by Mark Gimenez
‘I’m hungry,’ Big Rick said. ‘You kids hungry?’
‘They’re going to cross the river,’ Carla said.
‘How?’ Book said. ‘The river’s full.’
‘The Rio Conchos from Mexico joins up just a few miles upriver. Beyond that, the riverbed is dry because of all the dams upstream of El Paso. If not for Mexican water in the Conchos, the Rio Grande would be dry all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.’
‘I know an all-night café in Presidio,’ Big Rick said. ‘We could stop off and—’
Book looked over at Big Rick and put a finger to his lips.
‘Shh.’
Border Patrol Agent Wesley Crum drove the SUV. The tanker trucks were leading this caravan south. Carla and the professor were following the tankers with their lights out. The second pickup truck was following Carla and the professor with its lights out. Wesley and Angel were following the whole goddamned bunch of them with their lights out. And Wesley was thinking, Who are the good guys and who are the bad guys? On the border, it was often difficult to tell.
‘Am I right, Angel?’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’
‘I figure they’re gonna head west on One-seventy, cross the river above the Conchos.’
‘Looks that way.’
‘We could hit the lights and siren, speed to the front of the line, and try to stop the tankers.’
‘That would be one option. How many guns we got?’
‘Not enough.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So we follow?’
‘We follow.’
Chapter 35
Six hundred miles southeast of Presidio in the Predator Ops command center on the second floor of an airplane hangar at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station, U.S. Customs and Border Protection Air Interdiction Agent Dwight Ford watched the live video feed from the infrared camera aboard the Predator B drone as the unmanned aircraft banked left and right with the course of the Rio Grande. The drone’s camera gave them ‘eyes in the sky’ above the 1,254-mile Mexico–Texas border. The images on the flat screen were sharp; from twenty thousand feet up, the camera could identify vehicles and humans, but not faces. But all it was identifying at the moment was the bare desert on either side of the river.
Dwight ‘liaised’—a word he had never even heard before he was assigned to the drone—between the drone pilots and the Border Patrol agents on the ground. They had gotten a call-in tip that a big drug shipment was coming across the river below Nuevo Laredo, so the Predator had flown over that location most of the night; but it turned out to be another bullshit call. Dwight figured it might be a decoy, so he had the pilot fly the drone west of Nuevo Laredo. They found no activity, so they flew further west. They were now over Presidio.
Dwight wore his military-style tan jumpsuit and brown cap. He was leaned back in his captain’s chair, and his feet were kicked up on the desk where the computers and keyboards and phones were situated; his hands were clasped behind his head. He glanced up at the black digital strip on the wall showing military times in red numerals: Pacific, 02:31 … Costa Rica, 03:31 … Panama, 04:31 … Eastern, 05:31 … Zulu, 09:31 … Local, 04:31. He was having a hell of a time keeping his eyes open.
‘Dwight—wake up!’
Dwight snapped forward in his chair. The drone pilot was on the radio. Dwight clicked on his radio headset that connected him to the flight trailer parked outside where Lance and Grady, the pilot and co-pilot, flew the drone with a joystick like the kind his sons used to play their video games.
‘What?’
‘Look.’
On the screen were images of tanker trucks, a long line of tanker trucks. He checked the other flat screen displaying a Google Earth map that tracked the drone’s path.
‘They’re driving west on FM One-seventy,’ Lance the drone pilot said.
The drone had cleared Presidio and now flew west over the river road past the point where the big Rio Conchos flowed into the Rio Grande. The trucks seemed to be slowing—yes, they were definitely slowing—and turning south. The line of trucks drove across the dry riverbed and crossed into Mexico as if they were UPS trucks making deliveries in the neighborhood. But what were those tanker trucks delivering to Mexico?
‘Follow those tankers,’ Dwight said.
‘They’re in Mexico,’ Lance said.
‘So?’
‘So we’re supposed to respect Mexico’s sovereign immunity.’ They all enjoyed a good laugh.
‘Who the hell is that?’
On the screen, a pickup truck followed the last tanker across the riverbed, far enough back that it was obviously following with the intent of not being spotted.
‘Someone with a death wish,’ Grady the co-pilot said, ‘following a cartel shipment into Mexico.’
Book hit the speed dial on his cell phone. After a few rings, a groggy voice came over.
‘Book?’
‘Henry, it’s me.’
‘This is early even for you, Book.’
‘Sorry. I’m about to lose cell service.’
‘Why? Low battery?’
‘Because I’m crossing into Mexico.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘Henry, listen. Nadine Honeywell, my intern, is in the Alpine hospital.’
‘Why?’
‘Long story. If you don’t hear from me by eight, I need you to drive to Alpine and take her home to Austin. Will you do that for me?’
‘Sure, Book. But where will you be?’
‘Dead.’
Nadine Honeywell woke with a fright. Sweat matted her body; her heart beat rapidly. Fortunately, she was no longer hooked up to the machines, or the entire nursing staff would be on top of her by now and putting those paddles on her chest and screaming, ‘Clear!’ She gathered herself. It was just a nightmare. She checked the clock: 4:33.
‘It was just a dream,’ she said to the empty room.
The professor and Carla were running from a wall of fire she had been running with them in spirit, hence the sweat—but they weren’t fast enough. The fire had taken them. She shook her head. A wall of fire. How silly. Right now the professor and Carla were probably doing the dirty in that El Cosmico teepee. That’s where they were. She felt better now. She breathed out all the tension she had awakened with. But still—
It had seemed so real.
Dwight Ford stared at the screen as if watching an action-thriller movie. His pulse had ratcheted up a notch and not because of the cold coffee he was drinking; because something bad was fixing to go down in the desert. People would die. Real people, not actors playing dead. South of the Rio Grande was a killing field. The drone banked south and the camera followed the tankers. They drove on a dirt road along the Rio Conchos deep into the Chihuahuan Desert.
Book steered the pickup carefully due to the dust kicked up by the tanker trucks. Through the dust cloud he saw the trucks’ brake lights come on just as they crested a low rise in the desert. Book pulled over on the north side of the rise. They got out. The wind had picked up and carried the scent of smoke; the distant sky now glowed orange.
‘Wildfire,’ Carla said. ‘Ignited by the lightning.’
‘Wind’s blowing our way.’
‘Yep.’
‘Let’s get this on tape and get out of here.’
Carla took her camera; Big Rick donned his night-vision goggles and grabbed the AR-15. They snuck through the brush and crawled up the low rise. They lay flat on their bellies and observed the scene below. The trucks had backed up to a wide gulch. A group of armed men—‘Cartel soldiers,’ Carla said—had apparently been waiting for the trucks. They greeted the drivers as if they were compadres. The men opened the drain valves on the tankers and dumped the flow-back fluid into the gulch. The men then drank and laughed as if they were at a party.
‘Lot of bad guys down there,’ Big Rick said.
Carla captured the event on tape. The scene was lit up by the lightning strikes, which were almost nonstop, and the glo
wing sky from the wildfire. It was closer now.
‘Arroyos,’ Carla said. ‘They lead to the Conchos and then to the Rio Grande. And down to the Gulf of Mexico.’
‘I do believe that’s an environmental crime.’
‘Yep.’
‘You got it on tape?’
‘Yep.’
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Big Rick aimed his rifle at the Mexicans.
‘What are you doing?’ Book said.
‘I’m going to take out a few Mexicans before we leave.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘They have a lot more guns than we do.’
‘True. But, damn, this sure is fun.’
A shot rang out. Big Rick fell back to the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead. They turned and came face to face with two Mexican men wielding AK-47s.
‘¡No se mueven!’
‘They shot him.’
Air Interdiction Agent Dwight Ford stood in front of the flat screen. He talked to the pilots.
‘Zoom in on those figures.’
On the infrared camera, the figures appeared white against the dark background. Three individuals had exited the pickup and run to a spot in the desert and lain down. One held a rifle; another appeared to be aiming a camera at the scene below where the drivers crowded around the tankers. Fluid was flowing from the back of the tankers.
‘They’re dumping something,’ Dwight said.
‘Something they’re not supposed to dump,’ Lance said.
The individual holding the rifle had been shot; the other two had been captured by two men holding weapons.
‘Got to be a cartel deal going down,’ Dwight said. ‘Damn, I wish that Predator had some missiles. We could light up the sky.’
‘Something else is,’ Lance said. ‘Another wildfire.’
The screen was now noticeably brighter. The camera panned south and picked up what appeared to be flames in the distance. Then it panned back as the two individuals were brought into the crowd of men around the trucks.
‘Mis amigos, look what we have found in the desert,’ one of the men yelled.
The other men were grouped together by the trucks with handguns in their waistbands and rifles slung over their shoulders. One man stepped forward; he carried an assault weapon. From the respect he was given by the other men, he was obviously the leader. The men spoke in Spanish, but Book did make out ‘kung fu.’
‘Ah,’ the leader said. ‘Then we must have a fight.’
The men whooped and hollered as if they were at a bull-fight. And Book soon realized that he was the bull. The drivers went to their trucks and turned on the headlights, illuminating an open area, although the sky glowed bright all around them; the men then formed a wide circle. They pushed Book and Carla into the center. The leader stepped over to them.
‘So you are the kung fu professor. Word has spread how you beat up the gringos. I would very much like to see you fight.’
‘How about Padre’s tomorrow night?’
The leader laughed. ‘No, I think tonight will be better.’
‘And whom will I fight?’
‘Ramon.’
The leader called out, and a man stepped into the ring. He removed his shirt; he was thicker and more muscular than Book, but that did not concern him. What did concern him were the two nunchucks he unbuckled from his belt; he swung them around in the fashion of an experienced martial artist. The scene reminded Book of the first Indiana Jones movie when the crowd parts to reveal a bad guy swinging a sword, but instead of fighting him, Indiana pulls a gun and shoots him. But Book had no gun. He had only his hands and his feet and a certain skill set.
‘What happens if I lose?’ Book said.
The leader shrugged. ‘You die.’
‘What if I win?’
‘You still die.’
‘Then why should I fight?’
‘So the señorita does not die.’
‘If I win, you’ll let her go? You promise?’
‘Oh, sure, I promise.’
Book did not gain much comfort with his promise. But fighting would gain him time and perhaps provide a distraction that might allow Carla to escape. He stuck up his index finger.
‘Un momento.’
Book stepped close to Carla and lowered his voice.
‘I’m going to fight this guy, create a distraction. When I do, you get to the truck and get back to Texas.’
‘Book—’
‘Do it, Carla. Or we’ll both die. And Nathan will have died for nothing.’
He turned away from Carla. The wind blew strong in his face, and the orange sky seemed much closer now. He breathed smoke. He stepped to the center of the ring and took a fighting stance. He extended his left arm and gestured with the fingers of his hand to Ramon to come closer. Ramon grinned; his compadres shouted as if they were at a sporting event. Perhaps they were.
Ramon stepped forward swinging the nunchucks.
* * *
‘Shit,’ Dwight Ford said, ‘they’re staging some kind of fucking fight, in the middle of the fucking night in the middle of the fucking desert.’
‘Well,’ Lance said, ‘it’s not like they have fucking jobs to go to tomorrow morning.’
Dwight watched the fight on the screen. Unlike a movie, in Mexico the bad guys always win.
The nunchaku is an ancient Chinese martial arts weapon, but the Westernized name for the weapon is nunchucks. The weapon consists of two short wood or metal sticks connected by a cord or chain. The martial artist holds one stick and swings the other; when wielded by an expert martial artist, the force generated by swinging the stick can inflict serious and often fatal injuries. Consequently, possession of nunchucks is a crime in a number of countries and in some states in the United States. Book wasn’t sure about Mexican law; but then, there was no applicable law in the Chihuahuan Desert at five in the morning when surrounded by armed cartel soldiers. There was only life and death.
Ramon swung the nunchucks—side-to-side wrist spins and around his body with L-strikes and then around his neck and underarm switch-ups and helicopter spins—either to demonstrate his skill level or to intimidate Book. Ramon was experienced with nunchucks. Disarming him would not be easy. He advanced on Book; his compadres shouted in Spanish.
Book had two options: waiting for Ramon or attacking Ramon.
He decided on door number two. He abruptly broke and ran at Ramon … Ramon’s face registered his surprise but he quickly recovered and took his fighting stance … Book closed the fifty feet between them … but ten feet before he reached Ramon, he dove to the ground as if a swimmer diving into a pool … he tucked his body and rolled and then launched himself up into Ramon, too close for the nunchucks to be useful … he tucked his right fist and executed an upper elbow strike, driving his right elbow into Ramon’s jaw, knocking him unconscious. Ramon’s hands dropped, and he fell over backwards. Book grabbed the nunchucks then spun around into a fighting stance. The men turned to the leader for instructions.
The leader’s face showed his shock at the unexpected turn of events. He stared at the inert body of Ramon then at Book. His face turned angry. He yelled in Spanish and five men advanced on Book. He maneuvered into striking position and swung the nunchucks. Five swings, five seconds, five more men on the ground.
‘Wow, he’s good,’ Dwight Ford said.
‘Not good enough,’ Lance the pilot said.
The leader yelled again, and all the men came after Book. He dispatched a few more with the nunchucks, but they overwhelmed him and beat him until several shots were fired into the air. Book lay on the ground bleeding from his nose and mouth; he hoped Carla had made her escape. The men parted for their leader; he straddled Book and pointed his weapon down at him.
‘You are a good fighter, Professor. It is too bad you must die.’
From atop the low rise fifty yards out, he saw the Mexican pointing the AK-47 at the professor lying on the ground. He aimed t
he rifle fitted with the silencer and sighted in through the optic. He pulled the trigger.
The fire was near enough that Book could see the Mexican’s eyes; and in his eyes he saw only hardness. He had killed many men. He would pull that trigger and kill Book and then have a beer with his compadres. That was the life he knew. The life he was born into. And now their lives had intersected in the Chihuahuan Desert.
Book’s last thought was of his mother: who would take care of her?
Lightning illuminated the sky, and a crack of thunder followed quickly—and the Mexican’s body jerked and his face registered shock, as if the thunder had frightened him. His hand that held the gun dropped. He looked down at his chest. His shirt turned red. With his blood. He fell to the ground, dead. Bullets sprayed the men; more went down. The others fired their guns wildly into the desert and then disappeared into the darkness. Book looked for Carla; she was gone.
‘Holy shit,’ Dwight said, ‘the bad guys are going down. Someone’s shooting them. Pan north.’
The Predator’s sixty-six-foot wingspan allowed it to fly slowly above a location. Its camera moved north of the fight scene until it showed a shooter pointing a rifle at the cartel men.
‘He’s hammering them,’ Lance said.
‘He’s rescuing the two hostages,’ Dwight said.
‘Hell of a firefight.’
‘Literally,’ Lance said. ‘Look.’
He panned the camera south, but not very far. Flames from the wildfire were coming closer.
‘Fixin’ to be some fried Mexican food for the coyotes.’
‘Oh, man,’ Grady the co-pilot said. ‘I love flautas.’
‘Shut up, Grady.’
Carla crawled up the rise; the truck was parked on the other side. She did not want to leave Book, but she knew he was right. They would both die.
* * *
‘That’s a female,’ Dwight said.
She was trying to escape. She ran hard through the desert brush, stumbled several times, got up and ran again …