The Border: A Novel

by Don Winslow

  Keller yells, “Down! Shooter! Down!”

  But he sees that’s not going to help and that the memorial is now a death trap. The Wall forms a wide V and there are only two ways out along a narrow path. A middle-aged couple run to the east exit, toward the shooter, and are hit right away, dropping like characters in some hideous video game.

  “Mari,” Keller says, “we have to move. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be ready.”

  He waits until there’s a pause in the fire—the shooter changing clips—then gets up, grabs Mari and hefts her over his shoulder. He carries her along the Wall to the west exit, where the Wall slopes down to waist level, tosses her up and over and sets her down behind a tree.

  “Stay down!” he yells. “Stay there!”

  “Where are you going?!”

  The shooting starts again.

  Jumping back over the Wall, Keller starts to herd people toward the southwest exit. He puts one hand on the back of a woman’s neck, pushes her head down and moves her along, yelling, “This way! This way!” But then he hears the sharp hiss of a bullet and the solid thunk as it hits her. She staggers and drops to her knees, clutching at her arm as blood pours through her fingers.

  Keller tries to lift her.

  A round whizzes past his face.

  A young man runs up to him and reaches for the woman. “I’m a paramedic!” Keller hands her across, turns back and keeps shoving people ahead of him, away from the gunfire. He sees the boy again, still clutching his mother’s hand, his eyes wide with fear as his mother pushes him ahead of her, trying to screen him with her body.

  Keller wraps an arm around her shoulder and bends her down as he keeps her moving. He says, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Keep walking.” He sees her to safety at the far end of the Wall and then goes back again.

  Another pause in the firing as the shooter changes clips again.

  Christ, Keller thinks, how many can he have?

  At least one more, because the firing starts again.

  People stumble and fall.

  Sirens shriek and howl, helicopter rotors throb in deep, vibrating bass.

  Keller grabs a man to pull him forward but a bullet hits the man high in the back and he falls at Keller’s feet.

  Most people have made it out the west exit, others lie sprawled along the walkway, still others lie on the grass where they tried to run the wrong way.

  A dropped water bottle gurgles out on the walkway.

  A cell phone, its glass cracked, rings on the ground next to a souvenir—a small, cheap bust of Lincoln—its face splattered with blood.

  Keller looks east and sees a National Park Service policeman, his pistol drawn, charge toward the restroom building and then go down as bullets stitch across his chest.

  Dropping to the ground, Keller snake-crawls toward the cop and feels for a pulse in his neck. The man is dead. Keller flattens behind the body as rounds smack into it. He looks up and thinks he spots the shooter, crouched behind the restroom building as he loads another clip.

  Art Keller has spent most of his life fighting a war on the other side of the border, and now he’s home.

  The war has come with him.

  Keller takes the policeman’s sidearm—a 9 mm Glock—and moves through the trees toward the shooter.

  Mercado is freaking out.

  He missed the target and now he’s lost sight of him in the trees. There are a lot of people down, the sirens are wailing, and he’s shot a cop. He loads another clip and then peeks out from behind the building, seeing if he can spot Keller and complete the mission before he bugs out.

  But he doesn’t see the man.

  Looking out toward Constitution Avenue, Mercado sees that escape route is closed—cop cars are rolling up and heavily armed SWAT teams are jumping out of the cars. He looks south to his right and sees more cars speeding down the Mall. A helicopter is circling overhead.

  His only chance is to make it out the other way, west to Bacon Drive.

  “Target down,” he lies into the mike. “Moving toward fallback.”

  There’s no answer.

  “Come in,” he says, starting to panic. “Come in!”

  No answer.

  The motherfuckers have abandoned him.

  Rollins pulls out from Constitution and drives west toward the Roosevelt Bridge. The plan was for one car or the other to pick Mercado up and do him there, then dump the body, but there’s no point in waiting for that now.

  The police will take care of Mercado, and if he’s captured alive and talks, all he’s going to tell them is exactly what he’s supposed to tell them.

  That Ricardo Núñez hired him to kill Art Keller.

  And in the more likely scenario that he’s killed first, well, he’s just another active shooter.

  Thoughts and prayers.

  Keller crouches behind a bronze monument.

  A nurse cradling a wounded soldier in her lap.

  His heart races and blood still flows into his eyes. He wipes it away, takes a deep breath, and charges.

  Mercado moves to the other side of the building and looks out.

  What he sees freaks him out even more.

  A man moving toward him.

  At least it might be a man; it looks more like a monster.

  Its face wears a pink mask of blood and brain matter, the front of its shirt is red with blood.

  It holds a pistol in front of it as it comes toward him.

  It’s Keller.

  But now Mercado knows there’s going to be no two million dollars, no entry into La Eme, no privileged status as the man who avenged Santo Adán.

  He knows he’s been set up.

  He’s a patsy.

  He runs.

  He raises the rifle and fires.

  Keller runs after him.

  More like staggers.

  He hadn’t until this moment realized that he’d been hit. The pain in his chest is horrific. Or maybe, he thinks, I’m having a heart attack. Either way, he feels weak and dizzy but he keeps moving forward, eyes on the shooter, who’s running toward the Lincoln Memorial’s Reflecting Pool.

  Keller puts one foot after the other.

  That’s all there is to do now until he can’t do it anymore.

  Each step sends a stab into his chest. Each step drains him. His breath gets shorter and shorter and he can hear himself rasp. He knows he’s bleeding from the inside.

  But you’ve always been, he tells himself.

  Bleeding from the inside.

  One foot after the other, Keller tells himself.

  Until you can’t.

  Then he sees the shooter.

  He’s trapped.

  The pool behind him, cops coming in from both sides.

  He stops, turns and faces Keller.

  Raises the rifle and shoots.

  Keller aims for center mass, presses the trigger and holds it down.

  The shooter falls backward into the pool.

  Keller drops to his knees.

  Then he falls onto his face, his arms stretched out in front of him.

  Epilogue

  Adios, my friends, we’re leaving El Paso.

  The Rio Grande’s gone bone dry, and all the stories have been told.

  —Tom Russell

  “Leaving El Paso”

  Southern California

  May 2018

  From the hill near their house, where they walk most days, Keller can see Mexico.

  Marisol thinks that they make quite the matched pair, struggling up the hill on their respective canes.

  The walking wounded of the war on drugs.

  And we’re the lucky ones, Keller thinks.

  We lived.

  His recuperation was long, difficult and uncertain, a round having creased his skull, three more having laced his legs. He would have bled out by the Reflecting Pool if the EMTs hadn’t already been close.

  The toll of the “Mall shooting” was horrific, but n
ot as bad as it could have been. Five dead and fourteen wounded. The aftermath was the usual—thoughts and prayers and talk about gun control and mental health and then absolutely nothing was done.

  The new special counsel, appointed by Congress, did investigate the possibility that Daniel Mercado had been hired by the Sinaloa cartel to assassinate Art Keller, but could never prove anything.

  He did, however, have enough to bring charges against Jason Lerner, Denton Howard, and Ben O’Brien.

  The trials are ongoing.

  So are the impeachment hearings.

  Dennison and his allies are fighting the charges of obstruction, perjury and corruption like demons.

  It’s hard to know how it’s going to go.

  Eddie Ruiz couldn’t make a deal with anyone—not the special counsel, not California, not New York. He’s back in Victorville, hopefully to stay.

  There’s been no trial for Keller. No trial and no charges, because no prosecutor would think of bringing the hero of the Mall shooting in front of a jury. And Guatemala, they wanted no part of it—let the dead bury the dead. Keller, guilty Catholic to the end, can’t decide if that’s right or wrong.

  “Accept grace when it’s offered,” Marisol told him.

  He tries to do that.

  They bought the little ranch shortly after he got out of the hospital. With his fame—or notoriety—Washington would have been impossible, and they both decided that they wanted a quieter life. Their place has thirty acres of mostly level ground, a grove of live oaks among boulders, and an acre of apple trees. A small town nearby has a grocery store, a bar, and a used bookstore.

  It’s enough.

  Their days are quiet, their nights quieter.

  Keller mostly reads history, Marisol has taken up painting, some style called plein air.

  Althea comes to visit sometimes; Marisol jokingly calls it his harem. Michael came out over Christmas and spent several days. Even Hugo Hidalgo came by to pay his respects, to apologize for what he said, and to tell Keller that he’d caught on with the Bexar County Sheriff’s Office. He said he’d finally let go of what had happened to his father.

  And I, Keller thinks, have finally let go of Adán Barrera.

  He’s dead.

  Life comes back to you, Keller thinks.

  He looks out at the border and wonders what’s happening in Mexico. The chaos and violence go on. Rafael Caro is dead and Tito Ascensión is the new “godfather,” so brutal and stupid men rule on both sides of the line.

  But there’s no wall down there, Keller thinks, smiling.

  And there never will be. A border is something that divides us but also unites us; there can be no real wall, just as there is no wall that divides the human soul between its best impulses and its worst.

  Keller knows. He’s been on both sides of the border.

  He takes Mari’s hand and together they limp back down the hill.

  Acknowledgments

  A dear friend recently pointed out to me that I have been writing this story for fully a third of my life. What began with a book entitled The Power of the Dog, resumed with The Cartel, and now concludes with The Border has consumed me for over twenty years. A journey of decades isn’t walked alone, but accompanied step by step not only by the fictional characters that inhabit its imaginary world, but by real people—long and treasured relationships—without whom this pilgrimage could not have begun, never mind found completion.

  I owe these people more than I can ever hope to repay.

  Shane Salerno—my friend, fellow writer and agent extraordinaire—was there at the start and is, remarkably, still here at the finish. The word loyalty does not begin to describe his steadfastness, belief, counsel and passionate advocacy. Without him and the Story Factory these books—and my career—would not exist.

  My son, Thomas Winslow, was a boy when he helped file research materials for the first book. He’s now an accomplished young man with (more important) work of his own, and I could not be prouder of him nor more grateful for his role in my life and work.

  My wife, Jean Winslow, inexplicably lovelier than even she was when this odyssey began, has endured my obsessions, my moods, and the vicissitudes of a writing life. She has accompanied me on book tours and research trips, literally walking with me to check details of terrain (“Honey, you stand here while I walk over there and see if it’s possible to shoot you from that position”), and driven with me to places that were not always the world’s garden spots. Her high spirits, sense of adventure and unfailing love are the joy of my existence.

  Sonny Mehta edited the first two books, one of which I turned in at two thousand manuscript pages. I will always be grateful for his famously keen aesthetic sense, extraordinary patience and kindness.

  David Highfill inherited the final volume, a difficult task to which he brought his considerable talents, sensitivities and skill, for which I am tremendously grateful.

  So many people have supported me on this journey.

  I would be nowhere without the booksellers, some of whom personally hand-sold hundreds of my books, who warmly welcomed me into their stores and became real friends.

  I mustn’t neglect the sales forces and marketing people of the publishing houses. They have literally carried my books about with them, they are the unsung heroes and heroines of the writing world, and I appreciate them.

  As I do the readers. Without the readers, I wouldn’t have this job that I love. They are, after all, the point of all this, and their support, encouragement and appreciation mean the world to me. I can’t thank them enough.

  To the critics who have written such kind reviews, the journalists who have given me so much exposure, and the fellow authors who have been so generous, I extend my deepest gratitude.

  To my mother, Ottis Winslow, for lending me her porch, on which vast portions of these books were written.

  To the many friends who gave me help, food, music and laughter—Teressa Palozzi, Pete and Linda Maslowski, Thom Walla, John and Theresa Culver, Scott Svoboda and Jan Enstrom, Andrew Walsh, Tom Russell (America’s Bard), M. A. Gillette, the late James Gillette, Bill and Ruth McEneaney, Mark Rubinsky and the late Rev. Lee Hancock, Don Young, Steven Wendelin, the late Jim Robie, Ron and Kim Lubesnick, Ted and Michelle Tarbert, Cameron Pierce Hughes, songwriter David Nedwidek and Katy Allen, Scott and Deb Kinney, Jon and Alla Muench, Jim and Josie Talbert, Neal Griffin, the folks at Mr. Manita’s, Jeremy’s on the Hill, Wynola Pizza, El Fuego, Drift Surf, The Right Click, and The Red Hen. I couldn’t—and wouldn’t want to—have taken this walk without you.

  To Liate Stehlik at William Morrow—thank you so much for your confidence and trust in me. It means so much.

  To Andy LeCount, for your energetic and fine efforts on my behalf.

  And to Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, Lynn Grady, Kaitlin Harri, Jennifer Hart, Shelby Meizlik, Brian Grogan, Juliette Shapland and Samantha Hagerbaumer—a sincere thank-you for your unflagging support.

  Sharyn Rosenblum and Danielle Bartlett have literally traveled miles with me; we have sat together in traffic jams, train stations and hotel lobbies. Their efficiency, humor and consideration have been a great kindness.

  To Chloe Moffett, Laura Cherkas and Laurie McGee I owe a great debt for their detailed, caring, thoughtful and creative work on my manuscript. They have saved me from many mistakes.

  To Deborah Randall and all the folks at the Story Factory, thank you so much for all your support and valuable input.

  To Matthew Snyder and Joe Cohen at CAA, my sincere thanks for hanging in with me on this long trip.

  Cynthia Swartz and Elizabeth Kushel have been unfailingly creative and kind.

  To my attorney, Richard Heller, I owe much.

  This is a work of fiction. However, any reader at all familiar with the drug scene will recognize that some of its elements have been largely inspired by real-life events. As such, I have consulted many sources.

  My deepest appreciation goes out to the many people who h
ave shared their stories and experiences with me. My debt to them is unpayable.

  For this volume, I consulted a number of printed sources, including Sonia Nazario’s Enrique’s Journey and Deborah T. Levenson’s Adiós, Niño: The Gangs of Guatemala City and the Politics of Death.

  Among the journalists’ work I looked at were:

  Tim Rogers in Splinter; Kirk Semple, John Otis, Sonia Nazario, Azam Ahmed, J. David Goodman and Michael Wilson, Sam Quinones, William Neuman, Julia Preston, Wil S. Hylton, and Jeff Sommer—New York Times; Laura Weiss—LobeLog; Leighton Akio Woodhouse—The Intercept; Tyche Hendricks—KQED; Jessie Knadler—WEMC and WMRA; Chico Harlan, David Nakamura, Joshua Partlow, and Julia Preston—Washington Post; Rodrigo Dominguez Villegas—Migration Policy Institute; Leon Watson and Jessica Jerreat—Daily Mail; Nina Lakhan, Amanda Holpuch, Lois Beckett, Rory Carroll, and David Agren—The Guardian; Tracy Wilkinson and Molly Hennessy-Fiske—Los Angeles Times; Sarah Yolanda McClure—Center for Latin American Studies; Lorne Matalon—Fronteras; Laura C. Mallonee—Hyperallergic; Roque Planas, Tom Mills, and Avinash Tharoor—HuffPost; Ian Gordon, James Ridgeway and Jean Casella, and Laura Smith—Mother Jones; Amanda Taub—Vox; Aseem Mehta—Narratively; Christopher Woody, Jeremy Bender, and Christina Sterbenz—Business Insider; Yemeli Ortega—MSN; Josh Eells—Rolling Stone; Duncan Tucker, Luis Chaparro, and Nathaniel Janowitz—Vice News; John Annese, Larry McShane, and Christopher Zoukish—New York Daily News; Ian Frazier—The New Yorker; Kristina Davis and Greg Moran—San Diego Union-Tribune; Cora Currier—ProPublica; Amanda Sakuma—MSNBC; Claudia Morales, Vivian Kuo, and Jason Hanna—CNN; La Jornada; InSight Crime; Borderland Beat; Blog del Narco; Mexico News Daily; Univision; El Universal; Council on Hemispheric Affairs; and the Associated Press.

  At the end of this twenty-year literary hike, I look back with the knowledge that no author has been better served and supported, no author has had better friends or a more loving family, no author has ever been happier in his work. For me, this long walk has been more than worth every step. My fondest hope is this is also true for the reader.