“I heard that stuff in Afghanistan, but some of their officers killed a bunch of our Marines and Special Ops. I don’t ever wanna be caught in that kinda thing agin.”
“I share your concerns, but it’s almost impossible to get this job done without the involvement of these officers of the law.”
“Yeah, we were told that ’bout them Afghani’s we were trainin’, and all of a sudden some of us were on the wrong end of their weapons. I ain’t one with a big trust factor.”
“I understand, but there’s nothin’ I can do at this point,” Creet said.
“You do realize that these savages are probably gonna be armed to the teeth when they climb into these trailers? Hell, they can shoot their way out.”
“We know that, but they are more or less contained in a closed space, and we’ll have superior firepower. We have at least four-hundred armed and trained professionals,” Creet assured him.
“If and when the shootin’ starts, don’t forgit me and ole Slinger. I don’t want us to go down as casualties of so-called friendly fire.”
“That’s not gonna happen. You and Mazerski just have to drive about 30 miles. Then, you get out of your truck and get Mazerski out of his. Like you wanted, we’ll arrest both of you, but separate you so that Mazerski won’t know you’re part of our team, then you’ll be able to disappear.”
“This just sounds too pat to me. There’s so much that can go wrong,” Trent said.
“I agree, but we have to stop these radical Islamists.”
“Yeah, I’m with ya, but somebody needs to tell that to the President!”
“We’d like for the trucks to be in place around eleven tonight, okay?” Creet asked.
“Shor nuff. I gotta git hold-a Slinger and git this coordinated,” Trent said, “With that I’ll be signing off.”
Trent dreaded having to call Slinger, but he did anyway.
“Sling, where are ya?”
“I’ll be there no later than ten o’clock.”
“I’m stayin’ at Martha’s Motel Moments, the ole three-M just outside of downtown. We need to have a short meetin’.”
“That’s a big ten-four. I’ll see ya soon!”
He had promised Haylee he would give her a call. As he checked his contacts on his cell, he thought about being careful not to cause her any worry.
“Hello, Haylee-Girl! What you and momma got goin’ tonight?” He asked lightheartedly.
“Just dinner and a little TV, but I’ gettin’ sick of seeing Trump’s face on just about every channel!”
“Well now, sweetheart, ole Donald Trump just may be what the country needs right now.”
“Whatever!”
“You sound a little outta sorts. Somethin’ wrong?” Trent asked.
“Not really, me and momma argued a little ’bout the wedding date and things like that, but I told her it couldn’t be decided without you bein’ in on the conversation.”
“I really ’preciate yor lookin’ after mah interest, but I’m shor ole Kit didn’t mean nothin’ by what she said.”
“I know, guess it’s more complicated than that.”
“Complicated?” Trent asked.
“Us gettin’ married and all makes me a little nervous.”
“Nervous? ’bout what?”
“Trent, I’ve never been married before! Isn’t that something to get concerned about?”
“Hold on a minute, sweetheart, I ain’t been married, neither.”
“You’re a man, and men see these things differently,” Haylee said.
“We do? Howya figure that?”
“Men’re just different, that’s all.”
“I agree men and women are not the same, thank the Good Lord, but I think we’re more alike than not. Women’re better’n snuff and not half as dusty. Men can be that way, too, depends on the woman.”
“Snuff is a disgusting habit. How’re we like that?”
“Haylee-Girl I was just usin’ one of them metaphors. Some people really like snuff, but not crazy ’bout the dust part, it makes ’em sneeze.”
“Trent, I think it all just went right over my head, ’cause I see you as a very strong, sweet, and kind man I want to share my life with—not dusty snuff!” She laughed.
“See there, ya kinda made mah point.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, but I really miss ya, Trent,” she said quietly.
“Sweetheart, I really miss ya, too. When I git back, we’ll start makin’ a lotta plans ’bout the weddin’, Sante Fe, and such. We gonna have a great life together.”
“It’s ’bout bedtime, I need to get some sleep, but be safe on the road, and I love you,” she said.
“Haylee-Girl,” he paused, “Never forgit, as ole Willie Nelson says, ‘you’re always on my mind.’ I’ll let ya go for now. I love ya, and sweet dreams.”
Trent sat back in his chair, and reached for another bottle of beer. He was worried about working with what he considered to be amateurs. He didn’t know about the capabilities of these people. He couldn’t remove the “what if” scenarios from his mind. Also, there was the issue of Slinger, and he felt badly about what his fate would be after the operation was over. Then…there was Haylee.
Not long after he finished talking with Haylee, he heard the sound of the engine of a truck. He peaked through the curtains, and saw Slinger’s rig pull up alongside his. Trent’s cell vibrated.
“This is Slinger, what room you in?”
“Thirteen, down on the end?”
Trent sat back and listened for his knock, which came quickly.
“Come-on in, Sling,” he said, opening the door.
“Trent, you okay with this?” He said, sitting down in a chair by the bed.
“Wrong question, ya know I ain’t, but I guess we come too far ta back out now.”
“My source sent us money up front. Here’s your five-thousand of the ten,” Slinger said, retrieving an envelope from his coat pocket.
“Didn’t spect that,” Trent said, reaching for it.
“Expenses and good faith money.”
“Sling, you packin’ any heat?”
“Got my old nine millimeter.”
“Ya know ’bout anything can happen out there with them Syrians.”
“Yeah, I know, but I have you at my back.”
“Guess ya do at that,” Trent replied, wishing Slinger had never uttered those words.
“Sling, I think we should get to the overpass around eleven. Don’t wanna be late.”
“That’s sorta what I had in mind. You park on one side, and I’ll get on the other.”
“Ya do know we can’t trust these people?” Trent said, making eye contact with Slinger.
“Of course, just as long as they pay us, that’s good enough for me.”
“You ’bout ready to head down to the overpass?” Trent asked.
“Let’s go.”
“Just one other thing, let’s stay together as far as we can. I’ll take the lead, but don’t lose me,” Trent said.
“Okay with me.”
Columbus at eleven o’clock at night was pretty dead. It had a checkered past. In 1916 Pancho Villa raided the town and General Pershing later chased Villa back into Mexico. In 2011, the entire police force had been caught in gun running and drug dealing which resulted in them being indicted and the disbandment of the police force. The majority of the population was below the poverty level. The media income was less than half of that of the United States as a whole. It was a sad situation.
Trent and Slinger slowly drove to the overpass of Highway 11. The lighting was poor and that was good. The U.S. Mexico border was about three miles from Columbus, but that wasn’t far for the Syrian terrorists to travel by foot. Once Trent and Slinger arrived at the overpass, Trent parked his rig on the east si
de and Slinger on the west side. While they waited, Trent checked his handguns and long guns, just in case anything went wrong. Then, he put the $5,000 in the upfront money in the glovebox. He looked around and saw no one, so he assumed the authorities had well positioned themselves.
Suddenly, the special cell phone provided by the authorities began vibrating on the seat next to him. He quickly picked it up.
“Willobee, this is Dobson. Any problems?”
“Not yet, but they should be along anytime now.”
“Get out of the tractor and stand in front of the doors of your trailer,” Dobson directed.
“Ten-four.”
When Trent exited his cab, he brought along his AR-15 and slung it over his shoulder. He also had his concealed Glocks and .45. He waited while leaning against the trailer doors. It was very quiet and dark. Nothing was moving until he saw a lone figure approaching.
“We have men coming,” an armed man said in broken English, handing Trent a bag.
“How many?” Trent asked.
“Fifty-eight for this truck. Money in bag. Here…list of cities,” he said, “we go fast,” handing Trent the bag and a piece of paper.
“Hold on, wait a minute, let me see the cash,” Trent said, unzipping the bag and taking a peek, “I need ta know that there’s a hundred eighteen-thousand in there.”
“One-hundred-twenty-thousand in bag! Go!”
“Let me open the doors,” Trent said, as the man moved back with his weapon at the ready.
The man shined his light into the trailer with one hand while holding an Ak-47 with the other. When he saw it was empty, he turned and signaled into the darkness for the others. They began approaching like ghosts and goblins on a Halloween night, but not boisterously, rather quietly and orderly. Trent illuminated the list with his light, and noted there was a total of 8 different drop-off locations. As the men climbed aboard, it was obvious they were all armed with Ak47’s, side-arms, and grenades. When they were all in the trailer, Trent pointed to the lead guy and told him to get in.
“No, I ride with you,” he said firmly.
“People know I drive alone, bad idea!”
“No! I ride with you. I check list for drop-off!” He exclaimed, pointing to himself.
“If that’s what ya want,” Trent said, closing the doors, “then get in on the passenger’s side.”
Trent, climbed into the cab, flung the money-bag back into his sleeper, started the engine, and began driving east on Highway 11. Within minutes, his Syrian passenger told him to stop, and Trent pulled over to the side of the road. He looked in his mirror, and saw Slinger also pulling over.
“You must go west!”
“I know where the first drop is, and I’m goin’ the right way.”
“No!” The passenger said.
“Look, fella, you hired me ta drive, and that’s what I’m doin’. I know this route, you don’t! Sit back and let me drive. I wouldn’t have ta do this if you hadn’t insisted on ridin’ up here. Now I have to take a shortcut,” with that, Trent pulled back out on the highway.
His passenger was very annoyed. He kept fidgeting with his weapon, and looking from side to side along the roadway. Trent was very concerned about the volatility of this man. Trent focused on getting close to the Detention Center as fast as he could.
“Dobs, the forward tactical team has just confirmed the target’s on its way,” Creet radioed Dobson.
“Ten-four, keep me apprised of any changes.”
“We do have a little glitch.”
“Glitch! What kinda glitch!” Exclaimed Dobson.
“Each of the drivers has an armed subject with them in their cabs.”
“What the hell’s wrong with Willobee? He should’ve prevented that! That complicates the hell out of it!”
“Dobs, he may not’ve had a choice, but he was willing to do his part anyway.”
“We can’t afford any of his heroic bullshit—freakin’ hillbilly-cowboy crap!”
“They should get here within the next twenty-five minutes. We have two personnel carriers following the trucks about a half-mile behind. Over’n out,” Creet said, leaning against a boulder.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Creet was very troubled with this turn of events. He was also frustrated with Dobson. Creet’s thoughts went into overdrive. Trent knew that the probability of action went up ten-fold by having an armed passenger sitting next to him, but he did it anyway. Yet, Dobs discounts him as a heroic hillbilly-cowboy. I must get a sniper in place for each driver. When the trucks stop, they can take out each passenger very quickly. I cannot risk these men’s lives further.
After they had traveled about 25 miles, Trent’s passenger began questioning him again about their direction.
“This is not right! This is not to first drop!”
“Hey, sport, I told ya once, and I don’t wanna have to tell ya agin, let me do the drivin. It was ’cause of you, I couldn’t git on I-10! So, shut the fuck up! I’ll git us ta where we goin’. I gotta take another little road up ahead just so I can git back in the direction we sposed to be travelin’,” Trent said, looking back and forth at him and the highway.
Trent’s insistence seemed to rile his Syrian passenger. “We pay you to take us places!”
“That’s what the hell I’m doin’. Tell ya what, after I git us pointed in the right direction in the next five minutes, I’ll let you drive! I’ll stop and change places withya. Then, you can drive!”
At that point, Trent knew he was less than five miles from his destination, near the Detention Center. He figured it would give him an excuse to stop and climb out of the cab and deal with his terrorist-passenger. When Trent began breaking to pull over within 100 yards of his planned stopping point, things took a turn for the worse. The Syrian passenger tried to pullout his sidearm from its holster, and Trent braked hard, jostling the passenger and all aboard. There was a struggle for the gun, and in the process the passenger door flew open and Trent and the Syrian fell to the ground. Shots rang out, causing a commotion in the trailer. Trent wrestled the gun free, but the Syrian tried to stab him with Trent’s own knife, but Trent put several bullets into the Syrian’s upper torso. He jumped to his feet to the sound of automatic weapons coming from inside the trailer. The terrorists inside proceeded to shoot the locking mechanism until it was completely destroyed. The doors flew open and they started streaming out. Trent reached inside the cab for his AR-15. Though where he stopped was dark, the lighting from the truck revealed the images of the terrorists. They began shooting wildly in every direction, and federal agents began returning fire. Both trucks were under siege. The terrorists scurried about like cockroaches in a brightly lit room.
Hot ammo split the cool night air from both sides. Ricochets lit up the area like it was the 4th of July. A fiery RPG hit one of the saddle tanks on Trent’s rig, and it exploded like Mount Saint Helens, which sent Trent flying through the air, crashing to the ground upon the hard caliche clay. Prescience was momentarily impeded by a semiconscious state. Once he got his bearings, with weapon in hand, he ran toward Slinger’s truck. His greatest concern, at that moment, was the vulnerability of his old friend. He flung caution to wind, as he had done in the Middle East to do what he could to protect a brother. He ran about 100 yards to Slinger’s truck as bullets zipped by him until he was hit in the right leg, and he crashed to the ground. He felt as though his leg was on fire. The burning sensation was nearly unbearable, but he got back to his feet and hobbled to Slinger’s cab. He grabbed the door handle and opened it. When he did, Slinger fell out on top of him, and they both crashed to the ground. Trent checked Slinger’s pulse, and he was still alive.
“Sling! Sling! Can ya hear me?”
“Y-y-yeah… I’m…so c-c-cold… I’m…sorry…for…this…old…f-f-f-friend.”
Trent felt his wet chest and torso. He knew Slinger wa
s bleeding out. Memories of Afghanistan washed over him like great black clouds before a storm. He held Slinger close in his arms consoling him until he fell limp.
“I’m so sorry, Sling…we made a mistake…we screwed up,” Trent said, rocking and holding Slinger as bullets ricocheted around him.
Trent laid Slinger’s body down, and tried to get back on his feet.
The radio crackled as Creet tried to reach Dobson.
“Dobs! We’re gonna get these men killed!” He screamed into the microphone.
“Creet, get hold of yourself, you have a job to do! Kill or capture as many of these savages as you can! Now! We can’t worry about those two! We have to act quick!”
Trent dragged himself up while clinging to the truck. He used his belt as a tourniquet for his leg. He knew he had to get out of the line of fire, because it seemed to be coming from every direction. He started limping toward the desert away from the action, using the AR-15 as support, but he was hit again in the back, and then again. He fell to the ground and began crawling into the darkness of the desert, leaving his weapon behind. He continued scratching forward in the desert until he encountered a large patch of prickly pear cactus. He became entangled in their barbs and could not go farther, and he passed out.
Hours passed before he began to regain consciousness. Blood loss left him weak and delusional. He felt pain on the right side of his back and front of his torso near his appendix. He struggled to get his hand down to his Glock 43 holster. He could tell everything was wet. He assumed the hot rounds had passed through his body. He could feel the sun radiating upon his back as he lay face down. Trent was disoriented, he’d lost his bearings, but he continued to claw through the harsh terrain, encountering sharp, grinding rocks, salt cedar bushes and trees. His final thoughts before he passed out again were of Iraq and Afghanistan.
“How many did we get?” Dobson asked well after sunrise.
“I have everything here in the report,” Creet said, pitching the folder upon Dobson’s desk.
“Sit down.”
“Sure,” Creet said, pulling out a chair.
“These numbers don’t look good. Appears we only captured 42, wounded 12, and killed 18. Obviously, some got away.”
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