Driving in Traffick: The Victim's Story (Margret Malone Book 2)

by Nancy Cupp

  Carlos heard a sound. He sunk back into the corner and rolled heavy grain sacks on top of himself. He could just barely see out of the stifling hole he was in. His water bottle was sitting on the floor in plain sight.

  Three burly men burst through the wooden door, splintering the door jam. They held their guns, ready to mow down anyone they found. Carlos could smell musky body odor and greasy hair. Behind them walked the man known as Machete, named for his practice of carving up those who defied him.

  The gunmen strode around the cell, satisfied he wasn’t there, until Machete slowly picked up the bottle. “He’s been here, find him.” The men clattered from the room, shouting to each other as they spread out to search. Carlos almost dared to breathe, but then he heard Machete’s deliberate steps.

  A sound sang out as a heavy blade whizzed through the air and thudded deep into a bag of rice, splitting it open. Grain cascaded onto the floor, then slowed to a trickle as the bag emptied. The big man waited silently until the last of the rice had fallen, then crunched from the room, taking the last precious drops of water with him.

  Carlos didn’t move until long after dark. Sweat and dust combined to make his skin crawl and itch. His ears strained for any sound, any clue, to tell him where they were. The bags pressed against his chest, and he gasped for air. When he couldn’t stand the crushing heat any longer, he shoved his way out of the self-imposed tomb. It took nearly all the strength he had left to free himself.

  Feeling his way out of the dark room, the sound of his own footsteps was startling. He didn’t dare use the light from his phone for fear it would give him away. On weak legs he stepped into the night. There was a cantina close by and his thirst nearly drove him there, but Carlos headed for the river. If he tried to swim the river and the Polícia Federal caught him he would be safe from Machete for the time being. If they didn’t catch him, he might make it to the United States, and closer to Rosa.

  He crept in the shadows, mesquite and cacti tore at his clothes and skin. Small creatures scrambled away through the brambles. Nearer to the river he could see car lights and hear faint voices. He got as close as he could without being seen and lay flat on his belly to listen for a sign that it was safe.

  He heard “girl…cavern…trail…Carlos.” It was Machete’s men. Carlos sank back into the desert brush, he caught a glimpse of the car, it had Polícia Federal painted on the door. The Federales and Machete’s men were working together.

  Carlos worked his way back toward the road, his mind racing to think of a way to get to some kind of safety. He ached for Rosa, but was glad she wasn’t with him. He wished he knew she was safe. Sand under his feet yielded as he stepped into a low ditch leading to a concrete culvert that tunneled under the highway. Iron bars blocked the end of the tube, but Carlos lay down and wiggled his way through.

  Inside it was damp, but there wasn’t enough water to get a drink. He sat crouched, remembering how their ordeal had begun.

  ☙

  It had been a beautiful morning, bird song and a gentle breeze floated in the bedroom window. The sweet smell of baking bread from the bakery below nearly persuaded them to get up, but Carlos held Rosa even tighter as she snuggled against him in their warm bed. They wanted to savor the moment, the plastic wand with a pink plus still lay on the nightstand.

  “Let’s go for a hike today, we can take a picnic, and eat in the cool mountain air. I want to explore the old mine up there.”

  “Cariño, do you think that’s wise? Remember you’re going to be a mother.”

  “That’s why I want to go now, soon I won’t be able to. It won’t hurt our baby.”

  “Someday you have to stop looking for them, it’s been five years.”

  Rosa pouted, “I have to know, Papa talked about funding to seal up the old mines. Maybe he and Mama went to get information to present at the legislature. I won’t go inside, I promise, I just want to see…”

  He kissed the top of her head, “Okay Amor, you win.”

  Rosa jumped out of bed “Gracias, it will be a perfect day to celebrate our baby.”

  Carlos reluctantly left his warm nest and followed her to the tiny kitchen where she was already packing their picnic. Fragrant coffee bubbled in the pot, eggs and chorizo cooked on the stove.

  They packed everything in his old Jeep and headed out of town. The day was heating up quickly, but the open sides of the Jeep kept them cool. They talked of plans for their soon to be family. When they could drive no further, they set out on foot following a well worn trail.

  “It looks like a lot of people have been up here recently, they would have found your parents if they were here.” Carlos pointed out recent litter.

  “I know, but let’s have fun today anyway.”

  They ate lunch on an out-crop of rocks, in the shade of a twisted tree clinging to life in the dry desert air. When they were through, Rosa scampered up the trail ahead of Carlos, but soon she came back to find him.

  “Did you find something?”

  “No, I just thought I heard voices—men.”

  “Probably just hikers like us. Nothing to worry about.”

  They walked on together, breathing hard from the climb, but stopped to listen when they heard a shout. The bright sun made it hard to pick out the man standing high on the rocks above them. Carlos shaded his eyes, he could make out a silhouette of a man with something sticking up behind him. “Is he carrying a rifle? What would they be hunting up here?”

  “Should we turn back? I don’t want to be mistaken for a big cat or a coyote .”

  “Yeah, we better.” They started back and hadn’t gotten far when they saw several men with rifles making their way through the brush toward them. Carlos felt an uneasy chill when he realized the weapons were not hunting rifles, they were AK-47s. He pushed Rosa faster on the trail ahead of him. “Run, we have to get back to the Jeep.”

  They ran and stumbled on the rough trail, Carlos holding her arm from behind, half pushing, half carrying her. Breathlessly, they wound down the trail hearing heavy footsteps behind them. When they got to the Jeep, Carlos pushed her in and had the key in the ignition before he even had his left leg in. He spun the Jeep around and stomped on the accelerator.

  Behind them they heard the brrrrt, from a short volley of fire. Twigs snapped off and little clouds of dust puffed in the dirt beside them where bullets sprayed in their direction.

  Rosa screamed and ducked her head. “Why are they shooting at us?”

  “I don’t know, but they were just warning, they could have hit us if they wanted to.” The Jeep careened on the rutted, twisting track. A big man in tall, black boots stood at a sharp curve, holding a blade. He was directly in front of them before the road turned, for a moment the man’s icy stare met Carlos’s eyes.

  Carlos drove as hard as he dared on the steep terrain and sped toward the city once they got on the main road. Rosa finally dared to speak, “Who was the man with the blade? What’s going on?”

  “That was a bad hombre. They call him Machete.”

  “You know him?”

  “I went to high school with him, the worst thing is, he knows me.”

  “Should we go to the polícia?”

  “Lets go home first.”

  They went to their apartment above the bakery, Carlos nervously peeked around the curtains to the street below.

  “What are you watching?”

  “Do you recognize any of those cars?” There were three black Mercedes parked below, unusual for a modest neighborhood of upstairs apartments. On the corner, across the street was a police car.

  “No.” A thin curl of smoke rose from under their Jeep. “Look—is our car on fire?”

  “Quick, grab a few things, we’re getting out of here.” Carlos shoved a small back pack in Rosa’s direction, then yanked a duffle bag out of the closet. They shoved handfuls of clothes in the bags and started for the steps. When Rosa opened the door to their apartment, smoke rolled up the stairs from below.

 
; “The bakery is on fire!”

  Carlos yanked her back, and slammed the door. He pulled her to the rear window, where they crawled out onto the flat roof. They ran across three adjoining buildings to a wobbly, rusted fire escape ladder and climbed down. They ran as long as they could, behind them, the bakery was fully engulfed in flame.

  ☙

  Carlos pounded on the back door of his cousin’s adobe shack. A dog barked inside, “Vamos you stupid mutt,” grumbled a sleepy voice from inside. “Carlos, Rosa! What are you doing here this late?”

  “Please Enrico, can we come in?”

  “Of course, of course. What’s wrong?”

  Carlos explained what happened. “What should we do?”

  “You don’t mess with Machete. You have to get out of here—out of Mexico. It’s not safe for you.”

  Rosa’s eyes filled with tears, “How?”

  “Do you have any money?”

  “A little,” said Carlos.

  Enrico took a ragged breath, “I can give you some, but you can’t stay here. I know a man who knows someone who can get you across.”

  6

  Throw Me a Biscuit

  Bruce flopped and twisted on the saggy couch. He hardly slept, thinking about what he’d allowed his brother to con him into. Propped on one elbow the tried to force air into his lungs. The mustiness of the chamber stirred up his asthma. He checked his phone, It’s gotta be time for breakfast, I’m starving.

  Suspecting it was still a little early for Arnold, he looked out the dirty windows at the motor home below. There was a light on, and soon the door opened and a black woman stepped out carrying a tray. Arnold followed her to the semi-trailer and unlocked the side door. She went in, and he locked the door behind her.

  Bruce clomped down the stairs, “Whatdaya got to eat around here?”

  “I had Blaize cook us up some stuff. She’s good for more’n one thing.”

  “You sampling some of the goods too?”

  Arnold shrugged, “What of it? You can use her on my off nights. The other one ain’t ready yet.”

  “No thanks, I don’t need it. How do ya know when she’s ready?”

  “She’ll be beggin’ to get out of there soon, I shut off the air conditioner—and she’ll get hungry.”

  “I thought I saw that one with a tray of food.”

  “That was hers, she might throw her a biscuit, but Blaize likes her food. She’ll help to break the other one in too, takes some of the pressure off’n her. Wanna help me tattoo her?”

  “No—You mark ‘em?”

  “Sure, got to protect my investment. If I sell her later, the buyer knows where to get more—it’s business.”

  “When do I start haulin’ the hot load you got?”

  “Soon as you get us a truck.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? I don’t know nothin’ about hot-wiring a truck.”

  Arnold reached for a wad of keys on the counter behind him, and tossed them in Bruce’s direction.

  “There’s a complete set for Volvo, and Kenworth and a few for a Pete. Just wait ‘till you see ‘em go in for a shower, then get to work.”

  7

  Bugs on the Windshield

  Joyce was busy explaining where they’d be picking up the next load. Margret was relieved when she offered to put the truck in the dock for her. There were trucks on both sides and little room in front, but Joyce expertly wiggled the trailer into the spot where they were assigned to be unloaded.

  Margret’s nerves were shot. She was terrified when they got to the big hills of Ohio, West Virginia and Pennsylvania. She’d read just enough to know how dangerous it could be to drive in the mountains. Joyce said these weren’t the big mountains, and the Jack—no, Jake-Brake would hold them. Joyce wouldn’t let her keep her foot on the petal either. She said she had to stab-brake; firmly brake until the truck slowed, then let it go and repeat as necessary. Margret was nearly ill when Joyce said the brakes would fail if they got too hot.

  The landscape was pretty with wide valleys and high mountains all around. The tunnels on the turnpike were cool, but they made Margret claustrophobic. She felt like they’d scrape the top and sides of the narrow passage with the huge truck.

  Margret drove at thirty-five miles an hour through a tunnel, despite Joyce’s urging to get her speed up. That’s when she stalled because she needed to downshift. She couldn’t remember what gear it was already in, so she couldn’t figure out where to downshift to. The blare of horns echoing off tunnel walls still had Margret rattled.

  ☙

  “I hope they get done pretty soon. I want to get our next load, it’s just a drop and hook. We need to get back out of Philadelphia before your time runs out. We won’t find parking in Philly for sure,” said Joyce.

  The windows were down to let the breeze in. Joyce shut the truck off allowing the cab to get hot and sticky. The trucks on either side of them roared away, their drivers relaxing in icy air-conditioned comfort. A fly flew in the window and buzzed Margret’s face, she swatted at it but he was persistent. The truck shook as a fork lift zoomed in and out of the trailer.

  Joyce had the road atlas out, tracing the route they’d take to Philadelphia and then west to Denver. “You’ll get to see the Rockies. With any luck the next load will get us across to the West Coast. Wait ‘till you see the runaway truck ramps. They’ll give you the creeps, hope you never have to use one.”

  “Runaway truck ramps?”

  “Yeah, they shoot off the side of the road and have deep gravel or sand to stop you. If a truck loses it’s brakes and is careening down the mountain, you aim for it and hope it stops you.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I guess its pretty awful to use one of them, lots of G-force, stuff like that. With any luck the truck stays upright.”

  “Oh—God!”

  “Better than going over the edge.”

  “You got any other good news?”

  “Don’t worry, if you gear down, use the Jake-Brake, and stay off the pedal you’ll be okay.”

  Margret smacked the dashboard, trying to kill the three flies that were driving her crazy. “So what’s the deal with the Jack-brake?”

  Joyce got a fit of the giggles, “The what?”

  “Jack-Brake.”

  “Jake,” Joyce could hardly speak she was laughing so hard. “It’s an engine compression thing. It uses the compression of the engine to slow the truck.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about the pistons going up and down, a spark firing at just the right time to make them go faster and faster.”

  “Okay.”

  “When you flip the switch for the Jake-Brake it causes the timing to change just a little, you hear brrrrr, as the engine slows. Slow engine—slower truck.”

  Margret had rolled up a magazine, “I get it, so Jack-Jake, whoever, is my friend.” Wack, wack, wack, she swung at the flies. “I think I got one!”

  “Great, there’s about forty more to go.” Joyce laughed. “I think they’re done unloading us, let’s go get our paperwork.”

  Traffic was terrible in Philadelphia. They crept along, and Margret struggled to find a gear that would allow her to keep rolling with the flow of traffic. Her left leg ached from using the clutch, but the constant up and down shifting was actually helping her to smooth things out.

  When they finally got to the shipper it didn’t take them long to drop their empty trailer and pick up the loaded one. Margret was pleased she was able to park the empty without too much trouble, but her arms and back hurt from cranking the dolly up and down.

  Traffic had eased some so they were able to pull into a truck-stop before Margret’s drive time was up. They found two empty spots together so it would be easier to park, but it still took more than a half-hour for Margret to back in. She was terrified she’d hit the truck she was next to. A line of trucks built up, patiently—then not so patiently, waiting for her to finish.

  “Don’t forget to set the anti-theft protec
tion,” said Joyce when Margret finally pulled the parking-brake knob.

  Margret slept better that night. She was tired, so the noise and smells didn’t keep her awake. They were on the road again before dawn.

  The windshield was already plastered with bugs, even though they had scrubbed it clean an hour earlier when they stopped for fuel. Margret tried to use the washer fluid to clear them away, but only managed to smear them around.

  “Auggh, that’s even worse.”

  “Seems like I’ve been looking at the world through bugs on the windshield forever,” said Joyce, “I guess it’s a driver’s point of view.”

  Joyce’s phone rang, she rolled her eyes and looked over at Margret, “It’s John,” she said before answering. “Good Morning John…things are going great…Yeah, her shifting is smoothing out…” There was a long pause while Joyce listened, “By when? Not unless I drive all night. I can’t train all day and then drive all night, when am I supposed to sleep?”

  The pre-pass on the window beeped rapidly and flashed red shortly after they crossed the Ohio State line. “Margret, pull into the weigh station, that’s what the red light means. John, I’ll call you back.”

  “What did I do?”

  “Nothing, it’s just a random check. I know we aren’t overweight. Go real slow through here, you don’t want to give them any reason to do an inspection.”

  Margret pulled carefully onto the scale following Joyce’s instructions. She stopped on the scale and waited for the go-ahead. At the signal she tried to go forward, but she had the wrong gear and stalled the truck. Margret groaned. She tried again, but still had too high of a gear to start out. The truck chugged off the scale, and a bright orange arrow lit up on a sign that said, “pull to inspection area.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Don’t panic. Just pull over there and park, then we take all our papers and permit book inside.”

  “Am I in trouble?”