Devil's Run (27 page)

 
“Cory? Cory Canfield is Ernesto
Rojas’s granddaughter?”

“
Sí
.
Verdugo Industries was started with Rojas money by her father, who called
himself Mañuel Verdugo, although that is not the name he was born with.” He
jabbed the cigar in my direction. “This tale of his courageous escape from
Mariel, his Yankee success story, is mostly fantasy. He was a trusted
lieutenant and already married to Rojas’s daughter when that old bandit
arranged for him to slip into your country among the
Marielistas
, to
obtain a new identity and establish himself in business.”

“A sleeper.”

“I do not know what this
means.” He dismissed my comment with a wave of the cigar. “It is useful in this
work to invest in legitimate businesses for various reasons. The construction
business was a very easy way to launder money in those days, before your
banking laws changed.”

“He’s dead, though. In a
plane crash.”

“Really? How certain are
you?”

“No one has seen or
heard from the man in five years.”

“He could have arranged
it. If he felt threatened.”

“And is using his
daughter as a front?”

“He or, if he is dead,
someone else.”

“I’ve read nothing about
Verdugo being suspected of criminal behavior.”

“And yet you are sent to
your death by a Verdugo lawyer, from a Verdugo resort, on a Verdugo aircraft,
to a Verdugo airstrip. This is coincidence?”

“Are you sure this
attempt on your life isn’t over, how shall I put this, some business
disagreement with one of your Colombian associates?”

His eyes narrowed. “You
mean did I cheat them?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“I am honest in my
business dealings. There was no cheating.” He shook his head, as if puzzled.
“You know my business. There are partnerships. Uneasy partnerships, but
sustainable, so long as they remain profitable. Are there tensions? Yes, and
blood is sometimes spilled, but that is how disagreements among men are
settled. But this, this is to the death. I am convinced the Rojas clan is
behind this war. They have tricked us into fighting one another.”

“Why?”

“They are the weakest
dog,” he said, in a tone that implied I was an idiot.

“Meaning?”

“When you are the
weakest dog,” said Sandoval, “you win by getting the other dogs to fight each
other. Then, when your enemies are dead or damaged, you strike. You say that
the Rojas clan is no longer a power in this business.” He stabbed the air
several times with the cigar. “I say, behold the weakest dog.”

“If that’s true, what is
their goal? Take over the trade just in time for the border to be closed?
Canfield is the driving force behind sealing the border, and he’s in bed with
Verdugo. Literally. It makes no sense.”

“In our culture,
Señor
Craig, profit is not the only motivator. Memories are long and the
desire to avenge runs deep. Perhaps blood feud is behind this.”

“But, wouldn’t their
beef be with the Colombian cartels?”

“Beef?”

“Their problem, their
issue. It was the Columbians who destroyed their clan.”

He looked down and said
nothing.

“You helped bring him
down,” I said.

“In a way. You know the
story of Rojas’ fall?”

“Yes, it was right after
I joined Customs. He relied too heavily on water routes, his fleet of
freighters and submarines. A combined operation cracked down on him.”

“
Sí
, the
Coast Guard and DEA,” he said, pointing at me, “and your Customs people all
targeted these water routes, while your military worked with the Columbian Army
to hunt him. By this time, his remaining competitors had already begun moving
their product through México. He sought to save his operation by imitating
them, but they sensed weakness and did not welcome him. Some actively contributed
intelligence to your government and that of Colombia. Others, like myself,
merely refused to work with him.”

“And Rojas was shot dead
by the Columbian secret police. So, their feud is with everyone.”

“
Sí
.”

“I still don’t see it,” I
said. “I don’t care how much honor means to someone, you don’t expend this much
effort just for revenge. Whoever is behind this must want to dominate the
trade, but if it is Verdugo, their support for the border fence makes no sense.
It can only hurt the business.”

 “
Sí
.”
He puffed on the cigar. “They cannot hope to deliver a fraction of what we
bring in if it comes by sea or by air. There is no organization here to replace
us, and it would take years to build one. They are, what is the saying?” He
smiled. “To shoot one’s own foot? But, sometimes this is the nature of family
honor.”

The van turned sharply
to the left and, if such a thing were possible, the ride became more
uncomfortable. Even Sandoval winced with pain after a particularly sharp jolt.
He ground out his cigar on the metal floor of the van.

“We are almost there.
And now I must decide what to do with you.”

All eyes turned to me,
and there was no love in any of them.

“I believe you to be a
man of honor,” said Sandoval. “And you saved my life. I know this was not your
intent, but it is a fact.” His eyes bored into mine. “If I let you live, what
will you do?”

“If I were smart, I’d
move to Barbados and take up painting.”

He grinned. “You are not
so smart, I think.”

“I’m beginning to think
I’m not smart at all.”

Less than forty-eight
hours later, I was crouched in thick brush on the Mexican bank of the Rio
Grande, Sandoval’s man Joaquin next to me, which only increased my stress. He
was still pissed about how easily I’d disarmed him and, although Sandoval had
charged him with seeing me safely across the border, it occurred to me that
accidents do happen.

It helped that
there were witnesses, our
coyotes
, two lean and dangerous-looking
mestizos
wearing single-action revolvers in Wild West
buscadero
holsters.
Normally they would be shepherding illegal immigrants, but tonight I was their
only client. They were being well paid by Sandoval, who’d also spotted me five
grand to finance my personal mission of revenge in the hopes I would eliminate
his enemy for him.

The opposite bank was
just a dark mass of trees and brush, but the flat, bluish light of a billion
stars made the landscape beyond the river visible in some detail. Orderly
groves of pecan trees, dotted with the lights of dwellings and support buildings,
stretched north for about a mile and half, at which point a range of low,
parched-looking hills rose. Just where the ground began sloping upward, the
border fence snaked through the neat rectangles of the groves. There were no
visible breaks in this part of the fence and I vaguely recalled that this was
one of the first sections constructed, due to its proximity to Juarez, less
than forty miles away.

One of the coyotes was
slowly scanning the opposite bank with night vision goggles, but as far as I
could tell he had seen nothing. In any case, no one seemed to be in any
particular hurry, so I sat down in the dirt to wait.

Despite the tension and
the cold, it was peaceful under that endless sky. No traffic sounds, no sirens,
no jabbering idiots on cell phones, no constant parade of jet planes overhead.
The only sound was the light wind, gently rustling the vegetation. I lay back,
hands behind my head, and stared up at the stars. You live in New York, you
have no idea how many there really are. The reminder of just how small man is
in the great scheme of things was oddly comforting.

I found myself musing
about the irony of sneaking into my own country. At that moment, I felt a
kinship with the illegals who risked everything in hopes of a better life for
themselves and their children. I imagined them waiting at this same spot,
hearts pounding, the fear of discovery mingled with excitement at being so
close to their goal. Of course, some of those people probably smuggled drugs to
pay their way, and others were criminals or terrorists looking to ply their
trade in a freer, fatter society. Like most things in life, the issue was more
complicated than either side cared to admit.

The man with the NVGs
turned and whispered briefly to his companion. That man stood up and unbuckled
his gun belt, muttering a few words to Joaquin, who turned to me.

“It is time to go.”

We all removed our
shoes, socks, and pants, stuffing them into black plastic trash bags. The
coyotes hung their holsters around their necks and everyone put on flip-flops.
We’d discussed the protocol to follow when crossing: single file, twenty yards
apart. The coyote with the NVG was on point, then me. The second coyote would
bring up the rear, leaving Joaquin and his itchy trigger finger right behind me.

The leader headed down
the bank. When he was twenty yards ahead I followed. The water was cold and
initially halfway up my shin, but the current was not strong, and it was easy
to walk on the sandy bottom. When I reached the middle, where it felt as bright
as daytime, the current was stronger and the water above mid-thigh. It was a
relief when the bottom sloped upward and I entered the shadows on the American
side.

On the bank, the coyote
was already putting on his boots. He waited while I dressed. I was tying my
shoes when Joaquin splashed out of the river. The coyote tapped me on the
shoulder and I followed him into the brush. We crept along a narrow path,
almost to the edge of the bushes. Thirty feet away a dirt road paralleled the
river bank. He motioned me to crouch down and began another careful scan.

“Does the Border Patrol
use thermal imaging here?” I said.

He shook his
head briefly. “
Es demasiado caro
.”

“Yeah, it’s always about
money.”

There was a soft
rustling in the undergrowth as Joaquin joined us. Moments later the second
coyote arrived.

“
Silencio
,”
he hissed. “
Cuidado!”

He shrank back into the
undergrowth, motioning us to lay flat on the ground. I dropped prone in the
sandy soil. That’s when I heard the sound of an approaching motor.

Through the bushes I saw
the dark outline of pickup truck, cruising slowly. The driver played a powerful
spotlight on the bushes lining the riverbank. In the truck bed I could just
make out the silhouettes of two men and the distinctive barrels of AR-15
rifles. Then my face was buried in the dirt. The truck passed directly in front
of our hiding place the light dancing across us. After a minute the sound of
the motor faded.

“
Vamanos
!”

We crossed the dirt road
together, one of the coyotes using a switch to brush signs of our passage. In
the shelter of the trees, we stopped to make sure no one had observed us.

“
Quién es
?”
I said, pointing in the direction of the pickup.

“Minute men,” said
Joaquin. He spat the words.

We resumed our single
file formation and walked for at least a mile, unchallenged except for one
barking dog. It seemed as if the full court press at the border was mostly
talk, but then, through the trees, I caught glimpses of the looming border
fence, darker than the night sky, its garland of razor wire gleaming dully in
the starlight.

I was so engrossed in
the fence that I nearly bumped into my guide. He stood at the edge of a dirt
road. On the other side, where the ground began sloping up, I saw a paved
driveway marked by a mailbox and a sign that read “Trespassers will be Shot!”.

After a five minute
wait, we simply crossed the road and walked up the driveway. At the top was a
three acre compound. On one side were two post-frame steel buildings and a
small shedrow. Off by itself, at the base of the foothills, was a sprawling
ranch house, surrounded by half an acre of freshly mown lawn. The lights were
on and the sound of a television came faintly. An idyllic setting, were it not
for the jarring presence of the thirty foot border fence crossing close behind
the house.

We stopped about
one hundred feet away and waited another five minutes, listening and watching.
Another dog barked in the distance. Finally, the lead
coyote
took off
his NVG and walked casually towards the house.

“We wait here,” said
Joaquin.

The coyote walked up on
the porch and rang the bell. The door opened immediately, as if he’d been
expected. He exchanged words with someone and then waved us over.

“
Vamanos
,”
said the other
coyote
.

The house was clean and
comfortably furnished, although everything looked slightly worn. The woman
standing in the hall fit the décor. Thin, with a narrow, pinched mouth and a
sour expression, she couldn’t have been more than forty-five, but her skin was lined
and aged by the harsh Texas sun. An AR-15 with a thirty round magazine stood
against the wall beside her.

“
Donde esta
Señor
Murphy?” said Joaquin.

“He’s on the other
side,” she said, her accent that of a native Texan. “They only open the damn gate
three times a day. Let’s see the money.”

Joaquin fished an
envelope out of his jacket.

The woman gave me a
disgusted look. “This the package?”

“
Sí
,” he
said, handing her the envelope.

She counted the money
carefully. Without looking up she said, “He’s a white man. What’d he do?”

“That does not matter,”
said Joaquin. “That is why you are being paid extra.”

“It’s all here,” she
said, pushing the envelope inside the belt line of her jeans. “We better go,”
she said, glancing at her watch. “They’ll be along soon.”

“Minute men?” I said.

She looked surprised
that I could speak. “National Guard.”

“The National Guard?”

She looked at Joaquin.
“Don’t he know nothing?”

He just shook his head,
so she pointed towards the back of the house.

“National Guard patrols
this side, Border Patrol the other. There’s a road out back next to their damn
wall, right where my damn swimming pool used to be. Send two Humvees down it
every couple of hours just to make sure nobody sleeps through the night. Ain’t
protecting nobody. They know it’s every man for himself on this side, so they
go too fast to see anything.”

“What happened to your
swimming pool?”

“Government took it,
filled it in. Eminent domain they call it.”

“For the wall?” I said.
“Why there?”

“Treaty with the damn Mexicans.
Damn border fence can’t be in the damn floodplain. Guess where my back yard
is?”

“Just outside the damn
floodplain.”

“Damn right. So they run
their damn wall right through our damn property. It was either that or knock
the house down. Twelve thousand dollars is what they give us, twelve thousand
damn dollars for what used to be prime land, land been in this family for a
hundred fifty years. I couldn’t sell this house now if I wanted to. Gotta get
permission just to go into town. It’s like I don’t live in the States anymore.
Don’t I pay taxes? Ain’t I American?” She shook her head. “It ain’t right.”

“Why can’t you sell?”

“Those people come
across the river whenever they damn well please.” She was pointing at the two
coyotes, who grinned. “A body ain’t safe in their own damn house. Come home one
day, found a damn Mexican shavin’ himself in my bathroom. Police won’t come.
Too much trouble to get through the fence and they wouldn’t get here in time
anyway.” She picked up the rifle. “Gotta protect ourselves.

“So you make a little
money on the side working with smugglers.”

Her narrow jaw took a
hard set and she brushed past me. “Person’s gotta eat,” she said.

She led us around the
edges of the compound, sticking to the shadows, heading for the larger of the
steel buildings, where a faded sign proclaimed it the home of Murphy’s Perfect
Pecans. We entered through a side door. Inside there was room for four or five
trucks and a tractor. Mrs. Murphy, as I assumed her to be, led us to a big
Honda generator that was bolted to the concrete floor. Or so I thought. Mrs.
Murphy reached behind a stack of boxes and did something I could not see. She
straightened up, went to the generator, and gave it a gentle push. The heavy
machine slid easily and silently to one side, revealing a rectangular opening
reinforced with wooden planks. A ladder was bolted to one side.

“A tunnel,” I said.

“Comes in handy,” she
said.

One of the coyotes
shrugged out of his backpack and rummaged inside, producing four Caylume
chemical light sticks on lanyards.

“For light,” he
said, handing me two and indicating I should put them around my neck. He wagged
his finger and said, “Not yet. Inside.” I started into the opening, but the
coyote put a hand on my arm to stop me. “You wait for
la migra
.”

“He’s worried about the
sensors,” said Mrs. Murphy. “We’ll wait for the guard before you cross. The
damn Humvees’ll make so much vibration the sensors won’t hear you.”

Joaquin leaned over and
spoke quietly to her.

“Over here,” she said.

She led Joaquin to a
pile of pallets. Something rectangular was covered with a green tarpaulin. She
flipped the tarp off, revealing a wooden crate with rope handles at either end.
She unlatched the lid and flipped it open. I saw six AR-15 rifles, each
individually wrapped in plastic, and about a dozen thirty-round magazines
secured in groups of three with rubber bands.

“
Seis
?”
said Joaquin, giving her a dark look. “Only six?”

“They’re cracking down,”
said Mrs. Murphy, closing the lid and securing the latch. “Getting harder and
harder to move quantity. He needs to protect his sources.” She nodded towards
the coyotes. “Besides, you don’t have enough men to handle more than one box.”

Joaquin continued his
stare down, glowering at her as if his fiery eyes could make her magically produce
more weapons.

Mrs. Murphy was unfazed.
“Might want to look at your shirt.”

Joaquin glanced down and
we both saw the bright red dot of a laser on the center of his chest, wavering
gently.

“My eldest boy,” said
Mrs. Murphy, inclining her head in the general direction of the loft at the
rear of the building. “Just so things stay friendly.

Joaquin didn’t blink and
didn’t move for a long moment. The two of them just stared at each other,
neither displaying any fear.

 “Ma!” The shout
came faintly from above and behind us. “They’re coming. Five minutes.”

“You’d best be on your
way,” said Mrs. Murphy.

“
Municion
?”
said Joaquin.

“Mr. Murphy has two full
cans waiting on the other side. Bring ‘em back with you through the tunnel.”

Joaquin activated one of
his light sticks and I did the same. They were red, a good choice that would
help us regain adequate night vision by the time we reached the other side. He
went in first. I took a last look around and stepped onto the ladder. The climb
was almost twenty feet. At the bottom was a chamber big enough for a man to
stand. There was some sort of ventilation device against one wall. Propped
against the opposite one were three pieces of plywood, each about four feet
long and as wide as my shoulders. The tunnel itself was about the width of two
men and a little over a yard high. On the tunnel floor a set of white tracks
stretched into the darkness.