by Frank Hughes
“They’re cracking down,” said Mrs. Murphy, closing the lid and securing the latch. “Getting harder and harder to move quantity. He needs to protect his sources.” She nodded towards the coyotes. “Besides, you don’t have enough men to handle more than one box.”
Joaquin continued his stare down, glowering at her as if his fiery eyes could make her magically produce more weapons.
Mrs. Murphy was unfazed. “Might want to look at your shirt.”
Joaquin glanced down and we both saw the bright red dot of a laser on the center of his chest, wavering gently.
“My eldest boy,” said Mrs. Murphy, inclining her head in the general direction of the loft at the rear of the building. “Just so things stay friendly.
Joaquin didn’t blink and didn’t move for a long moment. The two of them just stared at each other, neither displaying any fear.
“Ma!” The shout came faintly from above and behind us. “They’re coming. Five minutes.”
“You’d best be on your way,” said Mrs. Murphy.
“Municion?” said Joaquin.
“Mr. Murphy has two full cans waiting on the other side. Bring ‘em back with you through the tunnel.”
Joaquin activated one of his light sticks and I did the same. They were red, a good choice that would help us regain adequate night vision by the time we reached the other side. He went in first. I took a last look around and stepped onto the ladder. The climb was almost twenty feet. At the bottom was a chamber big enough for a man to stand. There was some sort of ventilation device against one wall. Propped against the opposite one were three pieces of plywood, each about four feet long and as wide as my shoulders. The tunnel itself was about the width of two men and a little over a yard high. On the tunnel floor a set of white tracks stretched into the darkness.
“How did they build this without activating the sensors?”
“We build the tunnel while they build the fence.” He grinned. “When the sensors go in, it is too late; our tunnel is already here.”
As one of the coyotes scrambled down the ladder, Joaquin reached for one of the plywood planks and indicated I should get one as well. It was heavier than I expected and turned out to be a crude dolly. Bolted on the bottom were six pairs of polyurethane roller blade wheels, spaced at intervals on the long edges, three pairs to a side. The wheels in each pair were mounted on a wedge of metal, so they angled towards each other.
Joaquin picked up a short piece of nylon line that had snap hooks at each end. He attached it to an eye bolt on the back of his dolly and tossed it to me, indicating I should clip it to the bolt on the front of mine. Behind me, the coyote produced a garden hose reel wrapped with several hundred feet of thin line. The free end of this coil was also equipped with a snap hook, which he connected to the eye bolt on the back of my dolly. He nodded to Joaquin, who placed his board on the tracks and lay down on it, floating gently forward a few feet.
I moved to the head of the track, which was nothing more than two PVC pipes joined with a U-shaped connector. Joaquin slid forward a few more feet to give me room. I set the dolly on the track and the wheels fit perfectly. The PVC piping sank into the soil a little when I climbed on, but the skate wheels rode on top and the contraption moved smoothly. I held myself in place and waited for a signal.
The coyote was crouched by the ventilator, pumping the mechanism, while looking up towards the surface. When he got the signal to go, he waved his light. Joaquin begin to move and the line connecting us grew taut. I started forward, grabbing at the dirt with my hands, speeding up or slowing down as needed to maintain proper distance.
Thirty yards on, the earth above shook gently. Veils of fine sand filtered down through the slats, the particles purplish in the red light. Then the rumbling receded and silence engulfed us. We rolled on in our bubble of red light.
After two minutes, Joaquin waved his light. I lifted my hands and let the dolly slow itself. Joaquin came to a stop. My dolly rolled up behind him and gently touched his feet.
He scrambled forward, pulling his dolly after him. I followed into a near duplicate of the space at the Mexican end. Waiting for us was one man seated on two military ammo cans, a Ruger Mini 30 in his lap. He wore a full set of desert camouflage BDUs and a matching boonie hat. A red lightstick hung around his neck. His cheek bulged from a wad of chewing tobacco.
“You’re late,” he said to Joaquin. He looked me over. “You the package?”
It was easy to guess whose husband he was. “Yes.”
“Okay. I’m Murphy. Do what I say and we’ll be all right.” He leaned forward to peer closely at my face. “I’m led to believe you’re an American.”
“This is true.”
Murphy continued to stare. After a careful examination he said, “Well, I won’t ask why. Just so long as you ain’t some rag head bringing a bomb in here.”
He paused to spit in the dirt before reaching back and producing a canvas messenger bag. From it he pulled a dark baseball cap with an American flag stitched to the front. He handed it to me.
“Congratulations. You’re now a Minute Man.”
“Goody,” I said, putting the cap on.
“What’s your name?”
“David Somerset.”
“Well, if anyone asks, you’re my cousin Dave from back east, out to do his part for the cause.” He looked at his watch. “The sweeper’s coming by in seven minutes.”
“Sweeper?” I said.
He ignored me and spoke to Joaquin. “You give my wife the money?”
“Sí.”
“Gracee-ass,” said Murphy. “Here’s your ammo. About two day’s worth at the rate you boys are going.”
Joaquin placed the ammo cans on my dolly and turned back to Murphy.
“I have further instructions for you,” he said, fishing another envelope out of his shirt and handing it over.
“What’s this for?”
“You are to,” Joaquin said, then stopped and looked at me. “Señor Craig, this is not for your ears.”
I crawled over to the other side of the space. Joaquin spoke quickly to Murphy, who nodded slowly, spit some tobacco, and then took the offered envelope. He ran his thumb over the contents. When he was finished counting, he stuffed the envelope in his shirt.
“Always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Joaquin crawled over beside me.
“Señor Craig,” he said, his voice a low whisper, “it is my wish to kill you now, but El Patron said I am not to harm you and I will obey him.”
I decided this was not the time for a snappy comeback. Joaquin turned and crawled to the track without a backward glance. He lay down on his dolly and rested his chin on folded arms. Moments later, he and the ammo cans disappeared into the tunnel as the coyote on the other side reeled him back across.
“Must mean the sweeper is near,” said Murphy. He looked at his watch, then back at me. “Hot blooded fellers, these Mexicans. What you do to piss him off?”
“I took his gun away.”
In the dim red light I saw respect appear on his face. “I’d a liked to see that,” he said.
“Sounds more interesting than it was.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” He cocked his head and held up a hand, with the air of a man listening intently. “They’re coming.”
After a moment, I felt more than heard a heavy vehicle approaching.
“What is a sweeper?”
“From the foot of the wall on this side, to the vehicle path is about twenty feet of fine sand. Anybody crosses that, they leave footprints.”
“Couldn’t they just sweep them away?”
He shook his head. “That’s where the sweeper comes in. Makes a pattern. It looks like one of them Jap gardens. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Karesansui?”
“I don’t know the feller’s name, but you know, when they rake the sand real pretty. Anyway, they got a truck with a fancy rake hanging off the back, covers the full twenty feet. They s
weep it every few hours. Check the sand on each trip, and then by plane first thing in the morning to see if anyone got across.”
Sometimes, the simple low-tech things are the best, like a stretch of sand. Or a tunnel.
“Got a Winchester here for ya.” Murphy picked up a lever action rifle I hadn’t seen. “No bullets. I don’t know ya, so I can’t trust ya, but if the Border Patrol stops us it’s best to be armed. They’d be real suspicious of any white man out here at night without a weapon of some kind.”
I worked the action. It was indeed empty.
“You really a Minute Man?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, “but I ain’t real religious about it. It helps me explain what I’m about when I’m out here at night working my side business.”
“The gun running? It doesn’t bother you? All the violence over there?”
“It surely does. And I don’t want it comin’ here, anymore than it already has. With luck, they’ll wipe themselves out and leave us in peace.” He spit and then grinned at me with stained teeth. “Besides, a man’s gotta eat, don’t he? By the way, seeing as I’m doing you a favor, I’ll expect you’ll be discreet about that. These Minute Men guys got sticks up their asses. Wouldn’t appreciate my helping our compadres.”
The sound of the sweeper faded.
“Okay, up ya go. Quiet.”
I climbed the ladder to an upper chamber and waited for Murphy. Once he was up, he went to what I assumed was the door and disappeared into another chamber. I entered in time to see him lower himself through a hole in the floor. I followed him down into a concrete pipe so large I could almost stand up straight.
“What is this?” I said.
“Storm drain. This way.”
We walked about a hundred feet until we neared the mouth of the pipe, vaguely visible as a dim circle in the blackness ahead. Murphy stopped about twenty feet away.
“Gimmee the light,” he said.
I handed him the light stick. He put it on the floor along with his and covered them both with a burlap sack. Then we walked to the entrance, which was halfway up the wall of concrete culvert wide enough to be used as a road. We dropped the four feet or so to the bottom and began walking north. Every hundred feet or so Murphy would stop and listen carefully for a full minute. I heard nothing during these pauses and neither did he. Each time he simply began walking again. The seventh time he stopped for a longer period. We stood motionless for three or four minutes, after which he signaled me to come up beside him.
“What is it?” I said.
“Not sure. We leave the drain here and my spidey sense is tingling. I’m gonna need you to take point.”
“Why? I have no idea where I’m going.”
He pointed at a knotted rope on the side of the culvert. “Just climb up and follow the gully. It isn’t far to my jeep. I just wanna be sure we ain’t being followed.”
I did as he said. Indeed there was the dark mouth of a gully directly ahead. I looked down at Murphy.
“Go on,” he said.
Holding the useless rifle at my side, I entered the arroyo, which turned out to be just a tributary of a wider, deeper gully. True to Murphy’s word, in less than two hundred yards I found the jeep. I laid the rifle on the hood and sat down on the bumper to wait. A light breeze wandered by, smelling faintly of horses, but the surrounding desert remained quiet and peaceful.
Five minutes later Murphy appeared, moving slowly, still checking behind him after every five or six steps.
“Anything?” I said.
He shook his head. “Nothing that I could see.” He patted his pocket. “Damn. Check if I left the key in the ignition, will ya? I’ll keep watch.”
I went around the driver’s side. Bracing myself on the steering wheel, I leaned in and checked the ignition. No key.
“Nothing here,” I said.
“Oh, shit, here they are. Wrong pocket. Go ahead and get in. Don’t forget the rifle.”
I walked around the front of the jeep, picking up the Winchester as I went.
“Stop,” said Murphy. I turned to find him pointing the Mini-30 at my stomach.
“There a problem?”
“For you, maybe.”
“You going to shoot me?”
“Looks that way, don’t it? Your friend back there?” He patted his shirt. “He gave me three grand to ice you.”
“If it’s a question of money.”
“Could be. Whaddya got?”
“Five thousand. Cash.”
“Where?”
“Money belt.”
He thought about it a few moments, then said, “Left hand only. And very, very slowly.”
I got my shirt open and dug in for the belt. It was awkward, using only one hand, but finally I got it unhooked and drew it slowly out.
“Toss it on the jeep.”
I did as was told. The belt landed on the hood with a metallic thump.
“Thank you,” said Murphy, but the rifle barrel didn’t shift.
“I can get more.”
“Bird in the hand. Besides, you know too much about me, about the tunnel, my little side business.”
Talking gunmen are actually a good thing. First, they give you time to think. Second, it is very difficult to pull the trigger on a weapon while you are talking. If you have to make a move on someone holding you at gunpoint, it is best to do it while they are droning on about how they hold the upper hand. The part of the brain doing the talking wants to finish before the part that wants to pull the trigger gets its way. This phenomenon only buys microseconds to be sure, but sometimes that’s enough. My problem was Murphy was at least thirty feet away and pointing his gun directly at my midsection.
“Why would I talk?” I said, taking a step towards him.
“Stop” he said, pulling the rifle deeper into his shoulder. “I like you right where you are.”
“Look, we both work for Sandoval.”
“I work for me. And I figure an American working for that scumbag, who has to sneak into his own country, must be a pretty bad dude. I’m probably doing the world a favor.” He waggled the barrel of the Ruger up and down a little. “Now, you just do me a favor and raise up that Winchester.”
I knew what he was up to. In the remote event my body was ever found and linked to him, modern forensics would prove I was pointing the rifle at him. He would say he found me stealing his jeep and when he told me to stop I drew down on him, a clear case of self-defense. As for why he hid the body, “I panicked, your Honor.”
“I can make this painful or painless,” he said, “it’s up to you. I’ll put one in your gut, let you roll around for a few minutes thinking about it. Do like I say, and it’s one to the head. You won’t feel a thing.”
“Alright, alright,” I said. Slowly, I brought the barrel of the Winchester up, pointing in his direction, holding it at my waist.
“All the way up, to the shoulder, please.”
I brought it up to about chest level and stopped.
“Higher than that, or I’m really going to-.”
I threw myself backwards and to the side the moment he began to speak. He stopped talking and began firing, the first round passing so close to my head I felt the wind. I hit the ground already rolling towards the jeep. He continued firing, but he was anxious and jerking the trigger. Chunks of earth sprayed against me, but I made it under the jeep without being hit. On my back, I moved to the driver’s side by digging my heels in the sand and clawing at the underside with my hands. There was a loud pop and hissing as he shot out the right front tire, then the left, trying to pin me beneath the chassis.
I jackknifed out from under and onto the driver’s seat. A steady stream of rounds shattered the windshield. Pebbles of safety glass rained on my head. Bullets thumped into the driver’s seat and twanged off metal. Any moment, he’d come to his senses and move in on me. I fumbled for the headlight switch and turned on the brights.
After hours in darkness, the light shining directly in his ey
es dazzled him. The firing stopped momentarily and he threw his left forearm across his eyes. I ran towards him. He began firing blindly just as I tackled him. The air whooshed out of his lungs, bringing the wad of tobacco with it. He fell backwards. I knelt on his chest and gave him a couple of hard rights to the face. He tried hitting me with the rifle, but I wrenched the gun out of his hand and butt stroked him. The impact broke his nose and some front teeth. He howled with pain, clamping both hands to his bloody face.
I was a little pissed and not entirely in control. I rose and stepped back, reversing the rifle so the barrel was pointed at him. His eyes widened.
“You gonna shoot me?” he said. His voice was thick and had a slight whistle now.
“I’d probably be doing the world a favor,” I said, imitating his accent.
He began to sob, spitting blood and spittle. “Please, please don’t.”
I like to think not, but my finger may have been tightening on the trigger when an amplified, metallic voice boomed.
“Lower your weapon. This is the United States Border Patrol. Lower your weapon and step back.” The command was then repeated in Spanish.
I didn’t wait for the Arabic translation. I let the Ruger fall to the sand and stepped away from it.
“Lie face down and place your hands behind your head.”
I did as I was told. Murphy rolled over and did the same. We ended up facing each other across five feet of sand.
I heard horses approaching from several directions. I turned my head and watched three mounted men in green uniforms come carefully down the steep slopes of the arroyo. Two more came up behind the jeep. Each was armed with a pump shotgun or assault rifle.
Murphy looked around anxiously as the riders spread out to encircle us. He looked back at me.
“Remember,” he whispered, “you’re my cousin.”
I could only stare at him in disbelief.
42.
In prison movies solitary confinement is portrayed as the ultimate punishment, but I was rather enjoying it. While I could see it growing old over an extended period of time, it was a refreshing change from my busy schedule of cross country travel and shootouts. The cell wasn’t much smaller than my New York apartment, was definitely cleaner, and its whitewashed cinderblock walls created a Zen-like ambience conducive to idle reflection. I had a bunk, a sink, a toilet, and three squares a day of acceptable cuisine. What more could one man ask?