Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (33 page)

“We’ve got you, Judge. Look up and wave. Eyes are on you right now. My God, what have you done with yourself? You look like shit.”

Boucher looked up and saw only a clear sky of robin’s-egg blue. His summary of events was terse.

“Mr. President, a group of men has dropped a cache of illegal arms here on the U.S. side of the river. A Mexican drug cartel will be crossing to claim it, and they will be met by a contingent from the local Texas National Guard, who I understand have orders to chase them back into Mexican territory. Sir, a violent encounter with loss of life on both sides is expected.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “Mr. President?” he said.

“Okay,” the president said, “get yourself out of there. We’ll take it from here.”

Boucher clicked off and returned the phone to its bemused owner. “Sir, you need to leave now.”

“Drug runners, huh? Glad to see someone’s doing something about them. Good. I’ll be going.”

Boucher watched the man drive from the cemetery. Then, defying a presidential order, he walked back up the hill and chose a spot that gave him cover and line of sight to where the weapons lay waiting for collection. It was now late afternoon, the sun high and hot. The air was still. Even the birds in the neighboring wildlife sanctuary had
ceased calling out. They’d given their warnings; all that was left to do was wait. Boucher had gotten little rest the harrowing night before and was exhausted. He chose a double headstone and read the briefest of family histories before sitting down and leaning against it. Stanley Archer was buried beneath where Boucher took his rest, and had walked this good earth from 1880 to 1950, had been a beloved husband and father. Agnes lay beside him; devoted wife and loving mother, she had survived him by five years. There were no signs of children in the neighboring plots, and Boucher wondered if they were among the living or had long ago left this small Texas town, leaving their parents alone in their golden years with only each other. Trying to imagine their lives put him to sleep.

A whisper of a breeze woke him. He opened his eyes and looked around. Evening was on the land, the sun less than an hour from setting and already painting the sky with deepening colors of red, orange, and purple, portending the coming of night. Had he slept through it all? He peeked around. No, the arms lay stacked and untouched. The cartel had not arrived; neither had the U.S. forces scheduled to meet them on this side. But there was something new in the neighborhood, and it was most bizarre. Midway between him and the arms cache were two objects that looked like large lawn mowers. They had not been there when he fell asleep and could have dropped from the heavens above, perhaps even from another planet. They definitely looked
otherworldly and lethal. They just sat there, silent as the tombstones.

Then he heard the noise of automobile engines. He sat up and peeked over the headstone. A narrow, floating, temporary bridge now spanned the river, and vehicles were crossing from Mexico. The first one drove slowly, the driver testing the stability of the pontoon bridge, but when he made it to the American side, those following sped across. There were Hummers and late-model pickups. They drove to the pile of weapons and stopped. The doors of the Hummers opened, and men poured out. The pickups also discharged passengers. One spoke, and laughter broke the evening silence, maybe a joke about the ease of entering the country with which they’d had a love-hate relationship all their lives. They’d approached the stacked boxes, preparing to load them, when another sound was heard. A separate caravan was crossing, following the trail just blazed. There were curses as the men ran back to their vehicles and grabbed their weapons. They didn’t wait for the interlopers to reach the riverbank but began firing immediately. Automatic rifle fire was returned. The new arrivals fanned out when they’d crossed, a second convoy of late-model SUVs and trucks. Boucher recognized a black Cadillac Escalade in the second oncoming group. All the conveyances were favored rides of narcos. There was much shouting and screaming in Spanish between the two gangs, as if the epithets could do as much damage as the
bullets. Boucher realized he was viewing a firefight between competing drug cartels. Someone else had gotten word of the treasure trove waiting to be plucked up and had come to claim it. But where was the Texas National Guard?

Hundreds and hundreds of rounds were fired, with few apparent casualties but no small amount of damage to the vehicles. Some new-car dealer would receive a windfall when this pitched battle was over. Bullets whistled past Boucher and struck neighboring headstones. He received a minor flesh wound to his right forearm, not from a bullet but from a chunk of granite chipped off and flung from a grave marker. Then the gunfire abated. There were shouts of confusion. He took a peek. Crossing the river was what looked at first like a tank on wheels. It came closer, and he could see it was another pickup, one with plates of metal welded to its exterior, forming a V in front, like the bow of a ship. The windshield was covered with a protective iron shield, slits cut for visibility. It was a homemade armored vehicle. Above the cab, standing in the bed of the truck, was a man with a weapon. A flash erupted from the muzzle of a shoulder-fired grenade launcher, and one of the Hummers was hit. It exploded and several men were incinerated; several more ran from the wreck like flaming torches. Shots were fired. They were put out of their misery and fell dead on the ground, their mortal remains still burning.

Through all this, Boucher could see no one defending against this armed intrusion into territory of the United
States of America. Where was the defense against these insurgents? There was no sign of the Texas National Guard or any other U.S. force.

Then it happened. The homemade tank on the pontoon bridge exploded in the middle of the river. There was a shrill whistle just before it was hit, the sound unmistakable to anyone who had ever heard one. It had been struck by a precision-guided missile from above, though there was nothing to be seen in the evening sky. Boucher guessed that the weapon had been fired from an armed drone, no doubt the first ever unleashed over the U.S./Mexico border. He realized that, as of that moment, as Yogi Berra had said, the future would never again be what it used to be. Still there was no sign of U.S. troops.

A command that could have come from God Himself was heard booming above the spit and crackle of gunfire. No U.S. forces were visible anywhere, but unseen megaphones boomed orders in English and Spanish. The invaders were directed to lay down their weapons. There was a brief moment of silence during which Boucher heard yet another sound—the whirring of an electric motor. He peeked over the tombstone. The two lawn mowers were moving toward the invading gunmen. The order was repeated. It was again ignored. He watched as a shooter took aim at the small machine and fired, the rounds bouncing harmlessly off its metal shell. Jock took a closer look. Affixed to the remote-controlled device was a machine gun.
The barrel swiveled, and it fired off a single round. The man who had shot at the robot, his weapon still pointed, fell to the ground. The second robot whirred into action. Its weapon was aimed and fired, and its grenade launcher destroyed the Cadillac Escalade and those inside. Out of anger that superseded their limited if not totally absent judgment and reason, several others fired on the robotic weapons. The one with the machine gun did the heavy lifting, firing single rounds and not missing a target, all shots in the kill zone, center chest, as if the insurgents had been wearing bull’s-eyes. They finally got the message. Some turned to run, keeping rather than surrendering their weapons; these men too, the robot dropped like flies. Once more the order to drop their weapons was repeated. This time the command was obeyed: they were cast to the ground. To convince them that the futile mission was finished, the robot grenade launcher aimed, fired, and blew up the weapons cache. If anyone was surprised that the store of munitions did not make a bigger bang, they didn’t show it.

Finally, men in military fatigues of the U.S. armed forces appeared, coming over the hill behind and approaching the unarmed intruders with M16s in ready-fire position. As astounded as he had been while watching this
War of the Worlds
spectacle play out on the banks of the Rio Grande, Boucher was equally amazed when Ray Dumont walked across the open field toward the surrendering and now unarmed cartel members, accompanied by several Texas
National Guardsmen. The soldiers wasted not a second covering the captured trespassers with their own weapons and ordered them to raise their hands high. Several more guardsmen collected the discarded guns of the cartel members. Boucher stood and walked toward them, joining a major heading that way, and he introduced himself. If the major disbelieved him, he had the good sense not to show it. “Yes, sir” was all he said.

Boucher pointed to Dumont. “What is that man doing here? He’s not one of your troops.”

“He has valid press credentials. I think he’s really CIA. They tag along sometimes too.”

“Those things,” Boucher said, pointing to the remote-controlled weapons that had won the conflict with limited loss of life. “What are they?”

“They’re SWORDS, special weapons reconnaissance detection systems. They’ve been hugely successful in both Iraq and Afghanistan. One is loaded with a fifty-caliber machine gun, the other with a forty-millimeter grenade launcher. They have five mounted cameras, including a target acquisition scope, a 360-degree camera, and wide-angle zoom lenses. At twelve hundred feet, a SWORD can identify the make of an enemy’s weapon, even determine whether the selector is on fire or safe. When aimed, it does not miss.”

“I’d like to meet the operators; tell them what a great job they did.”

“How’s your Spanish?” the major asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve been training members of the Mexican military in unmanned weaponry as part of the Merida Initiative, a security cooperation agreement between the two governments. We let them handle this one. They’ll get the credit for it.”

“No kidding,” he said.

“Yes, sir. No kidding. This is their fight too.”

Boucher shook his head.

“What is it, sir?”

“We trained their special forces a decade ago. They became the bloodiest cartel of them all. I was just worried about someone going rogue and turning those robots on us.”

“We can override any command,” the major said. “Plus, I removed these.” He opened his palm and showed two small fuses. “The babies are asleep.”

They walked to the National Guardsmen covering the unarmed insurgents.

“Sir, what are we going to do with the prisoners?” one asked.

“Keep them covered. A team is on the way to take them into custody,” the major said. “Be careful. These men are violent criminals.”

“I don’t think we’ll have much resistance, sir. Several say they’ve been praying they’d end up in a U.S. prison, that it’s the only way out of the life. They said they’ve been waiting for us to begin the fight and asked why we’ve taken so
long. Several told me we’re their saviors, not their captors.”

Obviously, the president had countermanded General Moore’s battle plan. Boucher’s call had saved American lives.

Ignoring Boucher’s presence as if he’d expected it, and seemingly unconcerned that his grand scheme had been foiled, Dumont walked to the group of insurgents and stared into each face. “
¿Quien es
El Jimador? Which one of you is El Jimador?” he asked. There was no response. “I will give one million dollars to the man who points him out to me.” He stopped before one man who had half his right ear shot off, an old injury.

“
Tú,
” Dumont said. “The witness who saw you murder my son said you had an ear missing. It’s you.” From his belt, Dumont pulled the pistol Boucher knew all too well and pointed it at the man’s face.

“Ray,” he yelled, “don’t! Put that gun down. It’s over. It’s finished.”

“It’s not over while this bastard is alive. He killed my son,” Dumont said. “He—”

The narco grabbed the gun from Dumont’s hand, spun him around, and pinned him by his neck in a choke hold. Holding his hostage in front of him, he moved away from the group. One foot behind the other, he backed toward the river, the barrel of the pistol pointed against his captive’s temple.

“You found El Jimador,
amigo,
” he said. “Where’s my
million dollars?” As he waded into the river using Dumont as a human shield, he was laughing.

“Can’t anybody take him out?” Boucher asked.

“We don’t have snipers,” the officer said. “The robot might have a shot, but I disabled it.”

The laughter of the man reverberated across the Rio Grande as he reached the far bank and disappeared.

“Aren’t you going after him?” Boucher asked.

“We have no authority to cross into Mexico,” the officer said.

Boucher hesitated for just a second as he looked toward the river, then ran. He ran without forethought. He ran out of compulsion, not understanding why. The water was deeper than it had been earlier. He was up to his waist upon reaching midriver. The irrigation diversions upstream must have been reopened, allowing normal flow. Still, the Rio Grande was not more than chest-high at its deepest. He reached the far bank quickly, rinsing the dried, caked mud off his body as he crossed. He had kept his eye on where the narco holding Dumont had disappeared into the brush, and he headed for that spot. He followed the tracks into chest-high reeds, turned back, and took a final look. Law enforcement teams had arrived, and the prisoners were being led away. Only the National Guard officer looked his way, shaking his head in disbelief.

Jock Boucher had invaded Mexico.

M
ADNESS WAS UPON HIM,
he was sure. Of all the reckless, compulsive acts ever undertaken by Jock Boucher, this outranked them all. Alone, unarmed, knowing hardly a word of the language, he had done the most absurdly futile thing ever. Certain in his own mind that he was crazy, he began talking to himself. Sitting on the bank of the Rio Bravo—the name those on this side gave to the riparian frontier that divided their nations—he attempted to rationalize the insane action he’d just undertaken.