by Sean Black
‘I’m taking them back over the border,’ he said, with a nod.
The driver leaned over the steering-wheel and let out a cackle. ‘Sure you are.’
Byron hadn’t expected them to believe him. He sure as hell wouldn’t have. In all likelihood they probably had him down as a coyotaje or pollero, someone who was paid by human traffickers to escort illegals across the border into the US. Just as no one had expected Byron to break back into the Kelsen County Jail, no one would reasonably expect people to be risking their lives to get back into Mexico from Texas.
‘Tell you what,’ said Byron, ‘if you don’t believe me, why don’t you drive us to the border yourselves?’
It would be a squeeze but Byron reckoned that between the truck bed and the rear cab, they might just be able to squeeze everyone on.
The passenger turned to the guy behind the wheel. ‘What you think, JD?’
The driver sucked air through his teeth. ‘Only problem with that is that a few weeks later we’ll be picking them up again. Illegals are like cockroaches. Doesn’t matter how many you squish, they just keep coming.’
Byron took a step towards the truck. ‘These folks aren’t coming back. You have my word on that.’
‘Your word?’ The passenger snickered. ‘What’s that worth exactly?’
‘I have five hundred bucks. You can have it all if you drive us down to the border,’ said Byron, testing the waters to see if they’d be amenable to a bribe. He knew from past experience that even a slight hesitation would provide him with a valuable insight into what kind of people he was dealing with.
‘Five hundred bucks?’ the passenger said. ‘Fuck you, asshole. You think we come out here every night, risking our lives, with the cartels and the illegals wanting to kill us, for money?’
Byron guessed not.
The passenger lowered the rifle and started to get out. ‘The worst thing about this bullshit here is that you sound like you’re a goddamn American,’ he said, as Byron reached behind him, pulled the Glock, aimed it and fired.
90
Byron’s shot hit the passenger in the shoulder. The rifle wobbled in his hands, but he kept hold of it. The angle of the truck door meant he didn’t have a clear shot.
Byron fired again, catching the passenger in the same place, high up on his shoulder. He didn’t want to kill him, just get him to drop his weapon.
The driver was a different matter. He came up with a handgun, punched it out past his buddy and fired. The shot went wide. Byron didn’t wait for him to squeeze off another round. He ran six feet so that he was level with the back of the truck, giving the driver no angle.
The passenger pushed out of the vehicle, barely able to raise the rifle. Byron hurtling towards him, catching him in a low tackle and taking him to the ground. Before the man could anything, Byron punched him hard in his already bloodied shoulder and followed up with two quick jabs to the face. This time he dropped the rifle. Byron reached over and picked it up.
The driver scrambled over to the passenger side. As he grabbed the edge of the door, gun in hand, Byron brought the passenger’s rifle up, aiming it square at the driver’s head.
The driver’s and Byron’s eyes met. A second passed. The driver would have to raise his gun before he pulled the trigger. By the time he did that Byron could have fired the rifle. Unless the rifle jammed, it wouldn’t be much of a contest. The narrowest of margins was all Byron required.
Another second passed.
‘Just take us to the border. That’s all I want,’ said Byron.
‘What about him?’ the driver said, with a nod to his wounded buddy.
‘He’ll keep until you can find a doctor. Now drop the gun,’ said Byron.
He could only pray that the driver would trust him. If he didn’t, if he raised the gun, Byron would have to kill him. He didn’t want to do that.
The driver let the gun drop onto the seat. Byron called to one of the men in the group. He came across and picked up the handgun. Byron escorted the driver out of the truck, the Glock never leaving him. When both men were clear, Byron searched the vehicle, coming up with two more rifles and another handgun. He kept one of the handguns and one of the rifles and tossed the rest into the brush where they couldn’t do any harm.
There was a medical kit in the back of the cab. He staunched the worst of the bleeding from the man’s shoulder wound and patched him up. A morphine lollipop usually carried by combat troops would give him some pain relief and keep him mentally checked out. He could ride in the rear cab with one of the Mexicans as a companion in case he got squirrely.
Byron’s instructions were simple: ‘If he gives you any trouble, punch him in the shoulder. But only if you have to.’ The passenger shot Byron a dirty look and went back to sucking his morphine lollipop.
Byron helped the others onto the back of the truck. The night sky had cleared of clouds as he climbed into the cab next to the driver.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked Byron.
‘I already told you.’
91
Green dots pulsed slowly across Lauren’s screen. A number in the centre of each dot tallied the people in that particular group of escapees. A sprinkling of red dots signified the teams of law-enforcement personnel deployed to intercept the escapees. The teams were a mix of Border Patrol, Texas Rangers, FBI, Kelsen County Sheriff, and Homeland Security.
A single black dot signified the kill team. They were moving between the various search teams as and when someone suspected that Tibor might be in the group they were chasing down.
As the green and red dots converged, signifying that a search team had caught up with a group of escapees, the dot turned brown, and Lauren awaited news of whether Tibor was among it or not. If he wasn’t found the dot was removed from the screen, and they could focus their efforts on the other clusters of escapees who remained at large.
The current tally was seven. Seven groups of escapees, each consisting of between six and fifteen individuals. Three of the groups were moving south, two north-west, and two north-east.
The same live feed was being relayed to Washington. Nick leaned over to watch Lauren’s screen. She angled it towards him so that he could get a better view.
‘Looking good,’ he said.
‘You think?’ said Lauren, unable to share his optimism.
‘Every group we find that doesn’t have Tibor in it reduces our odds. We started out with . . . what? A couple dozen groups. We’re down to seven,’ he said.
‘But three of them are closing on the border,’ said Lauren. ‘Or maybe Tibor isn’t with them. Maybe he found another way out.’
Nick studied her for a second. ‘Chill.’
She shot him a withering look. ‘How long have you been involved in this? A couple of months?’
Nick pointed at the screen as two more green and red dots converged. Lauren tapped a button on her headset, patching into the direct comms line for that search team.
‘Only six to go. Unless they found him,’ said Nick.
Lauren glared at him. ‘They didn’t. It’s all women. One man, and he’s five foot four.’
‘So, the odds just improved even more.’
Lauren ignored him, switching her attention back to the screen.
‘You want to know my theory?’ said Nick.
‘Sure,’ said Lauren, knowing that he was going to share it anyway.
‘I don’t think you really want to find Tibor.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Face it. The chase is way more fun than the kill,’ said Nick.
He might have had a point. The Tibor mission had absorbed her far more than any other task she’d been given. Not only was he a worthy adversary for anyone, the more she had gotten to know about him, the more interesting he had become.
Tibor was, or had been, in many ways the operative Lauren could only dream of becoming. But she sure as hell wasn’t going to concede any of that to Nick Frinz. Or anyone else for that matter. ‘That
’s absurd,’ she shot back, a little too tetchy to be convincing.
‘Is it?’
Back on screen, another search team was closing in on one of the groups heading towards the border. Lauren watched the red dot pulse a little faster as it closed on its quarry. It matched her increasing heartbeat.
Nick was right. The chase did offer more than the kill.
92
The red pickup truck bumped past a narrow slot canyon that was obscured by a ridge of rock, ready to snare the unwary. The last few miles, Byron had noticed the driver hunch up over the steering-wheel, peering as far he could towards the end of the headlights’ reach.
‘Don’t usually come this far south,’ the driver said. ‘Too dangerous.’
‘Cartels?’ Byron wondered.
‘Pretty much,’ said the driver.
‘Mind if I ask you something?’
The driver shot him a wry look. ‘You’re the one holding the gun.’
‘How come you do this, risking your life?’
‘If we don’t do it, who will? Government sure as hell isn’t that interested in protecting the border.’
Byron didn’t argue. The man was telling the truth. The government managed the border. They didn’t protect or guard it.
‘So what’s your story?’ the driver said.
‘I’m taking these people home.’
The driver shook his head. ‘I got that part. What I’m asking is why.’
‘Maybe the promised land wasn’t everything they thought it would be,’ said Byron.
‘Shit. You kidding me?’
Byron thought about explaining conditions inside Kelsen County Jail, then thought better of it. ‘You want to make up your mind?’ he asked instead.
‘What you mean?’
‘Well, you don’t want these people crossing over, but you get all pissy when they want to go home.’
‘It’s not the same thing,’ said the driver.
Something caught Byron’s attention. A sudden flicker of light in the night sky. He narrowed his eyes.
‘Kill the headlights,’ he ordered the driver.
‘You miss that canyon I had to drive round back there? You fall into one of those things, you ain’t getting back out.’
Byron hadn’t missed it. But he still needed the headlights off so he could confirm that he was right about what he thought he’d just seen.
‘Kill them,’ he said, raising the barrel of the Glock a fraction and dropping his finger to the trigger.
The driver reached down, twisted the stalk. The lights died.
‘Shit,’ Byron muttered.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Byron. ‘You can put the lights back on.’
‘What was it?’ the driver asked.
‘Let’s just say that our number-one problem right now isn’t any cartel foot soldiers.’
‘Our problem?’
Byron stared at him. What he’d just seen in the sky above them wasn’t about to discriminate between him, an illegal immigrant, a militia man or anyone else. It would kill everyone in the truck. Instantly. There would be nothing left but a pile of blackened ash.
93
The black Escalade raced down the highway, dash-mounted blue lights clearing out any forward traffic. Lauren was tucked into the back seat, next to Nick Frinz, her eyes glued to a live feed from a Harop ‘suicide’ drone that had located a red pickup truck heading across open ground about three miles shy of the border. A smaller surveillance drone, with better visual capability, also circled the area, as they tried to gather a positive ID.
All the other groups of escapees had been apprehended. If this wasn’t Tibor, he’d evaded them.
Lauren tapped on an incoming email from the NSA and opened an enhanced screen grab from the surveillance feed. It showed the man in the front passenger seat of the truck. She could hear an NSA data analyst on the conference call, updating everyone on the images he was sending through.
‘Front passenger is Tibor,’ said the analyst.
‘How sure are we?’ The question came from someone sitting in a conference room near Georgetown.
‘Facial analysis gives us a hundred per cent match. Or as close as we can get to a hundred per cent.’
A hundred per cent match. No margin of error. It was Tibor.
A positive ID and the Harop drone in the sky above, all ready to go, meant only one outcome. Lauren tapped the screen again and checked the satellite map. The red pickup was just under two miles from the border.
Two miles, Lauren thought. It was the very definition of a day late, and a dollar short. Tibor would know that, with the current political sensitivity about the area, the US government was unlikely to deploy a drone above Mexican soil. It carried way too much political risk.
If he got into Mexico they would try to keep tabs on him and use a lower-tech method. A single shot to the back of his head while he was wandering down a street in Tijuana could have been anyone. A kamikaze drone containing a warhead with fifteen kilograms of high explosive was an option open only to a government. Not even the cartels had access to that kind of hardware.
A lone assassin was deniable. People got shot for no special reason all the time, especially somewhere like Mexico. Mistaken identity. A mugging gone wrong. Someone with mental-health issues. A drug deal that had soured. There could be any number of explanations. A suicide drone didn’t offer any beyond the obvious one. Someone wanted Tibor dead so bad they were prepared to spend several million dollars and kill a dozen civilians in the process. Not even the cartels were prepared to risk that kind of exposure or spend that kind of money to take out one man.
A suicide drone used over US soil was still one hell of a risk. It would need to remain covert. But that could be achieved only if you had jurisdiction over the area where it was dropped.
‘Do we know who the driver is?’ Lauren asked the analyst.
Silence followed. Next to her, Frinz shot her a look of sheer disbelief. It was a question that had been avoided for a reason. If the drone was deployed and they killed someone they shouldn’t, they could claim ignorance. It would look sloppy, but sloppy held up better than knowingly taking out an innocent American civilian as part of the overall collateral damage.
The next person to speak was from the operational command room. ‘Clock’s ticking here. Another few minutes and we have a new set of protocols to navigate. We don’t have executive authorization to conduct this particular operation once Tibor moves beyond our territory.’
‘Do you want me to go ahead with an identification? I have the name of the person the vehicle is licensed to in front of me now,’ said the analyst.
Nick threw up his hands in a what-the-hell gesture directed at Lauren. Now they had to get the name. Otherwise the question would be why no one had asked for the likely identity of the driver when it was at their fingertips.
‘Go ahead,’ came the instruction from the command room.
‘Owner of the vehicle is a Mr Harris Troy. That name shows as the leader of a local militia who patrol the border.’
For a few seconds no one said anything. Finally, a voice from the command room said, ‘Do we have any non-UAV termination options?’
‘UAV’ was shorthand for a drone.
Nick keyed the mic on his headset so he could speak to the command center. ‘The original kill team is heading for the location now.’
94
The pickup truck came to a stop. Through the gloom Byron could see a ragged chain-link fence and beyond that the river, silver-black in the moonlight.
The driver pointed towards a section of the fence about fifty yards to the west of where he had stopped the truck. ‘There’s a hole just there. We noticed it last week. Soon as it gets repaired, the traffickers send a crew out to open it up again.’
‘Thanks for the ride,’ said Byron.
‘Like I had a choice.’
Byron opened the passenger door and got out. He walked to the back of the pickup tru
ck and began to help people down. They stood for a moment, shaking the cramp out of their limbs. As soon as everyone was off the vehicle, Byron banged on the side with his hand.
The pickup reversed, turned in a wide loop and was gone. A few seconds later the only trace left of it was the plume of dust kicked up by its tires as the driver sped away, eager to get his injured buddy to a hospital.
Byron began to hustle the others towards the gap in the fence. He grabbed the part where it had been cut and peeled it back so that they could climb through without snagging their clothing. The last person was climbing through when he heard an engine behind them. He turned.
Headlights swept across the fence, catching him in their glare. He held up his hand, trying to shield his eyes. He could make out the outline of a large silver-grey SUV.
All four of the SUV’s doors popped open. Two men spilled from the rear, immediately peeling off in opposite directions. They ran in a low crouch, rifles held across their chests, and disappearing into the shadows, flanking him on either side.
The driver and passenger got out, crouching low behind the doors, guns drawn. The last thing Byron saw was the muzzle flash from the driver as he dove headlong through the gap in the fence.
All around him, people screamed in the dark as more rounds flew overhead. Byron belly-crawled forward on his elbows and knees. Ahead was a thick grove of cottonwood trees.
Cottonwoods could mean only one thing.
A river.
95
Lauren pressed two fingers against her earpiece, straining to hear what they were saying over the staccato beat of gunfire. A split-screen showed four live feeds from the body cameras clipped onto the vests of the four kill-team members as they deployed from their vehicle.
The leader was seeking permission to go beyond the fence. He wasn’t getting an immediate answer and his growing frustration was evident as he let loose a torrent of invective over his headset. ‘Do we have permission to continue pursuit or not?’