terrain.
Nothing he’d experienced back home in eastern Kansas had prepared him for the sheer ruggedness and unforgiving topography that he and his fellow militia members had been patrolling through the past few days. Most of his time doing training maneuvers with the sister branch of the militia in Kansas was done in woodlots adjoining a member’s farm followed by a quick drive to town in the evening for a steak dinner. The last time he’d been out of this remote, off-grid camp was when they made a trip to the medical clinic in Sierra Vista for one of the members who had suffered multiple scorpion stings after placing his bedroll beside a fallen cottonwood tree.
Bagley had taken a two-week leave of absence from his job as a processing clerk at the state corrections facility in Topeka to volunteer for border surveillance efforts with the Arizona branch of the Kestrel Militia, a nationwide group that assisted with strengthening the U.S. border through armed patrols. While the mainstream media painted them as vigilantes, Bagley and his cohorts saw themselves as a justifiable force multiplier that was trying to uphold the constitution and attempting to save Americ
a from a tidal wave of illegal immigrants. Bagley was sick of seeing most of the blue-collar jobs in his hometown taken by outsiders, most of whom he suspected had to be illegals from Mexico due to their dark skin. He knew his town had reached a tipping point when some of them even started appearing in numbers at Sunday Mass. After that, Bagley had to look for another congregation which welcomed him and whose pastor later introduced him to the Kestrel Militia. They showed him how to shoot, fight, field-strip his rifle, perform foot patrols, and set up ambushes. Most importantly, the group provided a conduit to channel his views on patriotism while providing a template for stemming the Mexican incursion along the southern borders.
Sliding the soft poncho liner off his frame, he sat up and scratched the blonde bristle on his head then laced up his tan boots, which he’d kept on all night. Like the other members, he had been instructed to always sleep in his clothes and footwear with his rifle and go-bag nearby in case of an alarm call in the middle of the night. He took a swig of tepid water from his canteen and then unzipped the tent opening and crawled forth from his nylon cocoon.
Twenty yards in front of him was the central meeting area and cook shack which consisted of a canvas wall-tent surrounded by numerous plastic patio chairs, most of which were lying with their feet upright from the wind. Overhead was a large cottonwood tree that provided scant shade. Surrounding this communal area were around forty tents spread out in a neat circle. The militia commander had selected the camp location and designed its layout based upon his years in the marines. Each of the members were expected to follow a rigid daily schedule which included morning briefings, dry-fire practice with their weapons, small-team tactics, and then a daily march through the desert to patrol for illegals.
Walking up to the kitchen area, Bagley was met by one of his patrol leaders from the previous night who extended a steaming cup of coffee towards him.
“Many thanks,” said Bagley, grasping the metal canteen cup from Tom Jensen, a short-statured man in his early thirties with a shaved head.
“You bet. We gotta tank up on caffeine and carbs today—it’s gonna be intense. We got a big push coming along a series of canyons the beaners make their dope runs on.”
Bagley tried to act pleased but only managed a partial grin. “How many miles compared to yesterday?”
“On the map, it looks about the same but all these godforsaken hills and valleys—nothing’s in a straight line so probably another five over what we just did near McCauley Mesa.”
Bagley bit his lower lip then muffled his long exhale. “And we’re going to be in an area that has some actual hostiles this time?”
“You already gettin’ tired of humping these mountains and dodging cactus?” said Jensen, patting him on the shoulder.
“Well, I don’t mind hard work—grew up on a farm. It’s just, we’ve been going out on these patrols for days now and so far all we’ve come across are old smuggler camps filled with trash or dusty footprints. I’ve only got another week left out here.”
“And you wanna make a difference—I get it. Me too, that’s why I come here every chance I get despite the wife protestin’ every time.” Jensen waved his coffee cup in the air to his right. “She don’t get it. Nobody does unless you been out in this—been walking knee-deep in cactus and dodgin’ rattlers each night in the hopes of coming across them mules haulin’ dope.”
Jensen stepped forward, leaning in towards Bagley’s left ear. “The boss-man says we may be getting a surprise visit from one of the border patrol fellas later. They come by sometimes to make an informal briefing on what we’re up against in this country out here.”
“An actual agent?”
“Yep, saw one myself last time I was out. He and the boss are on first-name terms.” Jensen held back a chuckle and snickered. “He brought donuts with him too.”
Bagley shook his head then finished his coffee. “I’d have thought those guys would only come by to harass us, not help us.”
“Shit, they’re so understaffed and burnt out. Those agents, and God bless their souls, are up to their knees in bullshit rules and regulations handed down from them bastards in DC,” he said, taking off his camo ball cap and shoving it against his chest. “Those guys are running ops out here like our boys in Afghanistan, and the American public has no fuckin’ clue how bad it is for them. So, they welcome respectable groups like ours who can provide some additional intel on what’s going on out here—besides, we’re all volunteers. I, mean, it ain’t like we’re whacking beaners and piling ’em up on the side of the road. The agents know we’re law-abiding patriots.”
Bagley flung the remaining droplets of coffee onto the ground, watching the black flecks sink into a slab of sandstone. “Nothing wrong with reducing the number of illegals a little. Hell, that’s mostly what I deal with in corrections back home—all these Goddamned Mexicans that make it across our borders then manage to snake their way up to my neck of the woods, taking jobs from honest Americans. These illegals are everywhere—workin’ construction, bussin’ tables in diners, and raking up lawns. Eventually, they all end up in jail. Not a decent one amongst ’em.”
Bagley squinted at the sun cresting the distant ridgeline behind the cook shack. “If our government had any balls, they would just pull out all of our agents and the ranchers from this area for one week and then carpet bomb the fucking canyons along the entire border. It’d get rid of the illegals and seal off all the cartel routes at the same time.”
Jensen nudged him with his elbow while whispering, “Damn, bro, that’s hardcore. I can’t say I disagree but I’d keep that shit to yourself for now. The boss gets wind of that and he’s gonna think you’re too trigger happy and can your ass like he did a coupla guys last month who were gonna shoot some Mexican teens not far from here.”
Bagley shook his head in disgust. “And so now they’re running free and gonna breed one day—just great.”
Jensen nodded for him to follow. “Let’s go get some grub before the morning patrol. We can talk more later before the afternoon briefing—sounds like we got a lot in common, my friend.”
Chapter 9
Seven Miles Southwest of the Jacobs Ranch
A four-foot-long rattlesnake had just emerged into the sunlight, its unique diamondback pattern enabling it to blend into the fine sand along the narrow dirt road.
Steven Jacobs took one hand off the wheel of the F-250 pickup and tapped his eleven-year-old daughter on the side of her leg. “Look at that, Amy—that’s the second snake we’ve seen this weekend.”
The truck came to a gentle stop eight feet from the serpent. The young girl with blonde pigtails reared her head above the dashboard and then wrinkled her nose. “But you’re gonna let this snake go, right? I don’t want you to kill it like Grandpa did that other one.”
“That rattler was too close to the house. We couldn’t take a chance on you or anyone else getting bit.” He glanced down at his wristwatch, knowing they had to be back in Tucson in two hours so he could get to work in time.
He brushed his hand along her hair and smiled. “Don’t worry about this guy—we’ll wait til he’s off the road then go.”
He noted with irritation that his voice had slipped back into a cowboy inflection from being on the ranch for the past three days. Steven only kept possession of his family’s beat-up ranch truck so he didn’t have to risk driving his Porsche on the unforgiving dirt roads. He came out every few months to visit and that was largely at his daughter’s request. Steven was the youngest of patriarch Walt Jacobs’ children and the only one to get a Master’s degree, or any degree for that matter.
A stint in the navy working on a nuclear submarine had piqued his interest in physics and he put himself through college on the GI Bill. Having had an internship with the Department of Energy in Phoenix, he later applied for a job with the Tucson office as a field technician, where he serviced power relay stations in southern Arizona. Eventually, he started working in operational energy and sustainment systems
and his pioneering research during the past two years had enabled him to unify source codes for encrypted hardware in DOE relay stations. This GPS-enabled technology allowed the DOE headquarters in Phoenix to monitor their remote facilities around the Southwest without needing to have them constantly manned. Steven was both revered and despised, as his brilliant automation services had cost a lot of field techs their jobs but had also saved the DOE’s budget from the federal chopping block during last year’s fiscal cuts.
Now, he had developed a portable scanning device that used GPS triangulation to allow him to precisely pinpoint radio signal power surges in remote towers in the desert. The silver briefcase in the back seat of the truck was the prototype that would revolutionize how the DOE operated and provide a template for other federal agencies like the FAA and NOAA, who also utilized remote monitoring towers to centralize their operations in one field office rather than having hundreds of independent stations spread around the state.
Steven was thrilled with his accomplishment and had brought the device with him to the ranch for their annual family gathering in another futile attempt to explain to his father that there was life outside of the cattle industry. As usual, his older sister Nora was the only who seemed interested in his achievements, and he’d spent much of his time with her while Amy went horseback riding with the grandparents.
As the snake moved into the undergrowth on the other side of the road, Steven began moving forward then came to a sudden stop again. “What is it, Daddy—another snake?”
He reached around to the back and retrieved the silver briefcase. Dialing in the numeric security code, he unlatched it and flipped open the heavy lid while studying the contents. “No, your dad just had a senior moment like Grandpa and forgot something important back at the ranch,” he said, referring to an external hard drive that was needed to activate the device. He had left it in his bedroom upstairs in the main house when he was showing off his invention to Nora earlier that morning.