by Lewis, Rykar
The terrorists planned to dump the cars when they were within sight of the border crossing. By the time anyone found the abandoned vehicles and traced things back to the owner and then to them, the operation would already be accomplished and identity secrecy would no longer hold any value.
Siraj had balked at first when vun Buvka had told them to come into the U.S. close to the Sunland Park Port of Entry area in Santa Teresa, New Mexico. Siraj had argued that they could reach San Antonio much quicker by skipping the border at the center of Texas, but vun Buvka insisted that east of the Sunland Park Port be the crossing point. He said that the Border Patrol guard was not intense around that area, and that there was a safe house in a local neighborhood should anything go wrong.
From Santa Teresa, the terror team would walk on foot to the weapons cache in El Paso where the C4 was being kept. The sleeper agent had been ordered to have a vehicle ready for them to use as transportation to their target city. Siraj was sure he had every detail of the plan nailed down and every loose end tied. Now he was about to test the perfection of it.
Personally, Siraj could feel himself getting cold feet when he thought about why he was really here. Sure he had trained for this mentally just as hard as physically, but the real operation was different. There were no imaginative scenarios or pretend enemies, it was all real. Siraj and his men really were going to die for the cause. It was strange to base their success on dying instead of living, especially since they would die by their own hands.
Suicide, the Americans called it. Sacrifice, the Arabs said. But Siraj would be just as dead either way. What would he merit by suicide or “sacrifice” for a cause besides stories for his children to tell and peace in the arms of some “Allah” – of which there was no proof he actually existed?
Siraj slapped his face cruelly. How dare he think like that at a time such as this? He had longed for this moment and now he was getting cold feet. How could he allow himself to even think about denying the brotherhood, and his Muslim faith, and all the values he’d grown to love?
Doubt was not a good attribute to have right now, and Siraj was doing everything in his power to shove it out of his mind. He wouldn’t have to for long. If all went well he’d be offered for the cause in less than forty-eight hours. He could stand this feeling for that long. Longer if he had to. This was his purpose, his destiny, his dream. He would not give it up just because of doubt.
“Mr. Siraj, we are ready,” a terrorist said into the black night while leaning against the passenger-side door. His face was eerily illuminated from the vehicle’s interior lights, but except for those, and an occasional passing car, all was dark.
Siraj stared down the road that he couldn’t even see because the night was so black, and nodded. “Let’s go then. We cannot linger here.”
Everyone loaded up and prepared to roll; everyone except Siraj, who was still staring at nothing. Still looking for something he wanted but didn’t know how to find.
“Mr. Siraj, we are ready,” the same terrorist pleaded again. “It is time to leave, you said so yourself. What is taking so long?”
Siraj didn’t move. So deep in thought, he barely heard the man. He was being blinded and crippled by his fear.
The terrorist in Siraj’s vehicle’s passenger seat was catching on. “Is something wrong with you?” he demanded to know.
“No,” Siraj snapped a bit too loudly. “Even if there was, that is for me to worry about, not you.”
A cool wind blew in from the north and ruffled Siraj’s hair. Still he was not moving. He was not sure he wanted to move. But then again, he was not sure he didn’t want to.
Frustrated with himself and life in general, he turned from the dark desert night, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove off, not uttering a word.
“I sense there is something wrong, Mr. Siraj,” the annoying terrorist said at last as the small convoy began to pick up speed. “May I–”
He never finished his thought. In an instant, Siraj slammed on the vehicle’s brakes and smoothly pulled out his 10mm, which had been pushed in his belt, and shoved the barrel into the man’s face. “May you what?” he growled, feeling a sudden surge of anger and fear of what the man might know. “May you try and read my mind?”
The terrorist’s initial shock turned into a calm sense of discovery. “I don’t need to read your mind, Mr. Siraj. You have made your feelings evident.”
“I warn you.”
But the terrorist did not listen. “You have told me you are afr–”
Siraj didn’t need him to finish the word to know what he was going to say. Suddenly the deafening blast of a 10mm shot in confined quarters roared out. Everyone in the vehicle gasped and instinctively reached for their guns at the sight. Sitting right in front of them was Siraj with his pistol, looking at his dead comrade whose head was no longer a member of his body.
“Let this be a lesson,” he commanded, feeling a new dedication for what he had to do. “I will not take nonsense. I am the leader of this team and my opinions and feelings on a matter will be everyone’s opinions and feelings. I will allow no one to doubt my leadership. Do you all understand me?”
The tension was thick in the smoky air as the other terrorists considered whether they should kill Siraj or follow him. Fortunately an interruption came.
“What happened?” the driver from the other vehicle asked while pounding on Siraj’s window.
Siraj tucked his pistol back in his belt and rolled down the window. “We had an act of rebellion,” he explained. “But, never fear, the matter is settled.”
The terrorist outside looked at the headless body and then back to Siraj. “I demand an explanation. What have you done?”
Siraj turned to his men in the backseats and gave a short order concerning the dead man. “Take him up the hill and throw him in some ditch. Strip him of his gun and anything else you might want.”
“What happens if somebody finds him?” a terrorist questioned with concern.
“What is one more dead body to the Mexicans? They won’t think anything of it. Now do it.”
The men reluctantly stepped out of the car, dragged the corpse up the hill, and flung him in a ditch. They were prepared for killing, but not this. Not fratricide. They knew they would kill the Americans and themselves, but not each other. The entire act had taken them completely off guard.
As doubts and fear of Siraj swirled about in their minds, they completed their order and walked back to the convoy. The other driver went back to his job and the two vehicles proceeded with their travel just as if nothing had ever happened.
“There are nine of us now,” Siraj announced unexpectedly. “The bad one is gone. We are now the core team. We will be the ones who complete this operation. Unless of course someone would like to turn on me as that traitorous man did.”
Silence ensued in the vehicle. Fear of who would be killed next, and thoughts of uprising filled all their minds. They were afraid. Not afraid of dying at their own hands but at this man’s hand. They wanted to die for a cause, not because their leader thought they were rebellious.
“How do we know you won’t turn on us, Mr. Siraj?” a brave one finally asked.
“He turned on me,” Siraj began. “Not the other way around. I am your companion. Not your enemy. I do not want to kill any of you, nor will I. I wish only to see the Americans die. Does anyone disagree?”
A small wave of comfort passed over everyone, and they started to relax again.
“Rest my friends,” Siraj offered. “Rest well. The time for action will come soon enough.”
* * *
The work day was done for Parks and his team. He was at home sitting in his swivel chair reading a Marine Corps novel. It was late and he was tired, but the book kept compelling him to turn the next page to see what would happen next.
Peeling himself away from the book, he glanced at the clock and saw that it was midnight. He weighed whether he wanted to read more or go to bed, and at last his ex
haustion overtook him and he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.
He flipped open his personal cell phone – that he rarely used or carried – and found that he had missed a call from his parents.
Oh well, he thought. I can call them later when I’m not so busy and it’s not so late.
He turned to his nightstand and looked at the last family photo they had all taken together. Loving, encouraging, and forever there for him, his parents had always been good to him. He loved them dearly. He wished he could spend more time with them but with the limited “leave” he had, that was impossible.
“Keith,” he could hear his mom say even now, “you are the only child your father and I have, and we want grandchildren. Can’t you grant a couple of old people their wish?”
Parks had to laugh out loud as he thought of that. Marriage? For him? Impossible. For one, he didn’t really want to be married, and two, he didn’t have anyone to marry. He had met a few ladies he liked throughout the years, but he never was really serious about marrying them. He liked being free and single. Maybe someday he could make his mom’s dream come true, but right now he didn’t have the desire to accomplish that task.
Parks turned from the picture and walked to the window to pull the blinds down. He was ready for this day to end. Actually, it already had. It was Thursday, March 20th.
* * *
Border Patrol Agent Jack Monroe sipped the last of the coffee in his thermos. It was a dark night but the moon kept trying to shine through the overcast clouds and if it ever succeeded, it might get halfway bright.
Monroe was posted on the U.S./Mexican border a couple miles east of the Sunland Park Port of Entry, just as he had been for the last two months. He always had the night shift and he was eternally posted at this remote location where action never came.
He was young, barely twenty-four, but his aspirations for becoming an accomplished agent exceeded that of most of his superiors. Unfortunately he rarely fulfilled any of his dreams. He was always thrown out here in this wilderness to watch for illegals that never came. Tonight would be no exception. He’d sit here for hours looking through his night-vision binoculars at sagebrush and rabbits, and then the sun would come up and he’d be replaced. It was getting boring. He had joined the Patrol so he could help ward off illegal aliens from coming into the United States, but he had not done anything near that exciting for the entire two months he’d been on the job.
Everyone kept saying he’d get his chance, but he doubted it. Sometimes he wondered if maybe he should have joined the CIA or FBI. He would have been sure to get some action that way. But he hadn’t. He was here. Here in this barren desert where no one ever came, except him.
His radio crackled. “Hey, you got any action out your way?” a voice asked.
Monroe sat up quickly at the sound of the other agent’s voice. His partner was five miles away in another SUV doing the same thing he was: nothing.
“Uh, no. Nothing at all. You?” he reported, not really interested in what the other agent had to say.
A muffled response came that Monroe didn’t bother replying to. He already knew the other guy didn’t have anything going on. They played this checkup game all night and it was never any use. Nothing ever happened that needed checking.
The moon had peeked out now and it was lighting the desert. Monroe’s eye caught movement. It looked like it was across the fence border on the Mexican side. It was a ways away from where he was posted.
Monroe put his binoculars up to his eyes and tried to focus on what he’d seen. Sure enough, there they were.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he almost shouted in his radio. “I’ve got five guys – no wait, six – no, seven – no, eight. Okay, there are nine of them.”
“What guys?” the lazy, tired voice asked across the radio.
“Illegals. They’re playing around the border.”
“What? Are they trying to cross?”
Monroe didn’t answer. He lifted his binoculars again and looked at the scene. “Oh boy,” he said.
“What was that?”
“They’re coming over.”
“You’re gonna need help,” the man concluded. “I’ll be over in a minute.”
“No wait,” Monroe interjected, desperate to handle this alone. “I’ve got ’em. They don’t seem to be armed.”
A moment passed as the other agent thought. “All right, I guess you go ahead. Radio if you need me. Understand?”
Monroe breathed deeply with satisfaction. “I hear. Stand by.”
Quickly he shut off the vehicle’s interior lights, opened the door, and got out. His SUV was mostly hidden behind a small sand dune so the illegals couldn’t see it. He had done that on purpose. He could see them, but unless they had night-vision or a knowledge of exactly where he was, they’d never spot him.
He pulled out his 9mm semi-automatic pistol and checked to make sure it was loaded. It was. He then hiked up his pants and tightened his hat. He was ready to roll.
The metallic sound of people crossing a chain-link fence reached his ears and he froze. Suddenly, he remembered he hadn’t brought his night-vision goggles along. Oh well, he thought, determined not to let this chance get away. Moon’s up. I won’t need night vision anyway.
Tiptoeing up to a bush, he knelt down and evaluated the situation. It wasn’t good. The illegals were in a place where they could easily duck down and hide if he shot at them and chances were he could lose them very easily if that happened.
Monroe low-crawled to a better, safer position and waited. He saw the shadowy figures, silhouetted by the moonlight, walking straight for him. Two hundred yards and closing fast. A couple of the men had something in their hands but Monroe couldn’t quite make out what they were. Guns maybe? He swallowed hard at the thought. Was this going to be more than he bargained for?
One of the illegals said something in a language he couldn’t make out. Monroe knew Spanish and it didn’t sound like that. What language could it be and what could it mean? He didn’t have a clue.
One hundred fifty yards was all that separated them. They were fast movers, that was for sure. The moon shone on the illegals that were now only one hundred yards away and Monroe got a full glimpse of them. What he saw horrified him.
Not only were those few men carrying pistols but all the men were. Shoved in belts or pockets, the pistols were as unmistakable as the backpacks that some of them also had on. Not only that, but as they moved in to a mere fifty yards away, he also made out something on their faces – eyes actually. Something that looked like goggles.
Night-vision, he concluded. He recoiled and accidentally moved too much.
In the next instant, one of the illegals pulled out his pistol and fired three shots which barely missed Monroe’s head.
The fight was on and he no longer had the advantage of weaponry or surprise. It was all going to be over. He was going to die. There was no chance for him, the odds were too great.
More undecipherable language poured from their lips as they hit the sand and disappeared.
Sweat beads streamed down Monroe’s face and back, and his breathing rapidly reached the point of hyperventilation. His hands began shaking uncontrollably and he could not force them to aim the pistol and return fire.
The shooting began again and intensified. Monroe was pinned down for what seemed like forever but was really less than thirty seconds. In that time, he finally regained control of his limbs and dove for cover behind a sand mound. He lay as flat as a pancake behind it and when he finally felt safer he moved into a position to where he could see his enemies. Then he started returning fire.
The firing seemed to narrow down to about five guns now and Monroe guessed he’d hit the other four. But how? In this darkness, and with the cover his enemies were behind? It didn’t seem possible.
Monroe wished his fellow agent was here. He no longer wanted to handle this alone. All he cared about right now was staying alive.
Then he remembered his radio. Snatc
hing it in his hands he opened his mouth to speak but the words didn’t come out. Was he really too scared to speak? This couldn’t be happening; not now. If he didn’t get help he was a goner.
Throwing down the radio in frustration, he turned to the fight and began shooting. That’s when he heard it – the mechanical sound of a bullet being slammed into the barrel of a semi-auto pistol.
He wheeled around, looking for the source of the sound. He didn’t have to look far. Standing not a foot away was the dark outline of a man. In his hands, was a pistol that was aimed straight at Monroe’s head.
Two more men trotted up from Monroe’s left side as another came up from the right. Four men. How could he take them all on even if he had the nerve?
The closest man mumbled a rough statement that Monroe couldn’t understand and motioned with wild arm signals for the others.
The other five men ran up out of breath and met with the rest. Nine men. Now the odds had just doubled. What could he do? He quickly decided that if he was going to die he was at least going to take someone out with him.
He quickly aimed his pistol at the nearest man, pulled the trigger, and blinked in anticipation of the results. But nothing happened. He pulled again and again and all he kept hearing was the clicking of an empty firearm.
The man with the gun at his head yanked Monroe’s pistol from his hands and threw it into the night. Then he shoved his pistol hard into the agent’s head and spoke more undecipherable words to his men.
Monroe’s body was convulsing. He looked as though he had just emerged from a swimming pool he was so soaked in sweat. Then his radio cracked to life and he heard the familiar voice. “Hey, Monroe. Status check here. What’s goin’ on? I didn’t copy your last report. Say again. I repeat, say again.”
Before he could respond in any manner, the man aiming the gun at him swung at his head in an attempt to hit him with the pistol. Monroe’s reflexes worked perfectly, and he ducked the blow just in time to throw a punch at the illegal’s stomach. He felt his fist make contact, and saw the man keel over and spin to the ground. Monroe leaped for the man’s gun, which had fallen out of his hands. In a flash, he grabbed it and fired three rounds at the shadowy figures. Suddenly he felt a burning in his chest. He looked down and in the moon’s light he could see the unmistakable crimson color of blood. Then he fell in a heap in the sand.
