Border War

by Lou Dobbs

  Eriksen returned fire as Lila opened up from the other side of the lobby. They had good positions and were not in the crossfire as they drove the man away from the elevator and down a hallway. Eriksen figured there was an exterior door at the end of the hallway and rushed to the edge of the lobby where he would have another chance to fire. Eriksen had had enough of people shooting at him and all the associated bullshit. He was pissed.

  He charged forward, firing, with Lila falling in behind him. When he reached the corner of the lobby he ducked low and peeked around with his pistol up to see the men just bumping out the side door. He threw a few more rounds their way until the slide locked back on his Glock. He ducked back behind cover and called out, “Mag,” as a way to let Lila know that he was going to reload. Just as most cops had been trained, she kept her pistol up to cover the area while her partner slid in a new magazine and released the slide to slam it forward.

  As Eriksen was about to stand up and charge the doors, Lila paused at the counter next to the elevators. All she said was, “Man down.”

  Eriksen stepped to the counter, still pointing his pistol toward the door at the end of the hallway, looked over the edge, and saw the security guard on the ground gurgling as he worked to place his hands over a hole in his throat and blood poured out on the ground. Without thinking, Eriksen holstered his weapon, slipped around the counter, and applied direct pressure as Lila grabbed the desk phone and called for help.

  Eriksen murmured to the man, “Just calm down and breathe, I’ve got you.”

  The knife, or whatever had caused the injury, had struck at an angle and slipped into the side of the man’s throat. Shock was already setting in. Eriksen tried desperately to get the flat of his palm over the open wound and press without cutting out the man’s air supply.

  Now Lila stepped away from the phone and said, “I’ve got to go up and check on Martinez.”

  Eriksen doubted the gunmen would be coming back, and his guess was there were people up in the apartment that needed help, too.

  * * *

  Outside the apartment building, Hector grunted as he carried his limp cousin across his shoulder like a sack of flour and held up Manny, dragging them along at a surprisingly fast pace. Manny knew the cousin was likely dead, having taken at least two rounds from the police near the elevator. He had no idea how serious his own injuries were except that they hurt like he couldn’t believe.

  Hector cut through the rear parking lot, then through an alley to the next street, where he walked directly to a pickup truck as if it had been parked there for him. There was someone in the cab, and the engine was running. Hector flopped his cousin into the bed of the truck, then turned to Manny and said, “I will not have him left on this side of the border.”

  Before Manny could answer, a middle-aged, heavyset man popped out of the driver’s door and yelled, “What the hell you doing?” in the Texas twang that made English a little more difficult for Manny to understand.

  Hector didn’t hesitate to use a silenced pistol to shoot the man twice in the chest. Then he looked back at Manny to casually say, “Get in.”

  When Manny opened the passenger door he saw a girl, no more than twenty years old, staring at the fallen man in shock. Manny hesitated, but Hector leaned in and shot her in the head, then dragged her across the seat and dumped her on top of the dead man on the street.

  This time he screamed for Manny to get in the truck.

  Manny was horrified, gawking at the dead woman, her lifeless eyes staring at him like an accusation.

  Hector seemed not to notice as he turned his head and said, “Get someone to meet us at the trail. The police might try to block the port of entry. Tell them we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Manny just stared out the window as the truck sped away from the killing grounds.

  * * *

  Inside the small apartment, Luis Martinez gave his wife one last hug even though she would never feel it or know the sorrow he was experiencing right now. He let out a sigh and quickly moved to stem the blood flowing from his upper chest. He had a single bullet wound on his upper chest, away from any vital organs. He couldn’t believe things had turned so badly so quickly as he took another look down at his dead wife.

  The apartment looked like it had been the site of combat. Furniture was overturned; blood was splashed across the carpet; the TV set crackled on the floor.

  His wound appeared to have been made by a small-caliber pistol, but he still needed medical attention, and he didn’t know who was coming back, the coyote named Cash or Piña’s enforcer, Manny. Either way he would be dead. He didn’t know how long it would be before anyone arrived if he called for help. Now survival was the only thing on his mind. He pushed to his feet and forced himself to look at his wife’s open throat, knowing the inspiration it would give him. Now he would tell everything. Not just for visas, but for justice. People on both sides of the border would regret doing something like this.

  He rushed out the door of his apartment and hesitated at the elevator, wondering who might be waiting for him at the bottom. He turned down the corridor to the big fire escape at the end of the hallway.

  He had to find a way to the hospital.

  FIFTEEN

  Tom Eriksen sat on an old couch that had been reupholstered in thick vinyl and watched everyone pass by in the lobby, although he had already been up to the apartment and seen the body of Mrs. Martinez. The El Paso cops had this crime scene. It was a clear homicide, and despite the fact that the Martinezes were under the Immigration Service’s protection, murder was still a state crime, not a federal crime.

  One of the paramedics told Eriksen that his efforts with the security guard saved the man’s life, although he had lost a lot of blood. There were blood spatters at the end of the hallway that indicated either Lila or Eriksen had hit the fleeing killers, but they had both decided not to take credit because they didn’t want a lengthy suspension while the incident was investigated.

  He had already heard about a father and daughter who’d been murdered on the next street, and the assumption was that it was the killers fleeing from this building. That was the kind of shit that made Eriksen’s blood boil. Someone was going to pay for this.

  In all the confusion, they hadn’t noticed Dr. Martinez’s red Toyota pull away from the curb. It’d been parked there when they entered the lobby, but after all the commotion and by the time Lila had found Mrs. Martinez, the car was no longer there.

  Now Eriksen looked up and was not encouraged to see his supervisor, Mike Zara, obviously exasperated, pushing through the doors to the lobby, badging a uniformed officer and bullying his way onto the scene.

  He plopped down in the chair next to the couch where Eriksen was sitting and said, “What the hell did you do now?”

  Eriksen gave him a good hard look and said, “My duty.”

  “Your duty was to work on the Border Security Task Force, not to shoot it out with drug runners in downtown El Paso.”

  Eriksen didn’t bother telling him the circumstances of what had just happened. It would all come out soon enough in an official report. All he could think about now was how he and Lila were going to sort this mess out.

  * * *

  Dr. Luis Martinez pulled into an open spot next to the emergency room entrance at the Providence Memorial Hospital in El Paso. It seemed like a palace compared to the grubby clinics he had worked in over the years in Mexico. He knew the attending physician would call the police as soon as the doctor realized it was a bullet wound. That didn’t matter, because he wanted to talk to the feds now that he was away from the scene. He wasn’t going to lie just because he needed medical attention.

  He had not come to grips yet with his wife’s death, but his thoughts drifted to his children, and he wondered how safe they were. It was an insidious type of panic that flooded through him. Different from the panic he felt when the guns were fired in his own cozy apartment. He had heard gunfire and seen bodies before, but never anyone clo
se to him, and he had never suffered an injury like this.

  At the apartment he had wondered how they had found him. Was this place just like Mexico, where you couldn’t trust the police? Then he took a breath to calm himself and knew he could trust the DEA agent. That’s who he needed to talk to now. That’s who would be able to protect him.

  He’d hobbled a few steps from his car when he heard someone say, “I can’t believe it. Look who came to visit us at the hospital.”

  Dr. Martinez jerked his head up and was stunned by who he saw.

  * * *

  Lila Tellis had purposely hovered near the entrance to the apartment building, nodding hello to the different cops she knew. The lobby was buzzing with activity. Tom Eriksen looked tired, sitting on a gaudy couch alone. She had made her report to Andre, the supervisor of the Border Security Task Force, and he seemed content to let the El Paso police conduct the investigation into what now looked like a triple homicide. Lila knew the same men had killed the driver of a pickup truck and his nineteen-year-old daughter on the next block. This was exactly the kind of stuff she had been trying to stop.

  She saw the portly inspector general from the Department of Justice hustling toward the door. Technically, he had jurisdiction over both the DEA and FBI. But he was one of the few people who understood Lila’s unique position, and she knew he’d listen as soon as he pushed through the door.

  The short, heavyset man shot her a nervous glance as she reached to take his arm, leading him to the corner of the lobby. All she said was, “We need to stay in play for whatever is going on. No leave while under investigation. Got it?”

  The man just nodded his head.

  Lila walked behind him and tried to look concerned as he headed toward the FBI supervisor talking to Eriksen. The dickhead supervisor stood up as if the president had just walked into the room.

  The first thing the IG said was to Tom Eriksen. “Are you all right, Special Agent Eriksen?”

  Eriksen just nodded. Lila liked how he kept his calm and didn’t run off at the mouth. She’d decided he’d proven himself all he needed to and could be very useful in the future.

  The IG looked from Eriksen to the supervisor and then to Lila and said, “I’ve talked to my boss and the FBI SAC, as well as the El Paso police detective in charge of the investigation. You’re free to leave anytime you want. Do you need any time off to recover?”

  Eriksen seemed to brighten at the statement, and he shook his head. Lila hesitated to make it look more realistic before she said, “No.” Eriksen’s supervisor looked stunned by the statement.

  The IG said, “Good, I’ll call you if we need anything else. It looks like the local cops have it covered.”

  Eriksen’s supervisor sprang to his feet and said, “Wait a minute. You can’t ignore this.” He was so excited he sprayed a little spit across them.

  The IG gave him a long, cool stare and said, “I’m not.”

  “I mean, this is a shooting. The second one Eriksen has been involved in during the last month.”

  The IG looked at Eriksen, then finally said, “It’s a good thing he’s handy with a pistol. I’ll make sure to include it in my report.” Then he turned and glared directly at Zara, saying, “I will call you directly if I need anything. Until then you’re only in the way on this crime scene.”

  * * *

  Cash pressed the accelerator slowly, easing down the road so as not to draw any attention. He couldn’t believe their luck in getting away from the scene without being identified. He hesitated to put Ari into his Cadillac because he didn’t want blood all over the leather. Instead, he took a workout towel from his trunk and managed to wrap it tightly around the long, straight gash across Ari’s bicep. He used a shoelace to tie the bandage in place and a second towel to soak up any blood that was on his arm and shirt.

  Ari looked pale and nervous by the time Cash finally agreed to drive away. There was no doubt he needed stitches, but Cash wanted to come up with the right story first. Ari kept his yap shut and started to pant like a dog. Cash wondered if he could do this to his little coworker every day, because he was tolerable in this condition.

  They passed by an urgent walk-in clinic because Ari thought he might need more attention than they could provide. Instead, they drove a little farther to the main hospital, counting on the emergency room being quiet on a weeknight.

  He parked the car in the lot across from the emergency room, then had to rush to catch up to Ari, who had sprinted out of the car. He was about to remind the little Israeli not to run off at the mouth when they got inside, but he noticed someone coming from the other side of the entrance. They both froze when they realized it was Luis Martinez, making his own efforts to stem the blood from an upper chest wound.

  Martinez stopped, looked up at them, and froze as Ari said, “I can’t believe it. Look who came to visit us at the hospital.”

  He didn’t want to make his partner wait for medical attention, but this was too good an opportunity. He stared down the doctor and lifted his shirt to show the handle of his Colt .45. “You can come with us and hope for the best or I’m going to kill you right where you stand.”

  The doctor shuffled their way. Ari let out a quick groan when he realized what was happening.

  SIXTEEN

  Ramón Herrera sat at his oversized teak desk in the private office of his hacienda in Creel. He wore a Jay Kos English woolen business suit even though he would not be seeing any business associates today. It just put him in the mind-frame of handling business instead of lounging around the house. The view from the office was spectacular, with the gently sloping mountains reaching ever steeper. The blue Mexican sky melted his stress.

  He had spent twenty minutes in his concealed art room in the climate-controlled, perfectly lit art museum built into the side of the mountain with access through the office. He was the only one who ever visited the six Picassos, the two Renoirs, and the da Vinci sketch of a wagon with a sail, seen only by a dozen people in the past 150 years. He wasn’t even that much of an art connoisseur; it just made him feel special. He was the only one who would ever see them again. No one else was allowed in the room, and he planned to burn them before he died. Hopefully, when that time came, no one but him would’ve seen them in fifty years. It made him feel singular. It was such a rush he had plans to have all four versions of The Scream by Edvard Munch stolen when the time was right. Three were in museums in Oslo. The only one in private hands was a pastel version sold in May 2012 to Leon Black for almost $120 million. It had been on loan to the Museum of Modern Art in New York, but Herrera had missed his chance to try to grab it there. He was currently forming the greatest ring of thieves in history, purely for the challenge of seeing if he could corral all four paintings. It was more of a hobby than a business undertaking. He had to keep himself busy.

  After the downtime in the gallery, Herrera had been looking over figures for his businesses as well as for the government overall. There was an estimate that profits from illegal narcotics smuggling into the United States exceeded $15 billion a year. That made sense because it was the largest consumer of drugs in the world. It was just good fortune that the U.S. sat on a porous border with Mexico.

  He had watched several shows on his 60-inch Sony TV that morning about how the president of Mexico had deployed more than eighty thousand troops and federal police to fight the drug lords. The extra troops had made an astounding number of arrests in the past six months. Herrera and others realized that only about 2 percent of those arrested were ever found guilty in Mexican courts. That was disruptive, but not devastating.

  The shows’ favorite footage always involved narco-police who insisted on wearing ski masks in public while they paraded around with automatic weapons, trying to show everyone how tough they were. If they were so tough, why were there close to fifteen hundred murders in Ciudad Juárez in just one year? El Paso, right across the border, was one of the safer cities in the United States. Aside from rarely authorizing violence ac
ross the border unless it was absolutely necessary, Herrera wondered if it had something to do with Texas cities being so well armed. It seemed like every citizen owned a gun. In Juárez, personal firearms were outlawed.

  Not that they could do much against the ruthless thugs that invaded houses and had shootouts on the corners, but in El Paso there was no telling what would happen.

  Herrera had been worried about the subject since Hector had told him what he and some of Piña’s people had to do to escape after trying to execute a former member of Piña’s organization.

  Now he had Hector, his most effective assassin, on the speakerphone explaining why there were extra dead bodies in El Paso and the news was talking about a wave of new violence.

  When Hector had finished his brief description of the day’s events, Herrera said, “I recognize you hire yourself out to other people. I’m just disappointed Pablo uses you in such minor ways. Avoid him in the future, if possible.”

  Hector grunted his acknowledgment of the statement. Herrera said, “I understand this is a difficult assignment that I have given you. But I’m telling you, if you complete it the way I want you to, you will be well rewarded.” He knew the silence meant that Hector understood him. “I should be able to give you some intelligence about the target. Do you have any problem with the job?”

  “No, Don Herrera. I will do what you need.” Herrera cut off the phone thinking how easy life would be if everyone just did what he needed.

  * * *

  Cash stood in the dark shadow of a secluded gully west of El Paso directly on the border. The fresh air washed away any odor of blood, but not the stain on his conscience. This night wasn’t going as planned.