“All I can say, sir, is that you’re lucky there’s no third sex. Sir.”
While Runnells pondered the biological and physiological possibilities, Branch turned off the engine and slid out of her seat. “I feel like having a snack. What do you think? Sir?”
Runnells checked his watch. “Well, it’s a little early for dinner, but I don’t see any harm. Whatcha got tonight?”
“Honestly, Bob, I don’t want to play Trade the Lunchbox again. I brought what I like, and since I’m a vegetarian, you wouldn’t want any of my food anyway.”
“No dessert for me, sir. I’m dieting. Gonna make a personal best in the physical fitness test next month.” She produced a bag of what Runnells was pleased to describe as trail mix and unscrewed a bottle of green tea. By mutual consent they walked aft and turned the rear door into a tailgate party.
Runnells secretly admired Katie Branch’s athleticism. At twenty-five she was slim and fit, a far better physical specimen than he had ever been. The downside was, the girl couldn’t shoot to save her life— so to speak. She carried the standard-issue Beretta 96 because she had to, and twice had been sent to remedial marksmanship training. Runnells, a lifelong hunter, had shot on the USBP pistol team. More than once he had told the trainee, “I spent a lot of time and effort learning to shoot so I wouldn’t have to run.”
Katie Branch could not envision herself shooting anybody: probably not even to save her own life. She had joined the Border Patrol for a variety of reasons, chiefly to bring some informed sympathy to the undocumented workers who were the agency’s reason for existence, and to enjoy the outdoor work environment.
Pablo Ramirez heard the Dodge’s engine shut down. The silence was entirely unwelcome.
He bellied up the hummock again and turned on the Litton NVG. Both agents were standing at the rear of the vehicle, apparently eating. Occasionally he could hear their voices. One was higher pitched than the other — a woman?
Ramirez checked the illuminated dial of his watch. He could wait a few minutes longer but if the unexpected SUV did not move on, his schedule would be jeopardized. The station wagon that would transport the two Muslims to wherever they were headed lay nearly two kilometers northwest. Ramirez knew that the driver would not overstay his appointed time, and that meant loss of the delivery fee: half the potential revenue.
The two human forms glowed greenly in Ramirez’s scope. They were damnably unconcerned with the passage of time — the value of which increased with each passing minute.
Ramirez waited another minute, then returned to the base of the hummock. “Listen,” he whispered. “We cannot wait any longer. We will take a detour to the west about a hundred meters and pass behind the vehicle. Everyone crosses the road at the same time — understand?” He drew silent nods from his two immediate accomplices. They had worked with him for periods varying between months and years. All understood the rationale: by crossing together, total exposure time was reduced to the minimum. And though crossing in front of the SUV would largely block the Americans’ view of the road ahead, the seven men in Ramirez’s party would leave a noticeable cluster of footprints. Crossing behind the vehicle eliminated that danger.
Ramirez dispatched Jorge to bring up the two “packages” with their escort. In minutes the group was ready to move, swinging southwesterly, keeping to the defiles and occasional hummocks.
“I’ll take a little walk before we go,” Branch declared.
“You too?” Runnells could not resist a jibe. “I thought you gal athletes never had to go potty. Muscle control or something.”
“Where’d you hear that? Sir.”
“Uh, must’ve been locker room talk in grade school.”
Branch stuffed the remains of her dinner into the Ziploc bag and secured it in the truck. Then she walked into the darkness behind the SUV.
Thirty meters out, she glimpsed — something. A shadow, a movement ghosting through the periphery of her vision. She froze in place. Her instinct was to call out: issue the usual challenge.
She pulled the Maglite from her duty belt and shone the tight, powerful beam ahead of her. Two men were caught in the white band, twenty meters away. One stopped briefly; the other sprinted out of view.
It did not register in Kathryn Branch’s mind that both were armed.
She found her voice.
The second man reacted in a most peculiar fashion. Instead of fleeing or raising his hands, he dropped to the ground, facing Agent Branch. She noticed something long and black in his hands, and her brain finally defaulted to the recognition mode.
She realized her mortal peril. With her right hand holding the light, she could not draw her Beretta. She switched the light to her support hand, fumbled for the pistol and managed to draw the weapon from the thumb- break holster.
It did not occur to her to move.
Two loud reports shattered the desert air.
The first round went wide to the left, its aim spoiled by the bright light. The next, more carefully directed, struck Branch in the solar plexus. She seldom wore her ballistic vest, but it would have done no good against a rifle. The 7.62 round from a stolen Mexican Army G3 did what it was meant to do. It delivered 2,300 foot-pounds to her 125-pound body.
Because Branch was shot through and through, she did not absorb the full energy of the projectile. But the massive disparity was enough to drop her instantly. She lay on her left side, stunned and gasping for air. As she exsanguinated into the dirt, crumpled beneath a mesquite tree, she barely registered that she was dying.
When Bob Runnells heard the shots, he dropped his sandwich and called “Katie!” He found himself eight strides toward her direction when he realized that he should call for help. His Beretta had assumed its familiar position in his dominant hand; left wrapped around the right with the muzzle low. He paused momentarily, fighting a two-front war between Duty and Honor, and opted for Honor. He turned forty degrees left, running bent over, hoping to flank the shooter.
He badly wanted his Remington 870 with six Hornady 12-gauge rounds, but field agents were prohibited personal weapons.
Kneeling behind a depression, Runnells pulled his light and laid it alongside his pistol’s frame. His thumb rested on the button, ready to illuminate any threat. He was conscious of his breath as he sucked in desert air, his eyes swerving left and right, near to far as much as possible in the dark.
He left cover again, searching the night for some sign of his partner. Something moved ahead of him; he stopped, knelt, and waited. He heard Spanish.
Runnells resisted the urge to shoot the Mexican. Bracing his light against the pistol, he thumbed down the switch.
Eighteen paces ahead of him were two men, one with a G3. Years of training kicked in. Framing his black sights in the white light, Runnells shouted,
Struck by two.40-caliber rounds, the man dropped his rifle and swerved away, out of view.
Another alien appeared, then a third. Two were armed and both opened fire: one with a G3, the other with a Ruger pistol. The three combatants exchanged gunfire within shouting distance. It lasted less than five seconds.
Runnells’ vest stopped two 9mm rounds, but the 7.62s bored through him and knocked him on his back. Then he was aware of someone standing over him, and the eruption of an impossibly bright light in his face that ended all cognition.
