Borderlands (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 6)

by JT Sawyer

  He flipped down the lid and locked it. “Not a problem, I’ve got a backup at work and I can’t afford to be late.” Mostly, he didn’t want to be chided by his father for forgetting it and then have to endure having everyone go through another round of hugs and goodbyes and snickering comments about life in the city. Steven put the car in drive and sped off down the road, seeing the wedge-shaped head of the rattlesnake staring out at them from the thicket as he went by.

  Twenty minutes later, the path wound into a shaded grove of cottonwood trees and crossed over a dry wash. He saw a green truck with its door open a half-mile ahead with three dark-skinned men standing outside by the rear bumper. They gave him a friendly wave. He studied their vehicle to check for a flat and never saw the twelve-foot-long spiked chain buried in the sand. As all four of his tires ruptured from the damage, the momentum from the sharp turn caused the truck to roll on its side and slide headlong into the rocky wash. Amidst the screams from his daughter, he heard the grating of metal against rock while a jumble of loose items from the interior went airborne.

  As the truck came to a grinding halt with the chassis facing the sky, he saw the boots of the three men as they trotted towards him. His eyes were watering from the dust and pollen floating through the air as he turned and looked at Amy. She was crying and had a trickle of blood on her forehead from a small abrasion. Steven was stricken with terror and felt nauseous. He forced back his panic and focused on his daughter just as he saw the men approaching from his side. He leaned over and frantically unbuckled her seatbelt. “Amy, run away. Run into the canyon.” She crawled to his side and latched onto his neck with both hands.

  “Daddy, what’s happening?”

  His heart raced as the footfalls near the vehicle increased. Steven pried her away and pushed her towards the open passenger’s window. “Go—get out of here, Amy. Run as fast as you can.”

  Chapter 10

  Rafael never believed in random events. His thoughts and actions were guided by a medley of religious beliefs that blended his Roman Catholic upbringing with a heavy infusion of indigenous pagan beliefs. To him, the gold medallion of the apostle Santiago that hung on a necklace under his sweat-soaked shirt was more than just a symbolic protector of the conquistadors or a vestige of Mexico’s past. He identified strongly with the legendary hero who was always depicted brandishing a sword and protecting the weak. But he was no fool and he knew that Santiago was also just a man, and a fallible one whose glory probably came into being during a time of tremendous barbarism—when most legends are born. Not unlike the present world of violence that Rafael dwelled in and hoped to surmount one day.

  So it was with great interest that he was scouting a rocky escarpment not far from his encampment when he witnessed a vehicular ambush from above and discovered that one of Mateo’s senior henchmen was knee-deep in the affair. For a moment, he wondered just where the confluence of coincidence and fate occurred in the universe as he witnessed the abduction unfolding below. He felt like Santiago with his sword outstretched and he knew that killing or, at the very least, thwarting Vincent could be a decisive blow against Mateo’s operations.

  Rafael knelt down, positioning his rifle on a slab of sandstone. He adjusted his scope then spoke into his earpiece, notifying his men of his location. They were the closest of his four RIP crews spread throughout the region and were setting up an observation camp a half-mile distant. He saw Vincent only for a second but long enough to confirm his identity as the surly thug dragged an Anglo man from the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  Rafael shifted his attention to two other henchmen. One was moving towards a small girl in the passenger’s seat while the other was holding up a metallic briefcase.

  At the sound of the girl’s shrill screams, his chest tightened. Rafael focused his sights on the man’s forehead and let a round tear through his skull. He saw the girl dart for the trees then fired off another round into the scrawny leg of the younger man who had just ducked behind the rear bumper.

  Rafael pulled his head away from the scope to search for Vincent. The smuggler had shoved his captive into a green truck while the injured man climbed inside with the case. As the vehicle sped off with the other man hopping inside, Rafael unleashed his entire magazine into the hood and grille until it disappeared into a green band of trees lining the valley floor.

  He heard movement behind him and turned to see one of his own men rushing up the hill as several others fanned out around the edge of the mesa. Rafael studied the drainage below for signs of the girl but surmised she must either be hiding or had slipped away. He didn’t want to leave her there alone for fear of Vincent returning, in addition to the chance of her being injured or succumbing to heat stroke. As he mulled over his options, he heard the sound of another vehicle coming from the opposite direction, its passage resounding off the canyon walls.

  Chapter 11

  The day after Dev arrived at the ranch, Mitch loaded a cooler into his uncle’s open-top jeep and inspected the two large water jugs in the back to make sure they were topped off. He wanted to give Dev a sightseeing tour of the property and surrounding wilderness so they planned to spend the day driving the backroads. Tossing her small daypack in the rear seat, Dev looked at Mitch and grinned as she removed a dusty MK-12 rifle resting across the passenger seat.

  “I like your uncle even more now,” she said, inspecting the weapon, whose factory coating had worn off long ago. “And here I figured everyone would be carrying lever-action Winchesters and six-shooters like in all the cowboy movies.”

  “We used to when I was a kid. Now most ranchers pack rifles like that .308 there for nabbing troublesome mountain lions or coyotes.” He glanced up at the surrounding ridgeline as if expecting someone to crest the edge. “Then there are the dope runners hauling their goods through these parts that you have to prepare for, as you no doubt already know. Those guys are usually carrying a cuerno de chivo—an AK-47.”

  She placed the rifle back in the jeep in an upright position between the middle console and the passenger seat then climbed in next to Mitch, who was firing up the engine. “I am no stranger to how illicit gun dealers move weapons in my country and around Europe, but how is it the cartels are so well-armed here? Are their firearms coming up from Central America or from this country?”

  “Little of both, but along the border, guns are obtained from straw purchases in Texas and Arizona mostly. California has incredibly strict gun laws so not as much passes out of that state into Mexico.”

  “So why not clamp down on Texas and here then, to curb those weapons from being moved across the border?”

  “There are still plenty of firearms being illegally purchased in California—they’re just not the high-capacity rifles like you see here. Besides, my guess is that the cartels have their claws in the politicians on this side of the border too, so any chance of implementing legislation to prevent sales of certain firearms is going to be met with resistance.”

  “Just from the little I’ve heard so far from you and your uncle today, it seems like there are lots of special interest groups keeping the border so porous.”

  “Yep—our Republicans are willing to ignore the illegal immigrants in the shadows because they need cheap labor for their businesses while the Democrats keep pushing amnesty to increase voter turnout and bolster their social programs.”

  Dev shook her head as the vehicle sped off down the dirt road. “Well, as long as politicians on both sides keep skirting the issue of border security because it will affect their bottom line, there’s not going to be much progress made. This was the case in my country long ago but we finally realized we needed to resolve our internal differences to prevent terrorism from gaining even more of a foothold behind our walls.”

  “And that’s why so many ranchers and residents down here feel like they are on their own. Hell, then you have the militia running around, each with their own agendas, and it makes for an even Wilder West than when the Apaches were waging war here.
Some of the militia groups are doing a good job but others are just plain scary, with extremist views on everything.”

  “But you elected all of your officials in DC, Mitch,” she said with a sly grin, resting her hand on his shoulder.

  He clutched the wheel tighter while grinding his teeth. “Very funny—as I recall I was zipping around the globe, working on solving some case with you and Gideon during the last election, so that’s my excuse for not voting. Not like there were any good choices this time around anyway.” He grumbled out the last sentence.

  Mitch made a sharp turn in the narrow road and they began climbing a steep slope towards a cactus-choked mesa several miles from the ranch. After it levelled out, he turned on a barely discernible ATV trail and continued steering the bobbing jeep along the bumpy road for three miles until it ended at a sheer cliff.

  A plume of talcum-like dust puffed up from the rear wheels and swished past them as they emerged from the vehicle. Mitch walked straight ahead to the rock-strewn edge of sandstone, noting an array of javelina and deer tracks in the fine sand. A blue-headed fence lizard scurried away as Dev moved alongside him and stood with her hands on her hips, taking in the expansive vista. Their view extended for seventy miles in every direction across a tawny landscape punctuated by distant peaks and mesas that seemed to be muscled apart by the gaping walls of immense canyons.

  Mitch motioned with his outstretched hand to his left. “That plateau to the east is where Fort Huachuca is at. That’s the US Army’s home for military intelligence and also where I began my training as a combat tracker. It’s one of the most biodiverse regions in the Southwest because of the creeks and springs so it attracts birders from all over the world.”

  Mitch pointed straight ahead to a jagged ridge of peaks that resembled the teeth in a hacksaw blade. “Those are the Catalina Mountains north of Tucson. Believe it or not that’s where the southernmost ski resort in the country is, though it’s probably only been open twice in ten years.”

  Mitch swept his open hand to the right. “Those spires to the east are the Chiricahuas, where Geronimo and his small band of Apaches held out against the US government until 1886. Talk about an epic tale of escape and evasion. He and twenty-nine warriors and a hundred and eight women and children waged a guerilla war against both the US and Mexican armies for a year and a half.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Geronimo finally gave up after he was hemmed in. Our military knew that to catch an Apache you had to use another Apache so they enlisted rival members from the tribe who had already surrendered, including using two of Geronimo’s own cousins to track him down. Eventually he and his people were put on a train and shipped back east to Fort Marion, Florida.”

  He lowered his hands as he scanned the terrain from left to right, memories of working the land drifting across his mind. “It wasn’t long after that that the railroads started bringing in more people from back east to start ranching and farming. Phoenix still has a lot of citrus and pecan farms to this day.” He removed his white cowboy hat and scratched the top of his head. “We were one of the last territories in the nation to become a state—in 1912. About twenty years later is when my family settled in this region and started ranching.” He nodded with his chin to the valleys immediately below them. “I’ve sweated and frozen my tail off in every one of those canyons and hilltops below. My uncle and Diego know ’em even better than me.”

  Dev slowly shook her head in wonder at both the sights below and the history of the region. “This landscape just seems like the kind of place where great stories are made—and where a person’s spirit would be severely tested. I can’t imagine being a settler and raising a family in such a challenging place, especially back in the old days.”

  Mitch pointed to a distant cluster of buildings nestled in a grove of cottonwoods. “That’s my uncle’s ranch down there.” He traced his index finger over a jumble of boulder-choked topography, eventually letting it rest on another outcropping of structures near the bottom of a butte. “And that place eleven miles away is the Jacobs ranch, our nearest neighbors.”

  Dev moved closer to him, pressing her hips to his side. “Why, I had no idea you were such a good tour guide—and a cute one at that.”

  He smirked while placing his arm around her waist and pulling her in towards him. She gazed out over the breathtaking view. “I never grew up with anything but the cities around me. The farthest I remember being able to see as a kid was looking out over the Mediterranean, but that was standing on a crowded beach in the summer. Here you can glance in any direction and there’s a canyon or a mountain. There’s no place like the American West.” She let out a sigh and looked at him. “Do you ever miss it—I mean, being out here with all this as your backyard?”

  “I miss the people—my family and the other cowboys. Sometimes I miss the land, but after serving in the military for so many years in the desert, I kind of lost my appetite for living in it.” He looked to some green-shrouded mountains to the north. “Snowcapped forests and trout streams sound a lot better to me nowadays.”

  He stepped to the side and moved towards a waist-high pile of stacked sandstone a hundred yards away. “There’s a cool prehistoric ruin over here you should see before we go. It was built around a thousand years ago, though there’s not much left.”

  Mitch walked along the periphery of the ruin, pointing out all the pottery shards scattered on the ground, their black-and-white-painted surfaces a testament to another time. He picked up a piece and handed it to Dev.

  “This was probably made with clay obtained from the valley floor below, beside that old riverbed there.” Gazing over the edge of the mesa towards where he was pointing, he narrowed his eyes as he fixed upon a faint rivulet of gray smoke emerging from the leafy canopy of sycamore trees. He turned and darted back to the jeep then returned with a pair of binoculars.

  Scanning the terrain beneath them, his mouth unhinged as he saw the logo on the damaged truck. “That’s one of the Jacobs’ vehicles. They must have driven off the road or something.”

  He spun around and ran back to the jeep with Dev beside him.

  “Shouldn’t we call the sheriff’s department or 911?” she said as they climbed back into the vehicle.

  Spinning gravel as he quickly backed up and turned the jeep around, he said, “Go ahead—you might be able to get a signal up here. Either way, we’re the closest ones. I can have us there in ten minutes.”

  ***

  Rafael had just finished swapping out a fresh magazine into his rifle after the shootout with Vincent when he saw a plume of dust coming from a narrow road several miles away.

  He lowered his AR on the slab that had served as his shooting platform and squinted into his scope.

  “A jeep, and he’s coming in full speed—must have seen what happened,” said the younger man beside him, who was aiming his rifle.

  “One of Mateo’s teams coming to help Vincent, maybe?”

  As the vehicle came into clearer view, Rafael stared at the driver, whose face was visible through the open top. Watching the jeep come to an abrupt halt down below near Jacobs’ capsized truck, Rafael saw the two figures disembark. Rafael kept his eyes focused on the man, his finger sliding on and off the trigger of his rifle. As the man panned his head up in his direction, Rafael suddenly slid his rifle back and snapped at the man next to him to do the same.

  “Que pasa, jefe?”

  Rafael ran a finger across the gold medallion resting beneath his shirt as his heart raced. His eyes were locked on the horizon, his thoughts drifting back to a time in a region similar to this one where his life had taken a sudden turn.

  “Jefe?”

  “Nada, nada,” Rafael whispered, looking up at a golden eagle in the sky that was circling the valley.

  Chapter 12

  “Sheet, dis truck won’t make it much further,” muttered Vincent as he drove the bullet-addled rig along the road while a steady wisp of smoke seeped out from the edg
es of the hood.

  His younger accomplice, Emilio, was in the back seat, clutching his bleeding leg and wincing in pain. Beside him was the barely conscious figure of Steven Jacobs, who sat with his hands zip-tied in front of him, his limp body rattling against the side door with each bump in the road. Vincent had only struck him lightly with the butt of his rifle after getting in the vehicle. Now, he wondered if the man was actually from cowboy stock given his soft hands, pallid complexion, and creased pants.

  Another mile out, the vehicle came to a slow halt as the engine went silent and the smoke bellowed out from the front grille. Vincent immediately hopped out with his AK and flung open the hood. Seeing the damaged hoses and melted electrical wires, he knew it was beyond repair.

  “Chingados!” he said, slamming the butt of his rifle into the right headlight.

  He returned to the inside and inspected his radio, which had pieces of plastic shrapnel surrounding the bullet hole that had grazed the side. Looks like we do this the old-fashioned way—on foot and by our wits. He glanced in back at Jacobs, whose eyes were starting to open. His injuries were minor—a few facial abrasions and cuts on his knuckles. Glancing over at Emilio, he saw the spreading bloodstain on his pants leg and knew he would be a liability.

  Helping the young man out of the truck, he moved him over to a small cluster of mesquite trees near the mouth of the canyon that he planned to head up with Jacobs. Vincent trotted back to the rig and retrieved Emilio’s AK and his four remaining magazines along with a bottle of water. Returning to the wounded figure’s side, he knelt down.

  “You have done well, amigo. I only wish we could have finished out this day back home with a cold beer.”

  Emilio tried to stand but only grimaced in agony, collapsing back onto the sand. “I walk if needed.”