Startled soldiers and Border Patrol agents rushed to her side and, cradling Isabel’s head in the crook of his arm, a young soldier yelled, “Sir, this girl is really pregnant!”
“Oh, for God’s...” her superior started to say, but was cut off by an unearthly scream from Isabel.
A female Border Patrol agent wrapped Isabel in a blanket from their van, and a soldier offered water from his canteen. Miguel and Jorge, handcuffed and helpless, knelt by her side and softly whispered reassurances they did not feel.
Isabel screamed again, and a Hispanic medic bent to ask her a few questions. She gripped his hand and mumbled something in Spanish. He answered, “You are in Arizona, señora.”
Isabel crossed herself, smiled and said, “In that case, I will now have this baby.”
Lalo, Flaco and Franco—also known as Edwardo Robles, Dwayne Hicks, and Frank Stevens, in their hometown of Phoenix—cruised slowly through the small town of Palominas, Arizona, fifteen miles south of Sierra Vista. Less than five miles from the border, the dusty village boasted only scattered homes and few businesses. At four in the morning there was no other traffic on the highway dividing the town. Taking a right turn off the pavement, Lalo cut his headlights, geared down the little Toyota extended cab 4x4 pickup and guided his oversized tires along a rough dirt road that soon tapered off to a goat path.
“You sure that damned balloon is down?” Flaco asked from the jump seat behind Nacho.
“Shit, man, you saw for yourself. Damned thing looked like a pregnant whale sittin’ there on the ground.”
“How you know they ain’t got two?”
“There ain’t two, stupido. Just like there weren’t no cops in ole Sorry Vista,” Lalo bragged. He’d been warned to watch it in Sierra Vista, a small town teeming with cops on the lookout for trouble. And three young men—one white, one brown and one black—cruising around in a souped-up 4x4 with Phoenix plates fairly screamed trouble.
“Got that right, dude. Mexico, here we come.”
Thin clouds scudded overhead, giving the boys both a break and an added hazard. The moon, only a few days from full, was a little too bright for a successful covert run across the desert. But while clouds darkened things up, they also obscured Lalo’s vision. They knew they would probably be picked up on someone’s radar, but they were set to run a blockade if necessary. Envisioning themselves as modern day moonshiners versus the revenuers, they were heavily armed and ready for a confrontation with a couple of federales if necessary.
“Lalo, Jesus Christ, man, slow down,” Flaco yelled, when his head hit the pickup’s head liner.
“No can do, hermano. We gotta get across, dump the goods and get on back. Quit worryin’. Once we’re in Mexico we’re home free.”
“You gonna kill us before we get there.”
“Shut up and hang on. And get ready with them guns in case some shit comes down.”
“You got it, brother,” Franco grinned. “We gonna come back fuckin’ rich, man.”
“We ain’t gonna come back at all if we fuckin’ dead, man,” Flaco reminded him.
Lalo grunted. Driving without lights at a high rate of speed across the night desert took his complete concentration. Flaco just better hold on.
The Toyota went airborne, soared off the edge of an arroyo and landed in a dry creek bed. The big tires hit, bounced, and dug in, throwing up a hail of sand and rocks. Cresting the other side of the ravine, Lalo howled a curse when he saw a line of vehicles and armed men blocking their path.
“Shit, man. Blast their asses. We’re goin’ around ‘em,” he yelled, swerving the pickup so Franco’s side of the truck faced the blinding spotlights of the blockade.
Franco swung a sawed-off shotgun out of the open window and got off one shot before both the front windshield, and his head, exploded. Lalo, screaming as glass slivers hit his eyes, let go of the steering wheel and stomped for the brake, but hit the gas pedal. The truck skidded in several directions, broadsided a Border Patrol utility vehicle and shoved it twenty feet, sending task force members flying in all directions before it ground to a stop.
Flaco was the lucky one, suffering only a few broken bones. Lalo lived, but the last thing he saw in his life were those blinding lights before the windshield exploded. Franco died. And their cargo of stolen handguns never reached the cartel’s narco punks who ordered them.
Dawn found Don Vaughn and his wife, Sheran, waiting in a line of traffic at the Douglas, Arizona, border crossing. The night before, they parked their 32’ RV in the center of a small Sonoran village, stayed the night, and got an early start for the border. Completely self-contained, their RV needed neither electrical nor water hookups, and the Vaughns found that many small Mexican villages let them stay overnight near the town plaza in hopes they'd shop in the local tiendas and eat in the cafes. They did both.
“Would you look at that line?” Don groused. He specifically picked Douglas as their reentry point into the States because, unlike Nogales, there was usually little traffic. They had to be in Denver in two days for their daughter’s wedding, and he wanted to get on down the road.
“You threw away those hot dogs, didn’t you?” Sheran asked, checking her list of forbidden food items.
“Fed ‘em to that skinny dog last night.”
“Good. I put everything we bought in Mexico near the door for Customs. Let’s see,” she checked her handwritten list, “I have a ristra of red chile peppers for Anne’s kitchen, that three foot string of garlic you say stinks, five terra cotta pots, two hand-embroidered dresses, a silver bracelet, ten tee shirts from Acapulco for the grandchildren, and a set of painted dishes from Guadalajara. Can you think of anything else?”
“Uh, no.”
Finally rolling up to the Customs booth, Don handed over their passports and sat quietly while the agent walked to the back of the RV, then returned and checked the Vaughn’s license plate number on his computer.
“Where have you been in Mexico?” the agent asked
“Went all the way to Acapulco.”
“How long were you in Mexico?”
“Two months. And it’s good to be back.”
“What are you bringing from Mexico?”
Sheran leaned forward. “Nothing that’s not allowed,” she said, waving the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s list of forbidden items in front of her.
“Welcome back to the United States,” the agent nodded, and waved them through.
Don put the RV in gear and rolled slowly forward. They were driving down the highway on the other side of Douglas when he began slapping the steering wheel and laughing. Sheran looked at him as if he’d lost his mind and waited patiently to be let in on the joke. He patted his chest and said, “I swear I’m never gonna do that again. My heart’s still pounding.”
“Do what?”
“Smuggle.”
“Smuggle? What?”
“I got two cases of rum, twenty cartons of cigarettes, and five boxes of Cuban cigars under the bed.”
Sheran’s mouth fell open and the look on her face quickly diminished Don’s glee at getting away with something. His sentence was clear: Sheran would make his life a living hell for weeks.
Late Tuesday afternoon, Felix Ortega drove his battered Ford truck through the Naco check station. He was sweating profusely, obviously nervous, and kept glancing at the magnetic plastic Jesus on his dash for moral support. The Customs agent walked around the truck, tapping on fenders and hubcaps. A canine agent, a huge German shepherd, sniffed where the man tapped. Felix watched in his rearview mirror and flinched when the dog bounded into the truckbed. Finding nothing exciting, the shepherd jumped down, snuffled the tires with a little longing, and then stared at his trainer. He was rewarded with an ear scratch and a treat. As the dog and trainer moved down the line behind him, Felix exhaled.
The Customs agent checked his papers and, satisfied with Felix’s identification, waved him through, even though she was a little puzzled by the old man. He was obviousl
y nervous, but she figured maybe he was just afraid of the authorities. Many in his generation were, and with good reason. It wasn’t all that unusual to be hassled at the border just because they were Hispanic.
Felix almost sobbed with relief when the agent waved him through. Driving slowly forward, he rolled up his window and crossed himself.
At a newly erected secondary check point, one manned by dog handlers, two American agents saw Felix cross himself. They exchanged a look of disbelief and grinned. When they stepped out and directed the truck to a narrow, barricaded area, Felix’s heart sank. He sat quietly, tears running down his cheeks, as Customs agents found the sixty bottles of Freon nestled inside the walls of the pickup bed.
Following the agents’ request, Felix shakily left his truck, silently cursing his big shot, good-for-nothing, brother-in-law for getting him into this mess. On the other hand, he thought, the big-shot-good-for-nothing will have to get Freon for his auto repair shop somewhere else. And if the big shot won’t pay my fine, I’ll tell my wife, Victoria, what he made me do and maybe she will kill him dead. Even if he is her favorite brother. Felix was feeling better by the minute.
Hunkered down along the Agua Prieta side of a high metal wall, two hundred and thirty-three bedraggled, hungry, frightened souls waited for their coyote to give them the go-ahead. Many knew they wouldn’t make it for more than a few miles, but some would. It was worth a try. If they did succeed in evading the first wave of arrests, they were to meet trucks or vans waiting at certain sign posts along Highway 80, north of Douglas.
A whisper swept through the crowd and suddenly everyone was running. The first wave hit the tall iron fence and removed a piece of it, opening a large hole. Within minutes, illegals were swarming through the streets of Douglas, running over rooftops, between houses, and down the main street. There was no way the available agents, even after they heard of the swarm, would catch them all.
Chapter 31
People need revelation, and then they need resolution—Damian Lewis
“Let’s see, Jerry, if I have this straight. We spent several million dollars of the taxpayer’s money, and the joined forces of the DEA, U.S. Customs, the Border Patrol, the INS, FBI, HLCG, PGR, INCE, and CENDRO made a spectacular bust of three stolen cars, sixty bottles of Freon, seven cases of rum, a hundred illegals, half a pound of marijuana, and two ounces of cocaine? Oh, and twenty handguns, which has prompted some civil rights lawyer in Phoenix to raise hell because the punks carrying them were subdued with excessive force.”
Jerry grimaced at the phone, then told his boss back in Washington, “Yeah, those Mexicans are a mean bunch, using excessive force like that.”
“Nice try. And for your information, that’s our official line and we’re sticking to it. Anything I missed, heaven forbid?”
“Jackasses.”
“What jackasses? I mean, other than us?”
“Donkeys, sir. A couple of drunken American citizens stole them from a Mexican ranch and rode them across the border.”
“Oh, hell. Do you have anything even slightly positive to tell me?” his superior said with a groan.
“Both Isabel and the baby, Maria America, are doing well.”
“I had to ask. Go ahead.”
“The Border Patrol agents said that if they hadn’t found that poor woman sneaking across the border, the baby might not have lived. It had a breathing problem and if the ambulance didn't arrive when it did, the baby would be dead.”
“The illegal alien baby.”
“Not anymore, sir. Now she's an anchor baby, born on American soil. She’s just as legal as you or me. And those illegals we busted and deported? Ten of them were returned this morning by Mexico. Turns out they’re from Honduras, China, and Nigeria.”
The man on the other end of the line sighed. “Seems like the Chinese and Nigerians might be a little obvious to our guys, huh? Oh, well, like they say, shit happens. And speaking of, Jerry, what in hell went so wrong with Black November?”
“Sir, I made a judgment call. All indications were that we had a good solid tip. Morales and I both thought so, but I made the call for our side.”
“Noble, Jerry, but I imagine Morales is up to his ass in alligators as well.”
“Jaime and I are willing to take the heat, sir.”
“You haven’t seen any heat yet. I can’t wait to see “60 Minutes” this Sunday. We’re gonna look like the friggin’ Keystone Cops. The narco-slime aughta get a great big chuckle at our expense. It’s a good thing you and I are so near retirement, Jerry. Maybe we can claim age discrimination if they try to fire our asses.”
“Sorry, sir. I’ll be in Washington in a few hours.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I’ll face the music up here. You go on back to San Carlos with Morales, do a joint postmortem on Black November, and finalize what you can on the murders of the Americans on that boat, Hot Idea. Turns out the Goodall woman’s nephew is a friggin’ congressman from Texas. We just can't catch a break these days.”
Jerry put down the phone and walked wearily to where Nicole and Jaime were attempting to cut through a haze of fatigue to discuss data collected during the now-defunct Operation Black November. A pall of failure hung heavily over the emptying task force room.
“This place looks like the losers’ locker room after the Super Bowl. And, as it is said, ‘no rest for the whatever.’ Nicole, it looks like we’re going back to San Carlos. Jaime, do we have a ride?”
Jaime nodded, “Juanito is waiting with my car at the Naco border.”
“Oh, great,” Nicole said. “We won’t live long enough to be fired.”
“Ah, Nikki, you are such a fatalist. But for my part, I am delighted you are joining me. I assume to further investigate the Goodall murders?”
“That, and put together a report on Operation Black November,” Jerry answered. “I can use it for my career obituary.”
“Then it is appropriate we should all take what might be my last ride in the Mercedes. The car goes with the job,” Jaime said, looking pained at the thought of losing his car.
“Gee, you two are just what I need to lift my already battered spirits. Let’s go,” Nicole growled.
An army driver took the dejected trio to the Naco border, where Juanito waited on the Mexican side. They walked across the border, their gloomy expressions telegraphing everything Juan needed to know about the outcome of Operation Black November. It was obvious, however, from the way the guards snapped to attention and tripped all over themselves to open doors for Jaime, that his fall from grace was as yet a well-kept secret south of the border.
Jaime smartly returned the Mexicans’ salutes, and they remained at attention until Juan sped off and left them in a cloud of dust. Jaime let out a sigh. “I shall miss all of this attention when I am, how do you say it? Ridden out on a track?”
“Rail. What will really happen, Jaime?” Nicole asked.
“Oh, an investigation of our investigation. I fear I will be the focus of a, how do you say it?...bruja hunt.”
“Witch-hunt.”
“Zactly. Many will think I am now a rich man.”
Nicole looked away and Jaime caught it. “You have had such thoughts, Nikki, haven’t you? I cannot blame you.”
“Sorry, Jaime. It’s just that—”
Jerry interrupted. “It’s just that we got a bum lead, that’s all. I only hope we get another chance to prove the system of high level cooperation can work. Well, maybe not us, Jaime, but Nikki.”
“Jerry, what makes you so sure that if you go, I don’t go?” Nicole asked. “After all, I was as much a part of Black November as you two.”
“You are way too valuable. Besides, the operation was my responsibility, not yours.”
“Our responsibility, Jerry,” Jaime told him.
“Gosh, you two are a barrel of laughs.”
The glum threesome watched the countryside slide by, Nicole and Jerry holding their collective breaths on those occasions when Juan passed
on a solid stripe. When they narrowly missed a head-on with a dump truck, Nicole let out a little squeak.
“Do not worry, Nikki, Juanito rarely hits anything. That solid stripe does not mean the same in Mexico as it does in the States. Well, officially it does, of course, but passing here is an arbitrary decision on the part of the driver.”
“Like stop signs?” Nicole asked as their car sailed through one.
“Zactly. Why come to a complete halt when there is no one coming?”
Nikki had to grin. “Some logic there, I suppose. Where are we?”
“Entering Cananea, an old copper mining town. You will see the mine as we pass through. After that, I suggest you close your eyes for about an hour. We must pass over the mountains, and it will be necessary for Juanito to pass slow trucks on curves.”
“Great. Just marvelous. Wake me up in time to kiss my butt good-bye.”
The scenery was spectacular along the sinuous mountain road. When Nicole found the courage to look, that is. By the time Juan skidded through an intersection and careened sharply left onto the main highway an hour later, Nicole’s knuckles had long since lost all color, and her jaws ached.
“You may let go of Jerry’s arm now, Nikki. He looks to be in pain.”
Jerry grinned gratefully at Jaime as Nicole released her death grip.
“How far to San Carlos?” Nicole asked, longing for a good meal and a soft bed.
“Still a couple of hours. But the highway is a toll road with four lanes divided.”
“Oh, thank you, God,” Nicole said, her numb hands in prayer position. Her relief was short-lived. Juan floored the Mercedes and cannonballed down the road, deviating sharply to miss chunks of retread tires scattered along the pavement. And the occasional farm animal.
“Jaime,” Jerry said, “how come there’s so many pieces of tire all over the road? Too many Ford Explorers?”
“No, we cannot afford them. Or new tires. Have you noticed all of the llanteras on the sides of the road?”
Troubled Sea Page 19
