by Don Travis
The phone went dead.
I filled Bert in on the part of the conversation he’d been unable to hear as we walked over the oriental bridge across the man-made creek. We were met by a reception party larger than I expected. Luis and Maria stood to one side of Millicent. Linus and two other drovers, all bearing rifles, flanked her on the other. Linus set the other cowboys on watch as the rest of us trooped inside.
“We need the Border Patrol. Will you get them on the line, Millicent?”
As soon as she reached them, I took the phone and asked for SOS Randy Ramirez, the officer in charge who’d responded when Paul and I were penned down in the City. Ramirez came on the line and listened quietly while I related every detail of what I had seen and what Paco had told me. I had my recorder going and assumed his was as well. Military style, he repeated a condensed version back to me, and I confirmed his understanding.
“And Paco’s going to try to get back to the Lazy M this evening?” he asked.
“He’s going to try, but there will be people on his back if he runs into trouble.”
“If he makes it to this side, we can help, but if he doesn’t….” He left the rest unsaid.
“How about friendlies over the border? Is there anyone you can alert over there?”
“Hard to know who to trust in a situation like this. We might just be calling more trouble down on his head. I know one National Police commander, but he’d have to call on others I don’t know.”
“It’s worth the risk. We can use some help down here,” I said.
“We’re on our way.”
I hung up and caught Bert’s look. “So he admitted shooting me, huh?”
“Admitted shooting at you. Said he had to make it look good.”
“You believe him?”
“Yes.” No point in sharing my doubts at this moment.
Bert rubbed his eyes with a callused hand. “Me too.”
“¡Gracias a Dios!” Maria exclaimed.
“So what do we do, just sit here?” Millicent asked. Then she turned into Mud before my eyes. “We need to get out to the City. Paco might need help when he comes back. Is he going to use that tunnel?”
“Yes. Look, the light’s going fast, and we’re not going to do him any good stumbling around in the dark. Let’s wait. He’ll let us know what’s going on as soon as he can.”
“Fine,” Mud said. “In the meantime, let’s eat. Maria, rustle us up something, please. And Luis, go put the ducks to bed. Keep busy. Besides, we might all need a belly full of energy before this night’s over. Bert, better put Bruno and Hilda in the kennel. They’ll go nuts with the crowd we’re going to have. Might as well put Poopsie in my bedroom too.”
The household came alive with a burst of activity for a short while before settling into a period of anxious waiting. I don’t know how Maria managed it on such short notice, but the scent of warm food soon flooded the entire house. After everyone ate, including the hired hands who came to the table in shifts, O’Brien showed up. Hard on his heels, Randy Ramirez and his senior patrol agent, Chill Williams, arrived in a helicopter with two other men. Maria and Luis fed the new arrivals while O’Brien and the two senior BP agents joined Mud, Bert, and me in the office. By the time I finished laying everything out for them, it had been an hour and a half since I last spoke to Paco. I glanced out the french doors. Night had fallen when I wasn’t looking.
“I couldn’t reach the NP commander I mentioned, BJ, and I don’t trust anybody else. I’ve left a message for him to call me. What do you expect to happen?” Ramirez asked.
“I’m hopeful Paco makes it back across the border without incident. But he might have company. If he roars up out of that tunnel with others on his tail, I expect an invasion. Acosta may come across and solve his problem the way he’s taken care of others.”
“You mean by killing Mrs. Muldren and Bert. Well, my men and I ought to get out to the City. We need to be in place if and when D-day arrives. You’ll show us the tunnel?”
“If you know where to look, a blind man could find it. They haven’t finished constructing the camouflaged door yet.”
Ramirez looked pensive. “How much of that tunnel do you figure’s stateside?”
“Bert, how far is the border from the City?”
“Couple of miles.”
“Okay,” Ramirez said. “That means at least that much is our sovereign territory. You have any dynamite on the ranch?”
“Yeah. Got some in a shed out back of the horse barns. We use it to clear stumps, break rocks, clear out arroyos,” Bert explained for my benefit.
“Way back of the horse barns,” Mud said. “You gonna blast that damned mole hole?”
“That might be the best way to go, ma’am.”
“Not until Paco gets through,” she said. “He risked his life to let us know about the tunnel, and we owe him every opportunity to let him use it for his escape.”
“That’ll be cutting it awful close,” Ramirez said. “Bert, show Chill where the dynamite’s stored. Chill, borrow one of the ranch vehicles and take two men to that rock pile out there. Locate the tunnel entrance and begin wiring the explosives. Don’t go in over a mile. I want to make certain any explosion takes place on US soil. Understand? I’ll follow in the chopper as soon as we know what’s going on.”
“I’ll go with them,” O’Brien said. “I’ve got some demo experience.”
“Good. Come on, Bert.” Williams stood and went to the french doors.
I tossed Bert the keys to the pickup, and the three men left in a rush. The rest of us watched through the windows as Bert drove around behind the barn. A few minutes later, the vehicle reappeared. Bert turned the truck over to O’Brien, Williams, and two other agents. They immediately headed for the City.
After Bert rejoined us in the office, we had a spirited discussion over whether we were handling this right. Our voices died in our throats when my cell phone rang. Everyone watched as I opened the flip phone and put the call on the speakerphone.
“BJ, I got a problem. Don Hector is back. I’m not sure I can get away tonight.” Paco’s voice sounded calm—a little strained, but calm.
“Do you have his pistol?”
“Yeah. I put it in a bag, but I picked it up by the barrel. So his prints are still on it.”
“Then you have no choice. You have to get away. If he discovers it’s missing, he’ll tear the place apart looking for it.”
“Yes, and he’s on the prod. The cartels must have ripped him a new one. He’s like a volcano ready to blow.”
“Get out of there, Paco. Deputy O’Brien and four BP agents are here. They plan on salting the tunnel with dynamite.” I glanced at Ramirez. “They’ll let you through before they blast the tunnel. What are you driving?”
“I’ll be in my pickup, a dark blue Ford F-150.”
“Stay in contact. Let me know when you leave.”
I heard a noise on the other end of the phone. “He’s here. I think he’s found his gun is gone. I’m gonna try to get out now. Talk to you later.”
The line went dead. I resisted the impulse to hit the Redial button. Paco didn’t need a ringing telephone to give him away.
“How far away is he?” Ramirez asked.
“The Rayo headquarters is between fifteen and twenty miles from the City,” Bert said.
“I’ve traveled those roads over there,” the BP agent said. “They’ll do good to hit thirty miles an hour. That gives us less than half an hour. I’ve got to get going.”
“I’d like to hitch a ride.”
“Sorry, no civilians on an operation like this.”
“I’ll take you, BJ.” Bert jumped to his feet. “What’s your radio frequency, Ramirez? We need to be able to communicate.”
I halfway expected the agent to object, but he recited the frequency and said he intended to remain in the air, where he would have a good view of what happened on the approach to the border. Then he rushed toward his helo.
“That sounds like a good pl
an for us too,” I said. “Bert, are your tanks topped up?”
“Always.”
“BJ, take my rifle.” Mud started for the gun cabinet in the corner of the room.
As we lifted off into a clear, moonlit night, I saw the running lights of the BP helicopter in the distance. Bert fiddled with his radio dial to put us on their frequency.
“Bert, can we go dark?”
“Yeah. There’s more of a danger the other bird will run over us, but I ought to be able to stay out of his way.”
Another quarter hour elapsed before we saw anything. Then we spotted a weird, bouncing glow in the distance.
“That’s gotta be Paco. Man, he’s really putting the hammer down. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t roll on that rough road.”
I pointed to another set of bobbing lights behind him. “And there’s why he’s hitting the accelerator so hard.”
“Yep, they’re on his tail. Uh-oh, here comes another one.”
A second set of headlamps appeared about half a mile behind the first. Paco led the front vehicle by about a quarter of a mile. As we watched, little dots of red winked on either side of the truck closest to Paco’s vehicle.
“Oh hell, they’re shooting at him,” Bert said.
I grabbed the mike, and forgetting all radio etiquette, I blurted Ramirez’s name.
“I see them.”
“Can you give him a hand?”
“Sorry. That’s Mexican airspace. My hands are tied.”
“How far do you figure he is from the Mexican side of the tunnel?” I asked Bert.
“That’s five miles from the border, at least. That puts him about two and a half miles from the tunnel entrance.”
“That other truck seems to be gaining on him.”
The lights on Paco’s vehicle suddenly reached skyward. Then they went wobbly for a second before resuming their undulating motion.
“Whoa! He hit a hell of a bump. Almost went over,” Bert said.
“Yeah. He lost some ground to the one on his tail. And the other driver’s now warned about the bump in the road.”
I hit the button on the mike again. “Ramirez, isn’t there something you can do?”
“Pray, man, pray.” Then I heard him raise Williams. “Chill, you ready on your end?”
“The demo guys are still in the tunnel, but I hear them coming out.”
“Let me know as soon as you’re certain.”
“Wilco.”
“Well, shit! There’s something I can do,” Bert yelled. “Hold on.”
The Bell suddenly leapt forward, drawing an involuntary gasp from me. At the maximum speed of 105 miles per hour, we headed straight for the border. The lights of the racing trucks drew closer, larger. Paco had lost ground but still led by a couple of hundred yards.
Bert shoved the stick forward and sent us plunging toward the earth at a breathtaking rate. Even in the dark, I could clearly see the shape of the vehicles racing along a rough, dusty road. The first of the pursuers was now close enough to be enveloped in Paco’s thick dust trail.
I yelped as Paco raced right beneath our skids. Then Bert suddenly flipped on his landing lights. I clearly saw the panicked expression on the driver’s face as he twisted the steering wheel frantically. His passenger groped for the door handle. The gunman in the bed simply stared up, mouth agape.
At the last moment, Bert hauled back on the stick, and the agile little bird went into her steepest climb.
“Incoming!” I screamed as I saw those telltale red pinpricks coming from the second truck. This time they seemed directed at us.
“Don’t worry. They can’t hit a thing bouncing along like that. They’re wasting their ammo.”
A metallic clang put the lie to that statement.
“Think it just hit the strut work behind the cabin.” Bert killed the lights and did a corkscrew turn that put us behind the vehicles. “She’s acting okay, so I guess they didn’t hit anything vital.”
Apparently the men in the truck lost us in the darkness. Either that, or they were as stupefied as we were at what we saw when we came around. The first chase truck slid on its side, turned over on its back, and came to an abrupt halt. It must have struck an embankment. The other pickup managed to avoid the wreckage and keep on Paco’s tail, but it had lost ground.
“Nice,” Ramirez’s voice came over the radio. “Too bad I didn’t see that.”
Bert and I grinned at each other.
“Chill, the first vehicle’s our guy. He’s only got about a half-mile lead on the thugs chasing him, so you can’t wait until he reaches the entrance. I figure he’s going about forty mph. Blow it as soon as you figure he’s clear of the charges.”
“Wilco.”
Suddenly Paco’s lights disappeared.
“Ramirez! Paco’s in the tunnel.”
All too soon the lights of the other vehicle dimmed and disappeared.
“The other truck just entered,” I yelled.
I expected Ramirez to relay the information, but the radio remained silent. Then I realized we were all on the same frequency. William’s voice started the countdown; I prayed he was good at math.
“Uh-oh,” Bert muttered.
Flying around in the darkness after a shootout, “Uh-oh” was just about the last thing I wanted to hear.
“What is it?”
“She feels a little mushy.”
“Oh crap! Get us back over the border. I’d like a decent burial.”
We made it to the fence line. In fact, we made it back to the City in time to see the tarp spanning the walls over the tunnel entrance rip apart and billow into the air. Dust and bits of rock exploded from the entrance, expelling a pair of bright headlamps. Then the lights abruptly died.
“The explosion shoved Paco out of the tunnel too fast. He rammed into the other side of the wall,” I said.
“We got our own problems.” Bert flipped on the landing lights and grabbed the mike.
“We’re going down, Ramirez. Keep your bird out of our way.”
“Hard?”
“No, think I can bring her in okay. I’ll steer clear of your people.”
No one said anything for the next couple of minutes. Bert had his hands full trying to control a crippled bird. I got busy praying. “Hit our oil line,” he said, more to himself than to me.
The earth rushed up to meet us. Twenty feet above the ground, he hauled back on the stick. The machine tried to obey, but the working parts were dry and freezing up rapidly. He almost made it to the ground, but the rotors suddenly quit before touchdown. We landed hard. The impact drew grunts from both of us.
“Get out, fast!” Bert yelled.
I didn’t ask why. I just bailed. Fifty yards from the chopper, he turned around.
“What was that all about?” I asked. “You got her down okay.”
“Fire. You always have to worry about fire in an emergency landing. But we were lucky. She might even live to fly another day.”
“Let’s go see what happened over there.”
We set off in the darkness and found our way to the avenue at the rear of the City. We arrived in time to see three BP agents, working by the light of powerful portable lanterns, pull the limp form of Paco Rael out of the twisted cab of his Ford.
Epilogue
ACCORDING TO television and news reports, northern Mexico mourned the death of Hector Acosta, who—it was claimed—died in a tragic vehicular accident on his ranch. I wondered who or what had been in the casket displayed so prominently at his fancy funeral, since Acosta was more likely already entombed beneath the City of Rocks.
Three weeks after the BP agents blew the tunnel, Paul and I returned to the Lazy M for a postmortem and a hefty check for our services. Paul claimed he wanted to see what a royal princess of Duckdom looked like. Paco snatched Quacky Quack the Second at the last minute before racing for the tunnel, and she’d survived the truck crash better than he had. Also, we were both curious to see if the City had suffered any damage
from the massive dynamite blast—even though Millicent had assured us it came through unscathed except for one toppled rock tower.
We gathered in the imposing great room at the Lazy M headquarters. Millicent looked impressive in her stonewashed denim skirt and vest, heavy with strands of turquoise and heishi. Bert was a dusty cowboy in from the range, while Maria and Luis seemed never to have left.
Paco, his crutches leaning against a nearby wall, was still recovering from his crash injuries. He looked slightly heroic in a chair at the far end of the long Navajo rug. Most of his bandages were gone, but a cast on his broken left leg and a big patch on his forehead gave him a vulnerable, yet rakish look.
He was under threat of indictment on drug-trafficking charges, but Millicent had gone to bat for him and he hadn’t been arrested yet. The shoulder wound was the principal evidence against him, but the authorities didn’t have the bullet that caused it. Neither Paul nor I could positively identify him, so he was probably home free.
We made a convivial group, and the meeting had a celebratory air. Everyone else had already heard details of Paco’s flight, but this was Paul’s and my first opportunity to hear the tale from his own lips. He took a deprecating tone, making it sound little more than an ordinary day. He’d turned over Acosta’s pearl-handled pistol to the authorities and indicated where its victims had been buried. He’d also applied for asylum in the United States, and given the special circumstances, it would probably be granted.
After he’d answered all our questions, I sat back and watched Bert pull on a beer and engage in conversation with him. It appeared their friendship had survived—not intact, but clinging to life and likely to recover.
I had a different take on things. Maybe Paco started out as a decent human being, but just as power and money had changed Acosta, the drug culture had affected him as well. He’d shot Bert, and he could argue all he wanted that he’d had to make it look good. But to my way of thinking, he could have missed by a mile, and some guy standing a couple of miles away would never have known how bad his aim had been. But that was for Bert and Millicent to decide for themselves.
But I couldn’t forget he’d made a determined effort to kill me during the shootout at the City. Worse, he’d tried to kill Paul, the one brilliant shaft of sunlight penetrating the clouds of my life. I harbored no doubt he’d have executed both of us without thinking twice about it if the BP hadn’t shown up when they did. To my mind, he was nothing more than a handsome, charming killer who one day would be turned loose on the Boot Heel country.
