“I can’t if you take my phone and slate,” Bel said, trying to sound as beat down as she could. She couldn’t give in too easily or he wouldn’t believe her.
Finally, a reaction: a spark of interest flitted through his eyes. “If we left them?”
“I don’t know his phone number. He left his real phone. I think he’s using some other one.”
“I can give you a list of the numbers he used before ten PM last night.”
Bel pretended to think it over. She’d have to leave messages at all those numbers—the FBI would be listening—but she knew he’d use each one only once, then discard the chips. He’d never hear whatever whining she poured out for the FBI’s benefit. With any luck, this would stall these bastards long enough for her to think of something else. Whatever that was.
“Okay.” She faked a sob and let her head hang in mock shame. “Okay, I’ll do it. Please don’t put me in jail.”
For the first time, Symonds’ face changed. His lips turned up in a tiny smile. “That’s a very wise decision, Mrs. Ojeda.” He waved his left hand. A few moments later, the door clacked again and a sallow-skinned agent in a midnight-blue FBI windbreaker strode in, unzipping a black vinyl case the size of an old paperback book. It opened as he approached.
Bel’s stomach collapsed at what she saw. “No. Please.”
Symonds stood and gave her a broader smile. “We can’t take any chances now, can we? Put your face on the table, Mrs. Ojeda. Please don’t make this any more unpleasant.”
47
Traditional snowbirds have disappeared from towns throughout the Southwest, replaced by growing bands of the destitute who spend their last dollars to reach the southern border in search of a miracle…A lucky few land low-paying jobs in Mexican border towns, often selling medicine or liquor to fellow Americans. “The pay’s better down here,” says Taylor Sharp, 52, formerly of Indianapolis, now a part-time sales clerk in a Mexicali carnicería. “They still have a minimum wage.”
— “Seasonal Migration Becomes Year-Round Headache,” LATimes.com
SUNDAY, 16 MAY
As he drove down State 186 in the Cartel’s Santana past Andrade’s pair of trailer parks, Luis pictured refugee camps from the ‘Stan. Banged-up RVs covered with sun shades, travel trailers up on blocks, laundry turning yellow in the coal smog from Yuma across the Colorado. The oily red sludge in the canal alongside the road made his eyes burn.
Luis fed another ten bucks into the Quechan’s treasury for a parking space at the border lot’s north end and a quarter-mile hike to the line of maybe four dozen people waiting to pass the little guardhouse at the border. Once he’d have been the baby of the crowd; now there were all ages, seniors down to a few bawling infants, decent clothes to rags, some clearly sick, others drooping in the lunchtime heat or from general weariness.
He paced through the parking lot until he could see the CBP booth just shy of the vertical metal bars of the fence marking the border. He lounged against a swaybacked pickup and watched the line inchworm past the bulletproof glass. He timed a few: fifteen or twenty seconds each. Usually at a crossing, Customs and Border Protection would take a Level 1 scan off everyone’s ID, checking whether it was valid and the embedded picture matched the one on the front. Any red flags got pulled aside for special attention. Once past this checkpoint, the only speed bump was the bored Mexican cop waving people through on the other side of the gate.
Luis timed over twenty crossers until he picked up a pattern. Most people got through with a Level 1. But three women—all between 20 and 40—were put through a Level 2, and maybe a face scan. CBP had gotten smart in the past week; now they were looking specifically for Nora’s type.
He hiked back to the car to find all four doors open, Paul napping in the back seat with a kid under each arm, and Nora—in her blond wig, one of Paul’s white undershirts tucked into khakis—pacing behind the car like a tiger past feeding time. “Well?” she demanded.
“They’re scanning young women. Paul and the kids should be fine.”
Nora nodded, swallowed, turned her eyes toward the crossing. The morning’s drive from Bostonia had been tense and quiet, with even the kids picking up on the grown-ups’ mood and just huddling against their mother.
Luis opened the trunk with the button next to the steering wheel. “It’s time. It won’t get easier if we wait, and I want to get to our crossing before dark. Paul? Wake up.”
Paul scrubbed his face with his palms, then scooted the kids out of the car and rounded to the trunk. He wore his last facial appliance, along with a brown-and-black plaid work shirt open over a white undershirt and faded jeans they’d bought at a thrift store in El Centro. Luis had told him not to shave, so Paul’s looks had gone from well-scrubbed professional to refugee. The black eye and bruised cheekbone from the safe-house fight finished the picture.
Once Paul and the kids had shouldered their backpacks, the whole family stood in an aimless knot at the trunk, Nora and Paul just staring at each other, the kids looking around with wrinkled noses. Luis backed off to give them a little privacy. Finally, Nora and Paul grabbed each other and held on like their world was about to end—which it was—then kissed hard and long. She knelt between her children and hugged Peter first, then Hope, then both. You’ll scare them, Luis wanted to tell her, but let it go.
Finally, they were done. Luis joined them, adjusted Paul’s backpack straps, then said, “Okay, this should work fine. Remember, Beto will pick you up at Farmacia Colorado. It’s maybe five minutes down the road past the gate. He’ll show you a copy of your ID. There’s a liquor store across the street where you can get drinks, they’ll take dollars. Questions?”
Paul glanced at his wife, who stood with her arms folded like a coil of wire around her ribs. “How long before this Beto shows up?”
“He might be there already, or it could be up to an hour. It depends.” On the road from Mexicali to here, on roadblocks, on fighting, on Zetas. None of which these people needed to hear about. “Call when he shows up. I’ll let you know if he’s delayed. Okay?”
Paul nodded. “I always wanted to see sunny Mexico.”
Hope screwed up her face. “I don’t wanna go without Mommy.”
Before Luis could come up with a good lie, Nora knelt next to her daughter and said, “It’s okay, Cupcake, I’ll be coming in a little while. I just need to do something first.” Hope pouted and hung her head, which meant—if she was anything like Christa had been—this issue wasn’t settled. Nora gave her another hug, then guided her to Paul’s outstretched hand.
“Wait for us to hit the end of the line,” Luis told Nora, “then go park on the shoulder north of the entry station. You can watch from there.” He set off after Paul and the kids, not waiting for Nora’s reply.
They shuffled along without speaking. Paul didn’t seem to be in any hurry. This was when it all got real, Luis figured; everything had been reversible until now. He’d had a few travelers back out at the last minute, usually natives who hadn’t known any home other than America. It was sad to watch, because both he and they knew they’d end up in a camp.
Could he do it? Leave the country forever? Despite what he’d said to Bel, Luis had asked himself that question for years and never could answer it in a way he believed. Screwed up as it was, this was his home. He’d given it a lot of sweat and blood.
“What’s your name?” he asked Paul as they approached the end of the line.
“Patrick Ramirez.” He rattled off the cover address and phone number. Showing off, or nerves? Paul’s jaw locked tight, and sweat rolled down his forehead. He’d picked up Hope after she’d started to whine, carrying her with his arms crossed under her butt, her arms around his neck. His grimace told Luis the weight wasn’t helping his sore back any.
“I’ll carry her if you want.”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” Paul hefted Hope. “What if they stop me?”
“They’re not looking for you, and even if they are, you don’t look
like you.”
“That’s not what I asked. What do I do if they try to stop me?”
Luis couldn’t read Paul’s eyes behind the Gargoyles, so he tried to decode his tone. Paul had been quiet and serious since the safe-house fight. He’d kept a dead gunman’s Beretta even though Nora had tried to take it from him. He’d been all for this plan. But now the points of his jaw were white, and his voice was tight and borderline harsh. Was that the pain, or fear?
“Go as fast as you can through the gate,” Luis finally said. “Hide in the closest crowd. Any CBP or Border Patrol guards will come at you from this side. They won’t chase you across the line and they won’t risk shooting into Mexico.” Luis clapped Paul’s non-Hope shoulder. “Relax. Just be natural, you’ll do fine.”
They fell in behind a gaunt man and woman, both with sun-brown skin chapped from too much time outside, and a downcast boy about ten with ratty hair and rattier clothes. Probably inmates of a trailer park up the road. The line spasmed forward. The kids turned whiny in the midday heat, and Paul put Hope down in order to drag the water bottles from his backpack.
“Nora says you were in the Army,” Paul said. “Did you see any action?”
“Two tours in Afghanistan.”
“Wow, that long ago.” He fussed with Hope for a moment. “Ever kill anyone?”
So that’s what this was about. “A few. It was a war, after all.”
“How long did it take you to get over it?”
Luis thought carefully before he answered. “You don’t get over it. You just file it away. Eventually you stop thinking about it.” While you’re awake. “You did what you had to.”
Paul nodded, his lips disappearing into a line.
Luis drifted a few feet away from Paul, being there without crowding him, letting the man get used to flying solo. About thirty feet from the CBP post, Luis took Paul’s hand. “Good luck. See you soon.”
Paul managed a repeat of his sincere handshake. “Please take care of my wife, will you?”
“Believe me, I want you guys together just as bad as you do. Now, breathe. You’ll be fine.” Luis waved to the kids, then retreated up the road to Nora and the waiting car.
Customs and Border Patrol Officer Aransky waved through a family of walking skeletons and grabbed a swipe from his water bottle. The A/C just barely held its own, as usual, and the scene outside his bulletproof glass made him feel even hotter. Heat waves rolled off the road through the crossing and from the entry station’s low roofs, fuzzing the world.
He pushed the lever that shoved the ID drawer open outside. “IDs in the tray, please.”
A younger guy—messy black hair, stubble, undershirt—dropped his white ID in the drawer. Then he started fiddling with something below the window bottom. Aransky stood and craned over his counter to find two little kids, a boy and a real cute little girl, standing next to the guy. Two more cards clinked into the aluminum tray.
Aransky hauled in the drawer and ran the checks on his computer. Patrick, Peter and Hope Ramirez from someplace in Riverside County. Long way to go to get to a dump like this. He keyed the external mike in time to hear, “—wanna go with Mommy.” The little girl.
“Mommy’s coming soon,” the guy said. He sweated like he had a shower going in his hair—okay, it was hot—and looked like he’d been in a fight. With Mommy?
“When, Daddy? I want Mommy!”
Aransky leaned back on his barstool. He saw this once or twice a week. Things are tough up north, Mom or Dad decides it’s better south of the border, packs up the kids and ducks out without the spouse. They looked a lot like this bunch. He leaned into his microphone and asked, “Are you the children’s father, Mr. Ramirez?”
The guy’s eyes got big. “Uh, yes, yes I am.”
“Where’s their mother?”
“She’s coming later. She had things to do.”
Jesus, that’s what they always said. These three carried backpacks; this wasn’t just a day trip. Aransky gripped the counter and keyed the alert button with his thumb. “Do you have her permission to take the kids over the border?”
“Uh, yeah, of course. She’s coming too, just later.”
“Can I see it?”
“See what?”
“Her written permission. You’re supposed to have it.” Not that he enforced the rule unless things looked squirrelly, like this bunch.
Ramirez dragged his sleeve across his face. “You’re kidding. I’ve never heard of that. I’m their father.”
Aransky glimpsed Navarro trotting across 186 toward them. “Mr. Ramirez, could you stand aside so Officer Navarro can sort this out? Thank you.” He passed the IDs back out in the drawer.
Ramirez’ mouth dropped open when he noticed Navarro. The little girl was still going on about her mom. Poor thing. The boy peered up at his dad, then at Aransky, then back, looking like a confused puppy.
Ramirez reached for the girl’s hand. That’s when she bolted.
Nora perched on her knees on the front passenger’s seat, pressing the eyepieces of her green-gray compact binoculars into her face so hard her eye sockets ached. Through the Ford’s back window, she could just barely see Paul and the children at the guard post. She’d been counting seconds since they moved into position. “It’s taking too long.”
“Yeah, it is,” Luis said. “But the ID drawer’s open, so they passed the scan. What’s the holdup?”
“Is that Border Patrol coming up?” An officer in khaki utilities marched into her view, his hands gripping his equipment belt’s buckle.
“CBP. They wear the same field gear.”
Go! she wanted to shout to Paul. Get away! She’d been on the edge of nausea all morning, and now only an extreme act of will kept her tiny breakfast in her stomach. This had to work. It couldn’t not work. They had to get across. Why aren’t you moving?
Hope dashed into the street.
“No, Cupcake! No!” Nora screamed. She lunged for the door handle but Luis got to her first, yanking her hand back.
“The cop’s got her,” he reported. “Christ, Paul, get out, get out…he’s across, he grabbed Peter, they’re across, goddamnit, Paul…”
Nora broke Luis’ grip, tried again for the door, yelling “I’ve gotta get her! Let me go! I want my baby!” and both of Luis’ arms clamped around her and she kicked at the dash and tried to throw a punch, screaming and swearing, and he snagged her right hand and forced it between her thighs and dragged her back against him, dodging her flailing head while she wailed “No no no no NO my baby my baby oh no my baby…”
…and then she doubled over in her seat, sobbing into her knees, thumping the dash with her fists. Luis stroked her hair, murmuring “It’s okay, we’ll fix this, it’s okay, shhh.”
They had Hope. They had her daughter. It would never be okay. This was her fault, for not letting dead things stay dead, for dragging her down here, for agreeing to this idiot plan, for not being there, for everything.
“We’ll get her back,” Luis said. “I swear we’ll get her back.”
Nora pushed herself upright, cleared her eyes on the heels of her hands. Her whole body burned with helplessness turning to rage. “If we don’t,” she choked, “I’ll kill you.”
48
Although no official statistics are available, studies accomplished in academia and by private marketing firms suggest the average non-agricultural workweek in the USA has increased to approximately 61 hours, a level found nowhere else in the developed world and last seen in the USA in 1890.
— “Box 9. Industrial Productivity: Comparing the Data,” Global Employment Trends, International Labour Organization
SUNDAY, 16 MAY
McGinley lumbered to his feet and stretched. The sounds of half a dozen other people burning their day off doing the JTF thing drifted over the cubicle tops. He’d already gone to see the old mission with the birds and spent ten minutes or so watching surfers get covered with crude oil. The sooner he wrapped up something here, the sooner
he could go home. His real home, where he knew the bugs and humidity and could see something green for a damn change. Get back to Job One: kicking Zeta ass and looking for Carla Jean.
So he might as well work.
The national security letter for this al-Khaled chick made for interesting reading. The Bureau said she was hooked into every major terrorist threat from 10/19 on. Yemenis, Saudis, Paks, Iranians, whatever, she was there. Which made no damn sense at all. Much as he hated just about everything that came out of that fucked-up corner of the world, he wasn’t dumb enough to believe those people all got along and sang whatever the rag version of “Kumbayah” was.
Then he made the mistake of trying to square her sheet with the Bureau’s story. Not only was she a Feeb, but her papa was some big businessman in the D.C. area, was on the Virginia Republican Committee until 10/19. ROTC? Military police? She must be some kind of liberal rag, but that didn’t square with the whole jihadi thing.
The Feebs said she got radical in Somalia, but she didn’t get there until a few months before 10/19, and she was supposed to be part of that? They said she was mixed up with those Saudi boys in Dallas, but she was at Quantico then. Neat trick. The rest happened while she was at Bureau headquarters in D.C. Well, okay, he could almost go with that—except D.C. had turned into a fortress and everybody knew every phone inside the Beltway was monitored 24/7.
If Khaled went bad in Somalia, why didn’t the Army notice? It was still the Army back then, not contractors, back when psychotics weren’t so popular. But she was a genuine hero—Bronze Star, MSM, ACM. Would someone in al-Qaeda’s pocket put herself out like that? So maybe she flipped later, when she got kicked out because the contractors were cleaning women out of the Army. That might piss her off. But no—she joins the Bureau. As a mole? Pass all the background investigations and polygraphs and that whole round of shit they put their people through? And nobody found out?
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