18
Salem, 0400 Hrs Wednesday
“It’s a tunnel,” Mirasol tells me.
“You’ve thought that all along, haven’t you.”
“Yes,” Mirasol says, “but proving it is something else.”
Traffic is light as we drive back to Salem. We’re quiet, lost in thought. I’d thought of a border tunnel when Mirasol first told me her story. In fact, the existence of a tunnel was a given.
“Where do you think it comes out?” I ask.
“Ciudad Juarez.”
I find Mirasol’s Latina accent irresistible. Force myself to concentrate on the road. “Juarez is a big place.”
White-line fever, they call it. Miles pass before we see another car. In the middle of the road, an endless string of broken white lines flash by. Hypnotic, shining in my headlights, drawing me. I squint, fight to stay in the right lane.
“Why do you need to know where it comes out? We need to get into that plant. Find evidence girls are being smuggled across. Then the police can arrest Bledsoe.”
“You want Bledsoe. I want the men who killed my friends.”
“You think they are in Juarez.”
“A tunnel has two ends. You said yourself Bledsoe goes to Juarez for girls.”
Mirasol looks thoughtful. “All right, Breed. Are you good at arithmetic?”
“I can hold my own.”
“The Rio Grande is not so big. The banks are about three hundred yards wide.”
“Go on.”
“The border is full of tunnels. The Border Patrol search for them all the time. The longest they have found is one thousand yards long. Do you see?”
Sexy and smart.
“The plant’s built right up to the border wall,” I say. “We draw a circle with a radius of a thousand yards centered on Bledsoe. The Mexico end will be in the area between the chord of the far bank and the circle’s edge.”
“The tunnel could be anywhere from three hundred to a thousand yards long.”
“Shit.” I touch the brake and pull over.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on.” I turn on the ceiling light, reach over, and open the glove compartment. I take Keller’s map and get out of the truck.
I kneel and undo the lace on my left boot. Spread the map on the hood of the truck, turn on my phone’s flashlight, and hand it to Mirasol. “Hold this.”
Mirasol holds the flashlight over the map. I take the bootlace and my ballpoint pen. Find the scale and measure a thousand yards. I push the nib of the pen through the fabric, hold the free end over the Bledsoe plant, and stretch the lace taut. With one deft swipe, I draw an arc that spans the Mexican riverbank. Finally, I cap the pen and measure the length of riverbank covered by the arc.
“That chord is eighteen hundred fuckin’ yards.” I kneel and re-lace my boot. “What’s it like over there?”
“I don’t know,” Mirasol says. “I never looked too closely.”
She suspected a tunnel from day one, but didn’t think to look at the Mexican side. An intelligent woman. Not a soldier.
“What do you remember,” I ask. “Is it farmland, ranchland, or buildings.”
“Buildings,” she says. “Juarez is a big city.”
“Unlucky for us.” I get up, fold the map, and take my phone back. “We’ll take a closer look tomorrow. Right now, we need to get a few hours’ sleep.”
“I don’t think I can sleep,” Mirasol says.
I need to sleep. In the field, one learns to grab food and rest whenever one can. In combat, one cannot predict the next time one will be able to sleep or eat.
We get back in the truck and I pull onto the highway. “That’s a lot of ground to cover on the Mexican side,” I say. “Talk to me. Is there any way to make our job easier.”
Mirasol shrugs. “It costs money to dig a tunnel. The profit the cartel makes must pay for its construction. The cheapest route is three hundred yards west to east.”
“Because in this sector, the river runs south to north.”
“That is where I would start.” Mirasol looks at me. “Sometimes, the cartels dig north to south to confuse the Border Patrol.”
“You know an awful lot about tunnels.”
“I interviewed the Border Patrol. America built a wall eighteen feet high.” Mirasol shakes her head. “They are digging tunnels eighty feet deep.”
“Eighty feet.”
“At its deepest point, the Rio Grande is sixty feet deep. The river is almost dry, so that doesn’t matter. Ground-penetrating radar is ineffective below forty feet. The Border Patrol has sensors the length of the river. To capture the sounds of digging. Earth and rock have to be removed. The sensors capture the sound of trolleys carrying the earth from the tunnel. The sound of dump trucks carrying the earth away.”
“Dump trucks.”
“The thousand-yard tunnel required four hundred dump trucks full of earth. The Border Patrol creates heat maps of sounds vehicles make as they travel over bumpy roads. They can tell the difference between a family car and a dump truck.”
“Why hasn’t the Border Patrol detected this one?”
“The water table in this area is eight hundred feet, so the cartels can tunnel as deep as they like. Last year, Bledsoe expanded the plant. The sound of excavation and construction would have confused the sensors. The project also provided an excuse to use dump trucks to carry earth away.”
“That must be one expensive tunnel.”
“During the Cold War, the CIA dug a tunnel from West Berlin to East Berlin. It was a quarter of a mile long and cost fifty million in 1955 dollars. The thousand-yard tunnel the cartels dug cost many times that. Bledsoe is a wealthy man, but he could not finance the tunnel himself.” Mirasol sounds bitter. “He is an American, yet he made a deal with the cartels.”
“That’s the other question,” I say. “Who are his partners.”
“Cartels vie for power all along the border. It is impossible to keep track.”
I shake my head. “The dark man you hadn’t seen before. He acted like he was Bledsoe’s superior.”
Mirasol looks skeptical. “You think?”
“Yes. One picks up behavioral cues. He had an attitude of entitlement. An attitude of command.”
“It is hard to tell from a distance,” Mirasol says, “but I don’t think he is Mexican.”
Neither do I.
Bledsoe looks soft.
The dark stranger, on the other hand, looks capable of beheading a victim.
19
Salem, 0800 Hrs Wednesday
It’s not the first time I’ve gotten by on three hours’ sleep, and it won’t be the last. I dress, go down to the dining room, and take the table by the window. The aroma of fried bacon and eggs revives me. I load up on the buffet, chow down, and go back for seconds. When I’ve finished, I carry a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice back to my window table. Pour myself a glass and lean back. Enjoy the air-conditioning. Outside, the sun climbs higher in the sky. The light in my eyes is blinding.
A hundred Latinos stand outside the 7-Eleven, baking in the heat. A handful have found shade, but the rest wait stoically in the sun.
Anya Stein approaches, takes the chair across from me. “You’re not shy, are you,” she says.
“Look who’s talking.”
“He takes the whole pitcher of juice,” she observes. Pours herself a glass. “Some nerve.”
“There’s more where that came from. Besides, that’s what we do.”
Stein smiles flirtatiously. “What, hog the orange juice?”
I feel like a reptile has winked at me. “Take things from people. Fuck anybody gets in the way.”
“You and your friends must have been something.”
I’m not in the mood. Today I’m going to get inside Bledsoe Meats.
“Help me, Breed.”
Two big yellow school buses pull up in front of the 7-Eleven. Three men pile out. Two cowboys and a Latino. The same two cowboys we
saw at the plant last night. The big blond guy and his buddy. The Latino carries a clipboard. Stands by the front door of the first bus and takes a pen from his shirt pocket. The Latinos waiting in the heat gather around him.
“I don’t see how I can.”
I drain a glass of orange juice, savor the flavor, and pour some more.
“It’s obvious you know more than you’re telling.”
Mirasol stands in the group of Latinos. She’s got gumption, I’ll give her that.
“Is it?” I shake my head. “You think I’m involved.”
“Less and less likely. You only left the army six months ago.”
Mirasol looks uncomfortable. Like she can’t make up her mind if she should stay or leave. She recognizes the cowboys, but there’s no reason for them to recognize her. Unless one of the Mexicans she asked about Bledsoe finked on her.
The man with the clipboard begins reading names. One by one, the Latinos get on the bus, and he crosses their names off the list.
A waitress takes my plate and stares disapprovingly at the pitcher of orange juice. She’s not the pleasant girl from the front desk. Too young to be the girl’s mother. Hired help.
“What’s going on there,” I ask her.
“Day workers,” the woman says. “They fill the quota over at Bledsoe.”
“How’s it work?”
“Bledsoe has employees to do the regular work. Fewer than he needs, so he doesn’t over-hire. Those beaners put their names on a list. Every day, the truck comes down and they hire enough to make up what he needs. Looks like he wants two busloads today.”
“Don’t they need experience?”
The waitress sniffs. “Most of them have.”
With my plate in her hand, she walks away.
I look back at the Latinos queued up at the buses. Squint. Mirasol is in line. Skintight black T-shirt, jeans and running shoes. Passionate, committed, stupid.
“Help me, Breed.” Stein leans across the table. “Let’s trade.”
I pour myself more orange juice. I’m tempted to drink from the pitcher, but Stein couldn’t handle it.
Mirasol is at the door of the first bus. The blond cowboy shakes his head and takes her by the arm. His friend takes her other arm. Together, they hustle her away from the bus.
I get up, slide a twenty under my glass.
Stein folds her arms. Scowls. “You are a piece of work.”
“You have no idea.”
I stride from the restaurant, through the lobby, and onto main street. I cross the 7-Eleven’s gas station and parking lot. The cowboys and Mirasol disappear behind the building. The Latinos watch them go and mutter. Continue boarding the bus.
A woman grunts. It’s the belch of someone who has been hit high in the gut, under the solar plexus. I round the corner in time to see Mirasol collapse in a fetal position. Her hands clutch her midsection, her mouth open in a silent scream.
“That’s enough.” I close on the men.
The blond cowboy gets between me and Mirasol. He’s helping me. Two-on-one, they should split and attack from either side.
“Mind your own business, mister.”
“Two strong men beating on a little girl. That’s my business.”
The blond man steps in to push me. “Fuck off.”
Before the words are out of his mouth, I bunch my fingers at the second knuckle and punch him in the Adam’s apple. His eyes bulge and he staggers, clutching his throat. His mouth works silently, like a fish out of water. He drops to his knees. His Stetson topples from his head.
The second cowboy swings a roundhouse right at me. An amateur. I block the punch and grab his sleeve with my left hand. Twist my right in the collar of his shirt, drag him over my hip, and put him down. Before he can get up, I stamp on his face. His nose flattens under my heel, and blood squirts out the sides—I popped a blister of ketchup. I stamp on him again. His front teeth—top and bottom—give way.
He’ll live. I’m not sure about his blond friend, whose face is turning blue-green.
Mirasol gets to her knees. I grasp her elbow and help her to her feet.
We round the corner of the 7-Eleven.
“That was stupid,” I tell her.
“We have to get into that plant.” Mirasol clutches my arm. Together, we walk back to the hotel. She’s in pain, leans against me for support.
I put my hand over hers. “I’m going this afternoon.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’ll knock on the front door.”
20
Salem, 0830 Hrs Wednesday
I see Mirasol to the elevator. She promises to rest, and I promise to keep her posted on what I learn. I warn her to watch for unusual bleeding. Two men beating on a tiny girl with all their strength can cause serious internal injury.
The elevator door hisses shut, and I return to the restaurant.
“Who’s your little friend?” Stein asks. The spook is where I left her, sipping a cup of coffee.
I settle myself in the opposite chair. “A girl who got in trouble with a pair of jackasses.”
“I saw that. The question is how.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I wave my hand, a gesture of dismissal. “You want to trade, let’s trade.”
“What do you have to trade.”
Again, Stein adopts a flirtatious manner. She’s no good at it.
“I know where Keller was killed.”
Stein straightens in her chair. “The murder scene was staged.”
“Yes.”
“Of course it was. Where.”
I shake my head. “I want something from you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need your help to search a place.”
“Private property, obviously.”
“Yes. Your word—you’ll get me inside.”
“Only if what you give me is enough for a warrant.”
“If you get in, I get in.”
“All right, it’s a deal.”
Stein finishes her coffee.
I wave to the waitress. “Bring the whole pot.”
“Can’t take you anywhere,” Stein grumbles. “Okay, Breed. Cough it up.”
I take the pot of coffee from the waitress. Fill Stein’s cup, pour one for myself. Set the pot on the table.
“He was killed seven miles from where he was found,” I tell her. “On a hilltop overlooking Bledsoe Meats.”
I tell her everything I know, but leave out the shell casing and Mirasol’s involvement.
“How did you find the lookout?” Stein asks.
“Educated guess. Keller was a sniper, we’re drawn to high ground. Those hills present the only elevated positions south of the Lazy K.”
Stein looks skeptical. “What made him suspicious of the plant?”
“Maybe he wasn’t. Those hills cover his land and Bledsoe’s. He may have been hiking, surveying his property. Looked in the wrong direction, saw something he shouldn’t have.”
“Random chance?”
“Wrong place, wrong time. Dumb luck can kill you.”
“We’ll have the lab go over the scene,” Stein says. “But it’s not enough to get a warrant to search the Bledsoe plant.”
“Last night I saw a dozen girls, some as young as twelve, go into a freezer truck with three men. Fifteen illegals.”
“It’ll be your word against Bledsoe’s.”
“There’s a tunnel under that plant.”
“Prove it.”
“Get me in. Then I’ll prove it.”
“Breed, you are accusing a prominent Texas businessman of colluding with cartels. Smuggling prostitutes and God knows what else into the United States. In a tunnel that could have cost a hundred million dollars. Purpose-built, integrated into an American factory. Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds?”
“It’s not crazy when the end justifies the means.”
“Tell me more about the men you saw.”
It’s not my imagination. Stein is
more interested in the men than little girls smuggled into the United States. “Not much to tell. Dark complexioned, not black. Well fed, fit. Unlike the girls, dressed for the trip. Thick North Face jackets, hoods, gloves, dressed in layers.”
“Could they have been Middle Eastern?”
There it is.
“Your turn, Stein. Why are you here.”
“I think you've guessed.”
I shake my head. “I want to hear it from you.”
Time to put up or shut up. Stein folds her arms, exhales through puffed cheeks.
“All right. On Monday, the United States will go to the UN. Under the Nuclear Agreement, we will impose an international arms embargo on Iran. Our intel indicates the Quds Force is planning attacks across the border.”
The Quds Force. The unconventional warfare arm of Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, the IRGC. The Quds are tasked with the sponsorship and execution of global terrorism.
“I thought the US withdrew from the Iran Nuclear Agreement.”
Stein smiles. “We did. But—the US remains a signatory to the United Nations Security Council resolution. Under the terms of the Nuclear Agreement, a sunset clause will terminate the weapons embargo on Monday. Unless a signatory to the resolution tables a motion to extend. The extent of Iran’s uranium enrichment violates the agreement. We will impose the embargo.”
“Will the Security Council let us do that?”
“They have no choice. We have a veto. The other parties want to pretend the deal is alive. On Monday, we will drive a stake through its heart.”
I shake my head. “The Iranians aren’t going to like that.”
“Quds have been active in Latin America for years. They refrained from attacking because they did not want to jeopardize the deal. Now all bets are off. They sent us a message. If we kill the deal, they will hit us harder than we were hit on 9/11.”
“What kind of message?”
“When we withdrew from the deal, it was obvious the embargo would be our next move. The Iranians warned us through covert channels. If we try to renege, they will make us pay in blood.
“The Quds can attack in different ways. We have teams responsible for each avenue. My team has been working the border for a year. Two thousand miles to guard. Airplanes, boats, tunnels—it’s a sieve. No idea where to start. Until last Thursday.”
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 9
