Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  She nodded. “I need more time with him, but…”

  Dawson noticed pink marks on her face. He held his hand to her cheek. “What the hell?”

  She dropped her eyes in humiliation, then held her hands to her face as her eyes watered. “I thought he was my ticket out. But…”

  Dawson had a sinking feeling. “But what?” he said, wincing from the pain in his side.

  “I think… I know now he’s… I never imagined…”

  “Has he hurt you?”

  She didn’t answer and only stared, her shoulders shaking with emotion. Hearing footsteps in the hall, she went to the door then turned to look at him. She wiped tears from her eyes, then closed the door. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “You’re right. But how?”

  “We need to think of something.” Anita went back to the door. “We’ll talk after dinner.” She closed the door behind her and left Dawson with his thoughts.

  Chapter 51

  Rancho la Peña, New Mexico

  Special Agent Garcia scanned the faces of the two dozen men who sat on simple wooden benches facing 3-D display of mountain terrain projected on the wall. Like him, they were dressed in black fatigue pants and black T-shirts, automatic pistols strapped to their thighs, their assault rifles in racks against the wall and their faces covered with camouflage paint. Garcia used a red laser beam pointer to note features of the Borrego compound.

  Garcia had doubts about this mission, but he kept them to himself. This was his job and his life now. And how many of these missions had he done? Fifty? Sixty? Easily. Iraq and Afghanistan, where the night raids had become routine. This one was no different, yet was probably more important that any of the others. This one was to put an end to the Borrego cartel—once and for all. A silver bullet to the heart. Like killing a vampire. He called it Operation Silver Bullet. The final chapter to Operation la Peña.

  There were many unanswered questions about this mission. Whenever Garcia had asked why the hit on the Borrego compound should come now, he got no answers. The question was met with a no-need-to-know reply. It was like doors were slammed in his face.

  Need to know? That game can be played many ways, Garcia thought. He had his own secrets, his own no-need-to-know. One of those secrets was about Fonseca. All indications had pointed to Carlos Borrego’s gunmen as the killers. To most observers, that made perfect sense. Fonseca had been selling to Carlos’s competitors, the Sonora cartel. And Carlos had discovered the mole in his camp— José Reyes. It was not rocket science, and Garcia pushed hard for that conclusion.

  But in reality, Garcia knew the Borrego cartel’s power was slipping. It had taken a beating from the other cartels fighting desperately for a piece of the Juárez action. Many wondered how long Carlos could hang on—if he could hang on. So why the urgency to kill or capture Carlos now? Attacking him was like shooting a wounded animal. Unless, of course, this mission was for show. If the DEA wanted to hit a cartel, Garcia was convinced the Sonora was the one to go after. Unlike the Borrego cartel, it was growing stronger, not weaker.

  Garcia agreed with his boss Carter that the situation along the border around El Paso was spinning out of control. The border crossing shootout. Sam Dawson dead. Then El Guapo. The warehouse raid. Now this mission had been put on fast-forward. They were going after Carlos Borrego. The sooner the better. That sooner was tonight. But privately, Garcia suspected the real reason for the mission was a well-kept secret.

  The mission had suddenly become much more complicated when their source confirmed that the TV reporter Anita Alvarez had shown up at the mountain hacienda. What the hell does she think she’s doing by walking into the lion’s den? He shook his head. Months of planning, training, and rehearsal for this mission were hastily revised to avoid hurting her. But it was nearly impossible. A mission like this depended on controlling what could easily become chaos on the ground. The mission couldn’t be done properly if his men had to dance around certain people. But they’d try.

  Garcia looked at the projection of Borrego hacienda compound. “One more time, gentlemen,” he said. “This is the Borrego mountain compound.” He circled the model with the glowing red beam. “This is the main house and these are the hangars. These are the packing sheds over here.” He wiggled the laser at the end of each statement, using the pointer as punctuation. “Alpha and Bravo units will attack the main hacienda. The objective is to take Carlos Borrego alive, if possible. The female journalist, Anita Alvarez, is at the hacienda. She’s to be secured and safely removed from the compound. Is that clear to everyone?”

  Garcia scanned their faces as a few heads nodded in understanding. This was personal, but he didn’t want to go into the details about that. It would only raise more questions about who he knew, why, and how. Enough had been said. Protecting Anita was an order. He swallowed hard. God, he hoped she’d be safe.

  “Charlie unit will hit the main processing lab over here,” he continued. “Once Charlie has destroyed it, they will provide backup. I will go in with Alpha unit.”

  Garcia paused. “Any questions?” He scanned the room. They would go in three Black Hawks, twelve men each, thirty-six in all. The intelligence said Carlos only had about a dozen men with him in the compound, men who mostly stayed out of sight, not including the staff. And the staff was mostly local Indians—not the kind of people who were inclined to get involved in this fight. But he couldn’t guarantee it.

  The meth lab and the drying houses were a different matter. Some of the cartel’s men floated between the two places—probably supervisors, Garcia surmised, who worked there during the day and returned to the main hacienda outbuildings at night. Most of the Raramuri workers who came and went each day would be gone. If any had stayed, he hoped they’d run at the first shot.

  Carlos’s men had some high-powered weaponry. Mostly AR-15s, some AK-47 pistols, and the usual collection of Glocks, Sig Sauers, and Beretta 9 mms. Although he was sure they had at least one sniper rifle, such a weapon would be useless in this kind of fast and close firefight.

  The cartel’s men also knew how to handle themselves. They were not afraid to fight—perhaps too much so. Some of the younger ones would be eager to shoot and show how tough and brave they were. Garcia and his men knew that a well-placed shot was a permanent cure for that kind of machismo.

  The three Black Hawks would be armed. They’d come over the last peak and drop down on the lab and packing sheds, and then the hacienda. The gunships would return fire if fired upon. The processing plant would be an inferno by the time the choppers unloaded the team at the main hacienda. They’d spread out, neutralize the resistance, and collect what evidence they could and dispatch before climbing back aboard. Half an hour. Tops.

  Chapter 52

  Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico

  The ceiling fans turned lazily. Candles lighted the dining room and glinted off fluted champagne glasses. Borrego again sat at the head of a rectangular table, his eyes distant. Two Raramuri women served dinner. The young woman Anita had spoken to earlier was gone, replaced by another who carried serving dishes and covered tortillas. Carlos lifted his champagne glass and nodded to Anita. “Here’s to your friend. He owes you his life. If you were not here…” He looked at Dawson like a piece of rotten meat.

  They lifted their glasses as the candlelight flickered. The outside world had darkened and cool mountain air moved through the opened windows. The candle flames fluttered in the stillness. Carlos drained his glass, then stared at Dawson. He threw his cloth napkin on the table, stood abruptly and turned to Anita. “I’m not hungry. We must finish the interview. Now. Let’s go back to my office.”

  Anita glanced helplessly at Dawson. “Please excuse us.”

  “Stay and have dinner,” Carlos said to Dawson.

  Then Carlos froze, looking like he’d seen a ghost. The color drained from his face and he glanced to the ceiling, straining to hear a sound. In moments it became clear. The distant thud-thud of multiple helicopters.r />
  Carlos charged out to the pool patio. Dawson and Anita followed, pausing and crouching on the steps to see what was happening. Carlos turned with a horrified look, waved a gun, and yelled, “Get back in the house.” Three choppers were now close, swooping across the valley, with deafening noise. Two of Carlos’s men, now panicked, raised assault rifles as a couple of Black Hawk gunships roared overhead, nose down, bullets pounding the concrete and destroying the chairs and tables and sending small geysers of water into the air. Carlos leapt back and flattened himself against the wall while his men dove and rolled to the side.

  “Run!” Dawson screamed as pushed Anita to the side and leapt away, tumbling down the steps.

  After the chopper thundered away, Dawson scrambled to his feet and up the steps to where Anita lay sprawled on the concrete, bleeding badly. Dawson knelt beside her, his eyes wild and wet with tears. Gripped with anger, he screamed, “No! No! No!” He turned at the sound of gunfire as Carlos and his men fired blindly at the night sky.

  Anita gasped for air, a gurgle coming from her throat. Her left leg was badly mangled, blood pooling on the pavement. There was nothing he could do to stop the flow. Her right shoulder had been shattered, white bone exposed, glistening with blood, the arm flung oddly above her, attached only by shreds of skin.

  He gingerly touched her cheek, and cupping his fingers around her jaw, turned her face to his and looked into her eyes. She was alive, her chest rising and falling as she struggled for breath. “Kyle? Kyle?” she wheezed. “Am I going to die?”

  Her words stabbed his chest. There was nothing he could do. “Anita. Try to relax. Stay calm. Just hang on.” He scanned the pool area. Nowhere to hide. And even if there was, how could he move her? She’d soon be dead—he dreaded the thought— and so would he if he didn’t get out of there. But he would not leave her side.

  Carlos ran to the base of the steps, then stopped and stared at Anita, horror gripping his face. He climbed the steps, gun in hand, and knelt beside her. “Es muerta,” Carlos said. She’s dead. Dawson glanced back at Anita. Her mouth was slack, her eyes vacant.

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Boss?” one of Carlos’s men shouted, as an explosion beyond the patio walls lit up the sky. Each had a pistol jammed in their belts and an assault rifle ready.

  Carlos waved to the field where the assault was coming. “Kill them!” he screamed. “Kill them all!” The men nodded, ran along the poolside, then stopped beside the open wooden door. Holding his weapon high, one peeked around the doorway then ducked back as bullets ripped through the air, striking the wall nearby.

  “Go!” Carlos bellowed, waving his hand.

  The two men crouched, looked at each other, then darted out the door. One was immediately thrown backwards, his torso lifted by a succession of automatic gunfire. The other collapsed in the doorway, only his feet visible.

  “Shit,” Carlos said, looking at Dawson, then Anita.

  Dawson dropped his eyes to her as well. Blood spread around her and trickled down the concrete steps. He mouth open, she looked as if she were about to speak, but her empty eyes reflected only the growing intensity of the burning flames. His throat was thick. He sucked in a halting breath. Seeing her mangled body, he could hardly believe it was the same woman, the woman he’d loved ever since he’d learned the meaning of love.

  Dawson felt numb with anger and loss. Ignoring Carlos, who was just feet away, he looked up as a Black Hawk came bearing down on them again. He sat motionless, not caring any more, and for a moment, he hoped he’d die.

  The Black Hawk again pounded the pool area with a burst of fire that chewed up the concrete, shattered the sliding glass doors to the house and penetrated the living room. Dawson sat still, only covering his head with his hands. When the Black Hawk had gone, Dawson looked around, his ears ringing, and choked on the dust-filled the air. Carlos was gone. Dawson fell back against steps, threw an arm over his eyes, and again wished he was dead.

  ***

  Carlos ran back up the hall, past the office, and out through the bedroom to the upper deck, where he leapt, dropping into the darkness behind the house, and sprinted to the massive diesel power generator.

  He opened the steel door to the shed that housed it, then shut it down. The grounds went dark, save for the flames rising from the hacienda. He hid in the shadows to survey the scene. The hangar and landing strip lights still glowed from their own source of power. The lights silhouetted the phalanx of attackers fanning across the expanse of grass toward the hacienda. Chingas! Fuck! He only had moments.

  His men returned fire from the rooftop and three different corners of the hacienda, forcing the attackers to the ground. It would provide him brief cover, Carlos thought, as he debated whether to stay and fight with his men or flee. He and his men were outnumbered and outgunned. Martyrdom was for terrorists.

  Crouched and moving in stops and starts from behind one tree after another while gunfire erupted sporadically, he scrambled to the back of the barns, then paused in the shadows to catch his breath. The barns had also been hit with high-caliber weapons, ripping huge holes in the metal roof, leaving one of his prized horses dead. “Chingas!” he shouted. But one dead horse was not his worst problem. The barn was on fire and the horses had panicked, whinnying, and kicking at their stalls.

  Ignoring them, he ran the length of the stalls, found his prized mare, led her out, and tied her to a post at the tack room. He grabbed a blanket, saddle, and halter and quickly had them on the mare and yanked the cinch tight. Leading the mare out the rear of the barn, he leapt into the saddle and slammed his boot heels into the horse’s ribs. The mare leapt into the darkened forest.

  * * *

  Garcia scanned the edge of the forest. He’d seen movement in the bushes and lowered his night vision goggles to his eyes. Someone was making an escape, which didn’t surprise him, but he didn’t know who as he followed the figure to the barn. The flames at the barn nearly blinded him, so his night vision became useless.

  Garcia closed his eyes for a moment, letting them adjust to the darkness, and knelt. The figure slipped behind the barn. Garcia waited. Nothing. Whoever it was must be inside. Garcia spun around to view the hacienda. The attack was going according to plan—so far. But he worried about Anita. Is she safe? And where the hell is Carlos? His gut told him to check the barn.

  He rose and headed there as automatic weapon fire behind him quieted. He was close enough to the barn to feel the heat as flames engulfed the barn rising higher. He caught another movement. Behind the barn and in trees. A horse and rider. He paused, knelt, and squinted. He put his eye to his rifle scope, moving it from left to right. Passing over the rider momentarily, he moved it back. Carlos Borrego. “Buenas noches, amigo,” Garcia whispered. He struggled to keep him in the crosshairs as the horse jerked nervously from the flames and sporadic gunfire. Garcia steadied the crosshairs on Carlos and squeezed the trigger gently, firing a burst.

  The bullets ripped through the air with a faint whup-whup-whup, striking the branches near Carlos’s head. Garcia watched Carlos turn to the source of the shots, searching for the shooter in the light of the growing flames. He watched Carlos pull a pistol from his belt, but he apparently thought better of shooting, which would only draw attention. Garcia lifted his rifle again and placed Carlos in the crosshairs. But Carlos jerked his horse around, spurred it up the mountainside, and disappeared into the forest shadows.

  Shit. Garcia ground his teeth in frustration. There was nothing he could do to prevent Carlos’s escape. As he stood and was about to leave, he heard frantic whinnying and kicking from the barn. The asshole left horses trapped in there! Looping the rifle strap over his shoulder, Garcia raced along the length of the barn and pulled open the large door. As flames licked the rafters from inside, the panicked horses thrashed against their stalls, rearing and bashing hooves against the rails.

  Garcia hurried to the nearest stall, slid the bolt open, and the stall gate swung free. The horse whinnied
and charged out, disappearing out the door. Garcia ran to each stall, dodging the flames, afraid the rafters would fall on him, and did the same until the barn was emptied. Madre de Dios! He ran out after the last horse.

  His headset crackled with calls that his men had secured the hacienda. That was good news. The mission was still moving forward, even though the main target had escaped. He hoped Anita was all right. He headed for the hacienda at a trot. Dammit! He hated to admit that Carlos had slipped through his fingers. There would be hell to pay because of it. Now that Carlos knew they were after him, he would strike back any time, any place, and any way he could. Catching Carlos now would be ten times harder because he’d build layers of protection around himself that would be impenetrable. Stay focused. There’s more to be done.

  As he hurried to the hacienda, Garcia spoke into his headset, “What about the woman reporter, Anita Alvarez?”

  No response.

  Garcia swallowed hard. “What about the female reporter?”

  “Copy that,” a voice said, followed by more silence. “A female has been found on the steps leading to the pool.”

  “Alive or dead?”

  Silence. Then the voice spoke again. “There’s another one here. A man. Says he’s a reporter. Name is Dawson.”

  Madre de Dios. The knot in Garcia’s stomach tightened. “What the hell?” he mumbled. What is Dawson doing here? Garcia suspected his men didn’t want to say much because they’d screwed up. The attack helicopters had opened fire too quickly. Still, he didn’t know if Anita was alive or dead. “Goddammit!” he shouted.

  Garcia sprinted across the field and through the open door into the pool patio. He stopped short when his eyes fell on Dawson sitting on the steps beside a body. Moments later, Dawson looked up and shook his head. “She’s gone.”