by Jim Johnson
Finally, since she was almost lost, she grabbed a taxi. An ancient Ford and told the driver to take her to Boys’ Town. She doubted it was far, but didn’t have the time. Negotiating with the driver, they finally settled on five dollars, which told her it wasn’t far at all.
He looked at her speculatively, shrugged and drove her there. Carefully, she mapped the route. He drove like most taxi drivers across the world.
Beer and tequila signs told her where she was. She handed the driver the five and escaped. She walked along slowly, trying to think, keenly aware of the passage of time. Again, many parts of the sidewalk were broken. How would Tommy go about this? He was a good problem solver, but most of the time it involved hitting the problem head-on with sudden violence and great force—which was not something she was equipped to do versus the United States government.
Men watched her as she passed bars or restaurants. There was something about the area where many of the drinking establishments had men standing or sitting in their doorways or loitering outside. Maybe pimps? There was a thriving sex business here she knew. And she’d seen many news stories about drug gangs and violence.
More Americans drifted in and out of bars. It was early yet, the crowds would come later and in the evening. She thought it worth of remark that many people were smoking.
She had an overwhelming desire to go into a cool bar and drink a couple of cold beers. She shook that off. She became acutely aware of the passage of time. A couple of the men approached her questioningly, assuring her they had “what she wanted.” It took her a few minutes to figure out they thought she, as a single woman, was looking for female love. A couple of others watched her openly. She began to worry. It was like the word had traveled up and down the street preceding her. She turned down one street that was less traveled and cars packed alongside the street as if parking were at a premium hereabouts.
Soon a noise permeated her mind. It was one she’d been hearing for the last few minutes and ignored. Casually looking around like a tourist, she saw a man trailing her on what she guessed was a Yamaha motorcycle. He had an expensive helmet, but it hung from the handlebars. Yeah, show how cool you are.
Immediately, it occurred to her that she’d be a nice target for so-called “human-trafficking”, not the kind where you guide or take people from one nation to another illegally, but the kind where you kidnap and drug young females and sell them into sex slavery. She shook her head. Surely not. But…her experience in that thing told her how prevalent the practice was, only most people did not know about it.
Well, she wasn’t inviting his attention, but her behavior sure was. A woman alone trolling along in Boys’ Town? While she did not feel overly attractive, she knew damn well she was and she recognized her effect on men. That was one of the things that intrigued her about Tommy Atkins. He knew how good-looking she was, but ignored it.
She sure as hell didn’t want to be kidnapped and sold into slavery or a whorehouse in some flea bit town. Or sold to some sheik. On the other hand, she might well be imagining things.
Breathing deeply, she increased her pace. The Yamaha kept behind her and matched her pace. He could maneuver through the little traffic on this street since he was on two wheels—a decided advantage. One she’d surely like to have. Now he was on a cell phone. That she didn’t like. He could be talking to his mother or calling in help.
She had to do something and do it quick, not to mention that time was speeding by. Tommy could be dying for all she knew. She did know that he needed her and she wanted to be there when he needed her. She realized she hadn’t slept for almost two full days and tiredness crept over her.
On her right was an even quieter street, not paved, but gravel and hardpan. She turned down the so-called street. The Yamaha followed. Buildings here were all in need of fresh paint. A few tired small, sun-bleached warehouses lined up down the block.
A space between buildings was open with no parked cars. She walked into it and looked around. An old mangy yellow dog rose slowly and walked away. She stepped to the lip of the hardpan and stopped. The Yamaha slowed, not knowing what to do.
María Elena pointedly looked at her wrist. She acted angry she didn’t see a watch. She looked around and appeared to see the motorcyclist for the first time. She looked around again, then shrugged, and waved at him to come over and stop. Her movements were commanding. Was she not Papá’s daughter? Was she not the beautiful María Elena appealing to masculinity?
The motorcycle approached and pulled up alongside her, kicking the machine into neutral. The man leered.
She tapped her wrist imperiously. “Time?” She used English on the principle that if the enemy didn’t know she spoke Spanish, she had an advantage.
He took the bait and flipped open his cell phone.
María Elena took a quick look to the right and left and saw no undue attention. Not that it mattered anyway. While the man was trying to read the time in the glare of the sun, she struck him in the throat with the knuckles of her right hand, just as she’d be trained to do. He fell off the street side of the Yamaha coughing and gasping and choking.
She grabbed his phone out of his hand as he went down, with her other hand, she held the motorcycle upright. She dropped the cell phone into the bag with the chloroquine, threw her left leg over the seat, kicked the machine into gear and sped off.
She checked the mirror and he was still rolling on the ground holding his throat.
The Tommy Atkins School of Planning was working so far.
Quickly, she made her way out of Boys’ Town and headed back the way the taxi had driven. She put on the helmet for safety and so it would decrease the recognition factor. She stuffed the pharmacy bag into her shirt. She had two choices: go along the border fence and look for a break that would fit the motorcycle. Or she could go through the official border crossing. Perhaps they wouldn’t be looking for her on a motorcycle. Besides, they hadn’t seen her passport card close enough to read it. Border fences near the international crossing and in town had to be very effective and likely under surveillance. Not to mention she didn’t want to encounter any professional pistoleros.
What would Tommy do? He’d have a Plan B if Plan A didn’t work, of course.
Well, shit. She didn’t need his phantom presence to figure out what to do. After all, she was María Elena. Downtown again, she stopped and went into a small clothing shop.
She bought a large, bulky denim jacket and several scarves. She put the jacket on. Maybe they wouldn’t profile her so well now. She tied two of the pretty scarves around her neck. She didn’t look the same, not with the helmet on.
She found a street vendor, a boy in raggedy clothing, and bought a pack of cigarettes and butane lighter.
She drove over to the border crossing all the while checking for attention, both official and unofficial. Apparently, the motorcycle guy hadn’t turned her in yet, or the authorities were slow on the uptake.
She idled on a spur to the border-crossing road. After about ten minutes, she was becoming concerned that she wouldn’t find what she was looking for. Additionally, her sense of urgency to get back to Tommy was clamoring like a fire alarm. It also occurred to her that the longer she dallied the more likely the Mexican authorities would be looking for a female motorcyle-jacker. Maybe the guy was too much of a bad guy and wouldn’t resort to law enforcement. This, when she thought about it, was much more likely.
Finally, what she was looking for cruised by heading for the border. She pulled out behind the van. There were two young men in it, and they were playing hard rock music at lethal decibels. The van was ratty and brown and the color hid much abuse. And she could smell the residual of them smoking weed or hash or something. Didn’t they know the border security would search them big time? Maybe they did and they didn’t care; they smoked everything already and were not afraid.
She stayed right behind them and offset to the right side as all the traffic slowed for the border. She looked ahead. Yep, still backed
up. So they were searching everyone, meaning they’d check all ID’s and especially scrutinize anyone who fit their profile. Probably the exact profile of one María Elena Alejandrina Ximena Vasquez-Guerrero de García.
Again, on the Mexican customs side, they virtually ignored her and her passport card, still laughing about the “two idiot Americans” in front of her. They were anticipating the U.S. Border Patrol in stopping them and stripping the van.
The line of vehicles was a couple wide and they were nearing the checkpoint.
María Elena was starting to cough from the van’s fumes. It needed a tune-up badly.
She watched the driver and the passenger talking. She could also see the right side mirror and saw they weren’t paying attention. Casually, she untied one of the scarves as they sat unmoving. Surreptitiously, she dipped one corner of the scarf into the gas tank of the motorcycle, the bulk of the scarf and her body concealing her movements. She draped the scarf over the handlebars carelessly.
The traffic inched forward. She saw a large number of Border Patrol officers standing around and checking each vehicle’s occupants, checking ID’s and looking in back seats and trunks. There were several pullovers, or insets in the traffic islands in which cars or trucks were pulled over and parked for thorough searches. They were under the cover of the runway above now and the traffic continued in an orderly fashion, though slowly.
It was time for the sudden violence and great force part of her plan.
There was no doubt that if they were in fact looking for her, they’d nail her. Soon as she showed her passport card, they’d recognize her picture or decide she fit the profile. She wasn’t going to bluff this one out. The hardest part was being patient--and breathing the foul emissions from the van. She began to hate that van and the occupants. Which was a good thing, according to her plan. Their music continued to rock the van, throbbing weird echoes in the underbelly of the runway.
The traffic inched ahead two more car lengths and María Elena saw her opportunity. She wanted to do this before she was scrutinized. And she was close enough to map out a pathway. Quickly, she looked around determining who’d be in jeopardy. Another thing that training with 13 gave her some familiarity: explosions.
She edged closer to the van, watching the right passenger side mirror. The men were busy accompanying the music and talking to each other. Her body blocking view of the gas tank on the van, she pulled off the gas cap and then stuffed the scarf in as far as she could, leaving at least a foot’s length hanging out—including the gasoline soaked corner.
Casually, she leaned back on the Yamaha and pulled out a cigarette. She lighted it with her butane lighter, took a fake puff, and blew it out, working around the face shield of her helmet. The lighter was in her left hand and she flicked it and the gasoline soaked corner of the scarf blazed up. Flames ate a large hibiscus.
María Elena turned to the car behind her and saw them watching her with horror. She pointed at them imperiously and shouted, “Run!” Since they were locked in a line of unmoving vehicles, they did so. Two middle aged women, one returned quickly for her purse and a package. Then they sprinted back along the line of cars yelling at others. Good, nothing like a fine panic to generate a little chaos.
The scarf was beginning to burn up toward the gas tank opening and she moved her motorcycle alongside the passenger side window. “Hey!” she shouted over the beat of the music.
They ignored her and she flipped the cigarette at the driver. He quickly brushed it off onto the floor of the van. “Listen, you stupid bastards, your gas tank is on fire and this van is going to explode any second. You better bail.” She grinned at them. “Next time turn your music down, assholes.” As she released the clutch to take off, she saw the passenger looking out and back and watched his face blanch. He didn’t say anything to the driver, he simply slammed open the door and ran. The driver got the idea and did the same, running forward shouting “Fire!”
Other drivers were getting out of their cars and looking around curiously. Somehow the word traveled and within thirty seconds full panic enveloped the entire traffic line to the customs check point.
María Elena was already accelerating. She weaved around the van and behind the car in front of the van and bumped over a traffic island into another lane. As she did, she felt more than heard, a giant whoosh as the gas fumes in the filler neck of the gas tank ignited. She envisioned a plume of flame shooting out to the side and hoped no one got hurt. Then there was a smaller explosion.
Cars were jumping lines and going everywhere, filling every empty hole they could find and trying to get out of there.
A smaller explosion than she expected came quickly. It echoed well amongst all the honking of horns and metal crushing of smaller vehicle crashes.
María Elena continued accelerating, avoiding a couple of officers running toward the center of the storm. There was no way they could respond to the emergency and contain all the people trying to get out of the way. Already a few of the cars that were at the front of the various lines were speeding away. Border Patrol tried to stop some of them without success. María Elena followed a pickup truck that appeared to have no intention of stopping for any reason. He made it to the exit highway and screeched through the stoplight. She turned at the traffic light, wanting to get out of the line of sight of the border crossing as quickly as possible. She weaved around in town for a few minutes to discourage anyone who might have been following her. She didn’t want to waste much more time for two reasons: Tommy was waiting and her sense of urgency was clamoring like a fire truck; and, secondly, she wanted to ditch the motorcycle before the local police could be alerted for a BOLO and begin searching for her.
Soon, she found what she was looking for: the large McDonalds. She wheeled into a parking slot between a black SUV and an electrician’s service truck. She left the key in the ignition. Maybe someone would have the common courtesy to steal it and further confuse the police.
She walked inside and slowly began to remove her helmet. She didn’t want anyone to think she was there to rob the damn place. So she took the helmet off slowly and made it into the ladies’ room before she completely removed it. She went into the handicapped stall for privacy. She took the top off the waste can and stuffed the shiny black helmet as far down as she could, and then the same with the bulky denim jacket. As she was doing so, she felt the overwhelming pressure on her bladder. What is it about stress? When she left the rest room, she was quite a bit lighter and was wearing a scarf to conceal her face. She hoped she looked totally different. She went out the side door and crossed the street immediately. She heard many sirens zeroing in on the border crossing station. Sorry about that. She grinned. Tommy would be proud of her.
Soon she found her own parked SUV. Even though her sense of urgency was clamoring loudly, she drove slowly, observing meticulously all traffic regulations. Even then her eyes were glued to her mirrors, searching for any sign of pursuit. Or even undercover tailing. All the driving Tommy had her do was paying off in caution.
Even on Algeria Road, she took an early turn and followed a gravel road up a hill and around several turns. She stopped and waited for ten minutes, and then she slowly returned to Algeria Road watching for any other vehicles. She even stopped and got out and scanned the sky for aircraft or choppers. She’d teach Tommy a few things about paranoia. Soon she was back on Algeria Road headed towards the end. When she came to their turn-off, again she stopped, got out and climbed onto the top of the SUV so she’d have a better and longer view. Again, nothing. She jumped back in and sped toward the cabin.
Was Tommy all right?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THEM
“Suze, you need to come into operations to see this.” Linda gestured for her to hurry.
Suzie Q rounded her desk and followed Linda into their operations center. Screens flickered and people worked their computers. Linda led her to the central station where Sandy hunched over her keyboard.
“I knew we couldn’t tr
ust them,” Linda said.
“Doubtless you’re going to explain it before midnight?” Suzie Q’s voice was dry and Sandy glanced over her shoulder.
Linda pointed and Sandy returned to her task. “That AAG and that marshal guy ain’t sharing. Sandy has been trolling and lookit she found.”
The wide screen showed a security camera shot of many abandoned cars and trucks and whatever surrounding a burning van. The action appeared to be taking place half inside and half outside of some kind of drive-through building.
“Sandy caught it first, some kind of priority alert from a border station down in Nogales.”
“Arizona or Mexico?”
“The former,” Linda said. “From what we can extrapolate, their facial recognition software caught our disappeared Cuban blogger. She was headed into Nogales, Sonora, clearing the U.S. checkpoint easily. It took a few minutes for it to matriculate through the system and trigger the alert. By then she was long gone.”
“Surely you’re going to get to the conflagration part eventually.”
“Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed,” said Linda, giving her a fake pout.
“Now I’m gonna have to fight that stupid AAG asshole. And maybe the U.S. Marshal Service, too. And now throw in the motherforping Border Patrol.” Suzie Q paused. “Sometimes this job sucks. I trained to go overseas and speak all kinds of foreign languages and shoot spies and steal secrets and other stuff. But hell no, here I am trying to apprehend some Byronic hero guy and this hot babe, neither of whom probably did anything to merit our attention. Yet half the federal government is chasing them and the other half wants me to report on chasing them.”
