by Joe Nobody
When the bartender finally did arrive, Griffin knew he had to take a drastic step if he were going to get the information he was after. This was a tough joint, full of hard men who perspired for a living.
“Hey, barkeep,” Griffin called in a voice that was far too loud. “I don’t know who owns that pickup truck outside, but there’s some dude slinking around out there with a crowbar.”
Like someone had flipped a switch, the background murmur returned, this time with more of an edge. The three guys next to Griffin instantly dismounted their stools and hurried to the door. Less than 20 seconds later, the saloon was almost empty.
“Can I get a beer?” Griffin asked the now distracted ‘intoxicologist.’
A moment later, the man behind the counter returned, a can dripping with the humidity in his hand. As he set the beverage on the scarred, wooden surface, Griffin grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him close.
“Where’s Julio?”
The bartender was stunned, his initial reaction to pull away. Griffin was ready for it, his thumb digging in at the pulse point and then twisting with significant force.
A slight whimper escaped the server’s throat, his body forced to swing at an odd angle. Once he realized he wasn’t going to escape, he shifted to Plan B. “No hablo inglés, Señor.”
Griffin applied even more pressure, focusing his significant strength on the perfect spot. The man on the receiving side of his grasp dropped to his knees in a wince of pain. “Bullshit. This ain’t my first rodeo, partner. Where’s your cousin?”
“I don’t know any Julio, Señor. Please let go of my arm.”
Changing the degree of his hold, Griffin torqued harder on his new friend’s limb. This time the bartender howled in pain.
“Look, the medial epicondyle tendon in your arm is about to surrender. After that, the extensor retinaculum will pop right off the bone. The failure of those two will then prompt a domino effect, with all five of your carpi ulnaris snapping like cheap guitar strings. You will never use this arm again, which means opening a brew will be impossible. Now, what good is a bartender who can’t pop the tab on a beer? Where is Julio?”
The server’s arm was now burning like it was being held over a gasoline fire, sweat popping out on the man’s brow as he gritted his teeth. “He’s in New Mexico.”
“Well, now New Mexico is a pretty big state. Where exactly can I find him?”
The bartender provided a town and neighborhood only, Griffin memorizing the information as it was spoken. He released his grasp, his victim collapsing ungracefully to the floor in a lump of flesh. “Thanks. If you’re lying to me, I’ll be back.”
The parking lot brigade began to drift inside, no thief having been found or pummeled.
Flipping a five-dollar bill onto the bar, Griffin strolled toward the door, ignoring all the hard looks thrown his way. No one followed him outside.
Julio scanned the cluster of women huddled on the floor, his experienced eye categorizing each in less than a second. He noted the younger Honduran girl, whispering, “Lowland peasant with bad teeth,” before moving on to the pudgy, Mexican lady with a voluminous chest. She had possibilities. She might even put up a fight.
He continued around the crowded room, ignoring the growing pile of trash in the middle of the carpet. There, a modest hill of food wrappers, crumpled plastic jugs, and a few soda cans had already accumulated. By the time they left this place in two days, it would become a sizable, smelly heap. The odor and damage caused by the rotting garbage would pale in comparison to that produced by the overflowing toilet. The New Mexico summer, combined with a lack of electricity for air conditioning, would make the stench exponentially worse.
Julio didn’t care. This safe house, like all the others, was temporary. The owner had been transferred to Los Angeles nearly a year ago. Without a single showing in months, he’d been thrilled to “rent” the property out to the coyotes. For a few days use, he had received the equivalent of six mortgage payments in cash.
The rest of the women, Julio decided, were either too old or too young to warrant his attention. None of them would make eye contact, which wasn’t surprising. They all knew who he worked for, had all seen the pistol tucked in his belt. Grunting, he decided that even the sassy, Mexican bitch wouldn’t resist his advances tonight, especially if he sweetened the deal with a jar of peanut butter or a can of beans. Hell, if he let her bathe first, she might prove memorable.
The scrape of a boot interrupted his fantasy.
“Anything good in this batch?” Carlos inquired, his eyes now traveling the room, making the same assessments.
“Nada,” Julio grunted. “All the sexy ones were siphoned off long before they made it this far north. You and I, my friend, are at the wrong end of this train. We are left with the crumbs, the old and the fat… the rejects that no one else wants.”
Nodding his agreement, Carlos then shrugged. “The life of a coyote, compadre. At least the money is pretty good. Plus, we’re up north, and are not dog soldiers fighting in some turf war back home.”
“Until the gringo border patrol catches us,” Julio countered. “I just got out of one of their jails and thought for sure I was going to be deported after serving six, long months. I got lucky. Somebody messed up my paperwork, and ICE wasn’t there to take me on a bus ride.” Then, lowering his voice and leaning close, he whispered, “This new President Turner is going to change all that, and everybody is worried. Hell, look at this pitiful herd of cows. Only 11 women and 4 men in this group. Just six months ago, there were always twice as many. This decline really sucks because we get paid by the head.”
Motioning toward the modest home’s other bedroom, Carlos announced, “The men aren’t in much better shape. The bright side? I don’t think they’ll give us any trouble.”
A slight chuckle rolled from Julio’s throat. “It’s interesting what walking across 200 kilometers of desert will do to the feeble. I’m always amazed so many make it this far.”
Before Carlos could respond, the cell phone in Julio’s pocket began ringing.
“Hola.”
“Get out. Right now. The green men are on their way.”
The line went dead before Julio had time to digest the warning or form a question, his eyes opening wide with fear a moment later. For years, the term “green men” had indicated the border patrol, the color of their vehicles and uniforms the source of the moniker. Now, it was slang for any law enforcement.
“I’m not going back to jail,” the coyote mumbled, panic building in his core. Quickly glancing up at his partner, he snapped, “We have to get out! Now! Right now!”
“What? What’s going on?” Carlos mumbled, his friend’s expression spreading the fear.
“Green men are on the way. Quick, out the back. They will be here any minute.”
“What about them?” Carlos asked, his hand sweeping in the direction of the women.
“Fuck them. Just like in the desert, they’re on their own.”
The two coyotes dashed for the rear door, Julio glancing outside to make sure the small backyard wasn’t already occupied by an army of men. Nothing but empty desert met his gaze.
“We’ll need some water,” he remembered, rushing toward the front door where a couple of repurposed, gallon milk jugs sat on the floor. Their escape route took them into the arid wilderness of New Mexico. They might be pursued. They might have to avoid civilization for a few days.
As he bent to lift the water, he noted two other containers also kept for emergencies.
Smiling, Julio hefted a gallon gas can, swirled it to verify it was full, and then brightened with an idea.
He wanted nothing more than to slow down the men who would soon burst through the front door. Every minute of head start he and Carlos could manage improved their odds of escape. He wasn’t about to go back to Mexico or prison.
With a quick twist, he unscrewed the metal cap and knocked over the metal con
tainer. The gringos wouldn’t enter the house if they smelled the gas. It would take them a few minutes to figure out what to do. The ploy would buy him time.
“Go! Go!” he turned and screamed at Carlos.
“What about these people?” the less-hardened man responded, as the puddle of fuel spread across the tiled floor.
“Go!” Julio responded simply as he hustled for the back door.
Carlos, however, didn’t follow. The swift, darting motion of his eyes betrayed his intense fear as he rushed to the bedroom where the four men were kept separate from the females. “Get out! The green men are coming!” Three seconds later, he alerted the bedroom full of women with a similar warning.
Now with a clear conscience, Carlos scurried out the back door, desperately trying to catch up with Julio whose stride was slowed by the water jugs he carried in each hand.
Less than 300 yards down the street, Griffin scanned the single-story home that was their objective. He missed nothing.
From the realtor’s sign in the overgrown front yard to the weeds sprouting between the sidewalk’s cracks, the federal marshal took in every detail. “Looks just like the recon photos,” he shouted to the men behind him. “It’s a go!”
Displaying the brown and gold emblem of a nationally known delivery service, the panel van rolled up in front of the lair. Before the truck had come to a complete stop, the cargo doors flew open, and two columns of uniformed men poured out the back.
With their helmets, body armor, and load rigs bulging with pouches, the breaching team looked more like a military combat unit than typical law enforcement officers. In fact, the men had even adopted the Army’s term for the 38 pounds of gear and weapons, affectionally referred to as their “battle rattle.”
Only the gold letters, “US MARSHAL,” stitched on their vests and hats exposed their true identities.
As the team’s commander, Griffin was the last man out, his eyes colored with worry as he judged their spacing and speed. The information from the bar in El Paso had borne fruit. Local law enforcement had followed up. The man they were looking for, reportedly inside, was armed. He was known to be a violent, convicted felon.
In less than ten seconds, they formed two lines, or sticks, across the front of the house. The group on the left side of the main door was led by a man with a ballistic shield. On the right stood the heftiest member, a battering ram secured in his massive hands.
Their warrant was a “no knock,” issued less than two hours ago by a federal judge. One Julio Rodessio Chavez was named. He had been spotted at a corner convenience store filling old milk jugs with water – a sure sign that the suspect had returned to his former occupation as a human trafficker after recently serving six months for armed robbery. The benefactor of a “sanctuary policy,” the illegal had vanished into thin air after his release from state prison. A sharp-eyed deputy had also noticed the pistol tucked inside the suspect’s belt.
Griffin scanned his team and then barked, “Remember what keeps everybody alive – surprise, overwhelming force, and speed of action. Go!”
The ram’s first strike against the heavy, front door sounded like a clap of thunder. Wood splintered and metal protested, but the frame and deadbolt held. With a grunt of exertion, the officer’s heavily muscled arms powered the ram in for a second impact.
The door surrendered, flying open, bouncing off the stop, and swinging back toward the men waiting to rush inside.
All of them knew the rules. If the first try with the ram didn’t open the door, procedure called for a flash-bang grenade. Surprise had been lost, speed of action was now in question. “Police! Warrant!” bellowed the man with the ram, giving the officer behind him time to pull the pin on the cylinder-shaped device already in his hand.
As the grenade flew into the residence, Griffin smelled the gasoline. His warning, “Abort!” came too late.
The flash-bang was intended to be a non-lethal weapon, generating extreme levels of light and noise. Designed to put the human brain on sensory overload for a short while, it was a commonly used tool that enabled the authorities time to secure dangerous suspects without resistance. Its detonation produced a lot of heat.
The pooling gasoline had evaporated enough to form a dense vapor cloud that filled the front foyer. The flash-bang exploded, followed a nanosecond later by an enormous, secondary blast.
A boiling shockwave of red flame and super-heated air ripped through the home. Glittering blizzards of window glass erupted outward, large chunks of stucco and wood shrapnel cutting through the air.
The officers closest to the door were knocked to the ground, the heat so intense it ignited one man’s shirt sleeve.
While stunned, most of the marshals were saved from serious injury by their helmets, body armor, and heavy uniforms. Within seconds, those at the back of the sticks had recovered and were rushing to help downed comrades. Still behind the wheel in the van, the driver was already on the radio, pleading for ambulances and backup.
Moments after the explosion and follow-on fire, the team heard screams inside the inferno. The marshals who had regained their composure suddenly realized there were still people inside. Instantly, the breachers became rescuers.
The front of the single-story ranch was wholly engulfed, crimson flames expanding from the glassless windows, black columns of swirling smoke racing skyward. Sweltering heat challenged lungs to draw air.
Rushing around to the backyard, the officers found several coughing and gasping women on the ground near the porch where the blast wave had bowled them over.
Griffin paused at the threshold as if gauging the inferno, the men behind him waiting for their leader to make his determination.
“Stay back,” he ordered the men behind him. Then, taking a deep breath in anticipation of the toxic fumes and blistering heat, he went in.
He emerged less than a minute later, pulling out two unconscious bodies by the arms.
Twice his chest drew air, swelling under the ceramic body armor that was cooking him like an oven. Back in a second time, only to retreat several seconds later, this time empty-handed. “I can’t see in there,” he coughed. “I couldn’t find anybody else.”
Another marshal stepped in, but the choking smoke and scorching heat were too much. “Fall back,” Griffin ordered, now worried that the engulfed home might collapse. “Fall back!”
Sirens filled the air, local deputies and ambulances responding to the desperate radio calls.
By the time fire hoses arched streams of water onto the structure, irate ICE agents were berating the uninjured survivors with questions, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.
It was the girl from Honduras who finally exposed the truth. “The man who led us here… the man with the pistol who was in charge… he received a phone call that the green men were coming, and then they ran.”
“They fucking knew we were coming!” declared Griffin after hearing the same story from two other women. “Somebody warned them we were on the way!”
“But how?” asked another, still-shocked officer.
“I don’t know,” Griffin spat. “But if I find out who tipped them off, somebody is going to have a very bad day.”
Chapter 2
Griffin maneuvered through a corridor of El Paso’s finest, uniformed officers lining both sides of the street. Just beyond the formation of anxious cops, a row of sawhorse barricades formed the proverbial line in the sand. Past that rather frail barrier, hundreds of protestors packed the sidewalks of North Kansas Avenue.
A burly sergeant tapped on the window, adjusted his mirrored sunglasses to establish eye contact, and in a no-nonsense voice stated, “This street is closed.”
Behind the wheel, Griffin was ready for the blunt announcement and flashed his gold marshal’s badge. “I’m escorting the Assistant US Attorney to the courthouse.”
The cop seemed surprised by the response, taking a full two seconds to scan the protruding shield an
d then glancing at Katherine Carson in the backseat. Griffin didn’t give him time to formulate another objection, “We can only enter the secured parking area from Kansas Avenue. Sorry. There’s no other option.”
From the backseat, Carson was preparing to exercise her own verbal persuasion when the cop nodded with a grimace. Reaching for the radio microphone strapped to his shoulder, he broadcasted, “Federal vehicle coming down Kansas. Black Ford. See them through.”
“Thanks,” Griffin responded, his finger already on the window button. The sea of police parted a few moments later.
“See there,” Griffin grinned from the front. “Aren’t you glad that I tagged along?”
“I could have made my way to the courthouse,” Carson countered. “I’m a big girl now and have been going back and forth to court for over two years without a nanny. Besides, you’re on administrative leave and didn’t have anything to do anyway.”
“Oh, I know you ex-FBI types are tough people,” Griffin teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You could have probably dispersed this entire crowd all by yourself,” he continued, nodding toward the swelling ranks of activists outside. “Perhaps you missed your calling. Isn’t the Texas Rangers’ motto, ‘One Riot, One Ranger?’”
She started to fire back, to reverse the direction of the teasing, but then reconsidered. His harassment was just Griffin’s way of soothing frayed nerves.
The families of the illegals killed during the marshal’s last raid were trying to bypass the United States government’s sovereign immunity, a step required in order to sue Uncle Sam. They claimed that Griffin intentionally used excessive force that fateful day, and the mourning relatives expected millions of dollars in compensation. The Latino community was up in arms over the deaths, their political organizations exploiting the situation. In fact, Kit was sure that was the reason the marshal was along for this morning’s drive to court. Judge Kendall would be ruling on that critical aspect of the case today.