Edge of Battle

pursuit from a California National Guard patrol whose last known position was only two kilometers from the Watchdog Project’s camp.

That proved the National Guard’s duplicity in this horrible action, Major Azueta thought: there was no way they would not know what the Watchdogs had done. Azueta knew the National Guard was out there to watch the Watchdogs as well as look for migrants. That made it much easier for him to issue the order to proceed across the border. When the last patrol unit was in position, Azueta ordered Salinas to go.

“We go,” Salinas said to his men. “Now listen to me carefully. Our mission is to rescue as many of our people as we can. We are not here to engage the Watchdogs or the California National Guard except as necessary to accomplish our mission.” He touched Castillo’s sleeve. “Specifically, we are not here for revenge, Master Sergeant, is that clear?”

“Entendido, Teniente.”

“We go in, rescue the woman and as many men as we can, and get out, with a minimum of bloodshed,” Salinas went on. “Fire only if fired upon, understood? We have watched these people for days: most of them are old and frail, and they will have been outdoors all night and are probably sleepy and cold. We use that to our advantage. Be smart, be safe. Paseo rapido y duro, amigos. Mount up.”

On Master Sergeant Castillo’s suggestion, the two Humvees went in with headlights shuttered, at full speed, and with an American flag attached to their radio antenna. They angled in from the east, trying to avoid the last known location of the Watchdog’s lookouts and to put the rising sun at their backs to screen themselves, but it was almost dawn so they had no more time to be stealthy. Three hundred meters from the camp, they dropped off two soldiers, who would proceed in on foot to set up an overlook position and warn of any responders. At the last moment, Salinas ordered a third Humvee to drive north with only the driver on board to pick up as many captives as it could hold, and the fourth Humvee was standing by with soldiers ready to repel any pursuers.

Just thirty meters from the camp, they spotted the first lookout—he appeared to be an older man in cold- weather camouflaged hunting gear, lying on an aluminum and vinyl-webbed beach lounge chair, with a thermos of coffee beside him, a monocular night vision device hanging from a lanyard around his neck, and a walkie-talkie on a strap around the arm of the lounge chair. The man looked up, tipped his hat back to get a better look, then appeared to wave as the Humvee raced past. Salinas waved to the man, then ordered Castillo to radio his position to the dismounts. “One lookout, no weapon observed. Avoid him if you can.”

They encountered a group of ten or eleven migrants just a few meters farther, sitting and lying on the cold desert ground about ten meters outside the large eight-person tent that was the American Watchdog Project’s base camp. Salinas pulled up between the migrants and the tent. The men slowly shuffled to their feet as if they were drugged or injured, some helping others up. “Vamos, amigos,” Castillo said. He radioed for the third Humvee to come in, then quickly assessed the men. He picked two of the healthiest-looking ones. “There is one lookout down the road—secure him and make sure he doesn’t report in.”

“?Quienes son usted, senor?”

“Master Sergeant Castillo, Army of the United Mexican States,” Castillo replied. “We’re here to take you home.” The men stood around, looking at each other in confusion. Castillo motioned to his Humvee. “Put your injured inside—the rest will have to ride outside the vehicle. We have more vehicles on the way. Where’s the woman?” The migrant pointed at the tent, his finger shaking, and Castillo jabbed a finger at the tent.

Lieutenant Salinas led the way, his M-16 rifle at the ready. They took only a few steps before they heard screams coming from inside. Castillo bolted for the front of the tent before Salinas could tell him to wait. Castillo stooped down low, then using the muzzle of his M-16, he opened one of the door flaps. He saw four men standing around a camp table, one man on a stool in front of the table…and a woman lying on her back on the table, her dress pulled up around her neck, screaming in agony as the men watched. Two battery-powered lanterns brightly illuminated the scene. Most all of them wore camouflage gear, with a few sporting bright orange hunter’s vests. The man on the stool had close-cropped hair, while the others had longer hair and beards. Some were grimacing, but a few were smiling and joking with one another despite the poor woman’s screams…

…and at that moment, one of the bearded men looked up and noticed Castillo kneeling in the doorway with his M-16 aimed at him. “Hey!” the guy shouted. What the fuck? Who the hell are you?”

Something exploded in the veteran Mexican soldier’s brain. “?Muerte a America!” he shouted, and he started pulling the trigger. He surprised himself at how calmly he operated: with incredible control and accuracy, he picked off the four standing men. His targets were very close—centimeters away, close enough for the muzzle flash to hit the closer targets—but he kept himself steady, his weapon on single-shot, and his breathing perfectly measured.

Four targets, four trigger pulls, four down.

“?Pare el tirar! Cease fire! Cease fire!” Salinas shouted. He threw open the tent flaps and swept the interior with his .45 caliber automatic, finally aiming at the only American alive inside. The soldier—a U.S. Army officer—that had been seated in front of the table had curled up into a ball and dropped under the table when the shots rang out, cowering in fear from the muzzle blasts thundering around him. Now he was on his back halfway under the table, his knees folded up against his obese belly, his hands covering his ears, his eyes behind his thick horn-rimmed spectacles bugging out wider than Salinas had ever seen before. His entire body was trembling so bad that his teeth rattled…

…and to Salinas’s horror, he noticed that the soldier’s hands and the front of his fatigues were covered with blood. Blood dripped from the table, huge pools of blood were on the floor—it was the most horrendous sight he had ever seen.

“Who…who are you?” the soldier screamed, his voice screeching and uncontrolled. Through the smell of cordite hanging thickly in the air, Salinas could smell feces and urine—the smell of fear, the smell when the guilty knew they were about to meet their just punishment.

“Su repartidor,” Salinas said. “Her avenger.” He pulled the trigger on his .45 Colt and kept on pulling until the magazine was empty.

“Sir.” Salinas couldn’t hear anything through the roaring of blood pounding in his ears for several moments. “Sir.” Salinas looked up at Master Sergeant Castillo, who motioned at the woman on the table. After several long moments, Salinas holstered his pistol and looked…and his throat instantly turned dry as the desert, and his mouth dropped open in complete shock. “Mi Dios, Teniente…!”

“Get…get everyone loaded up and out of here, now,” Salinas ordered. “Get some men in here and help her up, carefully.” He turned to the sergeant major and said, “Have the dismounts meet up here on the double.” Their eyes locked, and Castillo nodded, signifying that he understood the unspoken orders.

Castillo directed four men to help the women into his Humvee, then issued orders to the dismounts when they came over to meet up with the team minutes later. Salinas slipped behind the wheel of the Humvee, waiting for the camp to be evacuated. Two shots rang out from outside the tent, but Salinas was too stunned, too horrified to notice. Within minutes, the Mexican patrols were on their way, and less than five minutes later, they were safely across the border with their precious cargo.

FARM TO MARKET (FM) ROAD 293,

JUST WEST OF PANHANDLE, TEXAS

LATER THAT NIGHT

“Rise and shine, Major.”

Jason Richter found his vision blurry, his eyelids oily, his throat dry as dust. Cold rough hands grasped his shirt and pulled him to a sitting position, which made his head spin, then throb with pain. He ran the backs of his hands across his eyes to clear the grit and dirt away, then blinked to try to focus his eyes. When he could see again…

…he was looking right into the face of Yegor Zakharov himself. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Major. I trust you had a good nap.”

“Screw you, Zakharov,” Jason murmured. He could tell he was in a moving vehicle—it looked like a passenger