by Roger Hayden
“Professor Captain Sir,” she responded.
“That’s better,” he said.
Angela glanced up. Her smile disappeared. She pointed in the distance to a white box truck driving along the empty dirt road in the middle of the valley, a billowing cloud of dust trailing behind it. She immediately went to the binoculars as Martinez grabbed the hand mic from the dispatch radio under the dashboard.
“What do you see?” he asked, holding the mic.
“Standard cargo truck. No license plate,” Angela answered. She kept careful watch as the truck barreled along at top speed, headed west. It was a suspicious sight to be sure, almost too alarming to be believed. Any trafficker in his right mind would be foolish to drive along the southern border without a licensed vehicle. Whoever was behind the wheel was asking for it.
“Two six, we have a box truck spotted in the valley. Driving at top speed. No license plate visible. How do you want us to proceed? Over.” They always had to ask permission, which frustrated the hell out of Angela.
“They’re getting away,” she said with a hint of impatience.
Martinez turned the knob on the radio up while clutching the hand mic. “Truck is going fast. Requesting permission to engage,” he said. However, all sense of urgency seemed lost on the responder.
“Negative, Bravo eight. Stay in position. Backup is on its way. Be on alert for suspects on foot.”
Martinez and Angela glanced at each other in confusion. Martinez held the hand mic to his mouth as his eyes followed the truck quickly fading from their field of vision.
“There are no suspects on foot,” he said, “but we have an unlicensed vehicle driving toward Route 83 toward Los Villareales. What’s the word on that backup, over?”
There was a pause, as though the dispatcher was distracted. “Stay in position,” he said. “Possible diversionary tactic. Keep your eyes on that fence.”
Martinez held the radio, dumbfounded, as his thumb hovered over the clicker.
“We need to follow them,” Angela said, conviction evident in her bluish-green eyes.
“I know,” Martinez said. “But if someone slips under that fence with a pound of junk on our watch, it’s our asses.”
“Unlicensed vehicle,” she said slowly, enunciating each syllable. “If that’s not a red flag, I don’t know what is.”
Martinez looked around, growing frustrated. He slapped the steering wheel with his free hand. “Where the hell is that backup?”
“Probably east of Starr County. We don’t have time for this,” Angela said.
The truck had disappeared under a mountain ridge—vanished. The only way to trail it was to drive down their steep lookout hill and try to catch up with the fleeing truck the best they could. Even if they were to follow, the truck would see them coming from a mile away.
Martinez looked past Angela’s shoulder out the window in deep concentration. There was another way down on the other side, where they could possibly cut the truck off before it emerged onto Route 83.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I have an idea.” He paused and then shifted the Tahoe into reverse. “We can still keep an eye on our spot and track this truck down. Hit ’em up before they get to the highway.”
“You know what I think?” Angela said. She continued, without waiting for his response. “I think you want to catch these guys yourself.”
He turned to her with a nod. “Yeah. Don’t you?”
Angela reached for her seat belt and buckled up. “I have to admit, because hoping that the Starr County PD catches them instead of us seems like a pretty flawed strategy.”
“Exactly,” he said, backing out.
The Tahoe crunched over deeply embedded rocks and pivoted to the side. Vast rolling hills of the Texas desert were in view. The chipped, faded pavement of a two-lane road nearly hidden under a layer of sand awaited them at the bottom of the hill.
Angela gripped her armrest as they descended the bumpy terrain, past rocks and trees whose arched branches and green leaves provided bits of welcome shade. Patches of weed growing in the cracked asphalt and faded brown were flattened by the Tahoe’s large tires as they continued down the hill, gaining momentum.
The vehicle shook and rattled as the dispatcher called over the radio, reminding them that backup was en route.
“We’re still here,” Martinez replied, winking at Angela. An unsettled feeling brewed in her gut. Martinez was right. She was green, in that she had only been on the force for a year. Breaking the rules so early-on was not a good precedent to set. But she did want to follow the truck, and if it was okay with Martinez, it was okay with her. She told herself this, as they reached the bottom, sailing over a dirt mound and hitting the road with turbulent force.
“Wooo!” Martinez shouted out, clearly enjoying himself.
Angela looked ahead nervously as he floored it, racing down the road. Their earlier focal point, in the distance past Martinez’s window, was fading quickly. It was doubtful that she could keep an eye on the fence much longer. The southern ridge disappeared as they drove alongside a high mountainous slab of jagged rock that lined the road like a guardrail.
Martinez kept his eyes forward, focused on his pursuit. Angela said nothing for fear of distracting him. The speedometer reached well past one hundred. The visible portion of the road raced under them like lightning. Ahead, the road was empty. The formerly sunny sky had clouded into gray. Another afternoon shower was near.
“We’re close,” Martinez said. “I can feel it.”
“What do you want to do when we catch up with them?” Angela asked. She hadn’t thought that much ahead and hoped that he had a plan. Her trust in Captain Martinez was second to none on the force.
He smiled, as though she already knew the answer. “I say we follow them as far as we can. See where they’re going. Then we call for backup again.”
If that ever happens, Angela thought to herself. They reached a fork in the road, and Martinez went left without hesitation.
“Bravo Eight, what’s the status of the truck?” a different voice said on the radio.
Angela recognized it as belonging to Agent Dawson, a young, eager recruit like herself. A few weeks earlier, on a night out with the team, he’d had a little too much to drink. He had hit on her, ignoring Angela’s wedding ring, and then apologized profusely the next day. She’d long since forgiven him, but he had been avoiding her ever since.
Her husband, Doug, was ten years her senior, a fact that surprised many of her coworkers but not her. She didn’t see the big deal. Doug was an engineer for Harris Corporation, a smart, caring man who had supported her in everything she did. The sound of Dawson distracted her for a minute, but then she snapped out of it. The mysterious box truck was still ahead of them, careening to the left shoulder and driving off the road just as a hill obstructed their view.
“He’s going off-road,” Angela said.
“I know,” Martinez replied, still deeply focused. No one had answered Dawson’s call yet.
Martinez turned toward the hill and launched up a bumpy path marked by deep tire tracks. They weren’t the first travelers to consider the shortcut.
They continued up the hill and found a spot where they could still keep an eye on the box truck when it came back into view. Once they had repositioned, Angela took the hand mic and finally answered Dawson. “Roger. We still have eyes on the vehicle.”
Martinez parked next to a giant boulder that concealed their position. Angela looked out her window to see the small town in the far distance like some kind of miniature model.
The sky was engulfed in gray. Lightning flashed in thin vibrant lines from the north. The approaching storm provided perfect cover to whatever nefarious operations were happening below.
Martinez got out of the car first, as Angela unbuckled her seat belt and opened her door. Her .40 caliber Smith & Wesson pushed against her waist from her side holster. She grabbed her binoculars and quietly shut the door. Martine
z was already at the boulder, peeking around it and waving her forward with urgency. She turned the knob down on the handheld radio, holstered on the other side of her pistol belt.
She reached the boulder and looked around the other side, raising her binoculars. The box truck had stopped within a shaded area of trees, branches swaying in the rising wind. The trail of dust it had kicked up driving off-road drifted and dissipated, settling back into the sand.
To Angela’s surprise, another vehicle was in view—a station wagon. In front of the wagon stood two men. Their features were hard to make out from the distance, but Angela could see that they were tall and strapping and dressed in checkered, long-sleeved shirts and tight blue jeans like something out of a bad western. She had no idea what to make of it.
Martinez came around to her side, holding his own pair of binoculars. “What do you think?” he asked, out of breath.
“I’d say a meeting is about to take place,” she said.
“Drug traffickers?” he asked.
“Could be. Still too soon to call.”
Martinez took his handheld from his side and spoke.
“We have eyes on two vehicles now.”
“What’s your location?” Dawson’s voice asked.
“Same place we’ve been all along,” Martinez answered, providing another wink to Angela. She got the idea. They had never moved. She knew it was right to trust him, though the intense drive still had her rattled.
“They’re getting out of the truck,” she said, looking ahead.
Two men exited the truck on both sides, strikingly different in appearance. Their baggy pants were tattered, and their white, long-sleeved shirts were stained with dirt and oil. Their dark hair was bushy, and each had beards that looked in need of grooming.
Angela’s eyes then caught something else: every man below was armed—four in all. She could see a pistol protruding from each man’s pockets.
“We’ve got to get a closer look,” Martinez said. “They drive off, we’ll never be able to catch them in time.”
Angela turned and looked to him as he stood. It was the first time she found herself doubting his judgment. She felt safe where they were. Border Patrol procedures conditioned agents to call it in. They weren’t encouraged to take action except in the most extreme circumstances. And they still weren’t sure exactly what was going on.
Martinez crept past her before she could respond, crouching low and searching for a clear path down on foot.
“Captain Martinez,” she called out in a whisper. “Sir!”
He was already climbing down the hill as she struggled to decide whether to follow. She certainly couldn’t let him go alone. She held the radio to her mouth and called Dawson. “Pursuing the suspects on foot.”
“What?” he said.
“Just getting a better look. We’re on the hill right after the fork.” She paused, thinking of the code name of their location. “Graffiti Junction,” she said quickly, and then placed the radio to her side.
She followed Martinez, carefully keeping her balance as she approached the edge of their plateau. The air was thin even at their low altitude. Martinez was halfway down, crouching behind some bushes. Angela looked toward the vehicles. The men were standing closer to each other, talking.
Martinez had reached the bottom. He didn’t look up until finding cover behind two large rocks, surprised at the gap between him and Angela. He waved her down while pulling his gun out.
What’s he going to do? Angela thought.
And where was their backup?
Extreme Measures
Martinez ran crouched low with his pistol out and pointed down, finding cover behind a bushy desert Cypress Tree, one of many throughout the area. He moved closer to the men as they talked among themselves in the distance. Angela stopped behind a sandy mound far behind Martinez, fearing that they had been spotted. One of the apparent cowboys had looked up in her direction as if hearing or searching for something.
She raised the binoculars to get a better look. The driver of the truck and his passenger had their backs turned to her, but she was able to make out the facial features of the cowboys. They were deeply tanned with black goatees and thick eyebrows.
The thick cover of tree branches above them cast a shadow over their entire proceedings. Her handheld radio, nestled in its holster like a thin, small brick, crackled slightly, and her hand shot down to turn it off.
Martinez turned around to look for Angela. As they made eye contact, he raised a finger to his lips for silence. Angela knew the stakes, and she also knew that Martinez was growing a bit too eager.
As the men continued talking inaudibly, closer to each other, she wished that she could hear their words. Her boot dug into the ground as she crouched, ready to spring to the next position. Martinez looked ready to move himself, like a cat bending back its hind legs. Suddenly, the men moved together in a group toward the rear of the box truck. Martinez was off, gun raised. Angela froze in place. She couldn’t believe it. Their surveillance mission had switched to apprehension before she even had time to think.
Martinez, it seemed, knew better, and took cover behind some rocks piled together in slabs. But it was too late. One of the cowboys stopped and turned just as the truck driver placed his hand on the rear latch of the cargo door.
The cowboy leaned in and said something to the other men with his eyes narrowed. The men halted. Their hands reached toward their pockets, where handguns bulged. A Wild West showdown was brewing under the cloudy Texas sky. For a moment, everything slowed down, and Angela wasn’t sure what to do.
They had been spotted—that much she knew—and the only thing that was going to help them was the uncertainty of numbers. The four men had no idea just how many were watching them.
Martinez kicked up dirt as he hit the ground, skidding on his side, rushing to take cover. A cloud of dust floated above the rocks, and that was all the paranoid men needed to leap into action. The two cowboys fled like the wind toward the station wagon without turning back.
They shouted out in a stream of unintelligible panic—not in English or Spanish but something else. Feeling emboldened, Martinez launched himself up from behind the rocks and shouted, “Freeze!” But the cowboys were already in their vehicle and peeling out as their two counterparts at the truck swung around, confused and startled.
“Hands up!” Martinez demanded.
The station wagon’s engine roared as it tires squealed away, billowing dust and exhaust in the air like a trailing smokestack.
Martinez stood fast, pistol aimed, and shouted at the remaining two men, ordering them to comply. Angela rose from her position and aimed, but they appeared too far away and out of range—at least for the precision required for a wounding shot.
The men looked at each other with their hands still at their sides, hesitant but not ready to throw in the towel. One had a large forehead with receding hairline, while the other had long curly locks to his shoulder.
“I’m not saying it again!” Martinez shouted. His voice was hoarse. He sounded exhausted. The men must have thought so too. They went for their pistols. Martinez fired a shot, startling Angela. It struck the shoulder of the balding man and sent him slamming into the back of the truck. His friend drew his pistol and immediately started firing back. The loud, echoing shots sent Angela diving for cover.
She got a mouthful of sand as her chest hit the hard ground. More shots were fired from beyond her mound—Martinez returning fire. She pushed herself up, ready to engage. The men were shouting in loud, angry tones. The high-forehead man, who had taken it in the shoulder, had his gun out, firing at random all over the place.
Martinez took cover as Angela crawled closer to him. She didn’t see the other man, the one with the curly locks, but when she reached Martinez, she could see a body lying next to the truck on his back.
“I got one of them,” Martinez said. “Right through the head.” He didn’t sound proud of it. His face was pale and his eyes dark with
worry as though he knew they had taken their pursuit too far.
The remaining man was undeterred. He rushed toward them, firing his pistol, hitting the ground near them. A chunk of rock flew up and hit Angela in the cheek. Martinez looked stunned, too disoriented to move. And it was at that point that Angela knew she had to make a quick decision.
She jumped up as the shots coming at them ceased, only to see the man quickly gaining on them. She raised her pistol, aiming steadily, and fired a shot into his chest.
The man flew back and flopped onto the ground. His pistol lay just out of arm’s reach. His body was still. The echo of Angela’s shot echoed in the air as sirens wailed in the distance. Martinez was on his knees, staring at the ground. Angela knelt down and examined his worry-stricken face.
“Are you okay?”
He snapped out of his daze. “Yeah,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Why didn’t they listen? I-I didn’t want to shoot them.”
“You had to,” she said, placing a reassuring hand over his left shoulder badge.
“I know.” He paused to get on his feet, and Angela helped him up. “They didn’t listen. What language were they speaking?”
“It sounded Arabic,” Angela said.
He flashed her a surprised glance and wiped away the sweat building on his forehead. “You think? I mean, I didn’t understand a word.”
At the same moment, they both looked ahead and surveyed the two motionless bodies in the distance. “You think these are our drug runners?” Angela asked.
“I hope so,” Martinez said in a worried tone, his hand still clutching his pistol. The sirens were getting louder. Angela turned her radio on and was met with cross-chatter demanding their status. It sounded like a combination of Dawson’s voice, their patrol chief’s, and three others.
“Better check it out before the cavalry gets here,” Martinez said, signaling to the box truck under the trees.
Angela agreed and followed Martinez as he walked toward the truck with his pistol aimed. There was no sense in letting their guard down now. Anything was possible along the southern border. Angela held the radio to her mouth and reported the incident the best she could.