The footprints Mirasol and I left earlier are gone. The shelf is too hard and windswept to preserve tracks.
I turn a slow hundred and eighty degrees. Behind me are boulders and jagged rocks. Drab shrubs, stunted by the heat, thrust between them in a futile effort to shoulder them aside.
The rock shelf extends around the hilltop. First narrowing, then widening, it struggles for space with the rocks and vegetation.
Shrubs that extend over the shelf look like they have been pressed back. Men have passed that way. I hold the Mauser at my hip and slowly edge around the narrow path.
I come upon a horseshoe clearing on the reverse side of the hilltop. Fifteen feet square and sheltered from the wind. The shallow dust has preserved faint boot prints. I photograph them. It is hard to tell how many men stood there. At least three. Maybe as many as five.
Close to the rock wall is a faint dark patch. Blood. It dripped on the rock, and someone blotted it up. Removed most of it, but enough remained to stain the surface. Dust has begun to obscure it. With the passage of time, it will become barely noticeable. I photograph the discoloration. Decide against trying to sample it.
Tiny running shoe tracks cross the shelf, disturbing some of the boot prints.
Mirasol.
Her tracks lead to a corner of the clearing, and a big creosote bush. Behind it, I find her spoor, desiccated and crumbling. A second mistake Keller would not have made. We have gone for days with spoor wrapped in plastic, buried in our rucks.
Tracking and being tracked. To stay alive, one must not leave a trace.
I turn back to the clearing. Squint. The victim had his back to the wall. The killer stood between him and the edge, leveled his pistol and fired. I estimate the height of Keller’s chest and examine the rocks. One of the boulders has been chipped. A deep scar an inch and a half long. Shaped like a comet with a tail.
Following the tail, I see faint chip marks on boulders further along the rock wall.
Bullet splash. The nine millimeter round penetrated the victim’s body, hit the rock, and broke up. Fragments splattered and chipped the wall. A forensic team might find pieces, but I doubt much remains.
More photos.
I walk to the edge, turn, and face the wall. Imagine myself staring at a victim. Point a pistol, pull the trigger. The slide snaps back, extracts the spent shell casing, chambers another round. The spent brass flies to my right, rattles on the stone, and rolls—to Mirasol’s bush.
I walk to the bush and squat. With the rifle barrel, wrapped in my shirt, I push aside the narrow branches of shrub.
There, on the bare rock, sunlight glints off a shiny object.
An empty nine millimeter shell casing.
16
Salem, 2000 Hrs Tuesday
To the west, the sky glows blood-red. The border wall is a thin black line rising from the ranch and farmland. I drive at a sedate pace. Salem is fifteen minutes away, and I must decide what to do. Should I tell Garrick and Stein what I know. Do I have enough.
The nine millimeter casing lies in my shirt pocket. I picked it up with a ballpoint pen, careful not to smudge any prints. I have enough evidence to prove Keller was shot on the hilltop.
I can’t prove a motive. All I have is Mirasol’s story about Paul Bledsoe’s sexual preferences and a smuggling operation.
More to the point—I don’t want Garrick and Stein to arrest them.
The killers don’t deserve to live.
Last night, I spent half an hour speaking to Lenson and Hancock. It was all I could do to convince them to wait in El Paso.
Leave it with me. When I’m sure, I’ll call.
Sure of what.
The identities of the killers. There were at least four, though I feel certain only one man wielded the knife. It takes a particular savagery to behead a victim. At a minimum, the killer has divorced himself from human emotion. At worst, he seeks personal gratification. Jihadists did it to express their ideology. Their will to power. Cartels mutilate victims, but not for ideological reasons.
It’s dark. The truck’s headlights pick up the white Salem sign, and I pull into the turnoff. The lights of the Dusty Burger look warm and inviting. I drive past, go straight to the hotel.
At the very end of the lot, Mirasol’s Camaro sits dark and brooding. It is as though she is deliberately separating herself from others.
I take my phone and search for Mirasol’s number. Punch the call button.
Mirasol’s voice is cautious. “Yes, Breed.”
“Where are you?”
“In my room at the hotel.”
“I’m going back to the hilltop tonight. Do you want to come?”
“Of course.”
“Meet me in the parking lot at eleven o’clock.”
I end the call, pocket the phone. Get out of the truck, go into the hotel. The same young woman stands behind the front desk and smiles. “Hi, Mr Breed.”
Blond hair, blue eyes. Fetching. With an open look, she invites me to take the time and trouble.
“Hi.” The girl’s no more than twenty-five. Probably closer to twenty-three. I return her smile, keep my options open. “I’m going into the lounge. Can I get a beer?”
“You sure can. I won’t be but a minute.”
The lounge is dimly lit. At a table by the window, a slender figure sits, staring at the street. Stein’s leather-bound notebook lies open next to a glass of wine. I lower myself into the chair opposite her.
“Care to join me?” Stein asks.
I smile.
“Where have you been all day, Breed?”
I shrug. “Drove over the Lazy K. Checked out the border wall. Looks secure. No breaches, no signs of penetration.”
“The Border Patrol checked it thoroughly.”
“I like to do my own homework.”
“So do I.” Stein picks up her Montblanc. Glances at her notebook. “I had your records pulled.”
“Why so curious?”
The girl brings my beer. Flashes Stein a look of annoyance.
Stein watches the girl leave. “Didn’t take you for a cradle robber, Breed.”
“I never take anything doesn’t want to be taken.”
“You and your friends are quite the crew, Breed. Elite sniper unit, the first into Afghanistan. Served together fifteen years. Until Hancock was shot and Keller retired. Lenson got blown up. Both Hancock and Lenson were medically retired. They get the benefits of twenty and a day, without serving the full term.”
“That’s standard for medical discharges,” I tell her. “They deserve every penny.”
“They do,” Stein agrees. “You re-enlisted, then retired before your contract was up. You get half pay and half a percent for every additional year you served. Four thousand dollars a month won’t win many small wars.”
“I’m a simple man, Stein.”
“It’s the reason you left that interests me.”
My throat is dry. I reach for my beer. “Why is that?”
“You shot Afghan women. The army almost court-martialed you.”
“The women flayed American POWs. Dragged them through the streets.”
“So you shot them.”
I force myself to hold Stein’s eyes. “You’ve got the file.”
“You claimed the POWs were still alive.”
“My spotter confirmed it.” I cross my legs. “I would have welcomed a court-martial.”
“The army preferred you resign.”
“Whatever.” I am tiring of the exchange. “They discharged me honorably. I was happy to go.”
“Hancock was referred for counseling last year.” Stein changes tack. “His colleagues at William Beaumont considered him a suicide risk.”
I didn’t know that.
“He didn’t show up for work one day. A friend went by his place to see if he was okay, found him sitting with a loaded Glock 21 on his desk.”
“Constant pain does things to you.”
“The prognosis for his nerve damag
e is not good.” Stein turns a page of her notebook. “Lenson runs a sporting goods store. It’s close to bankrupt.”
“Do you have a point to make?”
“Four veterans, good friends. All in difficulty.”
My fist clenches. “Keller wasn’t in difficulty.”
“We checked his finances. The ranch was cash poor.” Stein draws a line under a figure in her notebook. “He had a five million dollar life insurance policy, with his wife as beneficiary. It will clear the mortgage on the Lazy K. Provide working capital.”
The amount staggers me. “Five million.”
“Keller was by no means wealthy. I told you his ranch is small by Trans-Pecos standards. Further east, a ranch the size of the Lazy K would be worth twenty-five million.”
“You think we’re involved.”
“I have to consider all the possibilities,” Stein admits. “My central scenario is that Keller was involved in trafficking drugs or illegals. He was killed in a falling-out with the cartels. You and your friends are very close to him, so I can’t exclude the possibility you are involved.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, Breed, it’s not.” Stein leans forward. “Give me a reason not to suspect you.”
“Fifteen years and more serving our country.”
“Not good enough.”
I think of the hilltop, the nine millimeter casing in my pocket. “I can’t help you.”
“You will.”
The sixth sense that kept me alive in combat kicks in. Mirasol, drawn to Bledsoe. Keller’s murder. Stein coming to town. Lenson, Hancock and myself. All of us at the Salem Inn, all in the space of a week. There are no coincidences.
“What about you, Miss DOJ? You aren’t FBI. You aren’t a marshal. Lawyers don’t carry SIG Legions. You’re a spook.”
“What if I am?”
“You arrived Johnny-on-the-spot. That means you’re here for something bigger than Keller. When you level with me, I’ll level with you.”
Stein shakes her head, sips her wine.
17
Bledsoe, 2300 Hrs Tuesday
The moon is waning. High enough in the sky to provide some light for our trek. I’ve followed this path twice, and that’s enough for me to lead the way. I climb with Keller’s binoculars about my neck, his Winchester low-ready. I move slow and smooth. Two yards behind me, Mirasol follows in my footsteps.
We reach the hilltop. Below us, the Bledsoe plant sprawls across the landscape. The buildings are dark aside from a handful of lights along the perimeter fence.
I motion for Mirasol to wait at the lookout. Obediently, she sets down her pack and lowers herself to a prone position. Watches as I continue along the path to the other side of the hill. Check to ensure we are alone.
When I return, she stares at me. “You’ve been back,” she whispers.
“Yes.” I drop my ruck next to hers and lower myself. In a quiet voice, I tell her what I found.
“I was there yesterday and the day before,” Mirasol says. “I saw nothing.”
“You didn’t know what to look for.”
“You make me feel stupid, Breed. I don’t like it.”
I take Keller’s binoculars and glass the plant. There isn’t much to see. Without night vision, I strain to see details. There, in the wide yard next to the factory building, is the long bulk of an eighteen-wheeler. There is no activity. The plant is quiet.
“There’s more.” I lower the binoculars and look at Mirasol. She looks childlike in the dark. “You’re the reason Keller was here.”
“What?”
“Think about it. How many times did you see his truck?”
“Once.”
“Yes. The morning of the day he saw something—after midnight.”
Mirasol’s brow furrows. “Oh my God.”
“Keller didn’t climb up here by accident. Why would he wait all day and night? Because he saw your car parked below all day and night. On several occasions. He saw it in the morning and drove off. Came back in the afternoon, and it was still there. Drove by late one night—there again. He watched you come and go at least once. Then he decided to find out what was so interesting about Bledsoe.”
“You’re guessing.”
“Informed guesses. He deliberately left his truck where you would see it. He assessed your threat level. If you came up while he was there, he would speak with you. If not, he would stake out Bledsoe himself.”
“Yes, and he saw a shipment of girls.”
I glass the plant again. Cattle rustle in the pens closest the stream. I imagine the concentrated smell of animal hide and dung drifting on the breeze. A night watchman paces the length of the east fence. I speak to Mirasol while looking through the binoculars. “That much is certain. But it doesn’t explain what happened the next day.”
“What do you mean?”
“He came back.” I make the statement as a matter of fact. “He saw the same thing, and they killed him.”
“Why?”
“That isn’t the question,” I tell her. “The question is... how did they know he was up here. At this point in our narrative, the only person who knew he could have been up here was you.”
I lower the binoculars and look Mirasol in the eye.
“You think I told them he was here?” Mirasol looks ready to explode.
“That would be a logical absurdity. But someone else found out he was here. Someone who didn’t know about you.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Whoever killed Keller thought he was the only person who knew about this lookout. Otherwise, they would have posted a guard here the day after. There would be a guard up here now.”
“I have told no one about this place, Breed.”
“I believe you.”
We fall into a moody silence. Mirasol asked Latino townspeople about Paul Bledsoe’s attraction to pubescent Mexican girls. Word might make its way back to Bledsoe, but those inquiries are not directly related to the lookout.
Hours pass. Mirasol and I take turns glassing the plant.
“Breed.”
Like a switch has been flipped, floodlights blaze to life. They are mounted on the roof of the main factory building and on four towers the length of the cattle pens. Together, the floods bathe the yard in a cold, silver glare.
Two men march from the factory to the eighteen-wheeler. One gets in the tractor’s cab and starts the engine. The other checks the power cables connected to the trailer. More men emerge from the factory, open the back doors of the trailer, and lower a lifting platform.
“Now the meat,” Mirasol whispers.
Men in long white coats and helmets emerge from the factory. They drive forklifts piled high with pallets of meat product.
I check my watch. It is almost three in the morning.
Stacks of pallets disappear into the cavernous maw of the refrigerator truck. No need for night vision devices here. Every detail of the process is lit with the brilliance of daylight. In the floodlights, stones in the yard sparkle like diamonds. I imagine Keller lying in this spot, a week ago. These binoculars held to his eyes. My stomach flutters with the excitement of the hunt.
When they have finished loading the trailer, the men drive the forklifts back into the factory.
Two men wearing jeans and Stetsons emerge. One is mid-sixties and distinguished. He wears an air of privilege.
“That’s Paul Bledsoe,” Mirasol whispers.
The other man is big and rawboned, with long blond hair. A caricature of a cowboy, he stands next to Bledsoe with his arms folded.
I turn the binoculars on the loading bay doors. Another cowboy leads a dozen Mexican girls to the truck. They are dressed in street clothes and carry pitiful bundles of belongings. Mostly nylon backpacks. A few small suitcases. The oldest looks sixteen. Most look much younger. They wear sweaters and jackets, but even so, the interior of the trailer will be dreadfully cold. I don’t know if they will survive the eleven hour drive to Los Angeles, l
et alone the thirty-six to New York.
My heart skips a beat.
A swarthy man emerges from the factory. Five-eleven. Long, wavy black hair. Sharp, aquiline features. He wears a dark shirt and black Levi’s. Sensible boots. He’s lean and fit. Walks with the confidence of a predator.
“Have you seen him before,” I ask Mirasol.
“No.”
The man checks his watch, confers with Bledsoe. Turns and signals someone inside the factory.
Three more men file through the loading bay doors and go to the trailer. They are all dark and clean-shaven. They wear jeans, boots, and expensive North Face jackets with hoods. They carry their belongings in heavy rucksacks.
All three wear gloves.
“They’re dressed for it,” I observe.
“Yes,” Mirasol says. “Unlike the girls.”
The three men get on the cargo lift. The driver’s assistant works the controls, and they disappear into the trailer. The trailer doors are closed and dogged shut. The big cowboy mouths something to the driver. The second cowboy speaks into a walkie-talkie.
The plant’s east gate opens. The portal’s two big doors slide apart, and the eighteen-wheeler’s lights spring to life. The driver’s assistant gets in the passenger side of the cab and slams the door. The big tractor-trailer rumbles out of the plant toward the highway.
Almost four o’clock.
Followed by the cowboys, Bledsoe and the dark man walk back into the factory. The loading bay doors slide shut. Someone flicks a switch, and the plant is plunged into darkness.
My pupils were constricted by the glare of the floodlights. The instant the switch is pulled, my world goes black. I take the binoculars from my eyes and stare at Mirasol, willing my night vision to return.
“I have never seen that man,” Mirasol says. “Men have never joined the girls in the truck.”
“As far as you know.”
“Correct.” Mirasol frowns. “As far as I know.”
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 8
