“You know, guys,” Agent Diaz said. “It’s not just illegal aliens running through here at night. This is one of the most heavily trafficked border areas for narcotics smuggling, and the cartel soldiers involved tend to carry some serious firepower,” she added, pointing to the pellet gun and wrist rocket in the collection of weapons. “You know what happens when you bring a slingshot to a fight with a Mexican and his Cuerno de Chivo?”
“His what?” asked Private Zulu.
“His ram’s horn,” she explained. “That’s what they call an AK-47. The curved magazine looks like a ram’s horn, and you’ve got no chance going up against one with this stuff.”
“She’s right,” chimed in Agent Martin. “Sneaking around out here in the dark, you’re liable to get shot, either by drug runners or by us. Now, I can’t make you leave, but I highly suggest you go back to your day jobs and leave this to us.”
“I appreciate your concern,” the General replied. “But our mission is scheduled until Sunday, and we’ll not abandon our campaign. Now, if you don’t mind, we need to break camp and commence transit to Rally Point Dos.”
“All right,” replied Agent Martin. “But first, you wouldn’t happen to know anything about a flare being launched around here last night?”
“Indeed,” said the General. “I was illuminating two illegal alien targets.”
“Actually,” said Private Zulu, “it was some kind of demonic werewolf-vampire coyote. Might have been part zombie as well. Fire Team Leader Charlie saw it!.”
“Really? A vampire coyote?” Agent Martin said sarcastically as he glanced over at Agent Diaz, who was doing her best not to laugh. “They do tend to come out this time of year, don’t they, Agent Diaz?”
“You bet. They call them chupacabras. They drink your blood,” Agent Diaz replied in a spooky voice.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone!” Private Zulu said excitedly. “But nobody believes me!”
“General, what happened to the illegal aliens you were illuminating?” asked Agent Martin.
“We left the remains of their bodies down below in the valley.”
“Remains?” Agent Martin asked with an icy stare at the General while Agent Diaz raised her shotgun to the ready.
“Calm down, agent,” the General said. “They were already dead. Had been for some time.”
“Well, why don’t we all go down and have a look, then?” replied Agent Martin as he motioned down toward the valley with his shotgun. “After you, boys.”
Border Patrol Agents Martin and Diaz followed the members of STRAC-BOM down the sloping cut in the ridge toward the location of the bodies the militia had discovered the previous evening. Reaching their location, Agent Martin bent down on one knee to more closely examine the scattered remains. Pulling out a folding buck knife, he used the tip of the blade to poke through the pile of bones and clothes of the first victim before moving to the second.
“Something sure did a number on these two,” said Agent Martin as he closed his buck knife and returned it to its sheath.
“Just a coyote,” said Fire Team Leader Charlie.
“No,” replied Agent Martin as he rose to stand. “I’d say the first one at least was shot. Something awfully high-powered, by the way it shattered the sternum and spine. I’d also say someone did a pretty good job of breaking the bodies up. Maybe to make it easier for the varmints to get at them.”
“Want me to call it in, Hank?” asked Agent Diaz.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Have them send a truck out here to collect the remains.” Agent Diaz retrieved her radio and called the instructions into the border patrol base. “General,” Agent Martin continued as he turned toward the men of the militia, “I’ll ask you one more time to do me a favor and get on back home. This ain’t a place for amateurs.”
“We appreciate your concern,” General X-Ray replied. “But my troops are more than capable of defending themselves if needed.”
“All right,” Agent Martin acquiesced. “But you’ve been warned. Watch you don’t shoot yourselves.”
“Hank,” Agent Diaz said. “The vehicle should be here in a couple of hours.”
“Okay,” he replied. “General, you and your men are free to get back to your little adventures, but I want you to let me know if you come across anything else,” he continued as he handed a card with his contact information to the General.
“We’ll be in contact,” the General replied. “More than likely with a string of detainees in tow. I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.”
“Just remember,” said Agent Martin. “An illegal may not be a U.S. citizen, but if you shoot an innocent person out here, I’ll see that you and your men are charged.”
“We’re fully aware of the rules of engagement,” the General replied. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re behind schedule for our move to Rally Point Dos.”
“And where might that be?” Agent Martin inquired.
“About five miles east of here,” the General said as he pointed down the ridgeline with his riding crop. “An obvious route of travel for our treacherous prey runs through the desert near there. Tonight we’ll be waiting for them.” The General turned, and with a flourish of his riding crop, rallied his men back up to their campsite to prepare for departure.
“What do you think, Hank?” Agent Diaz asked as she watched the men leave.
“I think we’ve got enough problems doing our own job without having to babysit these idiots.”
“I’ll bet you ten bucks one of them shoots himself with his own gun.”
“If only we could be that lucky,” Agent Martin said as he slung his shotgun over his shoulder. “I keep reading about these local militias popping up along the border. I was hoping we could get lucky and avoid them. Smugglers don’t give a spit about killing. They come across these greenhorns wearing fatigues and carrying guns, it’ll be a bloodbath. I’m thinking we might want to keep an eye on these boys tonight. You got plans?”
“I do now. How about I go up and bring down the horses?”
“Sounds good,” he replied as he retrieved his radio. “Base. This is Patrol Seven. Would you instruct the vehicle you’re sending out to bring along some extra water, food, jackets, and feed bags for the horses and some night vision equipment? We’re going to follow these boys tonight and make sure they don’t get up to any trouble. Over.”
Avery awoke late on Saturday morning to the frenetic jangling of Max’s dog tags in the hallway as the fierce little dog attempted to shake the stuffing out of a kitty-shaped chew toy. Avery had only gotten a few hours of sleep that night. Partly because he had been working most of the night gathering evidence to confirm his suspicions that North Korean operatives were actually the ones responsible for the RFK assassination, partly because of the lingering pain in his stomach from the infernal sabotaged tacos he had consumed, and partly because of his twisted and haunting dreams. His groin, still tender from the attack by the yoga mat–toting young woman, didn’t help matters, either.
Avery stormed past Max and stumbled downstairs in his bathrobe as he headed straight to the refrigerator in the kitchen. Ripping open the door open to access its contents, loudly rattling the condiment jars in the refrigerator door in the process, he furiously searched for a Mountain Dew. Cursing to himself as he discovered he was out, he hustled back to his office to put on his tracksuit and grab his fanny pack. A dull headache throbbed in his skull from the lack of sugar and caffeine as he bolted from the house and made a beeline to the drugstore a few blocks away. Nearly running over a small boy exiting the store, he shuffled down the aisle that contained assorted packaged foods until he reached the section containing soft drinks. Looking across the aisle at the refrigerated section, he debated whether he should grab the cold sixteen-ounce bottles or the warm two-liter bottles on the shelf. Deciding volume was more important than temperature, he scooped up four of the large plastic bottles. Heading to the register, he used his fingertips to pull a large bag of potato chips from a shelf, spilling several other bags of snacks onto the floor in the process. Ignoring the mess, he tucked into line behind a woman holding a large container of diapers and an elderly couple at the front of the line paying for their purchase.