out the other address.”
“We’re on their radar now,” Kelly said. “Watch my back and we’ll be fine.”
Rodriguez muttered something about being dumped on the other side of the border, but she ignored him. Crooked or not, she doubted any cop would risk two dead FBI agents turning up on their watch. For all Rowe knew, their boss had their exact coordinates.
Kelly placed her hands on the loading dock and hauled herself up. Rodriguez muttered something about his injuries, and Jim went to unlock the side door. While she waited, Kelly let her eyes adjust to the dark. The inside was cavernous, large enough to house a 747. The entire room was empty save for a circle of chairs. Two small Quonset huts were hunkered down against the far wall.
“Offices,” Jim said, following her gaze.
“So only you and your brother use this place?” she asked.
“Rent was cheap,” Jim said, following her as she crossed the warehouse floor.
“Lots of empty places around here,” Rowe explained.
“You know the owners?”
Jim shrugged again. His head was tilted forward, hat shielding his eyes. Kelly reached the first office. The walls were lined with posters of nude centerfolds. A tire calendar displayed a topless woman perched on a stack of whitewalls. No desk, just a few bare cots on the floor. Kelly wrinkled her nose. The scent of urine was unmistakable.
“We sleep here sometimes,” Jim offered up lamely.
“Piss here, too?” Rodriguez asked.
Kelly could hear the tension in his voice, knew he was thinking the same thing she was. Whoever had slept here, it wasn’t the cowboys. “Where’s your brother?” she asked.
“Other office, doing some paperwork,” Jim said. “I came out to see what Luke wanted.”
Rowe stiffened. “So you two are friendly,” Kelly noted.
Rowe shrugged. “Part of my regular rounds.”
Kelly nodded as if that was the most natural thing in the world and crossed to the opposite office. The door opened before she reached it, blocked by the other cowboy. Not much of a family resemblance, she thought to herself. This guy was larger, thicker through the shoulders. He still wore his hat.
“Agent Kelly Jones,” she said, extending a hand.
He shook it reluctantly. “Jethro Henderson.”
“Mind if I take a peek?” she asked.
Jethro shrugged and stepped aside, tucking his hands in his pockets. The other hut was similar to the first, with the exception of the mattresses. Posters on the walls, a battered desk.
“Not a lot of tools,” she commented.
“Keep most of ’em in the truck,” he said warily.
Rowe stood at her shoulder. “So looks like you’re about done here,” he said with finality.
“Soon as I check the truck,” Kelly replied firmly.
Something passed between Jethro and Rowe. Kelly thought she caught a small nod, but couldn’t be sure.
“That okay by you, Jethro?” Rowe said slowly.
“Feel free.” Jethro tossed her a set of keys.
Kelly unlocked the back of the truck and lifted the gate, then struggled to lower the rear hatch. She flushed slightly, feeling amused eyes on her back as it slammed down harder than she’d intended. She reached forward, tugging the duffel bag toward her. It was heavy and only moved a few inches.
“Give you a hand with that?” Jethro asked, appearing at her elbow.
She waved him off. “I got it.” She unzipped the bag and opened it. Inside was a stack of tools. She sifted through to see if anything was hidden underneath, but only encountered more metal. Kelly withdrew a pair of tongs and held them up. “What’s a contractor doing with tongs?”
Jethro tensed, but after a moment let out a small laugh and said, “You got us. After a long day, we throw a barbecue.” He held out his wrists. “Want to cuff me now?”
Rowe laughed with him. Kelly’s eyes narrowed. “Thanks, I’ll wait.”
“Just pulling your leg, ma’am,” Jethro said, still smirking. “No need to get all riled.”
Rowe followed them back to the car. The other cop watched from under the brim of his hat as they passed. Rowe opened Kelly’s car door, then shut it behind her.
“Thanks for the assistance, officer.”
Rowe nodded, watching as they pulled away. Kelly drove in a slow circle around the parked police car, heading for the interstate a few blocks away.
Rodriguez shifted in his seat, clearly irritated. “What the hell was that?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t ask them about the corporation. Or what the mattresses were for.”
“I’m thinking they weren’t going to tell us. Not even if we asked nicely.”
“Still-”
“And we’re out of our jurisdiction, in the middle of nowhere.” Kelly gestured to the bleak surroundings with one arm. “Four of them, two of us.”
“But something is going on there.”
“Definitely.” Kelly steered onto the on-ramp. “The question is, what?”
“Coyotes, maybe, smuggling people in? Someone was using those mattresses.” Rodriguez winced and adjusted the seat belt over his bruised ribs. “We’re close to the border.”
“Maybe. But then their affiliation with Laredo P.D. doesn’t make sense.”
Rodriguez peered out the window, thinking. “Plus that doesn’t jibe with their poster.”
“What, all the pinups?” Kelly rolled her eyes. “That seemed pretty typical.”
“Not those, the one in Jethro’s office. The Statue of Liberty behind barbed wire.”
“Didn’t see it.”
“I recognized it. Texas Minutemen.”
“One of the vigilante border patrol groups?”
“They would say, ‘True Americans.’” Rodriguez smirked.
“So why would they be keeping people in the warehouse?” Kelly furrowed her brow. “And what’s the link to the skinheads from the bar?”
Rodriguez shrugged. “Common interests? Hate groups have doubled in membership in the last decade. They gave a symposium on it at the Academy last year. Internet makes it easier for them to link up with each other, and immigration has been a rallying cry.” He shook a fist, saying, “Send them back!”
Kelly cocked her head at him. “You know the strange thing? I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.”
“Why, because I’m Mexican?”
“Yes.” She pulled into the high-speed lane to pass a slow moving truck. After a minute she added, “Emilio and his grandmother seemed to bother you.”
“That’s because they’re part of the problem, getting involved with a gang that ruins lives and communities. And then they refuse to report a crime or assist an investigation. Pisses me off.”
“You can hardly blame them, if talking ends up getting them deported.”
“Yeah. But it’s not exactly what they teach in Citizenship 101.” Rodriguez paused, examining a scab on his knuckle before continuing. “Hey, I’m all for reform. Too many illegals die each year trying to make that border crossing.”
“So you support building a fence?”
“I would if I thought that would work. But anyone who thinks a Mexican can’t handle a ladder hasn’t hired a paint crew lately.”
Kelly tried to figure out how to frame the next question. In conversations like this she was always afraid of accidentally saying something that might be perceived as racist. Eggshell territory. “But you’re second generation, right?”
Rodriguez’s knuckle was bleeding again. He tucked it in his mouth and spoke around it. “You’re thinking I’m a hypocrite for saying they should reform immigration now, after my family got in. But it’s different. In the eighties, there were less than two hundred thousand illegals entering the U.S. every year. Now there are closer to a million,
