The Territory: A Novel

by Tricia Fields

  He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and stared down as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. “Son of a bitch.”

  “No money?” she asked.

  “What a day.”

  “What a life,” she said.

  He shook his head and smirked as if understanding completely.

  “Just take it,” she said. “Pay me back another day.”

  He started to protest, but she scooted the Mountain Dew across the counter toward him. “You’re good for it, right?”

  * * *

  Hack Bloster sat in his squad car and twisted the plastic cap. He stared at the girl behind the counter through the window. He had almost refused a dollar-and-fifty-cent soft drink because it felt too much like stealing, yet he was headed to work to break four murderers out of jail in exchange for money. What had happened to him? He stared at the girl, remembering the tears running down her face when he walked into the gas station, and he wondered if it was too late to change things.

  * * *

  Warden Escobedo had called Sheriff Martínez and filled him in on the setup at his jail. Josie had been right about Martínez: he needed to know what was happening at his jail, not because of misguided interoffice courtesy, but because he could make an off-duty stop at the jail and blow the entire operation wide open. At this point, if Martínez did anything to sabotage the operation, he effectively implicated himself as well as Bloster. Martínez was instructed to remain at home and talk to no one until he received further notice. Escobedo knew the sheriff was furious at being ordered to stay away from his own jail, but he was respectful and agreed to the terms.

  Two local employees, jailers Maria Santiago and Dooley Thomas, were on duty inside the jail that night. Escobedo had already briefed both of them on their roles, the confidential nature of the prisoner transfer, and the volatile, life-threatening situation they were facing that night. After talking with them, he felt confident that both would handle their roles professionally.

  Escobedo was sitting in the white prisoner transport van waiting on Bloster to make contact. Escobedo had changed out of his suit and dressed in a jailer’s uniform from the federal prison in Houston. When the National Guard caravan drove past the jail and continued on another mile to Main Street, he pulled binoculars out of the glove compartment and watched a man dressed in black jeans, cowboy boots, and a denim-style shirt riding a white Harley Davidson Super Glide escort the unit around the courthouse square. Escobedo watched in amazement as the caravan of four Humvees and two covered trucks wrapped the block twice like a parade route with the man waving to the pedestrians like a grand marshal.

  He hadn’t planned on the addition of the National Guard to the equation and had no idea how they would fit into the scenario, or if they were staying around the courthouse or moving in around the jail. Escobedo called Sheriff Martínez’s cell phone.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had National Guard troops arriving tonight?” Escobedo yelled.

  “What are you talking about?” Martínez asked.

  “It’s like a city parade around the courthouse. Some crackpot on a white Harley is leading them around the block, waving.”

  “That’s Mayor Moss.”

  “The streets are filling up. People are cheering on the guardsmen,” Escobedo said, reaffirming his hatred for small towns, confirming his love for Houston. “Do they not realize the guard is here to protect them from mass murder?”

  “Last word I heard from the mayor was that the guard was on hold until further notice. Let me give him a call and—”

  Escobedo cut him off. “You don’t call anyone. The only phone call you answer is from this cell phone. Understood?”

  Escobedo noticed the hesitation before Martínez answered, “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Bloster parked his cruiser behind the jail as a white transport van pulled in the back lot and drove toward the prisoner transport area. All the pieces were fitting together, which did nothing to calm his nerves.

  He watched the continuing parade of National Guard trucks file around the courthouse. They added yet another variable to a night full of them. He worried some of the guard members might fan out to check the area and question him about his purpose, but as a deputy, he should be in the clear.

  He shut his car door and felt as if every eye in Artemis were trained on him, his hypocrisy laid bare for the world to witness. He had reached the lowest point in his life, and he imagined his deceit and dishonor glowed from his skin like radiation.

  After being buzzed into the jail, he signed his name on the sign-in clipboard Maria handed him and asked how she was doing.

  “Not bad,” she said. “You doing okay?”

  “Not so good. I had a shift change. Wasn’t supposed to work tonight.”

  “It’s no good coming in on a day off,” she said, and turned back to her paperwork.

  “I got assigned the prisoners. I’ll be organizing transport later this evening. The sheriff asked if I’d take care of this. I’ll get the paperwork all filled out and get it back to you before I go.” With his nerve endings on fire, he shut his mouth, aware he was explaining too much.

  “No problem. We’re down a man tonight, and I’m stuck here at the desk.” Usually cheerful and talkative, she seemed busy and preoccupied.

  He looked down at the clipboard in his hand. “What’s going on with the National Guard?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess the mayor organized it.”

  “Are they stationed outside, or are they coming inside the jail?” he asked.

  “No one told me anything,” she said.

  Bloster nodded and wondered at her attitude. She was usually one of the friendliest employees at the jail. He hoped he was just being paranoid.

  “Can you buzz me back? I need to check in with the guard about the transport.”

  Maria buzzed him through to the center of the jail, where the inmate pods were located. As the door locked behind him, Bloster slowed his breathing and took measured steps down the short hallway. He pressed a red button on the wall, and Maria buzzed him into the day space.

  Just inside the door, Dooley, the day-shift guard, sat at a desk, watching three inmates who were lounging at a metal table, watching a TV on the wall. Dooley was a giant man who barely fit into the folding chair he sat in.

  Seeing Dooley at the guard desk caught Bloster by surprise. “How come they have you working night shift?”

  “Sheriff called me in tonight.”

  Bloster broke out into a cold sweat. He had told Maria the sheriff had also called him in, which was a lie. What if Dooley and Maria talked and decided to call the sheriff to check on the schedule mix-up? If everyone remained quiet tonight, Bloster knew he could cover his schedule with the sheriff and explain it as a mistake.

  “You here to cover me for supper break?” Dooley asked.

  Bloster was starting to panic. He needed time to sit down and work through his plan again. He had to check in with the transport driver first and make sure it was set up as a legitimate prisoner transfer.

  “Give me ten minutes to run an errand,” Bloster said. “I’ll be right back.” He pressed the intercom. “Maria? I need back through again. Then I’ll relieve Dooley for supper break.”

  The door buzzed and the lock clicked loudly. Bloster maneuvered through the series of locked doors, with each step expecting disaster.

  Once outside, he felt a rush of adrenaline and a tinge of hope that he might actually accomplish the prisoner exchange without becoming one himself. He avoided eye contact with the guardsmen, now standing outside their trucks and talking in small groups in front of the jail. Bloster took the sidewalk beside the brick building to the back parking area, where the van and his own patrol car were parked.

  The driver of the van wasn’t in the driver’s seat, but his head appeared after Bloster knocked on the window. The van was running and the driver lowered the window. He was a middle-aged man dressed in the uniform worn by jailers at the federal p
enitentiary. Bloster had never been to the jail, but he recognized the federal patch below the man’s name on his pocket.

  “You here for the prisoner transport?” Bloster asked, his blood pounding like a hammer in his head.

  “You got four for me to take back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The driver passed Bloster paperwork through the window, and he was shocked to see that it appeared legitimate, with signatures and times and the names of the prisoners. With the paperwork in his hand, Bloster realized he was making what would look like a legitimate transfer. He couldn’t believe the Mexicans had that kind of access to the inner workings of their prison system, but at that point, he was glad they did.

  “You need help with the prisoners?” the driver asked.

  Bloster said no, that he would bring them out to the loading dock on the basketball court. He had started to walk away when the driver called him back to the van.

  “Let’s do this now before the prisoners are out here,” the man said. He reached down between the driver and passenger seats and picked up a briefcase, which he laid on his lap. He flipped the latch and opened the case to reveal stacks of twenty-, fifty-, and hundred-dollar bills.

  “You want to count these?” the driver asked.

  Bloster shook his head and attempted to keep his paranoia in check, forcing himself to face the driver and not look over his shoulder.

  “You get all four prisoners in the van, I give you the case, and I’m out of here. I don’t like that convoy of National Guard sitting out front. The faster we get out of here, the better.”

  “What happens to me when it’s discovered these prisoners were never received in Houston?”

  “The paperwork is done. As far as your jail is concerned, the prisoners were taken as planned. These men get erased from the system, and you made a good day’s wages.”

  Bloster directed the driver to pull the van to the gym entrance, where a large garage door would open via Maria in the central hub. The van entered, the door was shut again, and the basketball court was secure now for a prisoner exchange. The van turned around and backed up to the only entrance to the jail from the court while Bloster went back around the front. Maria buzzed him in, and he moved directly to the pod of prisoners again. Dooley, who was supposed to get off for supper, grumbled, but he helped Bloster handcuff the first three prisoners.

  Dooley asked Bloster, “Does that driver know he’ll be taking rival gang members?”

  Bloster looked at him blankly. He felt as if his brain could not process any new information.

  “These three are from the Medrano cartel. They were the three that crossed the border to blow this one out of jail.” Dooley turned and pointed to a prison cell behind him, where Gutiérrez stood watching from behind the bars. “I figured they’d send two vans. One for these three, and one for the La Bestia dirtbag behind us.”

  Bloster could think of nothing to say. He just knew he needed all four prisoners out of the jail by midnight. “Let’s get these three loaded. We’ll get their hands and feet locked into the bars on the van. They should be safe enough.”

  Dooley raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Whatever.”

  Each of the three prisoners’ hands was handcuffed separately to a bar behind their lower backs. Each of their feet was shackled in a similar manner to the floor of the van, and a chain was wrapped around their waists like a belt and attached to another hook behind their backs. Under some circumstances, Bloster would have thought the setup was overkill. Tonight, he thought it was a good idea. Bloster didn’t know what might be in store for the four prisoners, but he suspected Gutiérrez was in trouble.

  Back at the cell, Dooley held his nightstick in one hand and the handcuffs in another as Bloster unlocked the cell door. Dooley rocked back on his heels, jutting his large stomach out farther and tapped his nightstick on his palm, letting the handcuffs dangle from his finger.

  As the door opened, Gutiérrez moved to the back of his cell, his face stricken. “You can’t take me with them! They’ll kill me!”

  Dooley smiled at Bloster. “Get a load a this. This guy thinks it’s okay for him to kill people, but it’s not okay for people to kill him. He didn’t watch Sesame Street when he was little.”

  Bloster ignored Dooley and turned Gutiérrez around, twisting his arm in the sling until he cried out in pain. Bloster gritted his teeth and snapped the cuffs on. Finally in enough pain, Gutiérrez submitted to Bloster and Dooley and made the trek to the transport van, walking between the two of them.

  The driver was standing at the back of the van, guarding the three prisoners when Bloster opened the side door and pushed Gutiérrez in, locking his hands and feet to the bars. He faced forward, and the three prisoners behind him immediately started with barbs, spoken in Spanish, but the intent was clear. It would be a long ride for all of them.

  Bloster had no idea who the driver of the van was or how he had obtained federal papers, but the way Bloster saw it, he was in the clear. If he was questioned by Sheriff Martínez, he would say the feds called him, stating he needed to come into work to take care of the prisoners, the paperwork was in order, and he had followed orders. The whole transaction took less than an hour, and aside from the suitcase of money, it felt like a dozen other transports he had worked over the past few years. He could not believe his luck.

  * * *

  By eight thirty, Josie had paced around the perimeter of the observation deck a dozen times. There had been no movement toward her house, and Scratchgravel Road was empty. Dell had asked Josie if she’d considered what kind of retaliation she might receive when Medrano discovered the prisoners were released but moved to a maximum-security prison. She had no answer, though she thought of little else.

  At 8:45 P.M., Josie noticed a line of four cars on the Mexican side heading westbound toward the access road along the Rio. She pointed them out to Dell, who was already standing up from his chair.

  “They’re headed toward Flat Rock,” Josie said.

  “Can they get those cars through the river?”

  “It’s wide and shallow enough. That’s how they’ve been crossing.”

  “Wouldn’t you think they’d realize police and Border Patrol use this tower to watch them?” he asked.

  “Imagine how many times they’ve crossed unnoticed. We use this only when we have confirmed suspicions. We don’t have enough manpower to make good use of it.”

  They watched the first car make a turn at the river, and there was no doubt about their intent.

  “That’s it. Let’s head out before we lose them,” she said.

  Dell’s duffel bag was already packed back up, and he slung it over his shoulder and took off down the steps. Josie threw both guns in her bag and followed Dell. About twenty feet from the bottom, her cell phone vibrated. She slowed, fished it out of her shirt pocket, and answered, hanging on to the stair railing with her other hand and feeling for the dark steps below with her foot.

  “This is Escobedo. Everything is in place. Bloster’s in the jail preparing the prisoners. We should be on the road within fifteen minutes. He’s seen the money. I’ve got two agents outside ready to make the arrest once he takes possession.”

  Josie blew air out. “We have trouble. I’m at the watchtower. I just watched one of four cars cross the access point they’ve been using on the river.” Josie heard a string of profanity and went on. “I’m just getting off the tower. I’ve lost the visual, but I hear them. They’re northbound on River Road, headed toward town.”

  “So they’re either illegals, or Medrano’s clan come to break the prisoners free,” Escobedo said. “Call me back when you’re on the road and have a visual.”

  “This isn’t a transport of illegals. They don’t work this way. Not out in the open with this many cars together. We need to prepare for the worst.”

  “Bloster’s coming out the door now. How far away are you from the jail?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Get DPS
and Border Patrol on the phone to work with local dispatch. I’ve got to square up with Bloster and get on the road. I don’t want a shoot-out at the jail. I want as many patrol units as you can find to escort this van out of town and stop those cars. Just keep the sheriff’s department out of it.”

  Within minutes, Josie had caught up with the four cars and made visual contact. Dell was sitting quietly in the passenger seat beside her, but she knew he was watching for anything that could cause them problems.

  She called Escobedo back to confirm she had them in her sights; his phone went to voice mail. They were driving the speed limit, and Josie hung back a safe distance with the headlights on her car still off. The moon and a sky full of stars provided just enough light for her to see the road.

  Josie and Dell both rolled their windows up as dust started to fill the car. Josie’s eyes had begun to water and her throat felt caked with dirt.

  Dell pointed out the front windshield. “Look how much the wind has picked up just since we were on the tower. I can see the dust swirls on the highway even in the dark.”

  Josie said, “I think Escobedo is making a big mistake, Dell. There’s no way you and I can pull over four cars, but if we called in the sheriff’s department right now, we might get lucky. We need these cars stopped before they reach that van. We just don’t have enough manpower.”

  “Was that a direct order?” Dell asked. “Can you call the Sheriff’s men in yourself?”

  Josie gripped the steering wheel, realizing every second counted against them. “It was an order. I can’t even call the Guard out, because I can’t reach Moss. We better get some help soon or we’ll all end up dead.”

  * * *

  Bloster locked the last prisoner’s handcuffs to the handrail in front of his seat in the transport van. He was sweating, his heart racing. He was about to accept two hundred thousand dollars and had to make the decision to trust the process the driver had explained, or to leave his home tonight and start a new life in Mexico.

  The driver called Bloster to the front of the van, where the man once again presented the briefcase. Bloster nodded, took the case, and walked toward his patrol car in the back of the employee parking lot, trying to keep from running.