their bikes, Towers had called to confirm that the bikers were local sheriff’s deputies. Moore could only shake his head. American law enforcement officers were as susceptible to temptation as the Mexican local and federal authorities. When there was this much money at stake, men barely making $50,000 per year — men who could make that much in a weekend doing the cartel’s bidding — found it excruciatingly difficult to remain honest. While Moore hardly agreed with that, he understood it. And hated it.
“Let’s bust these bastards right now,” he muttered. “They take an oath …and then shit on it.”
“I’d love to,” said Ansara. “But it’s not over yet. There they go.”
The truck pulled out of the driveway and started down the street. Towers had sent over more information on the vehicle’s registration, which Moore had reviewed. The truck was registered to Roberto Guzman of 14818 Archwood Avenue, Van Nuys, California. Guzman owned a produce distribution company in Los Angeles. He’d already been brought in for questioning and claimed he didn’t know anything about his truck being used to pick up, transport, and distribute marijuana. According to him, the driver of the vehicle worked for him and had taken the truck home for the weekend to perform some minor repairs in order to “save the boss some money.” That was bullshit, of course. Guzman had been bought, his truck borrowed, his ass now in a sling for helping the cartel.
They drove for another hour, still heading south, when the truck exited the freeway and pulled into a gas station. All three men got out. They entered the convenience store, where two slipped down a back hall, presumably to use the bathroom, and the third, the driver, went over to the soda-and-beer case.
Moore instructed Ansara to park at the pump behind the truck, and within two minutes he had placed the GPS transponder beneath their bumper and was back to pumping gas into their own pickup truck. He tugged down the baseball cap he’d put on before getting out, and he kept his head low as the men returned, climbed into the truck, and pulled away.
They had redundant systems of surveillance now, and Moore felt very confident that they would not lose the truck again. They had them by video streamed from the satellite, by the driver’s cell phone, and now by Moore’s GPS transponder. If these guys escaped, Moore would retire on the spot. Then again, he’d better not make that promise. Stranger things had happened.
“They bought some Corona and limes,” said Ansara. “They’re celebrating already.”
Before Moore could answer, Ansara reached for his vibrating cell phone. “Yeah? Really? Okay. We’ll be on it. Thanks, kid …”
He looked at Moore. “My mule says he’s making a run through the new tunnel tonight, and afterward, he’s been told to stick around to do some heavier moving.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” Moore said.
“These guys are going to Calexico. I’d bet anything on that.”
“If you’re right, it’ll be dark by the time we get there. Going to hit some traffic as we get through San Bernardino.”
“Only there?” Ansara asked. “We’ll be sitting in traffic for most of the way.”
Moore sighed and glanced out the window at the cars passing them, at another pickup truck with a couple of dirt bikes lashed to the truck’s bed. He grinned to himself. If he tried riding one of those, he’d definitely kill himself.
Pedro Romero had twice tried to call his wife, Cecilia, but she had failed to answer her cell phone. Then he’d tried Blanca’s number, but his sixteen-year-old daughter did not answer her cell, either. Maria, the twelve-year-old, did not have a phone but liked to call their home land line her own. And no, she didn’t answer, and the answering machine did not pick up. Maybe they’d gone shopping? The cell-phone network was down? Romero had called them only to say he’d be late, and now he was beginning to worry.
Yet when he pulled into the driveway, his wife’s Corolla was parked on the street and the lights were on inside the house. This was very strange, indeed.
He opened the front door and shifted inside, into the entrance foyer. He called out to his wife. No answer. He moved farther down the hall and into the living room.
What he saw felt like a curved blade plunged deeply into his spine to send out bolts of white-hot pain. He could not speak. He could not breathe. He could only stand there, in shock, in sudden fear, as in the next second he shuddered and widened his eyes.
Blanca and Maria were sitting on the sofa, hands behind their backs, their mouths covered by silver duct tape. Their eyes were red, their hair disheveled. Seated beside them was his wife, she too gagged and taped. And on either side of them were two men, olive-skinned and dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, like migrant workers, although they were anything but. They had long beards and held pistols on his family.
Another man came out of the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, the bag’s string dangling from his mug. He was dressed like the others, bearded as well but a bit older. He narrowed his gaze on Pedro and spoke in accented Spanish. “We’ve been waiting a long time for you, Senor Romero. Was that you trying to call to say you’d be late?”
Romero began to pant in fear and in anger. More in fear. “Who are you?”
“We understand you are building something — a tunnel, perhaps?”
As an engineer, as a man who’d been trained to construct and deconstruct situations for the better part of his life, he knew immediately what was happening. These were Arabs. Terrorists, more than likely. They wanted safe passage into the United States, and they’d kill his family if he didn’t comply. No other words needed to be spoken.
“I understand,” said Romero.
The tall man widened his gaze. “You do?”
“Of course. I can make a call and let them know we’re coming. I’ll get you through. And you will release my family.”
“Senor Romero, you are a very brave and smart man. You do as we ask, and all will be well.”
“Is it just you three?”
The man shook his head. “No, we have fourteen more. Seventeen of us in all.”
“Seventeen?” Romero said and gasped.
“Why are you so worried? We won’t hurt your family.”
“But the men I work for will — if they learn I’ve allowed so many of you to go through.”
“They won’t find out.”
“That will be difficult. I’ll have to evacuate the tunnel before you arrive and have the cameras turned off. Will you have someone to pick you up on the other side?”
“I will arrange that. I will need the address.”
The toilet flushed in the other room, and then a Mexican man appeared, about Romero’s age. He frowned at Romero, then shrugged, as if to say,
“This is Felipe. He’ll remain here to make sure we get through to the other side. If I call him and tell him that, your family will be released. If he doesn’t receive that call, he has instructions to kill them.”
Romero spoke rapidly to Felipe, hoping the sheer speed of his words would confuse the Arabs. He could tell they were translating in their heads as he spoke. “Senor, why have you gotten in bed with these terrorists? They want to kill the Americans, who are the cartel’s best customers. If that happens, we’ll both be killed. You are playing with fire, my friend.”
Felipe made a face. “They pay better than the cartel.”
The backpack rose higher than his head and extended down past his rump. The thing weighed a ton, and Rueben Everson was supposed to be back home, doing his math assignment. Instead he was about to enter a three-thousand-foot-long tunnel with about twenty-five kilos of cocaine strapped to his back. He, along with ten other guys of various ages, some Mexican, some American, had arrived at the warehouse and were loaded up by a team from the cartel.
They were supposed to deliver their backpacks to a room inside the house on the other side. Once there, they would wait for another delivery to arrive, and that second delivery would be carried back down the tunnel. This was the heavy-lifting part the
