by Frank Perry
corruption involved on both sides. Sometimes the ones we catch are because of fights between smugglers. The Cardenas Cartel supposedly gets a percentage of a load’s value, or you risk them identifying the truck. It’s kind of an unholy alliance between the top drug lord and us, if the other druggies don’t pay tribute.”
The pilot continued past the town outskirts, and Matt pointed to several deep washed-out ravines, “You see those gullies all across the border with the high brush on top?”
Stokes nodded.
“That’s where the human trafficking comes through.” The brush on the U.S. side was cut to ground level in a strip about a hundred yards across, as far as they could see from the air. Matt continued, “We’re supposed to get fencing along here soon, but it’s expensive to maintain, and the Mexicans just keep going farther out into the desert. In some ways, we want to keep them close to home because it just stretches our supply lines and slows down our response if backup is needed.”
Stokes said, “Must be tough getting people and equipment out here if you need them in a hurry. There’s no good roads. Is this where most of the action is happening?”
“It’s about fifty/fifty. We get gun battles in town as much as in the bush.”
The pilot interrupted, “Chief, there’s a radio call for you. Use the headset on the bulkhead.”
With that, Berkowitz removed his helmet and put on the Mickey Mouse headset, pressing the microphone. “This is Chief B. What’s the message?”
Stokes saw the Chief nod a couple times then responded, “Copy. We’re on our way.”
He hung up the headset and spoke to the pilot, “Head to point Zebra-1.” Then he replaced his helmet and spoke to Stokes, “We’ve had an incident, so we’re going out into the desert a-ways.”
“What kind of incident?”
Berkowitz was somber, “Looks like we’ve had another man captured.”
The white USBP truck was visible in the distance as the helicopter raced to get there. There were several other vehicles parked on the dusty trail nearby. The Sheriff and others in unidentified trucks had also responded to the scene. The helicopter touched down about fifty yards west of the parked vehicles to avoid too much dust and the tall brush in the area. Stokes and Berkowitz jumped out as the rotors began to slow down.
Matt jogged ahead, and Stokes followed.
As they approached, the County Sherriff met them. “Matt, it looks like they got one of yours.”
He responded, “Any idea what went down here?”
The Deputy Sheriff was a big man in his mid-thirties wearing cowboy boots, belt and Stetson hat typical in Southwest Texas. He also appeared to Stokes to be wearing a replica Colt Peacemaker .45 revolver, reminiscent of the Old West. “Don’t know. We all got a call about forty-five minutes ago that Agent so-and-so had a bunch of illegals cornered out here at Zebra-1 and needed assistance, sounded pretty routine. When we got here, there wasn’t no one around, but we found a small blood patch over by your guy’s truck.
“As nearly as I can figure it, a bunch of them illegals spread like quail in all directions. Not so uncommon when you only got one guy here and forty of them. Some of my guys are out scouting them out now. Sure could use your chopper to help.”
More Border Patrol trucks had arrived and half a dozen agents were at the scene. Matt called one of them over, “Take the helo and circle around. Look for Billy first, then round up all the Mex’s you can find. Don’t hurt anyone unless you get threatened. The Agent acknowledged and took two other Agents with him to the helo. Border Agents are trained to track people in the desert.
Stokes asked, “Who was the Agent here at the scene?”
Matt answered, “Billy Ware. Old hand--Good guy.”
The helicopter circled in increasingly wide circles, stopping occasionally to herd aliens back toward the other officers. After fifteen minutes, nine unarmed Mexican males and a few women were sitting on the ground nearby. None looked particularly dangerous to Stokes.
After the helicopter landed, some of the Agents offered them bottled water and began talking to them in Spanish. It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened.
Most of the illegals were related coming across the border looking for work. They were led by a paid guide, called a “Coyote” who had assembled a group of about twenty people on the outskirts of Juarez over a three-day period. The captured people didn’t know the others in their group who were described as “bad-looking” men.
When they were climbing from one of the deep ravines, Agent Ware was waiting and told them to come out in the open. The Coyote immediately ran back into the brushy concealment around the gorge, while the workers stood still, unsure what to do. They followed Billy’s instructions. He didn’t draw his weapon, but, when they were all in the open, a separate group of armed men rushed from several places in the brush, overwhelming Billy, who got off one or two shots. The workers all ran and didn’t see what had happened to Billy. It was possible that he was shot.
Matt signaled Stokes to follow, as he jogged toward the helicopter. “We’re going up to see where they are.”
They traveled on a southwest course along the Rio Grande at about five hundred feet. It was a dangerous altitude with guns involved. Berkowitz yelled, “We have to be low in order to see under some of this brush. Damn, we’re too close to the river. That’s Mexico, and we can’t go too deep inside. They can’t have gone too far on foot. They must be here somewhere. Look hard.”
They traversed up and down the river several times. Foot prints were everywhere in the mud, but there was no way to track Billy or the countless other people that crossed. After the fifth pass, the pilot announced, “Chief, we gotta go, I’m outta gas.”
“All right, Steve, take us home.”
During the flight back and the return to the station, Matt was silent, and Stokes could feel the loss he felt. He had never met Billy Ware, but it could have been any one of the Agents assigned to the station. He was the second Agent captured from the station this year, and it tore into each person. The feeling wasn’t unfamiliar to Stokes, and he knew that it would have the same impact on him, once he worked with these people.
That night in the BOQ, he called Carolyn. When she answered, he couldn’t speak. It had seemed easy to leave her and his daughters behind in Illinois, but now he just wanted to be back with them. At some point in the discussion, she asked him what was wrong. He replied, “Hmm ... you know me too well. We lost a guy today.”
“Oh, no, John! Someone got killed. One of the Guard?”
“No. He was a Border Agent in our section. He wasn’t killed, we don’t think. He’s probably captured, which could be worse.”
“Can you get him back? Some kind of prisoner exchange?”
“No. They might ask for ransom. We just don’t know.”
They talked for about five more minutes, but his mind wouldn’t clear, and all he could do was reaffirm over and over how much he loved his family. They ended on that note.
Rescate
Hector Cardenas was at the controls of his private jet climbing through twelve thousand feet to his normal cruising altitude of twenty-four thousand. He didn’t use many radio transmissions and had not filed a flight plan. The Mexican air traffic controllers recognized his transponder and left him alone, vectoring other traffic away. He was enjoying his beer and the beautiful, dusky sunset. His business had been good, but he wanted to get to Juarez, as soon as possible. His men had captured a Border Patrol Agent, who was still alive. This would be the first test of his new campaign.
He landed at Juarez International Airport and taxied to his private hangar. Exiting with his exotic traveling companion, he remained out of view, moving to a private limousine with a police escort. Men would bring the prisoner to a desert warehouse in a compound southeast of the city.
When he arrived at the location thirty minutes later, five tough-looking men were gathered inside the open door of the dilapidated wareh
ouse. The huge sliding door had blown off into the brush years earlier and the half-century-old corrugated steel was entirely rust covered. There were no interior lights and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust.
The Border Agent was slumped on the dirt floor in a back corner with a burlap sack over his head. He was stripped to the waist, showing dried blood on his torso. The men said he had been stabbed in the shoulders and gut but was alive. Billy didn’t move. The inside of the old building smelled like oil or gasoline. Billy could feel the dust fill his lungs with each breath. Sound echoed, and although he was not close to the men, he could catch some of the dialogue. He was unable to see anything. His body throbbed in several places and itched from insects, feasting on the untended wounds.
The kidnappers bragged about who had actually captured him and seemed to be arguing about the next step. When one man spoke, all the others were silent. Billy couldn’t hear everything, but the word “rescate” (ransom) was used several times.
Discussion with Montes
After several rigorous days getting oriented, Rachael was asked to attend Director Vitale’s first staff meeting on Monday morning. There was a cursory agenda, but nothing she needed to prepare.
The room was large but windowless, with simulated outdoor scenery. A huge walnut table was surrounded by luxurious arm chairs. The setting would rival anything