Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1)

by Cameron Curtis

  “This is the new part of the plant,” Bledsoe says.

  We are still above ground. I don’t know how much of the plant is below the surface, but it can’t be much.

  “These men are US Department of Agriculture inspectors,” Bledsoe explains. “Regulatory standards are strict. If there is any question about the quality of a carcass, it is stored in that room. The USDA Retain Cage. More testing is performed. If a carcass is rejected, it’s used for fertilizer. Only USDA inspectors have keys to the cage.”

  I step to the Retain Cage, poke my head in. It is larger than I thought. A hundred and fifty feet square. Rows of racked carcasses hang like giant bats. The floor is concrete, with drains in the middle and along the edges. On the far side of the room is another set of locked doors.

  “Mr Breed,” Bledsoe calls. “Will y’all join the group, please. This is a dangerous work environment.”

  We’re led through a door and up a long corridor.

  “Y’all been through the harvesting plant. This here’s the fabrication plant.”

  Bledsoe leads us into a factory the size of an airplane hangar. Hundreds of men and women stand at conveyor belts as slices of meat roll past them. They inspect, slice, and trim the product. Machines plastic-wrap the cuts of beef, sorted by type and grade. Then the meat is packed into cardboard boxes and palletized.

  “This here’s one floor.” Bledsoe beams. “We have another two, underground. It’s cooler down there, more efficient for our air-conditioning.”

  “What’s below us,” I ask.

  “That’s where we make hamburger, Mr Breed.” Bledsoe laughs. “Grinders big as box cars. Grind and test, grind and test. Keep that lean-fat ratio in line. Kind of like people.”

  I think of the soldado Mary shot.

  Wonder if people are eating him with their French fries.

  23

  Bledsoe, 1500 Hrs Wednesday

  Stein wrinkles her nose. “I can still smell it.”

  “You’ll smell it for a year,” I say. “When you think you’ve forgotten it, it will come back at odd times.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It smells like a battlefield.”

  We walk with Garrick to the parking lot.

  “I want to see that hilltop,” Garrick says.

  “Follow me,” I tell him.

  The sheriff gets in his Jeep. Stein and I go to the pickup.

  “Satisfied now?” Stein looks annoyed. “No evidence. That was a whole lot of nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” I open the driver’s door, start the engine, and wait outside while the air-conditioner kicks in.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t. Bledsoe practically laughed in our faces the whole time.”

  “Get in,” I tell her. “I need to make a phone call.”

  Stein gets in the truck, slams the passenger door.

  I take out my phone and dial Mirasol.

  “Breed,” she says. “Where are you?”

  “Bledsoe.”

  “Did you get inside the plant?”

  “Yes. Stay in the hotel, stay around other people. We’re both in danger.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  I put the phone away and get into the truck. The air-conditioning has filled the cab with blessed cool air.

  “We’re sitting on the evidence,” I tell Stein.

  “What?”

  I smile. “Look around you. What do you see.”

  “Cars. A parking lot.”

  “The whole plant,” I say, “is built on crushed gravel. Tailings from the tunnel. A couple hundred dump trucks full.”

  Stein looks out the passenger window as though seeing the parking lot for the first time.

  “A thousand-yard tunnel spits out four hundred dump trucks of earth,” I tell her. “This tunnel coughed up at least that much. The plant’s foundations are two levels deep under the fabrication plant. It’s big, but that’s not enough to account for four hundred dump trucks.”

  I pull out of the parking lot and speed back to the highway. Keller’s truck kicks up rooster tails of dust in Garrick’s face.

  “Bledsoe and his partners had to be careful. The project is too important to blow through overconfidence. They decided they could explain away half the tailings by excavation. The rest they laid down on the parking lot and loading yards. Under the newly constructed sections of the harvesting plant. Crushed it flat with road rollers. Compare it to the earth everywhere else on the alluvial plain. The gravel is a different color, a different consistency.”

  “How long have you known this?”

  I slow down, turn the wheel, and bounce the truck off the highway and onto Keller’s perimeter road. This is familiar ground. I tear toward the hills. I want to show Garrick the murder site and get back to Mirasol.

  “I only put it together after touring the plant,” I say. “When we get to the lookout, it will be plain as the nose on your face.”

  “Where’s the tunnel?”

  “Big plant. Two thousand employees. Can’t have someone stumbling on it.”

  “Come on, Breed. Where is it?”

  “It’s in the newly built section of the plant, in a spot very few people have access to.” I wink at Stein. “Only one place fits that bill—the Retain Cage.”

  “Only USDA inspectors have keys to that cage.”

  “Bledsoe has a private key. His crew has the run of the place after hours.”

  “There must be rules. Controls.”

  I shake my head. “Bledsoe has a key. If he doesn’t, he can bribe an inspector easily enough.”

  When we reach Mirasol’s draw, I park, get out, and take Keller’s Winchester.

  “Expecting trouble?”

  I stare at my reflection in Stein’s sunglasses. “They’ve killed three times, and they know we’re onto them. You should lock and load, Stein.”

  “I always keep one in the chamber.”

  “Good to know.” I look at her shoes. “You’ll ruin those.”

  “I have spares at the hotel.”

  I am sure she does.

  Covered in dust, Garrick catches up to us. Eyes the shotgun with suspicion.

  I lead them to Keller’s draw. Point out the truck’s tire tracks. The tracks made by the second ATV and the sedan with the worn right-side tread. “Those steel-belted radials are the same as those at the Lazy K. Whoever killed Mary and Donnie were here for Keller’s murder. At least two cartel soldados.”

  “How do you know that?” Garrick asks.

  “I saw two Latinos parked at the 7-Eleven across from the hotel. Blue Impala sedan, front end out of alignment.”

  Stein sniffs. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

  “They weren’t alone,” I tell her. “Those off-road tires carried another killer or two.”

  Winchester low-ready, I turn on my heel and climb the hill. Garrick follows me, and Stein brings up the rear. When we reach the top, Garrick is breathing heavily. Stein looks chill. Probably does four triathlons a year.

  “Nice view,” Stein says.

  “Already seen it.” I smile. “Come on. I’ll show you where it all happened.”

  I move slowly and deliberately. Lead Garrick and Stein around the shelf to the back of the hilltop. I carry the Winchester with a shell in the chamber, external hammer cocked, safety on.

  “Stand here,” I instruct them. “You don’t want to disturb any remaining tracks. That dark spot on the rock—blood. If there’s enough for DNA, the lab boys will prove it’s Keller’s. The bullet fragmented on the rock wall behind. You can see the chips and scars from the splash.”

  I lead them back to the lookout.

  “I’ll call the crime scene team,” Garrick says. He starts back down the hill.

  Stein and I stare at the plant. “It stands out, doesn’t it,” she says.

  “Sure does. When I first saw it, I thought it was remarkable how the Lazy K sprang organically from the earth. Bledsoe looks li
ke it’s from another planet.”

  The plain sweeps from the foot of the hill, under the plant, to the border wall. Beyond, the dry ravine of the Rio Grande, the Mexican bank, and a seemingly endless sweep of dirty buildings.

  “Imagine eighteen hundred yards—a mile.” I point to the Mexican bank, trace a chord with my finger. “The Quds you want are there.”

  Stein’s voice is pensive. “I can’t kill them in Mexico.”

  “That’s why they won’t come until they are ready.”

  I carry the Winchester with the barrel exposed to the sun.

  “Aren’t you supposed to shroud the barrel?” Stein says.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore. They know where to find us.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  24

  Chihuahua Desert, 1600 Hrs Wednesday

  I leave Stein and Garrick at the lookout. Deputies and crime lab technicians are on their way. When I reach the truck, I replace the Winchester in its rack. I get in, drive east, and pull onto the highway.

  The blue Impala swings into position a hundred yards behind me. The heads of two soldados are visible through the windshield. The driver has long hair and a thick mustache. The same pair from the 7-Eleven. Parked on the shoulder, they sat and waited for me to drive back to town.

  Light bar flashing, a sheriff’s department cruiser speeds toward me. Heading for the lookout. Behind him, a plain sedan with red and blue lights mounted behind the grille. Driver and four passengers—the forensic team. Another sheriff’s cruiser brings up the rear. They roar past, the sound of their engines fading with the Doppler effect. In the rearview mirror, they dwindle to the vanishing point.

  A hundred yards back, the Impala holds position.

  The soldados will make a move well before we reach Salem.

  How are they armed. If past experience is any indication, the ubiquitous AK47. Nine millimeter automatics. If I’m lucky, machine pistols.

  It is possible to fight from a vehicle, but I can’t do it alone. Neither the Mauser nor the Winchester will be any good. Aimed fire will be impossible with the Mauser, and it is a myth one cannot miss with a shotgun.

  The Winchester’s buckshot will scatter at a rate of half an inch for every yard. If the soldados pull up next to me at a range of five yards, my pattern will measure two and a half inches across. In a moving vehicle, firing with one hand, that’s not much better than a Mauser.

  Fighting from vehicles, the soldados have the advantage.

  I need to fight them in the open.

  The Lazy K’s gate flashes by on my left.

  The Impala surges forward. One moment, it is a hundred yards back. The next, it’s tailgating me. The man in the passenger seat is carrying an automatic rifle. The muzzle pokes from his open window.

  Right now, my most effective weapon is the truck.

  The driver swings the Impala into the left lane and pulls even. I’m staring into the muzzle of a rifle.

  I stamp on the brakes and the Impala overshoots. The gunman twists in his seat, leans as far as he can out the window, and opens fire. Spinning the wheel, I pull off the highway and take off cross-country.

  In the rearview mirror, I see the Impala swerve to give chase.

  Keller’s truck, with its five-liter V8, is built for this. The Impala, with its low ride and V6, is not. I open up a healthy gap of a hundred yards. In the distance lies a line of foothills. Beyond, the more imposing peaks of mountains.

  I step on the gas and race ahead of the Impala. Keller’s truck tramples creosote and sage. Dodges between cacti, yucca trees, and clumps of mesquite. The Impala bounces and lurches from side to side. This is no contest. The soldados fall behind with every mile, but they refuse to give up.

  A plan has formed in my mind. Combat is a string of decisions, often made in the moment. One can spend weeks preparing a target deck. Fancy PowerPoint presentations to sell mission proposals to commanders. Once in the field, it is about execution.

  I’ve opened up a half a mile on the soldados. If the Impala shakes itself apart on the rough terrain, I’ll change the plan. I need a bigger lead. Faster and faster, I push the truck toward the hills. Behind me, the Impala becomes a dark speck. Lost in the shimmering mirage.

  The hills rear up in front of me. They are taller and rockier than I thought.

  My lead on the Impala has grown to more than a mile.

  The ground has become so rocky I cannot drive further without damaging the pickup. I stop twenty yards from the base of a hillside. I open the glove compartment, take out two stripper clips, and pocket them. Scrabble for Keller’s laser rangefinder. I dismount the vehicle, grab the Mauser, and jog to the base of the hill.

  The slope is not steep, but it is rocky and hard going. My legs burn with the effort of the climb. The breath rasps in my chest. Behind me, the Impala eats up my lead. I am filled with exhilaration and the joy of the hunt.

  I stop for breath. Sling the rifle, fix the rangefinder on the truck, take a reading. Two hundred and eighty yards. The Impala is heading straight for me. The soldados decide I’ve nowhere to run. They’re right. I turn and keep climbing.

  My legs grow heavy.

  I hear the splatter of bullets against the rocks above me. I see rock chips flying as AK47 rounds strike the boulders. The sound is like rain on concrete, magnified a hundred times.

  Gasping, I flatten myself against a boulder. Look back.

  The Impala has slewed to a stop next to the truck. The soldados have gotten out and raised their AK47s to their shoulders. They’re firing at me, but their shots sail high over my head.

  Not a surprise. In trained hands, the AK47 is reasonably accurate to three minutes of angle at four hundred yards. These soldados are not trained marksmen. They are not adjusting their sights for the slope of the hill. They are used to fighting in a phone booth.

  I pin the laser on the Impala and take another reading. Four hundred thirty yards, line of sight. I push a button on the rangefinder and switch to inclinometer mode. The device calculates the cosine of the angle made between true horizontal and my line of sight. The digital reading is zero-point-eight-seven, equivalent to about thirty degrees.

  A quick mental calculation gives me the range adjustment. The horizontal range is three hundred and seventy-five yards. Keller zeroed his scope at four hundred yards. With Mauser ammunition, the twenty-five yard difference is worth three-quarters a minute of angle.

  The soldados stand exposed in full view. Drop their mags and reload. Their next burst of fire is closer. They don’t understand external ballistics, but they know enough to walk their fire into me. I take the Mauser and shift position to the other side of the boulder. Chamber a round, take aim through the telescopic sight.

  Keller’s optic is a rugged 3.5-10x variable power scope calibrated in minutes of angle. I set the scope to 10x, but don’t bother to dial in the adjustment. I lay the cross-hairs on the chest of the younger man. Reading off the scale on the vertical reticle, I lower my aim by three-quarters an MOA.

  I normalize my breathing. Take up the slack on the trigger. Exhale. At the moment of natural respiratory pause, I break the shot.

  The Mauser slams into my shoulder and the muzzle jerks skyward. When the sight picture stabilizes, the soldado is flat on his back. The front of his shirt is crimson and he is coughing blood from shattered lungs.

  I lift the bolt handle, eject the spent shell casing, and chamber a second round. Search for the mustached soldado.

  He’s ducked behind the driver’s door of the Impala.

  Without lifting his head, he raises the AK47 over the driver’s side window and sprays the hill. He empties his entire magazine into the hillside a hundred yards below my position.

  Below the car door, the soldado’s feet are visible.

  I lay the cross-hairs on one of his ankles. Drop the sight by the angle-of-fire adjustment, break a second shot.

  The round shatters the man’s
ankle and he screams. The shriek is so loud it echoes from the hillside. The man’s foot hangs by a thin strap of skin and tendon. He drops his rifle and crawls behind the wheel. Starts the engine.

  I cycle the action, chamber a third round.

  The man struggles to get the car moving. He’s lost all rational thought. His head is exposed behind the glass of the windshield.

  I lay the cross-hairs on his chin and pull the trigger.

  With the three-inch adjustment, I should hit him in the middle of the face. The slope of the windshield deflects the round—the top of his head vaporizes in a bright pink mist.

  I take a breath and walk down the hill.

  The young guy I shot in the chest is still alive, bleeding out from his chest and lungs. He coughs blood. It bubbles from his mouth and drips from the sides of his face. I kick his rifle aside and search him. Take a Glock from his waistband and stuff it in mine.

  The man’s wallet holds a Mexican driver’s license. I compare the photograph to the face of the man at my feet. His eyes are wide and staring. I’m not sure he can see anything.

  Alejandro Ruiz.

  The other soldado is sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, his head rocked back. The man’s scalp and the top of his skull are gone. The back of the car is messier than Bledsoe’s abattoir. The lobes of the man’s cerebral cortex have slopped onto the floor of the rear passenger compartment. His face has been distorted like a rubber Halloween mask.

  Grotesque, but not the worst I’ve seen. I’ve killed High Value Targets with head shots. Photographed them to provide evidence they were neutralized. Pieced their heads together to get useful images.

  I reach in and search the Mexican. Relieve him of a second Glock and a spare magazine. I turn his pockets inside-out. Take his wallet. Mexican driver’s license. Jaime Rodriguez.

  From his front pocket, I take a folded bar napkin. I spread it on the hood of the Impala. In black ink, someone has scribbled a phone number. In the middle of the napkin is printed the name of the establishment: