Willobee's World

by Wendell Vanderbilt Fountain

  “Ya don’t have to be an angel to be a good person.”

  “Well now, Haylee-Girl, yor way too kind,” he said with a chuckle.

  “I don’t think so, Trent, I really don’t,” she said with a hint of a smile.

  “We gotta little more wine left, I’m pourin’ if you drinkin’.”

  “No thanks, I’m not so sure I can trust myself with you much longer. I need to get back home and check on things,” a smiling Haylee said as she stood to leave.

  “This’s been great, and I can’t say nuff ’bout yor cookin’. You shor can rattle them pots and pans,” he said with a big grin.

  Trent walked her to the door, and she reached up as though she was going to give him a big hug, but instead, she gave him a long and passionate kiss. He was taken by surprise, and when she released him he had to comment.

  “Sweetheart, if I didn’t know better, I might think your takin’ advantage of me. I liked that so much let’s do it agin,” he said as his arms folded around Haylee and he kissed her forcefully, until she pulled back.

  “Trenton Willobee, I think I need to go and go now!”

  “Yeah, you probly right. I’m not feelin’ much like a southern gentleman all of a sudden,” he said as she began negotiating the front door steps.

  Trent walked her to the car and opened the door. His emotions were on top of the mountain, and he hated to see her leave, but he thought it was not good to rush into anything at the moment, because he was operating from an irrational state, rather than his “good sense.”

  “Ya gonna be at work tomorra?” He asked.

  “Oh, yes, the place would crumble without me,” she said sarcastically.

  “I’ll stop in for lunch, got some errands to run in the mornin’.”

  “Trent, thanks for a wonderful evenin’. It’s been a real pleasure.”

  He watched her car back around and head down the hill until he could no longer see the taillights. He wished she could’ve stayed longer, but it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea, because it seemed, at that point, as though neither of them had a lot of self-control. He knew he wanted her, and he was pretty sure she wanted him but didn’t think the time was right. Trent went back inside, got a bottle of beer, and clicked on the TV. He was watching news about the presidential race when the phone rang. He muted the sound and picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, partner, it’s Luke. I wasn’t sure if you were home or drivin’. I know how ya feel ’bout talkin’ and drivin’ on your cell at the same time. It’s kinda hard to keep up with ya.”

  “Gee, I thought I told ya ’bout mah hands-free setup in mah truck,” Trent said.

  “No, I don’t think ya mentioned that, but I’ll keep it in mind. The reason I called is I gotta hot filly I think you’d like to ride. When I say hot, I mean hot!”

  “We were just talking ’bout ya.”

  “Oh yeah, you and who?”

  “You ’member Haylee Harper from the Oatman Restaurant?”

  “Uhh…yeah, yeah I do. Don’t tell me you’re tryin’ to get into those pants. You’ve got a better chance of gettin’ laid by a Hollywood super star. She’s very nice and good lookin’ too, but all business, and I don’t care about the size of your tip, if you know what I mean, because I doubt anything would get her into a bed. How’d my name come up?”

  “She just asked ’bout you, and course I told her you were in Sin City. She knew we palled ’round a lot. Guess she was just curious. Hadn’t seen ya in a while.”

  “What I got in Vegas will make ya forget all about her. Man she’s ready! I told her about ya, and she wants me to set up a meeting. She’s been divorced for a while and can hardly wait to get back on the market.”

  “Thanks, that’s mighty fine of ya to think ’bout me, but I gotta lot goin’ on right now. Hopefully, I’ll git a chance to tell ya ’bout it sometimes. Heck one of these days I just might show up at your place with Haylee in tow.”

  “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it. Sure ya won’t change your mind?”

  “Thanks again, ole friend, but I got too many things goin’ down. I’ll catch up with ya in a few weeks,” Trent said and hung up.

  As he sat there trying to watch the news, his mind wandered back to Tijuana. He felt badly about doing the putana, but he had to be convincing. He also knew he would have to try to find her or some other prostitute again for more information, and that would require a repeat performance. The thought of Haylee finding out about his misdeeds was very unsettling. Money or not, he wondered if he should keep this up. He had four days to wait for payment, and if what he’d given them wasn’t enough, he planned to quit.

  Over the next several days, Trent busied himself with maintenance on his truck and Rocket One. He also visited the Oatman Restaurant a number of times so he could see Haylee. Thursday afternoon he rode down to the post office to see if his money was there. He found a manila envelope in the box. He went straight home and opened it up, and sure enough it was stuffed with banded hundred dollar bills, and it contained a brief handwritten note which said “Good info need more.” He counted the money and the $10,000 was all there. It was bitter sweet. On the one hand, he was glad the intel had helped, but on the other, he really didn’t like risking his life for it. He knew things were really about to get dicey on his next trip, because one day was not going to be enough. He had to dig deeper and the ante was going up. He would have to stay two nights, which meant a reschedule of his route and his customers really didn’t like that sort of thing. The day before he left for his run he called Haylee.

  “I’m gonna be movin’ out in the mornin’, just wanted to touch base with ya before I left.”

  “I’m glad you did; I would’ve been very disappointed if you left without lettin’ me know. I’m gonna miss ya.”

  “I always miss not seein’ and talkin’ to ya, but I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, maybe we can spend some time together.”

  “I’d like that very much. Trent, be careful. I think about you bein’ on the road runnin’ your rig up and down the Interstates quite a lot, and it worries me a little.”

  “Nothin’ to worry ’bout, I been doin’ this a long time. I know the dangers of the highway, and I’m a very defensive driver.”

  “I don’t really know why, but I have a scary feelin’ about your trip. It’s kinda weird.”

  “Maybe it’s ’cause you might be thinkin’ of me as more’n a good friend, ya think?”

  “Ummm…could be… I plan to talk with you while you’re gone. Ya don’t mind, do ya?” She asked.

  “I’d be more’n disappointed if you didn’t call me now and agin.”

  “You have a phone, too,” she reminded him.

  “Yeah, and you’re number one on my speed dial.”

  “Who’s number two?” She asked.

  “I dropped ole Luke down to that spot,” he chuckled.

  “You have many other girls on your speed dial?”

  “Gonna surprise ya, but no, not a one!”

  “Really, you must be kidding, right?” Haylee asked.

  “Nope, you’re it.”

  “I’m more than surprised, but I know ya have to get to bed, sooo…you have a safe trip and a goodnight.”

  “Goodnight to you, sweetheart, I’ll be seein’ ya when I git back,” and he hung up.

  Trent packed his overnight bag, which included a four-pack of Buckshot Energy Drink as well as a Glock. He turned in, slept well, and got up before daybreak. Then, it was time to hit the road. When he got to Tijuana hours later, he proceeded as normal with his overnight bag, coat slung over his shoulder, and walking across the border without a single Mexican official stopping him. He had his .45 in his coat pocket and the Glock in his bag, but no one detained him or even questioned him. He walked to the Americana Inn, and Maria was on duty.

 
“One night?” She asked, with a smile.

  “Not this time, dos,” he replied, holding up two fingers.

  She gave him his key and he departed. Once in the room, he took a hot shower, freshened up a bit, put on a clean pair of jeans, then strapped on an ankle holster for the Glock. He returned to the edge of the Frontero Zone where the putanas were peddling their wares, but didn’t see “Consuela.” This time he kept walking deeper into a more dangerous part of the city. He looked for a bar and restaurant where he could eat and drink. He saw a flashing neon sign across the street from where he was walking, so he crossed over. Darkness was about to fall. When he got to the other side he encountered three apparently young Mexican men, and they stopped him. They all had knives and began circling him like coyotes.

  “No hombres, Mexicano die!” He yelled as he watched them continuing to circle.

  “Pesos!” One demanded as all three laughed.

  “No, no pesos!” He responded, as they began closing in with knives flashing.

  It was at that point Trent knew he was going to have to draw his weapon. He also believed that they didn’t have guns or they would’ve already brandished them. They were just punks. Thoughts zipped through his mind with flittering speed. He knew with his training in Special Forces he could take the three of them barehanded, but why bother? He deftly removed his .45 from the inside of his coat pocket, and pointed it at them. Their reaction is what he expected.

  “No pistola, no pistola!” They began yelling as the three turned and fled into the darkness.

  “Come on back estúpido hombres! Never take a pig-sticker to a gunfight!” He called out.

  After that shot of adrenalin, he continued toward his destination. He looked up at the blinking neon sign Tamales y Tequila. The sounds he heard from outside confirmed the place to be what he was looking for, so he went in. It was a Friday night crowd. Just about everyone was speaking Spanish and the room was so filled with cigar and cigarette smoke he could hardly see across it. Undeterred, Trent negotiated through the gathering until he found the bar where he squeezed in next to some rough looking Mexican patrons. There was a band playing, but he could barely understand any words of the songs. They all sounded alike, even the beat. He noticed two men playing pool next to the bar. They were not speaking Spanish or English, and they were constantly arguing about the game. What they were speaking was a dialect of Arabic with which he was still fairly familiar. Finally, the bartender, a short stocky man, came over to serve him.

  “Muchacho, what can I get you for?”

  “Cerveza…el pollo frito,” Trent replied.

  “Si,” he said and quickly returned with a draft beer.

  As Trent sat there observing the crowd, he could see the language barrier was a problem. He expected that, because he knew very little Spanish, and communicating with his southern drawl style Spanish didn’t help either. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a plate of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. While he ate his chicken and mashed potatoes, he kept his eye on the two men from the Middle East. He wondered about how they got into Mexico. Did they get there from the southern border of Mexico or cross over from the U.S. side? The border was so porous just about anyone could cross it without a problem. Trent had nearly finished his meal when the two men began to leave. He paid quickly and left as well.

  Trent stayed on the opposite side of the street and followed their movement as closely as he could without being noticed. He used the darkness as cover. They walked several blocks from the bar and turned down a side street. He crossed over and kept his distance. They made another turn on calle Estrada. Trent continued to trail them until they went inside a small stucco house. He crept up alongside of the casa and positioned himself under a closed window with a drawn shade. There were many voices coming from inside, maybe as many as seven or eight. They were discussing exchanging drugs for guns which the DEA would supply. They were in disagreement about the best place along the border to conclude the transaction. When the Drug Enforcement Agency was mentioned, he became even more attuned to the sounds going on inside. Trent was familiar with the Fast and Furious gun running scheme of the ATF which went bad sometime back. Apparently, from what he could hear and understand, the terrorists in the house came over as Syrian refugees soon after the Charlie Hebdo and Paris attacks which killed 129 people and injured hundreds. The Syrians had become a Tsunami in Europe, and now the target was the U.S. Some of them even spoke English, some Spanish, and varying dialects of Arabic.

  Some of the Syrians wanted to cross at San Ysidro and others thought Otay Messa was a better choice. Other voices just wanted to cross the Rio Grande in rafts. No decision was made, but the Maquiladoras, businesses along the border on the Mexican side, seemed to have an interest in helping the Syrians in their efforts to rain terror down on the Americans. The person who appeared to be the leader was a Muslim called Mehmoud. There were other names mentioned in the room such as Yousef, Hassan, and Muhammed, but things sounded as though they were directed to Mehmoud. Trent concluded that he must be the leader.

  It was around midnight when they broke up the meeting, but before they did, they agreed to meet there at the same time the next night. Trent quickly departed. He did not want the two he saw in the bar to see him, because that could literally be a dead giveaway. He retraced his steps back toward “putana junction,” but he did not even slow down long enough for one of the ladies of the night to approach him. He went straight to the hotel and up to his room. He tried to sleep, but it was very difficult. Thoughts kept running through his head about his country’s involvement with these terrorists. How can this be? He thought. Trent also found them to be rather brazen. They didn’t even put a sentry or lookout outside the house. Apparently, they were so confident they had nothing to fear they just ignored fundamentals. He knew if he had done that in Iraq or Afghanistan, he’d never made it back.

  It took the morning light through his window to stir him. He checked his watch and it was already nine o’clock. What he’d discovered the night before was troubling indeed. He wondered if Dobson and Homeland Security had any knowledge of this. What else could be going on along the border? He’d read last year that there were drug cartels involved in crossing the border and kidnapping Americans for ransom, but this business with the infiltration of Syrian terrorists could have even more horrendous implications. He thought: What if a team of these uncivilized savages brought pieces of a nuclear weapon with them and assembled it in the United States and set it off in a city the size of L.A. or for that matter any other large metropolitan area? The loss of life would so great that it would make 9/11 a historical footnote.

  It was obvious that his work had become far more important than he originally thought. He could hardly wait to get back on the trail of these Syrian refugee terrorists. They really were a danger and obvious threat to the American people. So, he began redoubling his efforts and his ingenuity and luck were going to play an important part. He needed to build a spy stethoscope, and that meant he would need a few components which he would have to locate in a local drugstore, electronics component shop, and a hardware store. He was sure that would not be a problem, because practically all of the stores were inundated by tourists needing all sorts of things that broke or they had left behind. Trent made a list of what he’d need to create the spy stethoscope. His first stop was a drug store where he purchased a high-end stethoscope for less than 50 U.S. dollars. The Mexicans tended to prefer American dollars rather than pesos. Next on the list was an electronics store of which, like the drugstore, he found within walking distance. He purchased an MP3 real player for less than $100, Stereo Multimedia headset for 20$, and a Y-adaptor cable for $5. After that he only needed a few tools. He walked several blocks before finally locating a hardware store—of sorts. He bought a mini cordless drill, pack of small drill bits, and some glue—all for less than $75. He chuckled to himself about having become a secret agent man for less than
$250.

  He took a cab back to the hotel where he began the process of creating his spy stethoscope. It took him nearly two hours to complete the task. It was crude as compared to the listening devices he used in the Middle East, but it was very effective, because Trent substantiated that by listening to a couple in the next room, until he began feeling like a voyeur, which prompted him to stow it away in his overnight bag. Suddenly, he realized he hadn’t had breakfast or lunch. He was starved! He cleaned up and headed to a nearby McDonald’s which was only a few blocks away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Trent stayed in his room until it was after ten o’clock that night. He knew it wouldn’t take him long to walk back to the terrorists’ meeting place. He hung around in the shadows until after all of them had gathered. He crept back to his former spot below the window. He took the spy stethoscope out of his bag and began listening. He was impressed with the effectiveness of his crude device. He could clearly make out the differing voices in the room and, as he thought, Mehmoud was the leader. Mehmoud had decided that they were going to take rafts across the Rio Grande to get to the U.S. about midway between San Ysidro and the Otay Mesa Crossing the following Saturday night. Each of the two rafts would carry four armed men on board in addition to 500 pounds of cocaine. The DEA agents would exchange arms for drugs—350 Ak47’s and 350 AR-15’s in addition to 100 rounds of ammunition for each rifle. Just before the meeting ended, they began laughing, because it was humorous that drug enforcement agents were paying for drugs with drugs which they had probably seized from other Americans. Mehmoud commented in Arabic, “Stupid Americans! Death to America! We are ISIS! We are here!

  Following those statements, Trent quickly and silently departed. He headed back to his hotel as rapidly as possible without garnering unwanted attention by Mexican authorities, because he was packing heat, and he had to decide what to do about connecting with his contact. Once back in his room he unzipped a side pocket of his bag and removed the cell phone Dobson had given him for emergencies. He was conflicted about using it, because he had been instructed to use it only in a dire emergency. He was not concerned about his personal safety, but there was not time to return home and write a report about his findings. This needed to be dealt with posthaste. He grappled with the decision for a minute or two and then decided to make the call. He hit the speed dial and sat on the edge of the bed listening for an answer, and after three rings a voice responded.