The heat is overwhelming. It sucks the air from my lungs. When I take my next breath, I have to work to fill my chest. I reach into the truck and take a two-quart plastic bottle of water from behind the seat. Drink half.
In the desert, a soldier can sweat five gallons a day. The secret to combat effectiveness is hydration. One drinks six quarts of water before a patrol, then a quart every hour thereafter. Medics monitor intake.
I cap the bottle and put it back in the cab. Take Keller’s Mauser from the gun rack and a stripper clip from the glove compartment. I fired two rounds yesterday, leaving three. I work the bolt and empty the rifle. Swing the scope out of the way. Squeeze five fresh rounds into the magazine, pocket the clip and three extra bullets. I lock the scope in place, chamber a round, and safety the weapon.
Five minutes climbing the hill and I’m drenched in sweat. A slick, greasy film covers every inch of my body. My shirt and jeans cling to my flesh. I wish I’d borrowed one of Keller’s hats.
The physical exertion feels good. I’m close to the spot where I reckon I'd seen the flash of light. I slow my pace and carry the Mauser low-ready, trigger finger safe on the stock.
A woman lies prone on the hilltop, scanning the Bledsoe plant with a pair of binoculars. It’s a great view, I’ll give her that. From here, one can see the full length and breadth of the plant. It’s three-quarters of a mile wide at the border wall. Two miles long. The buildings are huge, industrial facilities. On the side closest the stream lie vast cattle holding pens. One gate opposite the pens opens to a wide yard where trailers unload feedstock. On the other side spreads another yard where tractors and eighteen-wheelers park and load product.
To the south, outside the fence, sits a vast gravel parking lot. Must be fifteen football fields long by twenty wide. Like the yards, crushed flat by a steamroller. Parking slots have been painted white and numbered. Long, endless rows. There must be a thousand cars and trucks parked out there, and the lot isn’t half full.
“You should put those away,” I tell the woman.
She twists sharply, staring at the rifle in my hands. “It’s a free country.”
Defiant and hostile. There is something else in her tone... Fear. I understand all three. I can make it easier for her.
“It is.” I put up the rifle, a peaceful gesture. “But you need to know people can see sunlight off those lenses two miles away. I did.”
“What is it to you?” Her voice trembles. Awareness of her mistake has shaken her confidence.
I like what I see.
Thirty years old and tiny. No more than five-two or three. Long black hair, smooth skin the color of brown chocolate. Her small breasts strain against a white t-shirt soaked in sweat. No bra, everything to see. Long legs in proportion to her frame.
I squat and hold the rifle across my knees.
“You wouldn’t be glassing Bledsoe from up here unless you wanted to hide your interest. I am also interested.”
The woman sits up and draws her knees to her chest. Reaches over and stuffs the binoculars into a black canvas rucksack. She frowns, as though working a puzzle. “Why are you interested?”
There’s intelligence in her eyes. Shrewd and street-smart, but unfamiliar with fieldcraft. A city woman. Blundering around, liable to get herself killed.
“My friend Keller owns this land.” I wave my hand north in a sweeping gesture. Far away, the Lazy K’s ranch house is a tiny speck. “He and his family have been murdered.”
“I heard.” She looks at me with suspicion. “How do you know him?”
“We were in the army together. What’s your name?”
“Mirasol Cruz.” Her features soften. “And you?”
“Breed.”
“You have a first name, Mr Breed?”
“Yes.” I smile. “How did you get here?”
“My car is parked at the foot of the hill.”
“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “It’s possible I’m not the only one who saw your glass.”
Mirasol chews her lip. She’s uncomfortable she made a mistake. Smart enough to admit she doesn’t know everything. “Do you know Salem?”
“A bit.”
“We may be able to help each other. There is a diner just off the highway to El Paso. Let us meet there in an hour. The Dusty Burger will be cooler than this wretched pile of rocks.”
I don’t think she’ll run. If she does, she won’t leave town.
“All right.” I get to my feet. “Walk with me.”
Mirasol adjusts the straps on her rucksack and sets a Stetson on her head. I sling the Mauser over my shoulder, and we walk down the hill.
We approach the draw where I parked Keller’s truck.
“Where did you park,” I ask her.
“A place like this one,” she says. “A hundred yards further along the trail.”
“Great minds think alike.”
We approach Keller’s truck, and Mirasol freezes. Her chocolate skin lightens as blood drains from her face. She stares at me with confusion. She looks ready to run.
“What’s wrong?”
In time to hers, my heart quickens. If she runs, I’ll sprint to catch her.
Mirasol squints at me. “Is this your truck?”
“No,” I tell her. “It was my friend’s. His family loaned it to me while I’m in town.”
Mirasol allows herself to breathe. “We have much to talk about, Breed.”
“More now than fifteen minutes ago?”
The moment has passed. I feel as though some crisis has been averted. I’m conscious the woman’s nervous system and mine have become synchronized.
“Yes. Your friend was here last week. In this very spot. A few days before he was killed.”
14
Salem, 1500 Hrs Tuesday
The Dusty Burger is a long prefab building at the junction between Texas 20 and the road to Salem. It looks clean enough, with a big billboard advertising its custom.
I pull Keller’s truck into the asphalt parking lot. Stride twenty feet to the Diner’s air-conditioned interior. I’m conscious hot tar is sticking to the soles of my Oakley desert boots.
“What can we bring you today?” a pleasant waitress says. She wears a white shirt, black pants, and a green apron. A little pad and pencil stuffed in the pocket.
“Coffee, please,” I tell her. “Black.”
I take a window seat and stare at Keller’s truck. The confusion in Mirasol’s eyes said it all. She thought it was my truck. That I had been to the hills last week. But I hadn’t arrived in town yet. And Keller was still alive.
The waitress pours my coffee.
Mirasol pulls up in her Camaro and parks on the opposite side of the lot, next to a local vehicle. A transparent effort to prevent curious passers-by from associating our vehicles. She takes her rucksack from the back seat and hurries to the diner.
I get to my feet and motion for her to sit opposite me. She pushes her ruck all the way to the window. Crowds into the booth next to it.
“What do you want,” I ask.
“Coffee’s fine.”
I signal the waitress to bring another cup.
Mirasol is all business. “Why should I trust you?”
“I warned you not to give yourself away with that glass.”
“After you and everyone else spotted me.”
“Perhaps not everyone else. Had Bledsoe people spotted you, their security force would have wasted no time getting up there. I didn’t.”
“Unless you’re with them.”
She’s careful. “Mirasol, do you know how my friend died?”
“No.”
“They shot him. And cut his head off. Yesterday they did the same to his wife and son.”
Mirasol looks ready to lose her lunch. Before she can respond, I carry on. “Were I one of them, we would not be sitting here. You would be gone, buried in the desert.”
Mirasol swallows hard. “All right, I’m sorry.”
“You saw Keller’s tr
uck last week. Tell me.”
The waitress brings Mirasol a cup and pours for her. Mirasol carefully measures sugar and cream into her coffee. Waits for the waitress to leave.
“I arrived over a week ago. Found the spot on the hill. Every day, to watch the plant, I drove up there. Last Monday, I arrived to climb to the lookout. I saw your truck—Keller’s truck. Parked exactly where you parked today. I didn’t want to be up there unless I was alone, so I left.”
“Did you ever see it again?”
“No. I only went back on the weekend. Friday, I heard a rancher had been found murdered. There were no details. I had no reason to think it was his truck I saw.”
I believe her. “Why are you interested in the plant?”
That is the question. Mirasol shifts in her seat. Sips her coffee to buy herself time. I wait patiently. She looks like she wants to tell me.
“I’m a journalist,” she says at last. “There is a story here. I believe Bledsoe is involved in human trafficking. Running prostitutes from Mexico to the United States.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Not just prostitutes, Breed.” Mirasol’s eyes bore into mine. “Children. Girls thirteen, fourteen years old. I have met them in Los Angeles, Boston, and New York. They all say they spent a day in a refrigerated trailer with carcasses and meat product. They were shipped from Texas.”
“They pointed you to Bledsoe.”
Mirasol shakes her head. “No. They were too frightened to say more. They would not say how they came across the border. I correlated their dates and places of arrival in the big cities. Traced the tractors. The shipments originated here, in Salem. Bledsoe Meats.”
“That’s good detective work.”
“Trafficking is common,” Mirasol says. “These people come here for a better life. The hourly wage in El Paso is equivalent to the daily wage in Juarez. What would you do?”
I shrug.
“If a woman decides to sell her body for a better life, that is her choice. But not children.” Mirasol’s face darkens. “Not children.”
The woman’s anger unsettles me. The nerves in my arms strain like taut guitar strings. Mirasol’s interest is personal.
I sip my coffee. Force myself to relax. “All right.”
Mirasol calms herself. “I have made enquiries,” she says. “Among Hispanics. They are good citizens, but they know things they will not tell police.”
“What do they tell you?”
“The man who owns that business. Paul Bledsoe. He likes children. He does not find what he wants here in the USA. He goes to Ciudad Juarez.”
I drain my coffee. Motion to the waitress for another.
“Keller may have seen something.”
“I am sure he did. For more than a week, I camped on the hilltop. Every day, they ship girls. In the early hours after midnight.” Mirasol takes a deep breath. “Very well, Breed. It is your turn to tell me what you know.”
“Keller was found dead next to his truck. In the middle of his ranch, with nothing around him. Shot once in the chest, then beheaded with a sharp blade. Something like a Bowie knife.”
“He must have been at my lookout,” Mirasol says. “Perhaps they saw him.”
“I’m sure he saw something.” I shake my head. “But they didn’t see him.”
“How can you be sure?”
I look at her kindly. “I can’t rule it out, of course. But Keller was a soldier. He would not have made the mistake you made. You see… It is what we do.”
Keller would never have glassed the plant without protecting his lenses.
“What exactly did you and Keller do in the army?”
“We killed bad people who attacked our country.” I stare out the window. “On September 11th, I watched innocent people jump from buildings rather than burn alive.”
Mirasol’s eyes are wet. “So you and Keller went?”
“Yes, and others. My squadron was the first into Afghanistan.”
We are silent a long time. It is a comfortable silence. I decide to bring us back to the matter at hand.
“You saw Keller’s truck Monday. His body was found Wednesday. He was killed Tuesday night. When did you return to the hilltop?”
“Saturday.” Mirasol looks miserable. “I was frightened when I saw Keller’s truck hidden the way I hid my car. I decided to stay away for a few days. I was at the hotel when I heard a rancher had been killed. I didn’t know it was him.”
“The manner of Keller’s death raises questions.” I stare out the window. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. “The gunshot killed him. Cutting his head off was… extravagant.”
“The cartels do it.”
“Not this side of the border. And they did it to Keller’s wife and son.”
“You are right,” Mirasol says at last. “It makes no sense. Let us say a cartel is responsible for trafficking with Bledsoe. Why draw attention to themselves here? They could have simply made him disappear.”
“Keller was a prominent local citizen. Had he disappeared, the search would have become national in scope. Now that he has been found murdered, the investigation is strictly local.”
“Why kill his family?”
“Keller was at your lookout, and he saw something. The killers had to assume he told Mary. They had to assume Donnie overheard. They beheaded Keller to frighten his family into silence. Came back for them later.”
“But why wait a week to kill them? Why not kill them the night they killed Keller?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe they were busy with their shipment, finished close to dawn. The killers missed their chance. Mary and Donnie moved to the hotel. As long as they stayed with us, they presented hard targets.”
Mirasol rests her fingertips lightly on my hand. Her touch is electric.
“Breed. Help me find evidence Bledsoe is trafficking. His crimes are connected to your friend’s death.”
Mirasol’s eyes are all pupil. Kissing eyes, I call them. She can’t consciously turn them on and off.
I have to maintain objectivity.
“I need to think,” I tell her. “Promise me you won’t go up there alone.”
Mirasol frowns. Withdraws her hand. “I can’t promise,” she says. “You have your war, and I have mine.”
In those hazel eyes, anger smolders.
“Going up there alone would be very foolish,” I tell her.
For the moment, something has been lost.
I wish she hadn’t taken her hand away.
15
Bledsoe, 1800 Hrs Tuesday
I watch Mirasol’s hips sway as she strides to her car. Wide hips, rich with feminine promise. She moves with the ease of a woman confident of her sexual power.
She backs the Camaro out of its parking spot, drives through the exit, and turns onto the road to Salem.
I review the data in my mind. Mirasol’s revelations have changed everything. I drain my coffee, pay the bill, and leave. Start Keller’s truck, crank the air-conditioning to the max, and peel out of the lot. In the opposite direction to Mirasol’s. She’s heading to town. I’m going back to the lookout.
The roads around Salem are becoming familiar. I race down the highway toward the Lazy K. Miles of tan ranch grass, mesquite and creosote flank the road. The mesquite trees are stunted. Barely shrubs. In the distance, the hills and more distant mountains are warped by the rippling shimmer of heat. To a trained eye, that mirage indicates wind speed and direction. The single factor most likely to affect the flight of a bullet.
I pass the gate to the Lazy K. Note my odometer. Fifteen miles, and I arrive at the hills. I lean forward in the seat and look for Keller’s perimeter road. There it is, a dirt path running parallel to the paved highway. Without slowing, I pull off the concrete and drive onto the dusty track.
This morning I drove counterclockwise and approached the hills from the west. Skirted Bledsoe’s fence. Now I drive clockwise and approach from the east. No chance of being spotted from the plant.
> The hillsides crack into dozens of broad wadis and shallow draws as I pass. I wonder how I’ll ever find the place I parked. How the fuck can a road look completely different than it did in the rearview mirror three hours ago.
Features are reversed.
Out for six months and I’m slowing down.
There’s the draw Mirasol used. I spin the wheel and pull off the road. The Ford bounces on its raised suspension. I drive to where Mirasol parked, stop the truck, and get out. Drink, take down the Mauser. Walk a hundred yards west to the draw I used.
Knowing what Mirasol told me, it looks different. Imbued with significance, details spring out.
Two sets of tracks from rugged off-road vehicles. Keller’s truck and one other. I take my phone from my hip pocket and photograph them. There, at the mouth of the draw, another set of tracks. I hadn't noticed them earlier. Steel-belted radials, worn on one side. A street sedan out of alignment, the same one parked in front of the Lazy K.
I photograph the sedan’s tracks. Take close-ups of the tire wear. Maybe I can compare them to casts Garrick’s men took at the crime scene.
There’s no doubt in my mind this is a second crime scene. I squeeze the phone into my hip pocket and climb the hill. There is nothing casual about my approach. I carry the Mauser at high port.
I reach Mirasol’s outlook. Take my shirt off and drape it over the rifle, shrouding the barrel and telescopic sight. The sun scorches my back. I hold the rifle under the shirt, finger safe on the stock.
On closer inspection, the outlook is a dusty rock shelf. Mirasol had lain prone at the edge, overlooking a steep, rocky slope. At the foot of the slope is the stream and the alluvial plain occupied by the Bledsoe plant and the Lazy K. The contrast is stark. The ranch grows organically from the earth. It is almost indistinguishable from the plain. The plant is distinctly foreign. Its squat, industrial buildings are built on the dark gravel of the parking lot and loading yards. They look like they have been transplanted from another planet.
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 7