by Roger Hayden
“You know what I think?” Angela said. She continued, without waiting for his response. “I think you want to catch these guys yourself.”
He turned to her with a nod. “Yeah. Don’t you?”
Angela reached for her seatbelt and buckled up. “I have to admit it. Hoping that the Starr County PD catches them instead of us seems like a pretty flawed strategy.”
“Exactly,” he said, backing out.
The Tahoe crunched over deeply embedded rocks and pivoted to the side. Vast rolling hills of the Texas desert were in view. The chipped, faded pavement of a two-lane road nearly hidden under a layer of sand awaited them at the bottom of the hill.
Angela gripped her armrest as they descended the bumpy terrain, past rocks and trees whose arched branches and green leaves provided bits of welcome shade. Patches of weed growing in the cracked asphalt and faded brown were flattened by the Tahoe’s large tires as they continued down the hill, gaining momentum.
The vehicle shook and rattled as the dispatcher called over the radio, reminding them that backup was en route.
“We’re still here,” Martinez replied, winking at Angela. An unsettled feeling brewed in her gut. Martinez was right. She was green, in that she had been on the force for a year. Breaking the rules so early-on was not a good precedent to set. But she did want to follow the truck, and if it was okay with Martinez, it was okay with her. She told herself this, as they reached the bottom, sailing over a dirt mound and hitting the road with turbulent force.
“Woo!” Martinez shouted out, clearly enjoying himself.
Angela looked ahead nervously as he floored it, racing down the road. Their earlier focal point, in the distance past Martinez’s window, was fading quickly. It was doubtful that she could keep an eye on the fence much longer. The southern ridge disappeared as they drove alongside a high mountainous slab of jagged rock that lined the road like a guardrail.
Martinez kept his eyes forward, focused on his pursuit. Angela said nothing for fear of distracting him. The speedometer reached well past one hundred. The visible portion of the road raced under them like lightning. Ahead, the road was empty. The formerly sunny sky had clouded into gray. Another afternoon shower was near.
“We’re close,” Martinez said. “I can feel it.”
“What do you want to do when we catch up with them?” Angela asked. She hadn’t thought that much ahead and hoped that he had a plan. Her trust in Captain Martinez was second to none on the force.
He smiled, as though she already knew the answer. “I say we follow them as far as we can. See where they’re going. Then we call for backup again.”
If that ever happens, Angela thought to herself. They reached a fork in the road and Martinez went left without hesitation.
“Bravo Eight, what’s the status of the truck?” a different voice said on the radio.
Angela recognized it as belonging to Agent Dawson, a young, eager recruit like herself. A few weeks earlier, on a night out with the team, he’d had had a little too much to drink. He had hit on her, ignoring Angela’s wedding ring, and then apologized profusely the next day. She’d long since forgiven him, but he had been avoiding her ever since.
Her husband, Doug, was ten years her senior, a fact that surprised many of her coworkers but hot her. She didn’t see the big deal. Doug was an engineer for Hudson Optronics, a smart, caring man who had supported her in everything she did. The sound of Dawson’s voice had distracted her for a minute, but then she snapped out of it. The mysterious box truck was still ahead of them, careening to the left shoulder and driving off the road just as a hill obstructed their view.
“He’s going off road,” Angela said.
“I know,” Martinez replied, still deeply focused. No one had answered Dawson’s call yet.
Martinez turned toward the hill and launched up a bumpy path, marked by deep tire tracks. They weren’t the first travelers to consider the short cut.
They continued up the hill and found a spot where they could still keep an eye on the box truck came back into view. Once they had repositioned, Angela took the hand mic and finally answered Dawson. “Roger. We still have eyes on the vehicle.”
Martinez parked next to a giant boulder that concealed their position. Angela looked out her window to see the small the town in the far distance like some kind of miniature model.
The sky was engulfed in gray. Lightning flashed in thin vibrant lines from the north. The approaching storm provided perfect cover to whatever nefarious operations were happening below.
Martinez got out of the car first, as Angela unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door. Her .40 caliber Smith & Wesson pushed against her waist from her side holster. She grabbed her binoculars and quietly shut the door. Martinez was already at the boulder, peeking around it and waving her forward with urgency. She turned the knob down on the handheld radio, holstered on the other side of her pistol belt.
She reached the boulder and looked around the other side, raising her binoculars. The box truck had stopped within a shaded area of trees, branches swaying in the rising wind. The trail of dust it had kicked up driving off-road drifted and dissipated, settling back into the sand.
To Angela’s surprise, another vehicle was in view—a station wagon. In front of the wagon stood two men. Their features were hard to make out from the distance, but Miriam could see that they were tall and strapping and dressed in checkered long sleeved shirts and tight blue jeans like something out of a bad western. She had no idea what to make of it.
Martinez came around to her side, holding his own pair of binoculars. “What do you think?” he asked, out of breath.
“I’d say a meeting is about to take place,” she said.
“Drug traffickers?” he asked.
“Could be. Still too soon to call.”
Martinez took his handheld from his side and spoke.
“We have eyes on two vehicles now.”
“What’s your location?” Dawson’s voice asked.
“Same place we’ve been all along,” Martinez answered, providing another wink to Angela. She got the idea. They had never moved. She knew it was right to trust him, though the intense drive still had her rattled.
“They’re getting out of the truck,” she said, looking ahead.
Two men exited the truck on both sides, strikingly different in appearance. Their baggy pants were tattered and their white, long-sleeved shirts were stained with dirt and oil. Their dark hair was bushy and each had beards that looked in need of grooming.
Angela’s eyes then caught something else: every man below was armed—four in all. She could see a pistol protruding from each man’s pockets.
“We’ve got to get a closer look,” Martinez said. “They drive off, we’ll never be able to catch them in time.”
Angela turned and looked to him as he stood. It was the first time she found herself doubting his judgment. She felt safe where they were. Border Patrol procedures conditioned agents to call it in. They weren’t encouraged to take action except in the most extreme circumstances. And they still weren’t sure exactly what was going on.
Martinez crept past her before she could respond, crouching low and searching for a clear path down on foot.
“Captain Martinez,” she called out in a whisper. “Sir!”
He was already climbing down the hill as she struggled to decide whether to follow. She certainly couldn’t let him go alone. She held the radio to her mouth and called Dawson. “Pursuing the suspects on foot.”
“What?” he said.
“Just getting a better look. We’re on the hill right after the fork.” She paused, thinking of the code name of their location. “Graffiti Junction,” she said quickly, and then placed the radio to her side.
She followed Martinez, carefully keeping her balance as she approached the edge of their plateau. The air was thin even at their low altitude. Martinez was halfway down, crouching behind some bushes. Angela looked toward the vehicles. The men were standing closer to each other, t
alking.
Martinez had reached the bottom. He didn’t look up until finding cover behind two large rocks, surprised at the gap between him and Angela. He waved her down while pulling his gun out.
What’s he going to do? Angela thought.
And where was their backup?
3
Extreme Measures
Martinez ran crouched low with his pistol out and pointed down, finding cover behind a bushy desert Cypress Tree, one of many throughout the area. He moved closer to the men as they talked among themselves in the distance. Angela stopped behind a sandy mound far behind Martinez, fearing that they had been spotted. One of the apparent cowboys had looked up in her direction as if hearing or searching for something.
She raised the binoculars to get a better look. The driver of the truck and his passenger had their backs turned to her, but she was able to make out the facial features of the cowboys. They were both tanned with black goatees and thick eyebrows.
The thick cover of tree branches above them cast a shadow over their entire proceedings. Her handheld radio, nestled in its holster like a thin, small brick, crackled slightly and her hand shot down to turn it off.
Martinez turned around to look for Angela. As they made eye contact, he raised a finger to his lips for silence. Angela knew the stakes, and she also knew that Martinez was growing a bit too eager.
As the men continued talking inaudibly, closer to each other, she wished that she could hear their words. Her boot dug into the ground as she crouched, ready to rush to the next position. Martinez looked ready to move himself, bending back and poised to make a move.
Suddenly, the men moved together in a group toward the rear of the box truck. Martinez was off, gun raised. Angela froze in place. She couldn’t believe it. Their surveillance mission changed before she even had time to think.
Martinez, it seemed, knew better, and took cover behind some rocks piled together in slabs. But it was too late. One of the cowboys stopped and turned just as the truck driver placed his hand on the rear latch of the cargo door.
The cowboy leaned in and said something to the other men with his eyes narrowed. The men halted. Their hands reached toward their pockets, where handguns bulged. A Wild West showdown was brewing under the cloudy Texas sky. For a moment, everything slowed down, and Angela wasn’t sure what to do.
They had been spotted—that much she knew—and the only thing that was going to help them was the uncertainty of numbers. The four men had no idea just how many were watching them.
Martinez kicked up dirt as he hit the ground, skidding on his side, rushing to take cover. A cloud of dust floated above the rocks, and that was all the paranoid men needed to leap into action. The two cowboys fled like the wind toward the station wagon without turning back.
They shouted out in a stream of unintelligible panic—not in English or Spanish but something else. Feeling emboldened, Martinez launched himself up from behind the rocks and shouted, “Freeze!” But the cowboys were already in their vehicle and peeling out as their two counterparts at the truck swung around, confused and startled.
“Hands up!” Martinez demanded.
The station wagon’s engine roared as it tires squealed away, billowing dust and exhaust in the air like a trailing smokestack.
Martinez stood fast, pistol aimed, and shouted at the remaining two men, ordering them to comply. Angela rose from her position and aimed, but they appeared too far away and out of range—at least for the precision required for a wounding shot.
The men looked at each other with their hands still at their sides, hesitant but not ready to throw in the towel. One had a large forehead with receding hairline, while the other had long curly locks to his shoulder.
“I’m not saying it again!” Martinez shouted. His voice was hoarse. He sounded exhausted. The men must have thought so too. They went for their pistols. Martinez fired a shot, starting Angela. It struck the shoulder of the balding man and sent him slamming into the back of the truck. His friend drew his pistol and immediately started firing back. The loud, echoing shots sent Angela diving for cover.
She got a mouthful of sand as her chest hit the hard ground. More shots were fired from beyond her mound—Martinez returning fire. She pushed herself up, ready to engage. The men were shouting in loud, angry tones. The balding man who had taken it in the shoulder had his gun out, firing at random all over the place.
Martinez took cover as Angela crawled closer to him. She didn’t see the other man, the one with the curly locks, but when she reached Martinez, she could see a body lying next to the truck on his back.
“I got one of them,” Martinez said. “Right through the head.” He didn’t sound proud of it. His face was pale and worry-stricken as though he knew they had taken their pursuit too far.
The remaining man was undeterred. He rushed toward them, firing his pistol, hitting the ground near them. A chunk of rock flew up and hit Angela in the cheek. Martinez looked stunned, too disoriented to move. And it was at that point that Angela knew she had to make a quick decision.
She jumped up as the shots coming at them ceased, only to see the man quickly gaining on them. She raised her pistol, aiming steadily, and fired a shot into his chest.
The man flew back and flopped onto the ground. His pistol lay just out of arm’s reach. His body was still. The echo of Angela’s shot echoed in the air as sirens wailed in the distance. Martinez was on his knees, staring at the ground. Angela knelt down and examined his worry-stricken face.
“Are you okay?”
He snapped out of his daze. “Yeah,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Why didn’t they listen? I-I didn’t want to shoot them.”
“You had to,” she said, placing a reassuring hand over his left shoulder badge.
“I know.” He paused to get on his feet, and Angela helped him up. “They didn’t listen. What language were they speaking?”
“It sounded Arabic,” Angela said.
He flashed her a surprised glance and wiped away the sweat building on his forehead. “You think? I mean, I didn’t understand a word.”
At the same moment, they both looked ahead and surveyed the two motionless bodies in the distance. “Are these our drug runners?” Angela asked.
“I hope so,” Martinez said in an anxious tone, his hand still clutching his pistol. The sirens were getting louder. Angela turned her radio on and was met with cross-chatter demanding their status. It sounded like a combination of Dawson’s voice and their patrol chief’s.
“Better check it out before the cavalry gets here,” Martinez said, signaling to the box truck under the trees.
Angela agreed and followed Martinez as he walked toward the truck with his pistol aimed. There was no sense in letting their guard down now. Anything was possible along the southern border. Angela held the radio up and reported the incident the best she could.
“Shots fired… Both assailants down.
Radio static was followed by an angry voice shouting. “What the hell happened out there?”
It was the voice of Border Patrol Chief Milton Drake. He was gruff as they came, and he went completely by the book. Angela had managed to make it a year without getting on his bad side, though she had the feeling that those days were over. They’d have to come up with one heck of a story to explain themselves.
Martinez walked slowly past the curly-haired shooter’s body, lying on the ground in a contorted pose. She could see shells in the dirt leading up to the place where he lay. Thunder rumbled in the graying sky—perfect timing.
She walked past the man and couldn’t help but look at his face. The back of his head was buried in the sand. His eyes were open and his mouth agape, with a stream of blood trailing down his chin. His chest revealed a puckered hole in the center with blood soaking his shirt around it. She’d never seen a body so freshly dead and couldn’t help but stop to look at him, her mind filled with questions and sadness too.
“Am I talking to myself here?” the chief
’s voice said on the radio. “Agent Gannon, what the hell happened out there?”
She raised the radio to her mouth sighing. Martinez was already at the truck, circling it with his pistol aimed.
“During line watch, we intercepted an unlicensed vehicle, sir. When we approached the vehicle, the driver and passenger fired at us.”
“And where is this vehicle now?” Chief Drake asked.
“Near Graffiti Junction,” Angela answered.
The name came from an area where Mexican gangs often tagged their surroundings after illegally crossing the border into America. She could see some of their spray-paint markings on the rocks around them, noticing them for the first time since they arrived on the scene.
“You two stay put,” Chief Drake said with finality. “Don’t make another move.”
“Yes, sir,” Angela said. She holstered her radio and jogged over to Martinez, who had just finished searching the area.
“I don’t see anyone else,” he said.
“What about the station wagon?” Angela asked, catching her breath.
Martinez looked around. “What about it?”
“We have to find them. Have the police issue an APB on it or something.” It was an older-model Lincoln with wood paneling, at least twenty years old. It shouldn’t be too hard to find, but Martinez seemed disinterested. He walked to the rear of the truck and placed his hand on the latch.
“The chief said for us to stay put,” Angela said.
Martinez looked down at his legs and then to her. “Does it look like I’m going anywhere?”
With that, he unlatched the door and pulled it open with little effort. Martinez was eager to see inside, past the darkness. Angela walked closer, peeking in. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, but saw nothing inside. The cargo bed was completely empty. Martinez stared in with a look of disbelief.
“What is this shit?” he said under his breath.
The fifteen foot cargo bed was startling empty.
“Maybe the station wagon had the narcotics,” Angela suggested, trying to get Martinez back on track.
