Against All Enemies

“Go back in that tunnel. See if you can find out what’s going on.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Tell them you can’t find your phone. Just get back down there. They evacuated the place for a reason. The big shipment is only about a half-hour away. Do what I say. Remember what I told you.”

Rueben left the bathroom and found El Jefe waiting for him.

“Who were you talking to?”

“My ride.”

“Go.”

Rueben shrugged, went outside, then made a quick turn left and darted back into the bushes beside the house. He remained there for a few minutes, then carefully moved back up to one of the windows. Damn, blinds closed. He shifted around the house to the front door, put his ear to it. Nothing. He grabbed the handle, pushed open the door, then crossed to the back bedroom, where the tunnel entrance was located inside the master closet. El Jefe and his cronies had already gone back down and were headed to the warehouse. Rueben wrung his hands, paced back and forth in front of the dark square cut into the floor and the ladder leading to the bottom. He should just walk away, call it too dangerous. But would they really hurt him for going back to look for a lost phone?

Wait a minute. How could he use that excuse? El Jefe had heard him speaking on his cell. Shit. He needed another story. He could say he thought the cops were outside, and so he came running scared into the tunnel. That was it. That would take the focus off him. He descended the ladder, turned, and hurried across the damp earth, following the strings of LED lights. And now he really had to use the bathroom.

While driving to the tunnel, Romero had explained to Samad that the three sicarios in the trailer would be watching via battery-operated security cameras around the warehouse and the tunnel. They’d tested wireless cameras, but the signals had been too weak to be read on the surface. Two things needed to happen at once: The power would need to be cut to the monitors of those cameras, and the sicarios would need to be “separated from their phones,” as Romero had put it.

Romero had the keys and access to the electrical terminals and could turn off the power, so long as Samad’s men could deal with the sicarios. They parked their vehicles on the south side of the site, shielded by heavy earthmovers and bulldozers, and hustled out. Samad sent six of his men to deal with the surveillance guys while he and his two lieutenants accompanied Romero to an electrical terminal located behind the warehouse. Though he was primarily a construction engineer, he’d worked closely with the electrical engineers on the site and been shown emergency procedures for cutting the power.

As they neared the terminal, they were forced to take cover behind some drainage pipes to watch as three young sicarios left the warehouse’s main door and climbed into an SUV. Romero recognized one of them as the kid El Jefe. Good boy. He didn’t realize it yet, but he’d just saved his own life by following instructions.

When both groups were in position, Romero opened the access panels with his key and tugged down the main breaker, which thumped, and a few of the parking-lot lights went dark. Simultaneously, Samad gave the orders to take out the men inside the trailer. Then he regarded Romero. “Let’s go.”

Romero led the Arabs inside via the light from their cell phones, then paused before the maintenance room and looked back at the group. “Wait here.”

“Why?” asked Samad.

“Because I need to get the remote.”

“For what?”

“To switch off the battery backups for the cameras and the recorders; otherwise they’ll monitor the downloads and see that we’ve been through here.”

“Very good,” said Samad. “But I come with you.”

Romero shrugged. “Okay.”

He took the man inside the room and led him past the heavy pumps they’d been using to remove water from the tunnel and toward the bank of lockers. Meanwhile, Samad’s phone rang, and he spoke quickly to his men, then announced, “Very good. The men in the trailer are gone. No phone calls were placed.”

Romero used a key from his heavy ring to open the locker, then reached up and snatched the wireless detonator before Samad could get a close look at it. The detonator was about the size of a walkie-talkie, with a small rubber antenna. Very simple, old-school, and effective. He pretended to push several buttons, then shoved the remote in his pocket. He fetched a pair of flashlights from the locker, took one, handed the other to Samad. “Okay, we can go through now. I hope you will keep your promise. When you are on the other side, you will call Felipe and tell him to release my family.”

Samad grinned. “Of course.”

The rest of the Arabs arrived, and Romero led them down the staircase, the plywood creaking and covered in dirt. Samad was just behind him, a pistol in hand. They walked about five hundred feet, made the first two ninety- degree turns — a hard left followed by a hard right — and then, far ahead, a tiny light woke in the distance. As the light grew brighter, a silhouette appeared behind it. The figure was coming straight at them.

“Stop. Who is that?” Samad demanded, halting the entire group.

“I don’t know,” said Romero. “The tunnel was supposed to be clear. Could be one of the mules.” He lifted his voice. “Who’s that?”

“Uh, sorry, yeah, it’s me, Rueben! I think the cops are outside. I had to come back down here.”

Romero hustled forward and reached the kid. “Are you sure about the police?”

“Not really.”

“Why are you trembling?”

Rueben lifted his cell phone, the light playing over the men behind Romero. They were dark-skinned and bearded, but they were definitely not Mexicans. One man in the back barked something to the others behind him. That was not Spanish, and Rueben had killed enough “digital” terrorists in video games to believe these guys were Middle Eastern, maybe even terrorists themselves.

“Yalla, let’s go,” the man in the back said.

Now, Rueben knew that word, yalla. That was Arabic.

With a deep sigh, Romero bit his lip, then turned back to Samad. “He’s one of the cartel’s mules. He got scared, thought he saw something outside. Maybe the police, but he’s not sure …”

“I don’t think he saw the police,” said Samad, sounding oddly confident about that. “Let me have a word with him.”

Romero shifted aside and let Samad squeeze by.

In one moment Samad was speaking softly to the boy, the words almost inaudible, and in the next moment Rueben was flailing at Samad’s face and neck as the man slipped behind him and plunged a blade into the boy’s chest. Rueben fell to the dirt, his face twisted in agony, blood spurting from his chest as he then coughed and reached up to clutch the wound.

“He was just a boy!” cried Romero.

“And you’re just a man who will join him.”

“I’m sorry,” Rueben said and gasped. “I didn’t want to do anything wrong. I don’t want to die. Don’t leave me here. Oh my God …Oh my God …” He began to sob.

Romero couldn’t help himself. He kneeled beside the young man and took his hand. “Lord Jesus, take him into your bosom and protect him from all evil.”

“Let’s move,” said Samad through his teeth as he handed the boy’s cell phone to one of his men. “Pedro, you lead the way.” He pushed back past Romero, then drove his pistol into the nape of Romero’s neck.

Swallowing deeply, Romero released Rueben’s hand, then rose and stepped over the dying boy to forge on, his eyes burning. He’d told the kid to get out. He’d tried.

They reached the little sanctuary, where Samad shook his head at the flickering candles and crucifixes and pictures of the families of the mules and diggers.