Kit had hardly gotten her words out when the telephone rang. Haylee raced to answer it.
“That you, Haylee-Girl?”
“Yes, it is, Trenton Willobee, you got me worried outta my mind.”
“Thanks for the cash, sorry ’bout all the worry. I just gotta find a way ta cross the border.”
“Thought you said you were goin’ to New Mexico, but then you called me from some hospital in Mexico. I’m very confused.”
“I did go to New Mexico, but after mah truck got blowed up, I ended up in Mexico.”
“Your truck blew up?!” She exclaimed.
“That’s a fact. Yep, everything went up in a big fireball, which included all my papers, money, and stuff. It’s really a long story. I’ll tell ya all ’bout it when I git home.”
“Where are ya now?” Haylee asked.
“A little Mexican border town called Palomas.”
“Why don’t ya just walk up to a border agent, show ’em your driver’s license, and explain what happened?”
“Sweetheart, it don’t work like that. Ta begin with, I ain’t got no license. I ain’t got nothin’ that says who I am! Them ICE people ain’t gonna let me cross that border legally, ’cause I ain’t a Mexican who’s not sposed ta be in the U.S.”
“That means there’s only one other way—illegally!”
“I’m workin’ on that now,” Trent said.
“Trent, I don’t have to tell ya, but that’s very dangerous.”
“Yeah, I know, but once I git back on the U.S. side, I should be able to git home in two or three days by bus. I’d catch a plane, but ya have to have ID.”
“Please, please, tell me you’ll be careful,” Haylee pleaded.
“Ya got it. I’ll be as careful as a man can be. I’ll call ya tomorra, and let ya know how I make out.”
“I love ya, Trent,” she said wistfully.
“I love you, too, sweetheart. Sleep tight.”
After he left the phone booth, he walked about two blocks before he spotted a cab, which he hailed. He asked the driver to take him to a clothing store. Within a few minutes, the driver stopped the taxi in front of Western Wear Southwest next to La Tienda Rosa, a place which had food, all kinds of retail stores, and looked like a tourist’s paradise. It didn’t take Trent long to find what he wanted for new clothes. He bought a pair of jeans, plaid shirt, underwear, and a Stetson hat. He threw his old clothes, except his Kevlar vest, into a garbage can and left the store wearing his new apparel. He wore his shirt outside of his pants to conceal his two Glocks. After that, he went next door to the La Tienda Rosa to get something to eat where he had hearty Mexican cuisine and margaritas. After dinner, he killed time by walking through the retail stores, satisfying his curiosity until he needed to get back for his rendezvous with Santiago and Mateo. When the time came, he checked outside for a taxi and there were three waiting for customers. He got into the first one and told the driver to take him to Benito’s Bar. The driver zipped along as though he had driven that route a thousand times before. Before he got out, he asked the driver for the time.
“Ten-thirty,” he said.
“Gracias, amigo,” Trent said, climbing out and then giving the driver a $20 bill, “keep the change.”
“Muchas gracias,” the driver said and sped off into the night.
“Damn, I left mah cane in the cab,” Trent said out loud, staring at the disappearing taxi.
“Thought you did not need cane,” a voice came from behind.
Trent turned and Mateo was standing there, “I don’t, but it was good to have it. It had some good uses.”
“You won’t need it tonight, and you better be able to haul a hundred pounds.” Mateo insisted.
“Look, little man,” he locked eyes with Mateo, “let me splain how the cow eats the cabbage, don’t fuckin’ push me. I ’bout had nuff of yor shit!
“Hey-hey-hey! What’s the problem?! Santiago said, walking up.
“I wanna git cross that goddamn border, but you two fuckers, messin’ with me ain’t a good fuckin’ idea. I’ll git there with or without you two. Ya said ya needed a mule, ya got one, just don’t give me anymore shit. You’re fuckin’ with a stepped-on rattlesnake, and ya too damn dumb to know it. Now back the fuck off, or neither of ya will make it cross that border.”
“Wait, wait, Señor, we have no problem,” Santiago said, “all will be well.”
“Don’t think for a minute that yor dealin’ with a dumbass, or a man who can’t take care of hisself, ’cause I’ll take yor fuckin’ guns, stick ’em up yor ass, and blow your fuckin’ brains out!” Trent yelled.
“Gringo, calm down. We will work together,” Santiago assuaged.
“That’s another thing, I don’t like being called gringo! When you fuckers talk ta me, call me by my fuckin’ name…Willobee!
“Si, Willobee, si,” Santiago said in a patronizing tone.
“When’re we gonna leave?” Trent asked angrily.
“Very soon to pick up load,” Santiago replied.
“I’m goin’ to the bar for a drink. When you’re ready, come git me,” Trent said, heading for Benito’s.
After Trent sidled up to the bar, he ordered a Tequila, straight up. As he stood there sipping his drink, he thought about how he’d just lost control. All the shit I been goin’ through’s finally catchin’ up. Nobody tonight had better fuck with me in Mexico or the U.S. I’ve had nuff, and I wanna to git back to home and Haylee. I’ll haul their fuckin’ drugs over the border, but them drugs ain’t gonna ever git to Americans. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure that don’t happen.
While Trent was having his drink, Santiago and Mateo discussed getting rid of the Americano as soon as they made it over the border.
“The gringo is grande hombre,” Mateo said to Santiago.
“Bullets make grande hombres small,” Santiago replied.
He was nearly finished with his drink when Santiago came in. Trent looked over at him.
“Ready?” He asked, finishing his drink.
“Si,” and they walked out together.
Once outside, Trent was directed to an old van. It looked like one out of the 1970’s. He climbed in along with Mateo and Santiago who, respectively, sat in the driver’s and passenger’s seat.
“We make pickup. Take…maybe…twenty minutes,” Santiago said, looking back at Trent.
Trent fell silent during the ride. He observed, in the darkness, as much as he could as they travelled. Finally, they pulled up alongside of a large box truck on an unpaved road. The back doors of the van flew open and packs that looked like small bales of hay were stacked in. The entire transaction took less than five minutes. Then, they were off again. Trent looked at the load and thought to himself that the three of them could not scale a border fence with that many packs.
“How’n the hell are we sposed ta git all this stuff over the border?” Trent asked.
“Easy. We have help. You will carry one backpack. We all do.” Santiago replied.
“Good, that’s what I done with the Sinaloa Cartel in Tijuana.” Trent said.
“Sinaloa?”
“Yeah, I needed the money.”
“You will be paid again soon. We will be at the border fence in ten minutes. We have a special place to climb wall. Very easy. We have ladder,” Santiago assured him.
“What ’bout them border patrol people?” Trent asked.
“They don’t come down here. Too dangerous,” Mateo spoke up from the driver’s seat.
“There’s a lotta political talk ’bout buildin’ a big wall. How ya gonna handle that?” Trent asked.
“No wall will ever keep us out,” Mateo replied as he pulled up within a few yards of the border fence.
“That’s what I thought.”
As they got out of the van, los hombres seem
ed to pop up from the desert like cactus. Trent tried to count them in the darkness, but he wasn’t sure if it was eight or nine. Each man took on one of the large backpacks and headed toward the wall. Mateo and Santiago followed Trent. There was a 24’ ladder to climb with the backpack. Except for a little discomfort where he had been shot, Trent had no problem getting over the top of the 30’ fence. They were able to use parts of the steel sheets of the fence itself to lower themselves to about a 10’ drop where others were waiting for the delivery. There were four armed men with AK-47’s who were standing just outside of a school bus which was used for transport. The fence lighting poles made it easy to identify all the bad actors.
Once Trent got to the back of the school bus to unload his backpack, he seemed to be having trouble removing his load. He was struggling with it, as the impatient Mateo and Santiago pushed passed him and quickly unloaded. The moment they did, both of them turned on Trent with handguns, but Trent had guessed that was their intent, so he was ready. He had beaten them at their own game, because before they could get off a round, with a Glock in each hand, he pumped double-tapped rounds into their chests, which alerted the four armed guards who came running toward the back of the bus. Trent dropped his backpack and went down on the ground with blurring speed, and the armed men came running from each side with AK’s at the ready, but before any of them could take good aim, Trent double-tapped and the Glock muzzles flashed in the night. All center mass hits put them on the ground, as the fourth man came flying from the opposite side of the bus with his AK-47 blazing. Shots pummeled the ground in front of Trent, kicking up sand into his face. He spun over two complete turns and nailed him from the side with another two-shot double-tap. With adrenalin flowing, Trent jumped to his feet, surveying in a shooter’s stance for more bad guys. With his peripheral vision, he could see the mules scattering along the fence. They didn’t seem to be a threat. So, he hastily went into action, because border patrol agents would soon be on the scene. Trent popped the hood on the bus and ripped a fuel line loose and gas came pouring out. He took out a souvenir pack of matches he copped in Benito’s Bar. He struck one and lit the rest of the pack, then threw it into the escaping gas, which created a fireball. He ran to the back of the bus, picked up his backpack, took it forward, and threw it under the hood into the fire.
“That’s one load a death nobody’ll ever see,” he said out loud, as he put two fresh magazines in his Glocks.
After that, he lit out, running away from the border as fast as he could. After about 300 yards, his right side began to ache where he’d been operated on. He stopped, out of breath, and looked back. He could see the flashing lights of several Border Patrol vehicles speeding toward the burning bus. It was imperative that he put as much distance between himself and the border as possible and very quickly. Trent could see street lamps standing like candles in the far distance.
Dobson was plowing through mounds of reports and paperwork when Creet invaded his organized chaos. He looked up in surprise.
“What do I owe the honor of your company this morning?”
“I got somethin’ I want ya to read,” Creet said.
“Yeah, why the hell not, what’s another pound of crap gonna matter,” he said, flipping up a bunch of papers on his desk.
Creet handed him a report fresh out of the DIA message center. “Mind if I sit down?”
“No, sit, sit,” he said pointing to a chair in front of his desk.
Dobson read the report slowly and carefully, then looked up, “I know what you’re thinkin’, and you’re probably right; although, this could just be another drug deal gone bad.”
“Dobs, you don’t really believe that. From what the Border Patrol has said, and the eyewitness account of two mules they captured?”
“I tell ya, Creet, I just don’t know. When we picked this guy, we picked a winner. If this is Willobee’s handiwork, it’s really extraordinary. This drug debacle was an estimated three-million-dollar deal! Incredible!”
“Ya think we should try to pick up his trail?”
“I don’t think so. Let’s just wait for three or four days. If that was Willobee, he should be home by then.”
Trent kept walking toward the lighted stanchions. As he got closer, he could see east-west vehicular traffic moving on a highway. He didn’t know it at the time, but that was State Road 9. He climbed a hill to get a better view, and from the skyline, it looked as though there might be a little civilization not too far away. He walked closer to the highway and followed it east toward the light he’d noticed from the hill. It was just before sunrise when Trent saw a little settlement called Windmill, New Mexico. About the only thing, other than a few houses, of importance was Krofton’s General Store which had two gas pumps, but it wasn’t open yet, so Trent just parked himself on the front steps. He was very tired, feet hurt, thirsty, and hungry. According to the sign on the door, they would open for business at 8:00 A.M. He leaned back against the wall, got comfortable, and began dosing.
“Stranger, can I help you?…Hey, mister,” a voice startled him.
“Sorry ’bout that, I just dropped off,” Trent said, looking up at an old man, holding open a screen door.
“Anything in particular I can get ya?” He asked.
“Yeah, ya shor can, if ya got anything to eat or drink,” Trent said, getting to his feet.
“Come on in, and let’s see if we can’t rustle up a little food and drink.”
“This ain’t a restaurant, but we probably have somethin, you’d like,” the clerk said.
“I gotta powerful thirst and hunger. Got any cold orange juice and a sandwich of some kind?”
“Yeah…we do…but if you don’t mind… I’d like to see the color of your money.”
“No problem,” Trent said, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, ya take this for the grub I’m gonna buy,” he said, handing him the money.
“I ain’t seen one of them for a while. Hope I have enough change for ya. Sorry to have to ask you that, but we get an occasional waif or hobo who’s down on their luck, and sometimes as much as I’d like, I just can’t give this stuff away.”
“I understand, there ain’t no free lunches, ’cept for them folks on Obama food stamps and such. The rest of us gotta pay. We’ll have ta see ’bout how much change ya gonna owe me, ’cause I’m a hungry man,” Trent said with a smile.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t upset you,” the old man said.
“No, sir, that ya didn’t. Ya just keep tabs on what ya got I can eat,” Trent chortled.
“We don’t get many visitors here.”
“Guess that must be State Road nine out there. I saw a sign some ways back,” Trent commented, pointing to the road outside.
“Yes, that is mister, er-uh…, he paused.
“Willobee, mah name’s Willobee.”
“I’m Fred, Mr. Willobee, I got some ham and cheese sandwiches from yesterday. Haven’t made up any today, will they be okay?”
“Man, there ain’t nothin’ better’n ham and cheese. How many ya got?” Trent asked.
“Two, but I do have one turkey breast with lettuce and tomato?”
“I’ll take all three and a quart of OJ.” Trent replied.
“If you’d like to take a load off, we do have that one little table over there,” Fred said, pointing toward the corner of the room.
“Don’t mind if I do, mah dogs are still barkin’.”
“Go ahead, sit down, I’ll bring ya a cup of coffee.” Fred said.
Trent sat down and made some small talk with Fred as he waited for his fare. He sat there wondering about who lived in such an isolated little place. No small towns or large cities nearby. Then, his thoughts turned to himself and why he lived in Oatman, Arizona, a town of only about 135 people. He assumed Windmill had even fewer.
“Hey, Fred, how many people live here?” He asked, calli
ng out from his table.
“Forty-four…no wait forty-three… Duncan passed away last month,” he said, delivering the order.
Trent had not realized just how famished he was. Fred smiled as he watched him devour the sandwiches and chug the orange juice.
“Anybody ever come in here I could hire ta take me ta Las Cruces?” Trent asked.
“Maybe, but he’s one of our bad boys, seems like Donnie Gardner’s always in trouble, drugs and the like, but he’s on the road a lot,” Fred replied, “there’s a Greyhound comin’ through in three days. The bus stops by once a week.”
“When does this Gardner fella usually come in?”
“Nearly every day around noon, that is, when he’s in town.”
“Fred, by noon, I’ll need ta have lunch,” Trent laughed, “ya mind if I hang ’round?”
“No, not at all, I hardly ever have any company, just a few customers. Would ya like to watch a little TV?”
“Shor, why not, I’m just sittin’ here like a bullfrog on a lily pad,” Trent replied, finishing off one his sandwiches and a quick swig of his orange juice.
“I usually watch Fox and Friends on the Fox News Channel in the mornings. Ya mind if I turn that show on?”
“Sounds fine, whatever you watch, I watch,” Trent replied with a smile.
“Good, I like that show, you view it at home?” Fred asked.
“Not often, I’m usually travelin’ on ribbons of roads when that shows on, but I do like Peter Doocy and Brian Kilmeade. Them two are sharp and entertainin’. I also like the female, Ainsley Earhardt, but for differnt reasons.” Trent replied with a smile.
“I like Fox News, ’cause they don’t seem too biased.” Fred said.
“Yeah, I guess, but they mostly gotta lotta political stuff goin’ on. I don’t see them political types in too good a light. When I was in the war, I didn’t care for ’em then, and don’t now. They always ’minded me of greased pigs, hard ta catch, and most the time ya can find ’em sloppin’ at the trough.”
“Sounds like you probably haven’t paid much attention to the presidential race.”
Willobee's World Page 22
