State of Emergency

CHAPTER 14


Texas





The air was cool and crisp when the baby-faced man with a curly head of black hair peeked out of the earthen tunnel to find himself inside a dust-filled barn five hundred yards inside the U.S. border, not far from the Mexican city of Miguel Alemán.

His coyote, the Mexican who’d helped him come across, called him the “Quiet One” because he tended to talk in a hoarse whisper—when he spoke at all.

The coyote had climbed up the ladder first, followed by a young couple and their two small daughters. Eleven other men, ranging from their late teens to well past fifty, rounded out the troupe. Each had paid two thousand U.S. dollars for the privilege of using the tunnel. All had agreed to be blindfolded before they went out to meet the waiting truck so as not to be able to inform on the tunnel’s location if detained.

Coyotes—also known as polleros or chicken herders—took a great many risks, but the return was good. Sixteen “chickens” through the tunnel brought thirty-two thousand dollars for two hours’ work. False documents, transportation within the United States, safe houses—those all cost extra.

“How long?” the mother of the little girls asked, spreading a cloth over a dusty bale of straw so her children could sit down and share an orange and some water.

“We just wait.” The coyote shrugged. “The truck will get here when he gets here.” He was a skinny, sunken-chested man, nervous and bouncy as if his neck were set on a spring. Going by the name of El Flaco, he was said to have a connection with the notorious Zetas Cartel—former paramilitaries from the Mexican Special Forces who’d decided protection rackets and narcotics trafficking were preferable to military discipline. Like the Sinaloa and other cartels, Zetas used tunnels to move drugs into Texas and guns back to Mexico. These same tunnels came in handy for smuggling illegal immigrants.

The Quiet One sat on the ground, leaning against a large wooden crate that lay on its side. A sliver of metal stuck out of the lid, so he slouched to keep it from poking him in the back. Still, he didn’t know how long they’d be there and it was preferable to leaning against nothing.

One of the little girls offered him a piece of her orange.

He took it with a smile. She couldn’t have been over six.

“What is your name?” she asked with the audacity peculiar to small children.

“Pablo,” the Quiet One said. “What is your name?”

“Beatrice,” the little girl said. “You talk funny. Where are you from?”

“Beatrice!” The girl’s father clapped his hands. “Stop bothering him.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

Pablo waved him away. “It is fine. I’m sure I do sound odd to her. I went to school in Italy.”

“That explains the accent,” the man’s wife said, nodding to her husband as she peeled another orange. “I told you so.”

Pablo smiled and closed his eyes. Inside, his stomach churned. Was his accent really so noticeable that he could be undone by a small child and a witless woman? The squeal of a truck grinding to a halt outside roused him from his worries. So far, the journey had been dull and he hoped it stayed that way.

El Flaco climbed to his feet with a groan at the sound of the truck doors. He motioned for everyone else to stay put until he went outside to talk to his contact.

Before he took a step the barn door swung open and a man in a dark green uniform stepped inside pointing his pistol.

“Mierda!” Flaco turned to run but found a second Border Patrol officer waving at him from the back door. He hung his head in defeat.

Pablo was astounded to find that the arrest team consisted of only three Patrol agents—an older man with graying hair, a Hispanic man whose brand-new uniform screamed “rookie,” and a thick-hipped woman with frizzy blond hair. Seventeen against three seemed like bad odds. If it had not been for the trainee, he suspected there would have only been two of them.

The senior agent and the woman provided cover while the rookie acted as contact officer and went from person to person applying plastic zip cuffs behind their backs, then giving each a quick pat-down for weapons. The rookie brightened when he found Flaco’s pistol and passed it back to the female agent. The coyote’s head bobbed back and forth, alternately praying and cursing under his breath. Once searched, each prisoner was made to sit back down.

Pablo kept his face passive, but his mind raced to find a way out. Too much depended on his freedom of movement. Going into custody was out of the question. Leaning back against his crate, he began to work his restraints against the sharp metal shard that had poked him in the back earlier.

The senior agent holstered his sidearm and took off his green ball cap to run his hand through his silver hair. He nodded at the rookie. “I’ll call in for a bus. Cardenas, you and Stanton start getting names now. It’ll speed up the processing back at sector.”

The plastic flex cuffs broke, freeing Pablo’s hands moments before the female agent worked her way around the barn to him. She stopped directly in front of him, peering down across a small spiral notebook. She tilted her frizzy head and blinked large eyes as if seeing him for the first time.

“What is your name?” she asked in excellent Spanish.

“Pablo Mendoza,” he whispered, keeping his eyes wide and passive as he took note of her sidearm and the retaining strap on her holster. He’d watched her from the moment the rookie handed her Flaco’s pistol and knew it was still stuck behind her back in the waistband of her trousers.

“Where were you born?”

“In a village near Bogotá.” Pablo told the same plausible lie he gave everyone. Who in their right mind would admit to being from a country known for drug production and deadly cartels? Incriminating lies were so much easier to swallow.

“Colombia,” she said to herself, making a note beside his name in spiral notebook. “OTM.”

She was a tall woman, and her hips would provide her with a low center of gravity. Seated as he was, Pablo would need her off balance for his plan to work, even if his hands were free.

“Will they send me back to Bogotá?” he whispered, stuttering a bit as if he was frightened.

“Pardon?” She stooped, bending closer so she could hear him.

Pablo caught the woman’s legs between his own, clamping down like a vise. Locking his ankles, he rolled sideways, throwing his full weight against the startled agent. Already off balance, she toppled easily, landing flat on her face in the dust with a sickening thud.

Pablo was on her in an instant, straddling her back as if she was a horse. He grabbed a fistful of frizzed blond hair with his left hand, brutally pounding her head against the ground. His right hand went for the H&K pistol in her holster. He’d reasoned that as a law enforcement officer her sidearm would be in better working order than Flaco’s rusted thing. In this situation, he could not afford a single malfunction.

Stunned, the female agent put up little resistance and her H&K slid easily from her holster with a satisfying snick. He shot her once in the back of the head, not because she was an immediate threat but because he couldn’t shoot accurately at the others with her bucking and thrashing beneath him. The rookie was closest so he got the next two rounds, one in the vest, then a follow-up to the neck. Pablo spun immediately, throwing rounds at the senior agent who’d already dropped his cell phone and drawn his weapon. The agent fired as he fell, but the rounds went high and wide. Pablo shot again, striking him high in the ribs. The round hit his vest, but blunt trauma caused him to drop his pistol. Now Pablo had time to take careful aim and finished him with a shot to the head.

Flaco bounced on the floor, jerking against his bonds. His face a twisted shout, his mouth moved, but no sounds came out. The rest of the group had fallen to the dirt at the first sign of shooting, becoming the smallest targets possible. Little Beatrice and her sister whimpered next to their parents.

The coyote found his voice as Pablo kicked the pistols away from the dead Border Patrol agents.

“What have you done, señor?” Flaco whispered. “The Americans will hunt us down like dogs.”

Pablo raised a wary eyebrow. “Our contract was for you to get me into the United States safely with no law enforcement involvement.” He retrieved Flaco’s pistol, then rolled the dead woman before using it to shoot her once in the forehead.

Little Beatrice flinched at the shot and buried her face in her mother’s lap.

Flaco’s mouth hung open as Pablo’s plan began to dawn on him.

“So,” he said, nodding frantically. “You shoot them with my gun, then kill me with one of theirs to make it look like a gunfight.”

Pablo grinned. “You are smarter than I first believed,” he said.

“You should reconsider,” the coyote said. “If you do this thing, my people will come looking for you. They are very cruel and powerful.”

“Your people?” The Quiet One smirked. “You have no idea who I am.”

Flaco’s eyes jumped from person to person around the dark confines of the barn. “But what of all the witnesses, señor? Surely you would not kill them all. Even the little children?”

“Some things are too important for sentiment,” the Quiet One said, inhaling quickly through his nose to steel his resolve. “It is best I begin at once.” He retrieved the rookie agent’s pistol and a second thirteen-round magazine from the dead man’s belt. He had little time, but plenty of ammunition.

The idiots just sat there, trussed up like lambs for the slaughter, blinking stupidly.

Ibrahim Nazif, a Yemeni citizen educated from the age of fourteen at an al-Qaeda camp in Paraguay’s lawless Triple Frontier, smiled. He thought of what the blond agent had noted about him in her book. “OTM,” he chuckled to himself as he shot Flaco in the back of his bobbing neck and continued down the line, stopping only long enough to look each victim in the eye as he pulled the trigger.

OTM—other than Mexican indeed.