“About what?” Candace asked.
“Everything, but mostly smuggling,” Nizhoni said. “He wasn’t always hauling auto parts in those trucks. He made extra money as a mule.”
“Carrying drugs?” Hawk asked.
She shook her head. “Unfortunately, no.”
Candace noticed Hawk seemed troubled by this response. He looked up at the ceiling, closing his eyes as if he were sending up a prayer.
“What’s wrong, Hawk?” Candace asked him.
“He transported people across the border?” he asked Nizhoni, who nodded.
“And that’s worse than smuggling drugs?” Candace asked.
“More dangerous,” Hawk said. “More at stake.”
“The men who broke into their home were sending a message,” Nizhoni said.
“It wasn’t random,” Hawk said.
“No, they knew who they were killing,” she said, “and spared the children.”
“Quin was stabbed, though,” he said.
“Superficial wounds only,” she said. “The men left him and kidnapped his sister instead.”
These were details Candace hadn’t heard before and she felt sickened by how tragically Quin’s family had been brutalized. “Why would somebody do this?”
“To send a message to the DEA or FBI. There’re a lot of bad people struggling in the borderlands,” Nizhoni said.
“And the FBI swept it under the rug?” Hawk said.
“Pretty much. You’re the only people in the past twelve years who have even asked about the case.”
Each keystroke that Dr. Hayden tapped on her keyboard felt more ominous than the last. She was reluctantly authorizing Susan Johnson’s request to exit the paranormal program, to leave the hospital on an outpatient basis, which for some paranormals amounted to a death sentence. Former paranormals rarely complied with the required outpatient checkups. While suicide rates were higher among them than among the general population, they were no higher than among soldiers returning from the battlefield, so there was no reason to deny Susan’s request. Dr. Hayden handed the letter to Kruse as he sat in a chair across from her desk.
He stared at it in disbelief. “She’s not ready to leave.”
“She’s within her rights to do so.”
“Make sure she does the outpatient therapy,” he said.
“I always follow up with them,” she said, as if she had to deflect his accusation. “If they don’t walk through those doors, what else can I do?”
He signed the letter and handed it to her. “I can recruit more.”
“That’s your solution? Recruit more. How many psychic warriors have to suffer or die before you stop recruiting people for this program? I care about these young people.”
“We both do, Dr. Hayden.”
“Then show it.”
“We need more funding to do this right, but I have to show the bureau successes in the field,” he said. “How did your call with Quin go?”
“He’s using ayahuasca again.”
“We knew he would.”
“In the call I noticed something about his behavior,” she said. Kruse pulled the chair closer to her desk and she continued, “He hallucinates while on the tea, of course, but he still sees ravens long after the effects of the tea should’ve worn off.”
“They’re like his spirit friends,” Kruse said.
“Yes. I think the tea helps him slip into an altered state of mind, but after the tea’s effects wear off, he’s able to remain in that altered state for longer periods of time. He’s reverting to totemic beliefs, a worldview that draws upon nature, a kinship with animals where he sees them as protectors or helpers, possibly because of his heritage.”
“In my previous assignments with the bureau, I’ve seen that belief many times on reservations. Totemism is not unique to the tribes of North America. Most tribes and clans around the world share in a similar belief system.”
“It’s a way to explain the natural world around them,” she said.
“Certainly, but isn’t it interesting that an aboriginal tribe in Australia could have a totemic belief system similar to that of a tribe in North America? They also created similar tools, legends, and myths, with no contact with one another. It’s as if they drew this belief from the same source.”
“What source?”
“The interconnectedness of all things.”
“A collective unconsciousness?”
“It’s what indigenous tribes tapped into, and it’s what a remote viewer accesses today.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re still pushing that New Age theory?”
“It’s not New Age. The point I’m making is that it’s very old and very real.”
She couldn’t back Agent Kruse into a corner. He was too confident in his own theories, and good enough to convince the FBI that his ideas were worth testing. But their recruits weren’t lab rats, they were people.
“None of the other paranormals describe their experiences quite like Quin,” she said. “When they meditate and focus on seeing distant objects, locations, and people, what else do they see?”
“Sometimes they’ll go to a location in their mind, as if they’re there, but only briefly,” Kruse said. “Usually they’re seeing locations in a void.”
“And for those few minutes they reach that heightened state, and they come out of it exhausted and weaker, like Susan did,” Dr. Hayden said.
“When Quin enters that state of mind, he’s able to live in it much longer,” he said. “That’s why I have such high expectations of him.”
“Is it possible that at times he’s sleepwalking, interacting with the physical world that we see and the non-physical at the same time?” she asked.
“I’ve never thought about it that way.” Kruse folded his hands in his lap.
“Is it possible Quin is tapping into a totemic belief to make sense of an uncertain world? He’s overriding the analytical side of his consciousness and delving into the spiritual realm.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Kruse said.
“Except how does he know what’s real and what’s imagined? What if trafficking in this source is like…free diving? With enough practice, deep breathing, and relaxation, one can go further and further underwater with a single breath before returning to the surface for more air. Quin is proving to be the best diver; he can go longer into the deeper state of mind before he needs to return again—”
“Are you suggesting we give Dillan and Rachel ayahuasca to enhance their remote viewing?”
“No, of course not. I’m suggesting there’s a downside to this altered state of consciousness.” She paused for a moment, realizing Kruse had baited her into this conversation. How long had he been thinking about this?
“It will be a simple test to see if Dillan and Rachel can go deeper,” he said.
“You’ll never get approval.”
“Bet I will.”
“You’d still need Dillan and Rachel’s approval,” she reminded him.
“They’ll give it to me.”
Step by step, he was backing her into a corner. He would win; he’d get his way once again.
“We need to know the capabilities and also the limitations of this herb,” she said. “We definitely have to monitor Quin’s vitals. He must wear the equipment we sent along with him into the field. What time is he investigating those leads Rachel and Dillan uncovered?”
“Within the hour. We’re setting up in the auditorium.” Kruse reached across the desk and shook her hand. “This is exciting.”
“Yes, but the health and safety of the team is important,” she said. “Remember, Quin crashed once before when he entered Safe Haven. He’s your best free diver, but he can only be submerged for so long. Eventually, he must come up for air, to return to this physical world, or he could drown somewhere out there in the depths of his own mind.”
Nogales is a city straddling two countries, the United States and Mexico, separated
by a rusted iron fence that today towers eighteen feet above the rocky ground. The government that once corralled indigenous people onto reservations has begun fencing itself off from the rest of the world.
The barrier stretched as far as Quin’s eyes could see in either direction, draping the rising hills and ridges of the desert. This side of the border was actually higher than the US side, giving bandits and illegals an advantage over US Border Patrol agents.
Agent Lopez drove up a two-lane highway as Quin looked out the window at the desert of freedom, littered with water bottles, blankets, stuffed animals, and even a few makeshift crosses. Looking at all that, it was obvious to Quin why people dug tunnels; the afternoon heat and the frigid evening temperatures could kill people.
“Did you send me the tunnel map?” he asked.
“Check your e-mail,” Agent Lopez said.
He opened it on his phone and its attachment. It was a black line connected to a green one intersected by a red one. “It’s like a subway map.”
“Seriously, though, that’s miles of underground roads, parts of it very narrow,” she said. “There’s some natural caves in there, too. The black line is the tunnel near your house.”
“What’s more dangerous, running across the desert or under it?” he asked.
“Up top we got surveillance, you know, things like night vision, planes, even drones. If they use tunnels, they can get pinched at the exit points. And they still have to pay for a guide to take them across and they could be robbed, raped, or killed along the way,” she said matter-of-factly.
Quin’s phone vibrated. It was Agent Kruse. “Almost there,” he reported.
“Good, you need to pull over and wait for my instructions before entering the warehouse.”
“Affirmative,” Quin said before hanging up. “Are any of these tunnels near the location where we’re headed right now?” he asked Lopez.
“The green line on the map stops about a mile from there. Why?”
“Just curious.”
The GPS coordinates brought them to a small village on the outskirts of Nogales and just as promised, there was a series of warehouses, garages, and semi-trailers parked side by side. Lopez pulled into a dirt lot and drove past the buildings painted with blue and orange graffiti. Whoever Jesus Coolio was, he was prolific.
“This can’t be the place,” Quin said.
“I’m just following the coordinates Agent Kruse gave us,” she said, slowing the SUV, setting it in park.
He called Kruse. “Hey, we’re here, wherever here is.”
“Put on the glasses and pair your Bluetooth earpiece,” Kruse said. “I’m in the auditorium with Dillan, Rachel, and Dr. Hayden.”
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Quin said.
“We’ll hang up and you’ll call us once you’re connected.”
Quin reached for a box in the seat behind him where he kept the bureau-issued sunglasses. He put them on and the world outside transformed into a rose-colored glow. He inserted the earpiece and turned both devices on. In the upper right corner of the right lens he could see his heart rate, which was climbing.
“Testing, one, two, three.”
“We hear you,” Kruse confirmed in Quin’s ear. “And we see the location as well.”
Quin turned toward to his new partner. “Everyone, this is Agent Lopez.”
She half-smiled. “Hello.”
“Is she authorized to wear the other gear?” Quin asked Kruse.
“Yes, get her set up.”
Quin reached for the second pair of sunglasses and the earpiece and handed them to Lopez. “Join the party.”
Lopez seemed genuinely excited about the gear as she tried it on.
“This is like a Tom Clancy novel.” She looked at herself in the rearview mirror.
“I prefer Vince Flynn’s work myself,” Quin said.
Kruse ignored their banter and went right into his instructions. “You are presently on land patrolled by a drug cartel named—”
“Sinaloa,” Agent Lopez said, adjusting her glasses.
“Correct,” Kruse said. “And they know you’re there. They’re watching you right now.”
Quin knew of the cartel; he’d heard of them when he was a boy. He looked out the window up at the hills, his pulse climbing higher. He felt it, but to see it in the lens only made him more anxious. “How many are watching?”
“Could be two or three, could be twenty for all I know,” Kruse said. “They think you’re there to retrieve a man on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.”
“Why didn’t you tell them we’re looking for a woman?” Quin said.
“There’s no women listed on our Top Ten Most Wanted,” Kruse said.
“Why would this drug cartel give us permission to walk around here searching?”
“We made a deal with them,” Kruse said.
“What kind of deal?”
“You’re not authorized to know. Now hurry up. You only have thirty minutes.”
“What happens after that?” Lopez asked.
“Get started!” Kruse said.
She adjusted her shoulder strap where she kept her Glock 23 pistol. Then she opened the glove box and handed Quin an inferior gun.
“Why do I get a 17 and you carry a 23?” he said.
“Pistol envy, Quin? You don’t meet the qualifications for a 23” she joked.
“That sucks.”
“Sucks for me because you’re supposed to be my backup,” she said.
He stepped out of the SUV into a wave of heat. The sunglasses darkened, adjusting for the bright sunlight. Not bad. They both walked to the front of the vehicle and studied the buildings with garage doors coated in sun-dried graffiti.
“Dillan and Rachel, do you see her?” Quin asked.
“Hey, Quin, it’s me,” Dillan said.
“I know it’s you, stop wasting time,” he said.
“Yeah, cool, all right. Of the five storage buildings in front of you, I feel like the one on the left has a stronger presence,” Dillan said.
Quin was already in motion and Lopez followed off his right shoulder as they walked toward the buildings. The place was so quiet—almost dead in the late afternoon heat.
“Rachel, are you getting the same signal as Dillan?” Quin asked.
“Yes, but I think she’s in the building next to the one Dillan is seeing,” she said. “I mean, we could be splitting hairs. The buildings could all be connected from the inside.”
He went with Dillan’s hunch first. There was a metal door open slightly where Quin caught a whiff of something familiar. It was the irritating sting of ammonia seeping through the doorway. He pulled the door open and walked inside, with Lopez following. Meth labs come in all shapes and sizes, but what usually gives them away is their stench. He had his weapon drawn, walking into a dark hallway. He peered around a corner to his right. The room was filled with silver vats, pots boiling, five people working, sweating with bandanas covering their mouths. A flat-screen TV hung from one wall by a chain, the sound turned up so they could follow a soccer game.
“Trouble?” Lopez whispered.
Quin nodded.
“This isn’t a drug bust,” Kruse said into Quin’s earpiece. “You’re off target. Get out of there.”
Desperate for fresh air, Quin turned and motioned to Lopez to move out and they exited the building, back into the bright sunlight. They jogged back fifty yards, gasping for air. He thought of Gino Baxter hauling meth through Minnesota to Canada. How many mules like him did the cartel use to spread their drug through American towns? He tucked the gun in his waistband. “What’s our status with Sinaloa?” he asked Kruse.
“US Intelligence considers them the world’s most powerful drug trafficking organization,” Kruse said. “That meth lab is not your target. Leave it for the DEA.”
What a dead end. Here they were, standing in front of a meth lab in the hills of Mexico. “How often are the remote viewers wrong?” he asked, without calling out Dillan and Rac
hel by name.
“Autumn must be somewhere nearby,” Kruse said.
“Where?”
“Your job is to pinpoint her exact location. Follow your instincts,” Kruse said.
He was studying the buildings again when Lopez said, “We have visitors.”
A white Chevy Tahoe pulled off the dirt road and drove a complete circle around Quin and Lopez, surrounding them in a cloud of dust before the truck skidded to a stop. She set her hand on her gun. Quin did the same and as the dust settled, he spotted two men in the truck watching them.
“They’re from the cartel,” Lopez said.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Bad guys don’t wear black hats anymore. They drive white trucks.”
The men climbed out of the truck. One man in his thirties was tall. The younger, in his twenties, had acne scars and a semi-automatic.
“Don’t engage with them,” Kruse warned.
“We’re out-gunned,” Quin said. “Nobody is engaging in anything other than polite conversation.”
Quin’s Spanish was good but Lopez’s was better, and she greeted the men with her own brand of machismo. But Quin could see she was nervous in their presence.
“Who you looking for?” the tall man asked while his partner stood silently with his weapon at his side.
“A fugitive from the States,” Quin said.
“Who?”
“A gringo,” Quin responded.
“Find anybody in there?” the younger man asked, pointing at the warehouse.
Quin shook his head. “Just some guys cooking tamales.”
The younger man smiled at Quin’s sarcasm. “Tamales?”
“Not interested in tamales,” Quin said.
“Another dead end,” Lopez added.
Quin saw the flashes of raven shadows on the ground. He looked up as the two birds circled the men’s truck.
“Jefe!” a woman called from the truck.
The young man turned and looked back at her without answering.
Quin’s mind was tripping, his heart racing. There was a tone, a note in the woman’s voice that sounded familiar.
In The Company of Wolves_Follow The Raven Page 13
