Devil's Run (28 page)

“How did they build this
without activating the sensors?”

“We build the tunnel
while they build the fence.” He grinned. “When the sensors go in, it is too
late; our tunnel is already here.”

As one of the
coyotes
scrambled down the ladder, Joaquin reached for one of the plywood planks and
indicated I should get one as well. It was heavier than I expected and turned
out to be a crude dolly. Bolted on the bottom were six pairs of polyurethane
roller blade wheels, spaced at intervals on the long edges, three pairs to a
side. The wheels in each pair were mounted on a wedge of metal, so they angled
towards each other.

Joaquin picked
up a short piece of nylon line that had snap hooks at each end. He attached it
to an eye bolt on the back of his dolly and tossed it to me, indicating I
should clip it to the bolt on the front of mine. Behind me, the
coyote
produced a garden hose reel wrapped with several hundred feet of thin line. The
free end of this coil was also equipped with a snap hook, which he connected to
the eye bolt on the back of my dolly. He nodded to Joaquin, who placed his
board on the tracks and lay down on it, floating gently forward a few feet.

I moved to the head of
the track, which was nothing more than two PVC pipes joined with a U-shaped
connector. Joaquin slid forward a few more feet to give me room. I set the
dolly on the track and the wheels fit perfectly. The PVC piping sank into the
soil a little when I climbed on, but the skate wheels rode on top and the
contraption moved smoothly. I held myself in place and waited for a signal.

The
coyote
was crouched by the ventilator, pumping the mechanism, while looking up towards
the surface. When he got the signal to go, he waved his light. Joaquin begin to
move and the line connecting us grew taut. I started forward, grabbing at the
dirt with my hands, speeding up or slowing down as needed to maintain proper
distance.

Thirty yards on, the
earth above shook gently. Veils of fine sand filtered down through the slats,
the particles purplish in the red light. Then the rumbling receded and silence
engulfed us. We rolled on in our bubble of red light.

After two minutes,
Joaquin waved his light. I lifted my hands and let the dolly slow itself.
Joaquin came to a stop. My dolly rolled up behind him and gently touched his
feet.

He scrambled forward,
pulling his dolly after him. I followed into a near duplicate of the space at
the Mexican end. Waiting for us was one man seated on two military ammo cans, a
Ruger Mini 30 in his lap. He wore a full set of desert camouflage BDUs and a
matching boonie hat. A red lightstick hung around his neck. His cheek bulged
from a wad of chewing tobacco.

“You’re late,” he said
to Joaquin. He looked me over. “You the package?”

It was easy to guess
whose husband he was. “Yes.”

“Okay. I’m Murphy. Do
what I say and we’ll be all right.” He leaned forward to peer closely at my
face. “I’m led to believe you’re an American.”

“This is true.”

Murphy continued to
stare. After a careful examination he said, “Well, I won’t ask why. Just so
long as you ain’t some rag head bringing a bomb in here.”

He paused to spit in the
dirt before reaching back and producing a canvas messenger bag. From it he
pulled a dark baseball cap with an American flag stitched to the front. He
handed it to me.

“Congratulations. You’re
now a Minute Man.”

“Goody,” I said, putting
the cap on.

“What’s your name?”

“David Somerset.”

“Well, if anyone asks,
you’re my cousin Dave from back east, out to do his part for the cause.” He
looked at his watch. “The sweeper’s coming by in seven minutes.”

“Sweeper?” I said.

He ignored me and spoke
to Joaquin. “You give my wife the money?”

“
Sí
.”

“Gracee-ass,” said
Murphy. “Here’s your ammo. About two day’s worth at the rate you boys are
going.”

Joaquin placed the ammo
cans on my dolly and turned back to Murphy.

“I have further
instructions for you,” he said, fishing another envelope out of his shirt and
handing it over.

“What’s this for?”

“You are to,”
Joaquin said, then stopped and looked at me. “
Señor
Craig, this is not
for your ears.”

I crawled over to the
other side of the space. Joaquin spoke quickly to Murphy, who nodded slowly, spit
some tobacco, and then took the offered envelope. He ran his thumb over the
contents. When he was finished counting, he stuffed the envelope in his shirt.

“Always a pleasure doing
business with you.”

Joaquin crawled over
beside me.

“
Señor
Craig,” he said, his voice a low whisper, “it is my wish to kill you now, but
El Patron said I am not to harm you and I will obey him.”

I decided this was not
the time for a snappy comeback. Joaquin turned and crawled to the track without
a backward glance. He lay down on his dolly and rested his chin on folded arms.
Moments later, he and the ammo cans disappeared into the tunnel as the coyote
on the other side reeled him back across.

“Must mean the sweeper
is near,” said Murphy. He looked at his watch, then back at me. “Hot blooded
fellers, these Mexicans. What you do to piss him off?”

“I took his gun away.”

In the dim red light I
saw respect appear on his face. “I’d a liked to see that,” he said.

“Sounds more interesting
than it was.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” He
cocked his head and held up a hand, with the air of a man listening intently.
“They’re coming.”

After a moment, I felt
more than heard a heavy vehicle approaching.

“What is a sweeper?”

“From the foot of the
wall on this side, to the vehicle path is about twenty feet of fine sand.
Anybody crosses that, they leave footprints.”

“Couldn’t they just
sweep them away?”

He shook his head.
“That’s where the sweeper comes in. Makes a pattern. It looks like one of them
Jap gardens. You know what I’m talking about?”

“
Karesansui
?”

“I don’t know the
feller’s name, but you know, when they rake the sand real pretty. Anyway, they
got a truck with a fancy rake hanging off the back, covers the full twenty
feet. They sweep it every few hours. Check the sand on each trip, and then by
plane first thing in the morning to see if anyone got across.”

Sometimes, the simple
low-tech things are the best, like a stretch of sand. Or a tunnel.

“Got a Winchester here
for ya.” Murphy picked up a lever action rifle I hadn’t seen. “No bullets. I
don’t know ya, so I can’t trust ya, but if the Border Patrol stops us it’s best
to be armed. They’d be real suspicious of any white man out here at night
without a weapon of some kind.”

I worked the action. It
was indeed empty.

“You really a Minute
Man?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “but I
ain’t real religious about it. It helps me explain what I’m about when I’m out
here at night working my side business.”

“The gun running? It
doesn’t bother you? All the violence over there?”

“It surely does.
And I don’t want it comin’ here, anymore than it already has. With luck,
they’ll wipe themselves out and leave us in peace.” He spit and then grinned at
me with stained teeth. “Besides, a man’s gotta eat, don’t he? By the way,
seeing as I’m doing you a favor, I’ll expect you’ll be discreet about that.
These Minute Men guys got sticks up their asses. Wouldn’t appreciate my helping
our
compadres
.”

The sound of the sweeper
faded.

“Okay, up ya go. Quiet.”

I climbed the ladder to
an upper chamber and waited for Murphy. Once he was up, he went to what I
assumed was the door and disappeared into another chamber. I entered in time to
see him lower himself through a hole in the floor. I followed him down into a
concrete pipe so large I could almost stand up straight.

“What is this?” I said.

“Storm drain. This way.”

We walked about a
hundred feet until we neared the mouth of the pipe, vaguely visible as a dim
circle in the blackness ahead. Murphy stopped about twenty feet away.

“Gimmee the light,” he
said.

I handed him the light
stick. He put it on the floor along with his and covered them both with a
burlap sack. Then we walked to the entrance, which was halfway up the wall of
concrete culvert wide enough to be used as a road. We dropped the four feet or
so to the bottom and began walking north. Every hundred feet or so Murphy would
stop and listen carefully for a full minute. I heard nothing during these
pauses and neither did he. Each time he simply began walking again. The seventh
time he stopped for a longer period. We stood motionless for three or four
minutes, after which he signaled me to come up beside him.

“What is it?” I said.

“Not sure. We leave the
drain here and my spidey sense is tingling. I’m gonna need you to take point.”

“Why? I have no idea
where I’m going.”

He pointed at a knotted
rope on the side of the culvert. “Just climb up and follow the gully. It isn’t
far to my jeep. I just wanna be sure we ain’t being followed.”

I did as he said. Indeed
there was the dark mouth of a gully directly ahead. I looked down at Murphy.

“Go on,” he said.

Holding the useless
rifle at my side, I entered the arroyo, which turned out to be just a tributary
of a wider, deeper gully. True to Murphy’s word, in less than two hundred yards
I found the jeep. I laid the rifle on the hood and sat down on the bumper to
wait. A light breeze wandered by, smelling faintly of horses, but the
surrounding desert remained quiet and peaceful.

Five minutes later
Murphy appeared, moving slowly, still checking behind him after every five or
six steps.

“Anything?” I said.

He shook his head.
“Nothing that I could see.” He patted his pocket. “Damn. Check if I left the
key in the ignition, will ya? I’ll keep watch.”

I went around the
driver’s side. Bracing myself on the steering wheel, I leaned in and checked
the ignition. No key.

“Nothing here,” I said.

“Oh, shit, here they
are. Wrong pocket. Go ahead and get in. Don’t forget the rifle.”

I walked around the
front of the jeep, picking up the Winchester as I went.

“Stop,” said Murphy. I
turned to find him pointing the Mini-30 at my stomach.

“There a problem?”

“For you, maybe.”

“You going to shoot me?”

“Looks that way, don’t
it? Your friend back there?” He patted his shirt. “He gave me three grand to
ice you.”

“If it’s a question of
money.”

“Could be. Whaddya got?”

“Five thousand. Cash.”

“Where?”

“Money belt.”

He thought about it a
few moments, then said, “Left hand only. And very, very slowly.”

I got my shirt open and
dug in for the belt. It was awkward, using only one hand, but finally I got it
unhooked and drew it slowly out.

“Toss it on the jeep.”

I did as was told. The
belt landed on the hood with a metallic thump.

“Thank you,” said
Murphy, but the rifle barrel didn’t shift.

“I can get more.”

“Bird in the hand.
Besides, you know too much about me, about the tunnel, my little side
business.”

Talking gunmen are
actually a good thing. First, they give you time to think. Second, it is very
difficult to pull the trigger on a weapon while you are talking. If you have to
make a move on someone holding you at gunpoint, it is best to do it while they
are droning on about how they hold the upper hand. The part of the brain doing
the talking wants to finish before the part that wants to pull the trigger gets
its way. This phenomenon only buys microseconds to be sure, but sometimes that’s
enough. My problem was Murphy was at least thirty feet away and pointing his
gun directly at my midsection.

“Why would I talk?” I
said, taking a step towards him.

“Stop” he said, pulling
the rifle deeper into his shoulder. “I like you right where you are.”

“Look, we both work for
Sandoval.”

“I work for me. And I
figure an American working for that scumbag, who has to sneak into his own
country, must be a pretty bad dude. I’m probably doing the world a favor.” He
waggled the barrel of the Ruger up and down a little. “Now, you just do me a
favor and raise up that Winchester.”

I knew what he was up
to. In the remote event my body was ever found and linked to him, modern
forensics would prove I was pointing the rifle at him. He would say he found me
stealing his jeep and when he told me to stop I drew down on him, a clear case
of self-defense. As for why he hid the body, “I panicked, your Honor.”

“I can make this painful
or painless,” he said, “it’s up to you. I’ll put one in your gut, let you roll
around for a few minutes thinking about it. Do like I say, and it’s one to the
head. You won’t feel a thing.”

“Alright, alright,” I
said. Slowly, I brought the barrel of the Winchester up, pointing in his
direction, holding it at my waist.

“All the way up, to the
shoulder, please.”

I brought it up to about
chest level and stopped.

“Higher than that, or
I’m really going to-.”

I threw myself backwards
and to the side the moment he began to speak. He stopped talking and began
firing, the first round passing so close to my head I felt the wind. I hit the
ground already rolling towards the jeep. He continued firing, but he was
anxious and jerking the trigger. Chunks of earth sprayed against me, but I made
it under the jeep without being hit. On my back, I moved to the driver’s side
by digging my heels in the sand and clawing at the underside with my hands.
There was a loud pop and hissing as he shot out the right front tire, then the
left, trying to pin me beneath the chassis.