South

by Lance Charnes

  All they had to do was get there.

  The backup bled away. Luis slid behind the wheel and stashed his binoculars in the glove box. He punched off the streamer’s news feed when it switched from coverage of Hurricane Bailey in Delaware to the President’s noontime sermon and Bible reading.

  Paul—Gargoyles, cream-and-olive guayabera and old chinos—tried to sit easy in the passenger’s seat, but his drumming fingers gave him away. “How’s it look?” he asked.

  “Fine so far.” Luis glanced in the rear-view mirror. The kids goggled out the back windows at the strange-to-them landscape. Nora’s bug lenses stared back at Luis. The fake nose and chin still made him do a double-take. “You guys okay back there?”

  “I’ll be better when we’re through the gate.” She tugged down her sundress’ skirt hem.

  Justin waved them into the left-hand inspection lane behind two other vehicles, an ancient, dusty SUV with Baja plates and a newish Fiat hatchback from San Diego. Luis watched the three CBP troopers work, trying to pick up if anything they did was worth worrying about. The dumpy guy spent more time looking over the other guard’s shoulder than he did dogging Justin; good news. Luis had almost convinced himself the guy was a trainer when Officer Dumpy lurched up to the Fiat’s passenger window and rapped the glass with his left knuckles.

  “Is that normal?” Paul asked.

  “Not really. Can you see what he’s doing?”

  Paul sat straight, pulled on his fingers while his head followed the guard’s movements. “Someone rolled down the window. He’s leaning over, it looks like to talk to someone.” The hatch jumped open. “Here he comes.”

  Officer Dumpy circled to the Fiat’s back end, flung open the hatch and aimed his Mini-Maglite inside, using the tip of his collapsible metal baton to poke around. What would he make of the four backpacks in the Geely’s trunk? Nora and Paul had drilled the kids on the cover story for the past hour. Still, they were way too unpredictable. Sometimes CBP would question the kids to get the real story of why mommy or daddy was going south.

  The SUV lurched off in a cloud of diesel smoke, hesitated as the steel barrier dropped, then rattled away. Justin motioned the Fiat forward; Officer Dumpy held the hatch open as the car inched ahead. Luis didn’t quite close the gap. His paranoia—what he called his survival instinct—told him to not get too boxed in.

  “Is he the one?” Nora asked. “The young guard?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just chill.”

  Justin collected IDs from the two people in the Fiat and fed the first one to his field reader. Luis timed it: roughly twenty seconds, a Level 1. Good boy. The guard in the next lane let a thrashed old Tata mini-truck full of wooden pallets through the gate. Just another couple minutes, Luis told himself. No problem. Easy easy.

  “Wow!” Peter said. “Look at all those men with guns over there.”

  Luis turned to his side window. A string of white, one-story cinder-block buildings lined the northbound lanes. Six CBP troopers in tan utilities, black balaclavas and tac gear clustered under the nearest building’s overhanging roof. Four wore full battle-rattle, complete with helmets and rifles.

  Luis could swear they were looking straight at him.

  “Peter? Sweetie?” Nora’s voice rattled with sudden tension. “Come sit next to me.”

  “But Mommy…”

  “Now!”

  “What’s…happening?” Paul whispered.

  Luis tried to watch these new guys and Justin at the same time. This post didn’t usually have this much staff, and even if the cameras hanging from the overhead had IDed Paul despite his makeup and the blacked-out windshield, the locals wouldn’t have had time to truck in reinforcements. Were those guys looking for Nora?

  Nobody knew he’d come here…except Ray and Justin.

  Both Luis and Paul jumped at three sharp knocks on Paul’s window. Officer Dumpy’s upper half filled the view outside. Luis downed a deep breath, lowered the window and leaned past Paul to look up in Dumpy’s face. They didn’t put nametapes on the uniforms anymore to make it harder for the cartels to figure out who to bribe, or kill. “Yes, officer?”

  “Sir, could you open the trunk for me, please?”

  Luis hesitated, then punched the trunk-release button on the dash, heard the thunk in back. Once Officer Dumpy reached the car’s rear, Luis whispered to Nora, “Where’s your weapon?”

  Nora twisted to glance out the back, then squeezed the kids a bit closer to her sides. “In my purse.”

  “Leave it there.”

  An old Nissan pickup pulled up behind the Geely, closer than Luis liked. Justin handed the IDs back to the Fiat’s driver, then talked with him instead of waving the car on its way, pointing and snaking his hand around toward the Mexican side.

  Officer Dumpy returned to Paul’s window, leaned down far enough to peer into the back seat. “Excuse me, son. Where are all of you going?”

  Paul said, “We’re going to—”

  “Not you, sir. Him.” Dumpy pointed to Peter. “Where to, son?”

  Luis checked the rear-view in time to see Nora give the man an almost-genuine nervous smile. Peter’s eyes had doubled in size.

  “Uh…”

  Paul glanced at Luis, panic edging into his eyes. He gripped his knees with white-knuckled fingers.

  Luis felt sweat soak his shirt’s back.

  Remember your story…

  “To his ranch.” Peter pointed at Luis. “We’re gonna ride horses.”

  Dumpy’s eyes lingered just a little too long on Nora. Was he looking at her face, or at her boobs in her tight top? Luis hoped the guy was a breast man, for all their sakes.

  “It’ll be just a few more minutes, sir.” Dumpy nodded toward Luis, then straightened.

  Luis gulped down a breath and turned back to the action in front of him. Justin stepped back from the Fiat and swept his hand toward the gate. When the Fiat moved forward, the barrier’s yellow-painted metal cliff sank into the road. No getting past that when it was up; it would smash the car’s bottom half. Luis shifted into drive and waited for Justin to wave him forward. Almost there, just another minute…

  “Wait here, sir,” Dumpy said.

  Wait?

  Dumpy stepped toward Justin, holding up a “stop” hand. Across the street, the six troopers formed up in line abreast and stepped off, two with rifles on either end.

  Three cars filled the right lane, too close to get by. The approaching troopers blocked the left. The Nissan crowded the Geely’s bumper. Luis gulped down the baseball in his throat. “Nora,” he whispered, not taking his eyes off the oncoming rifles, “put the kids on the floor.”

  “What’s happening? Talk to me.”

  “Just do it. Now. Paul, roll up your window so they can’t see in.”

  Luis tuned out the kids’ complaining, kept his focus glued to his left. The CBP troopers strode across the farthest northbound lane, heading straight for the Geely. The two men without rifles drew their sidearms.

  “Do you have your weapon?” Nora asked.

  Luis glanced in the mirror. Nora had her pistol half out of her big black shoulder bag. “Put that thing away. We’re not getting in a firefight with nine guys, not with kids in the car.”

  “Mommy, what’s happening?” Hope’s voice wavered with fear.

  “Shh. Be still, honey, stay down there.”

  Luis watched the men close in, his stomach in his throat. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go down—penned in a car, no way to run. He wiped his palms on his jeans, scanned the cars around them. Everyone else was watching the CBP guys, too. He doubted any of them had as much to lose.

  Only Justin knew when they’d be here. Did that little shit sell them out?

  The CBP men were less than twenty feet away when movement ahead caught Luis’ eye. Justin slowly backed away from Dumpy, his hands half-raised, his head swiveling from Dumpy to the other guards and back. His mouth moved, but Luis couldn’t hear the words.

  W
hat the…?

  The six guards swarmed past the booth in the middle of the crossing, weapons at ready, and Luis could hear the muffled shouts of “Freeze! Show us your hands!”

  “Get down!” Luis barked. “Now!” He braced for the first shots.

  The guards swept past the Geely and raced toward Justin. Stunned, Luis watched as Justin turned and dashed toward Mexico, losing his ball cap. The other guards, Dumpy included, screamed at him all at once so their words melted into a barrage of noise.

  Justin made it over the border’s painted line. Two riflemen aimed and fired, echoing firecracker sounds. Justin’s arms flew wide before he crashed face-first on the street, then rolled onto his back.

  ¡Chingado! We almost made it, so close, just another minute, goddamnit…

  The Nissan behind them screeched away in reverse. The panel van beside them wallowed through a three-point turn and followed. Luis figured they knew what he did: nobody was going south for hours, and CBP was going to be all over everyone here.

  Luis cranked the wheel hard to the left, jammed the gearshift into reverse and stomped the gas. The Geely squealed into the empty northbound lanes. He pounded the brakes, shifted to drive, and floored it. They leaped through a cloud of rubber smoke to race north, away from Tecate, the men with guns, and Justin’s dead body.

  24

  Throughout the Inland Empire, neighborhoods ravaged by home abandonment or bank foreclosures are slowly coming back to life as squatters reclaim vacant houses – sometimes houses they used to own… In one Upland community, over 80% of residents are squatters, who have started a Neighborhood Watch program and take turns filling potholes in streets the city has written off.

  — “Banks Demand Crackdown on Squatters,” LATimes.com

  SUNDAY, 9 MAY

  “What was that?” Nora asked.

  “Our tame guard got capped.” Juan’s voice carried a sharp edge she hadn’t heard before.

  She mentally replayed the scene over and over. The guard was crooked and tried to run; he got what was coming. On the other hand, he was their ticket over the border. How should she feel, good or bad?

  “How did they find out?” she finally asked. Juan didn’t answer. “I thought this was the easy way.”

  “If it was easy, you wouldn’t need me.”

  Still, after all the buildup, all the hope…

  The kids hadn’t seen any of it, praise Allah. She’d told them there’d been an accident and they couldn’t go to Mexico today. If they could tell the grown-ups were more quiet and serious than usual, they didn’t show it. Hope curled up next to her, drowsing. Nora reached out to stroke Peter’s back as he peered out his window, watching this strange world go by.

  “When do we get to go to Mexico?” Peter asked over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know, honey. Mr. Juan’s in charge of that.”

  Peter tore himself away from his window and leaned toward Juan as far as his shoulder harness would allow. “Mr. Juan? Are we gonna go to Mexico?”

  “Don’t bother the man, he’s driving,” Paul warned.

  “No, it’s okay.” Juan tossed a tight smile at Peter. “Pretty soon, don’t worry.”

  “How soon?”

  “Not now,” Nora said. She gripped her son’s shoulder. “Settle down.”

  Peter crossed his arms and frowned, then turned back to his window.

  Nora stared hard at the road unspooling behind them, looking for pursuing cars or helicopters. The black dot of a drone flew its perfect circle over what must have been the crossing. Other than that, all she saw were the rocky brown hills on either side of California 94, strewn with gray-green scrub, set against a flat, chrome-blue sky. After a few silent minutes, she felt Paul’s hand squeeze her knee. “Honey, can I borrow your phone?”

  “Um, okay.” She handed over her bag without breaking lock on the road. At least he was talking again; he’d been the grim kind of quiet he got when he was upset.

  A couple more minutes passed before Paul said, “I don’t think this is about us.”

  “Why not?” Juan asked.

  “There’s a story on the news. CBP announced Operation Hoover. It says they arrested 237 CBP and Border Patrol agents they think are taking bribes.”

  “Two thirty-seven? That’s all?”

  “It says it’s just in California and western Arizona.”

  The moment he said that, it struck Nora odd. Why just there? “That’s not how we’d do it. We’d take down the whole border at the same time, otherwise you’re just warning the others.”

  “You’re doing that ‘we’ thing again.”

  “Sorry.” How long before her brain realized she wasn’t an FBI agent any longer? Or would she ever stop being an agent?

  “Nora?” Juan said. “You know how these guys work. Think there’s an indirect link?”

  Nora sat straight in her seat. She unkinked her neck, gave Hope a quick one-armed hug, stroked Peter’s hair. Juan’s eyes watched her in the rear-view mirror. He listened, asked good questions, was calm under pressure, and she still couldn’t smell criminal on him. Sometime soon she might need to rework her Juan estimate.

  “Maybe someone decided today was a good day to take down crooked agents,” she finally said. “Or maybe they did it to make it harder for us to get out.”

  “Well, it sure does that. If it’s only happening here and western Arizona, it’s just the guys on the Norte payroll. How long before the FBI sees the camera vids from back there?”

  “If they ask, a few hours. If they don’t, then never. Why?”

  “I’m wondering whether they’ll see our little bug-out act and send someone after us.”

  It could happen. They must be monitoring the traffic cams in San Diego and Orange counties by now. “We weren’t the only ones to run out back there. It’s possible, though.” She watched the hills roll by for a few moments, then looked behind them again to search for tails.

  “Now what happens?” Paul asked. His voice vibrated with tension.

  Juan didn’t answer right away. Did he have a plan yet? She’d paid for at least two.

  Nora reached forward to knead Paul’s shoulder, hoping it would be enough comfort for now. Paul was fearless on the Hill, in committee hearings, handling people who had more money and power than brains. She’d been dazzled the times she’d seen him in action; she’d never be able to do the kind of work he seemed to toss off naturally. But his work didn’t involve violent death or dealing with narcos or being chased by armed men. This was her world, and it was as alien to him as his world was to her. She hoped it wouldn’t poison the decency and gentleness she counted on so much.

  “I’ll take you to another safe house,” Juan finally said. Nora felt her stomach sink; she’d hoped her family could sleep someplace decent tonight. “Then I need to get rid of this car. It’s been seen. I need another loaner.”

  A Cartel motor pool? She laughed. “Does it come with a kilo of coke in the trunk?”

  Juan hiked an eyebrow at her in the mirror. “No, they’re just for getting around. They’re registered to front companies, they have no GPS and they’re scanned every day for trackers and bugs. They get new e-plates every time they’re used.”

  Great intel. Too bad the Bureau didn’t want her input now. “Fine. Then what?”

  “I need to drop back and work out Plan B. This may be harder than I thought. I’ve never moved someone with so much heat on them.”

  She looked away, down to Hope snuggling next to her. Was even the ridiculous amount of money she’d given the Cartel enough to get her and Paul and the kids to safety? She wondered what she’d do if the narcos decided she was too much trouble. “Can you…can you still get us to Mexico?”

  “I have to,” Juan said. Resignation weighed down his voice. “I got no choice.”

  The toll pass peeped one last time as the car trundled off I-8 and swung north onto a disintegrating low-rise commercial strip. The city street was more river bottom than roadway. Two gas stati
ons—long-dead brands, signs still showing unleaded at only six dollars a gallon—welcomed them into what once had been a community.

  “What’s this place called?” Nora asked.

  “El Cajon,” Juan said, distracted. “It used to have one of the largest Muslim populations on the West Coast. Forty thousand people, just gone.”

  They turned right onto a street lined with modest 1960s and 1970s houses fronted by long-dead lawns, brown pines and neglected palm trees wrapped in sun-broiled fronds. The roads and houses became more ragged the farther they were from the main street, with boarded-up or busted-out windows, robust weeds, and flaking walls. A burned-out shell appeared on the left. Nora’s heart stumbled over the faded, hand-painted declaration on its side: I Am An American.

  Paul asked, “Riots?”

  “Yeah.” Juan slowed the car to a crawl to pick their way through the potholes. “This used to be an Iraqi neighborhood. Most of the people who didn’t leave during the riots or go south got sent to the camps. Then the banks foreclosed on anyone who was left after the ’25 crash. The county’s got no money to fix the streets. It sucks for the folks who used to live here, but it’s great for hiding safe houses.”

  The car stopped at a one-story, ‘60s-vintage rancher, formerly cream, now a peeling, weathered gray. Faded red-asphalt shingles covered the sagging roof; plywood hid the windows. A two-car garage dominated the front, while the main entry sheltered at the end of a walkway lined by a weedbed and a dirt yard. Juan said, “Welcome to your new home.”

  “Cozy little place,” Paul snarked. A good sign; his sense of humor was coming back.

  Nora examined the house for a few moments, sighed. “How long will we be here?”

  “Until I can get Plan B nailed down. A couple days, maybe.”