Devil's Run

by Frank Hughes

“It appears I was misinformed.”

  “Or misled. It is obvious to you that my enemies knew where I was?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that the attack on me took place to coincide with your arrival?”

  “Yes.”

  “It appears then that you were sent to your death.”

  “That was the intent. Now I’m your problem.”

  “True.” Again he seemed fascinated by the tip of the cigar.

  “Who do you think is trying to kill you?” I said.

  “Until today, I did not know. Only that they were Colombian.”

  “And today?”

  “I would venture that the Rojas clan is my true enemy.”

  “Ernesto Rojas is dead.”

  “Sí, He is long dead.”

  “And from what I remember, the entire Rojas clan was destroyed. His brothers, his top aides, his entire family, all dead.”

  “Not his entire family. There is his granddaughter.”

  “Granddaughter?”

  “The wife of Senator Canfield is the granddaughter of Ernesto Rojas.”

  40.

  “Cory? Cory Canfield is Ernesto Rojas’s granddaughter?”

  “Sí. Verdugo Industries was started with Rojas money by her father, who called himself Mañuel Verdugo, although that is not the name he was born with.” He jabbed the cigar in my direction. “This tale of his courageous escape from Mariel, his Yankee success story, is mostly fantasy. He was a trusted lieutenant and already married to Rojas’s daughter when that old bandit arranged for him to slip into your country among the Marielistas, to obtain a new identity and establish himself in business.”

  “A sleeper.”

  “I do not know what this means.” He dismissed my comment with a wave of the cigar. “It is useful in this work to invest in legitimate businesses for various reasons. The construction business was a very easy way to launder money in those days, before your banking laws changed.”

  “He’s dead, though. In a plane crash.”

  “Really? How certain are you?”

  “No one has seen or heard from the man in five years.”

  “He could have arranged it. If he felt threatened.”

  “And is using his daughter as a front?”

  “He or, if he is dead, someone else.”

  “I’ve read nothing about Verdugo being suspected of criminal behavior.”

  “And yet you are sent to your death by a Verdugo lawyer, from a Verdugo resort, on a Verdugo aircraft, to a Verdugo airstrip. This is coincidence?”

  “Are you sure this attempt on your life isn’t over, how shall I put this, some business disagreement with one of your Colombian associates?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You mean did I cheat them?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “I am honest in my business dealings. There was no cheating.” He shook his head, as if puzzled. “You know my business. There are partnerships. Uneasy partnerships, but sustainable, so long as they remain profitable. Are there tensions? Yes, and blood is sometimes spilled, but that is how disagreements among men are settled. But this, this is to the death. I am convinced the Rojas clan is behind this war. They have tricked us into fighting one another.”

  “Why?”

  “They are the weakest dog,” he said, in a tone that implied I was an idiot.

  “Meaning?”

  “When you are the weakest dog,” said Sandoval, “you win by getting the other dogs to fight each other. Then, when your enemies are dead or damaged, you strike. You say that the Rojas clan is no longer a power in this business.” He stabbed the air several times with the cigar. “I say, behold the weakest dog.”

  “If that’s true, what is their goal? Take over the trade just in time for the border to be closed? Canfield is the driving force behind sealing the border, and he’s in bed with Verdugo. Literally. It makes no sense.”

  “In our culture, Señor Craig, profit is not the only motivator. Memories are long and the desire to avenge runs deep. Perhaps blood feud is behind this.”

  “But, wouldn’t their beef be with the Colombian cartels?”

  “Beef?”

  “Their problem, their issue. It was the Columbians who destroyed their clan.”

  He looked down and said nothing.

  “You helped bring him down,” I said.

  “In a way. You know the story of Rojas’ fall?”

  “Yes, it was right after I joined Customs. He relied too heavily on water routes, his fleet of freighters and submarines. A combined operation cracked down on him.”

  “Sí, the Coast Guard and DEA,” he said, pointing at me, “and your Customs people all targeted these water routes, while your military worked with the Columbian Army to hunt him. By this time, his remaining competitors had already begun moving their product through México. He sought to save his operation by imitating them, but they sensed weakness and did not welcome him. Some actively contributed intelligence to your government and that of Colombia. Others, like myself, merely refused to work with him.”

  “And Rojas was shot dead by the Columbian secret police. So, their feud is with everyone.”

  “Sí.”

  “I still don’t see it,” I said. “I don’t care how much honor means to someone, you don’t expend this much effort just for revenge. Whoever is behind this must want to dominate the trade, but if it is Verdugo, their support for the border fence makes no sense. It can only hurt the business.”

  “Sí.” He puffed on the cigar. “They cannot hope to deliver a fraction of what we bring in if it comes by sea or by air. There is no organization here to replace us, and it would take years to build one. They are, what is the saying?” He smiled. “To shoot one’s own foot? But, sometimes this is the nature of family honor.”

  The van turned sharply to the left and, if such a thing were possible, the ride became more uncomfortable. Even Sandoval winced with pain after a particularly sharp jolt. He ground out his cigar on the metal floor of the van.

  “We are almost there. And now I must decide what to do with you.”

  All eyes turned to me, and there was no love in any of them.

  “I believe you to be a man of honor,” said Sandoval. “And you saved my life. I know this was not your intent, but it is a fact.” His eyes bored into mine. “If I let you live, what will you do?”

  “If I were smart, I’d move to Barbados and take up painting.”

  He grinned. “You are not so smart, I think.”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m not smart at all.”

  41.

  Less than forty-eight hours later, I was crouched in thick brush on the Mexican bank of the Rio Grande, Sandoval’s man Joaquin next to me, which only increased my stress. He was still pissed about how easily I’d disarmed him and, although Sandoval had charged him with seeing me safely across the border, it occurred to me that accidents do happen.

  It helped that there were witnesses, our coyotes, two lean and dangerous-looking mestizos wearing single-action revolvers in Wild West buscadero holsters. Normally they would be shepherding illegal immigrants, but tonight I was their only client. They were being well paid by Sandoval, who’d also spotted me five grand to finance my personal mission of revenge in the hopes I would eliminate his enemy for him.

  The opposite bank was just a dark mass of trees and brush, but the flat, bluish light of a billion stars made the landscape beyond the river visible in some detail. Orderly groves of pecan trees, dotted with the lights of dwellings and support buildings, stretched north for about a mile and half, at which point a range of low, parched-looking hills rose. Just where the ground began sloping upward, the border fence snaked through the neat rectangles of the groves. There were no visible breaks in this part of the fence and I vaguely recalled that this was one of the first sections constructed, due to its proximity to Juarez, less than forty miles away.

  One of the coyotes was slowly scanning the opposite bank with night vision goggles, but as fa
r as I could tell he had seen nothing. In any case, no one seemed to be in any particular hurry, so I sat down in the dirt to wait.

  Despite the tension and the cold, it was peaceful under that endless sky. No traffic sounds, no sirens, no jabbering idiots on cell phones, no constant parade of jet planes overhead. The only sound was the light wind, gently rustling the vegetation. I lay back, hands behind my head, and stared up at the stars. You live in New York, you have no idea how many there really are. The reminder of just how small man is in the great scheme of things was oddly comforting.

  I found myself musing about the irony of sneaking into my own country. At that moment, I felt a kinship with the illegals who risked everything in hopes of a better life for themselves and their children. I imagined them waiting at this same spot, hearts pounding, the fear of discovery mingled with excitement at being so close to their goal. Of course, some of those people probably smuggled drugs to pay their way, and others were criminals or terrorists looking to ply their trade in a freer, fatter society. Like most things in life, the issue was more complicated than either side cared to admit.

  The man with the NVGs turned and whispered briefly to his companion. That man stood up and unbuckled his gun belt, muttering a few words to Joaquin, who turned to me.

  “It is time to go.”

  We all removed our shoes, socks, and pants, stuffing them into black plastic trash bags. The coyotes hung their holsters around their necks and everyone put on flip-flops. We’d discussed the protocol to follow when crossing: single file, twenty yards apart. The coyote with the NVG was on point, then me. The second coyote would bring up the rear, leaving Joaquin and his itchy trigger finger right behind me.

  The leader headed down the bank. When he was twenty yards ahead I followed. The water was cold and initially halfway up my shin, but the current was not strong, and it was easy to walk on the sandy bottom. When I reached the middle, where it felt as bright as daytime, the current was stronger and the water above mid-thigh. It was a relief when the bottom sloped upward and I entered the shadows on the American side.

  On the bank, the coyote was already putting on his boots. He waited while I dressed. I was tying my shoes when Joaquin splashed out of the river. The coyote tapped me on the shoulder and I followed him into the brush. We crept along a narrow path, almost to the edge of the bushes. Thirty feet away a dirt road paralleled the river bank. He motioned me to crouch down and began another careful scan.

  “Does the Border Patrol use thermal imaging here?” I said.

  He shook his head briefly. “Es demasiado caro.”

  “Yeah, it’s always about money.”

  There was a soft rustling in the undergrowth as Joaquin joined us. Moments later the second coyote arrived.

  “Silencio,” he hissed. “Cuidado!”

  He shrank back into the undergrowth, motioning us to lay flat on the ground. I dropped prone in the sandy soil. That’s when I heard the sound of an approaching motor.

  Through the bushes I saw the dark outline of pickup truck, cruising slowly. The driver played a powerful spotlight on the bushes lining the riverbank. In the truck bed I could just make out the silhouettes of two men and the distinctive barrels of AR-15 rifles. Then my face was buried in the dirt. The truck passed directly in front of our hiding place the light dancing across us. After a minute the sound of the motor faded.

  “Vamanos!”

  We crossed the dirt road together, one of the coyotes using a switch to brush signs of our passage. In the shelter of the trees, we stopped to make sure no one had observed us.

  “Quién es?” I said, pointing in the direction of the pickup.

  “Minute men,” said Joaquin. He spat the words.

  We resumed our single file formation and walked for at least a mile, unchallenged except for one barking dog. It seemed as if the full court press at the border was mostly talk, but then, through the trees, I caught glimpses of the looming border fence, darker than the night sky, its garland of razor wire gleaming dully in the starlight.

  I was so engrossed in the fence that I nearly bumped into my guide. He stood at the edge of a dirt road. On the other side, where the ground began sloping up, I saw a paved driveway marked by a mailbox and a sign that read “Trespassers will be Shot!”.

  After a five minute wait, we simply crossed the road and walked up the driveway. At the top was a three acre compound. On one side were two post-frame steel buildings and a small shedrow. Off by itself, at the base of the foothills, was a sprawling ranch house, surrounded by half an acre of freshly mown lawn. The lights were on and the sound of a television came faintly. An idyllic setting, were it not for the jarring presence of the thirty foot border fence crossing close behind the house.

  We stopped about one hundred feet away and waited another five minutes, listening and watching. Another dog barked in the distance. Finally, the lead coyote took off his NVG and walked casually towards the house.

  “We wait here,” said Joaquin.

  The coyote walked up on the porch and rang the bell. The door opened immediately, as if he’d been expected. He exchanged words with someone and then waved us over.

  “Vamanos,” said the other coyote.

  The house was clean and comfortably furnished, although everything looked slightly worn. The woman standing in the hall fit the décor. Thin, with a narrow, pinched mouth and a sour expression, she couldn’t have been more than forty-five, but her skin was lined and aged by the harsh Texas sun. An AR-15 with a thirty round magazine stood against the wall beside her.

  “Donde esta Señor Murphy?” said Joaquin.

  “He’s on the other side,” she said, her accent that of a native Texan. “They only open the damn gate three times a day. Let’s see the money.”

  Joaquin fished an envelope out of his jacket.

  The woman gave me a disgusted look. “This the package?”

  “Sí,” he said, handing her the envelope.

  She counted the money carefully. Without looking up she said, “He’s a white man. What’d he do?”

  “That does not matter,” said Joaquin. “That is why you are being paid extra.”

  “It’s all here,” she said, pushing the envelope inside the belt line of her jeans. “We better go,” she said, glancing at her watch. “They’ll be along soon.”

  “Minute men?” I said.

  She looked surprised that I could speak. “National Guard.”

  “The National Guard?”

  She looked at Joaquin. “Don’t he know nothing?”

  He just shook his head, so she pointed towards the back of the house.

  “National Guard patrols this side, Border Patrol the other. There’s a road out back next to their damn wall, right where my damn swimming pool used to be. Send two Humvees down it every couple of hours just to make sure nobody sleeps through the night. Ain’t protecting nobody. They know it’s every man for himself on this side, so they go too fast to see anything.”

  “What happened to your swimming pool?”

  “Government took it, filled it in. Eminent domain they call it.”

  “For the wall?” I said. “Why there?”

  “Treaty with the damn Mexicans. Damn border fence can’t be in the damn floodplain. Guess where my back yard is?”

  “Just outside the damn floodplain.”

  “Damn right. So they run their damn wall right through our damn property. It was either that or knock the house down. Twelve thousand dollars is what they give us, twelve thousand damn dollars for what used to be prime land, land been in this family for a hundred fifty years. I couldn’t sell this house now if I wanted to. Gotta get permission just to go into town. It’s like I don’t live in the States anymore. Don’t I pay taxes? Ain’t I American?” She shook her head. “It ain’t right.”

  “Why can’t you sell?”

  “Those people come across the river whenever they damn well please.” She was pointing at the two coyotes, who grinned. “A body ain’t safe in their o
wn damn house. Come home one day, found a damn Mexican shavin’ himself in my bathroom. Police won’t come. Too much trouble to get through the fence and they wouldn’t get here in time anyway.” She picked up the rifle. “Gotta protect ourselves.

  “So you make a little money on the side working with smugglers.”

  Her narrow jaw took a hard set and she brushed past me. “Person’s gotta eat,” she said.

  She led us around the edges of the compound, sticking to the shadows, heading for the larger of the steel buildings, where a faded sign proclaimed it the home of Murphy’s Perfect Pecans. We entered through a side door. Inside there was room for four or five trucks and a tractor. Mrs. Murphy, as I assumed her to be, led us to a big Honda generator that was bolted to the concrete floor. Or so I thought. Mrs. Murphy reached behind a stack of boxes and did something I could not see. She straightened up, went to the generator, and gave it a gentle push. The heavy machine slid easily and silently to one side, revealing a rectangular opening reinforced with wooden planks. A ladder was bolted to one side.

  “A tunnel,” I said.

  “Comes in handy,” she said.

  One of the coyotes shrugged out of his backpack and rummaged inside, producing four Caylume chemical light sticks on lanyards.

  “For light,” he said, handing me two and indicating I should put them around my neck. He wagged his finger and said, “Not yet. Inside.” I started into the opening, but the coyote put a hand on my arm to stop me. “You wait for la migra.”

  “He’s worried about the sensors,” said Mrs. Murphy. “We’ll wait for the guard before you cross. The damn Humvees’ll make so much vibration the sensors won’t hear you.”

  Joaquin leaned over and spoke quietly to her.

  “Over here,” she said.

  She led Joaquin to a pile of pallets. Something rectangular was covered with a green tarpaulin. She flipped the tarp off, revealing a wooden crate with rope handles at either end. She unlatched the lid and flipped it open. I saw six AR-15 rifles, each individually wrapped in plastic, and about a dozen thirty-round magazines secured in groups of three with rubber bands.

  “Seis?” said Joaquin, giving her a dark look. “Only six?”