Just Deserts (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 4) (23 page)

It wasn’t until the next morning that I read the card and newspaper Nacho gave me. They were both lying under a jumble of emerald silk and six-inch heels. The card read:

L. Cranston Pest Control

1-800-gotbads?

We get what’s bugging you.

A quiet hiccup of laughter escaped as I opened the newspaper and read the headlines in the
Sierra Vista Observer
:

Human Smuggling and Drug Ring Busted in Southeast Arizona, Dozens Others arrested in Both Arizona and California

Bisbee: On Friday, the Cochise County Sheriff’s office announced the arrests of Muhammed Yusef Ali, 35, and Malik Aylousa, 38, both from the Los Angeles area,  along with eight East African illegals from Tanzania, on Highway 92. An undisclosed amount of illegal drugs were also confiscated.

The two Americans were allegedly transporting East African illegals from Mexico to Los Angeles in a luxury RV reported stolen in the Los Angeles area several months prior. The arrests are a result of an incident last December, when U.S. Border Patrol agents stopped a vehicle for speeding in Bisbee and discovered it was being driven by an East African without proper documentation. This led to an extensive investigation leading back to Naco, and a Black Muslim group in Los Angeles with ties to a Mexican cartel. Two of the members, Ali and Aylousa, had been residing in the stolen recreational vehicle at a  local RV park, and both have extensive criminal records that include money
laundering and drug charges.

Police and federal agencies say many more arrests on both sides of the border are imminent. The
Los Angeles
Times
reports that smugglers get up to forty thousand dollars a head for East Africans, and that Muslim groups in the United States are cashing in on helping their fellow Muslims gain entry into the US.

In recent years, Mexican drug cartels have largely taken over the human smuggling trade out of Mexico, and officials suspect the American smugglers are working with gang members to transport East African and other Muslims through Mexico into the United States. The cartels, that in the past used Mexican illegals to transport drugs, have turned to lucrative human smuggling.

A U.S. Border Patrol spokesman told the
Observer
: “The drug cartels have determined this is big business. Drug cartels control these corridors. Just like we’re watching them here, they’re watching us. It used to be, ‘Get across the fence and run.’ Now it’s a lot more organized.”

The involvement of the cartels in the human smuggling trade has made life even more dangerous for our Border Patrol agents. Often, when agents encounter a so-called coyote, they are attacked. As Homeland Security steps up its war on drugs and smuggling, the cartels find new venues for their drugs and money.

Recently, airplanes and ultralights have been used to move drugs. Most are stolen in Northern Mexico, loaded with drugs, flown across the border to remote
landing sites,
then abandoned. Two recent incidents involving a daring daylight hijacking of a Cessna 206 in the state of Baja California Norte, and an attempted hijacking in northern Sonora indicate an escalation in cartel methods, and boldness, as both planes were occupied  by American citizens. No Americans were harmed in either incident, but Mexican authorities report three men killed in the attempted hijack in Sonora.

Illustrating just how ingrained the human smuggling business has become in Arizona, is the announcement by Immigrations and Customs Enforcement that they discovered a record 163 drop houses last year in the Phoenix area
.

In a small box on the same page, another article:

Mexican Marines Raid Ranch in Sonora, At least 20 Dead

HERMOSILLO, Mexico: Mexican marines and other authorities raided a ranch in the northern border state of Sonora and rescued six people who were allegedly kidnapped by an organized crime gang. The Department of the Navy said the people were kidnapped in separate incidents over the past few weeks, but declined to say why.

The ranch, once a resort visited by the likes of Ronald Reagan, had fallen into the hands of the drug cartel, and was allegedly being used as a staging area for both human
and drug smuggling. More disturbing are unconfirmed reports that some of the dead included members of Fatah al-Islam, a radical Palestinian Islamist faction said to be linked to al-Qaeda, and operating out of Lebanon. The US State Department declined to comment.

Whoa there, Nelly. Were the two incidents related? Good grief, I had really stumbled into it this time but, like Nacho said, my troubles were at an end. It somehow seemed too easy, all the loose ends tied up like that, but there it was in black and white. I reread the articles.

“Three Mexicans killed in the Sonora plane-jacking incident? No way,” I said aloud. “Old Booger Red messed ‘em up some, but my guess is the police finished them off.” I threw the
Observer
down, hitting Jenks’s arm.

Jenks jerked awake. “Who? Up to what?” he asked hoarsely.  He’d slept in, jet lag messing with his habit of getting up at four most mornings.

“Sorry, I thought you were awake. Some guys at the RV park I call the Xers. Craig said they were up to no good and,” I shook the paper at him, “he was right. Looks like you came to save me for nothing. Not that I mind, mind you.”

He grabbed me and pulled me onto the bed. “Well I’m good and awake now.”

Much, much, later we went to the golf club for breakfast so I could get the inside lowdown on the Xer bust, which was the biggest happening in Naco since it was bombed in 1929.

It was then that an Irish Catholic by the name of Patrick Murphy, after steadily imbibing in Bisbee’s famous Brewery Gulch, had an epiphany: he’d lend a hand to the poor Mexican Catholics who were waging war against their government for their anti-church activities.

The Cristero Rebellion, as it was called, had been going way too long, with its fellow Catholics losing ground.

Murphy kept an airplane in Cananea, and fueled with booze and religious fervor, he decided it was time to bomb the Mexican troops in Naco, Sonora. His aim failed him, and instead he dropped a bomb on Naco, Arizona, making that town the only place on the continental United States to suffer an aerial bombing.

An American movie operator was injured, the Naco Pharmacy lost it’s windows, and several other stores were shattered. To make matters worse, Murphy did it again four days later, this time blowing up the car of an Mexican army general who kept it parked on the American side for safekeeping.

Murphy was eventually shot down by the Mexicans, but neither country bothered filing charges.

Times, they have a-changed.

Now the Xers were looking at major jail time, and over a hundred more Tanzanians and a few Chinese illegals were rounded up in LA, with the investigation ongoing. Homeland Security hinted it was just the tip of a very profitable iceberg. “So, I wonder, what were these Tanzanians gonna do here in the states?”

Tim Ramos, the agent I was grilling shrugged. “We hear they work in Muslim-owned businesses, for one thing.”

“How can they ever pay back forty grand that way?”

“Not so hard to do. If you figure what they’d have to pay legal employees, what with a minimum wage, overtime and the like—they work these guys twelve, fourteen hours a day, six, seven days a week—illegals are a bargain. They are virtual slaves for a few years, then they can begin sending money home.”

Jenks, with his quick head for math, calculated that a minimum wage employee, working forty hours a week, plus more in overtime, could pull down over thirty thousand a year if all were legal. Businesses using willing slaves made economic sense. And if, on the way into the country, the illegals pack in some drugs to boot, it didn’t take a Harvard Bidness School grad to see why so many risked so much.

“Not only do I now understand the problem, I also see how this is a war that needs serious attention. If Mexico isn’t going to become Columbia, Washington better get it’s head out of it’s ass and give Mexico a whole bunch of support,” Jenks said as we rode home in the golf cart.

“Not money. It will just disappear into politician’s pockets. What a mess.”

“You think it’s bad over here, you should be where I’ve been.”

Was that an invite? So far Jenks had avoided the subject of Dubai. We parked the cart in the garage, and as we were getting out, he said, “Let’s go down to San Carlos for a few days before I have to head for San Francisco.”

“Oh, jes.” I called the marina and they told me my boat was ready, they’d splash her that afternoon on the high tide and send in a clean up squad to have her ready for us by the time we arrived the next day.

Ted called. Both Rosa and Lupe were home, and yes, they were kidnapped and held at Rancho Sierra Coronado until freed by the Marine raid, but they didn’t know why they were taken. The missing cobalt rods were still a mystery, but all he cared about was they were home safe and sound. However, Sonrisa had not returned since we dropped her off the week before in Naco, and he feared she’d been scared off permanently. I tried to sound sympathetic.

I called Maria at the mine, asked if she’d be in the next morning so I could drop off some paperwork for her to forward to Mexico City.

“Oh, yes, Café, I will be here, but please address your correspondence to
Señor
Orozco.
Señor
Racón was called back to Lebanon on an urgent family business matter.”

Man, oh man, my day was getting better by the minute.

“I want to make us legal,” I declared as Jenks and I packed the car for our trip south.

He almost dropped a suitcase, probably thinking I was about to propose marriage. I let him stew for a three-count, then let him off the hook. “If we’re gonna stop by Ted and Nanci’s on the way back, now that the world is a safer place, we’re actually gonna get a car permit for the drive up the Rio Sonora Valley.”

Was that vast relief washing over his tanned and handsome face? “Uh,” he stammered, “I thought you didn’t need one anymore.”

“Not for San Carlos, or on the main roads to get there, but when we go to Ted and Nanci’s winery we’ll be outside of what the Mexicans so charmingly call the Hassle Free Zone, and after the last trip I took through there, hassled doesn’t sound like fun.”

“We can get the permit at the Naco border?”

“You know, I’m not sure, but I’m going to give it a shot. Damned if I’m going to drive out of my way to Agua Prieta to get one, so if that’s the case, we’ll travel on good intentions and a fair smattering of Gringo denseness should we get pulled over. Besides, we’re driving Aunt Lillian’s car, so if it gets confiscated, so what?”

“I love your ability to make a situation work to your best intentions. Or your worst.”

“It’s a gift.”

We rolled through the border just as the usual gaggle of school kids, hauling backpacks, chatting, laughing, and jostling each other, headed into Arizona. Once again I went through the explanation of the border school situation. Jenks wondered if there was traffic the other way, for kids whose families wanted them to attend school in Naco, Sonora.

“Hmmm, good question, but I don’t recall seeing uniformed kids heading south, and as you will see, the ones in Mexico are wearing the plaid. Crap.”

“What?”

“Red light. We have to go through customs. No big deal, all we have is some food and our clothes. I locked all the guns in a closet back at the house.”

Jenks grinned at this. “Most people, Hetta, do not carry arsenals in their vehicles.”

“The events of the past few weeks have made me touchy. And as old Thomas Jefferson said, ‘Those who hammer their guns into plows will plow for those who do not.’ I hate to plow.”

Jenks was still chuckling when we pulled into the Aduana inspection bay. A very attractive young lady in a tight uniform leaned over Jenks and opened the glove compartment, flashing cleavage in his face. Lucky for her I left the guns at home.

She asked me to pop the trunk, and took interest in my brief case, which she asked me to open. Since I planned to stop by my office at the mine on the way to San Carlos, I’d thrown my latest work into the case. Not finding reams of drug money in my Halliburton case, she bid us a good trip and sashayed back to her office. Every Mexican man within viewing distance watched her swaying rear with avid appreciation. Jenks, however, did not, bless his little soul.

I moved the car into the first parking spot I found, in front of a
farmacia
, and told Jenks, “You gotta walk across the street, right there where we crossed the border. That’s where you get your tourist visa. Mine’s still good.” I pointed to the
Migracion
office. “Get the one that’s good for a week. It’s free, and no sense spending twenty bucks, since we’re coming back anyhow. You can spend that twenty on my precious self.”

He smiled, promised me a few precious Margaritas, and I watched him walk away, thinking how wonderful it was to have him home, no matter how briefly. No matter the reason. Which, by the way, he’d been pretty vague about, but I suspected my friend Allison had put more than a quiet word in the Trob’s ear about our situation. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. He was here, and I was glad. More like thrilled.

I gathered Aunt Lillian’s car papers, along with my passport and purse, and was exiting the car to find out about a sticker so we could travel legally to Ted and Nanci’s for a change, when I spotted a lone child, headed for the border crossing. Bundled up like Nanook of the North, she struggled, head down, with a heavy backpack, but kept up a purposeful stride seldom seen in children on the way to school.

Smiling to myself, I remembered another little girl, back in grade school, foot-dragging it alone instead of with other kids, already marching to a different drummer. I’d have to analyze that trait some day, because it seemed to carry through all too often into my present life.

Sighing, I was locking the door when my hand froze on the handle. The forty-degree temperature was nothing compared to the chill that ran through my entire being.

In a flash, I knew. I
knew
.

Everything that had happened during the past few weeks fell into place with a crash that made my knees weak.
Everything
.

Through the window at Immigration, I saw Jenks sitting at the official’s desk, studiously filling out forms. Two young soldiers lounged against the wall at the Aduana on my side of the street. No cars waited at the border to cross into the United States.

Only the lone child strode toward the pedestrian crossing.

One lone child with a Huipil backpack.

I, like many, have had moments of knowing. Like the time, when I let go of a plastic loop at a county fair, I
knew
it would perfectly ring the bottle and win me a huge Teddy bear. Once, in Vegas, I
knew
, when I placed a stack of chips on 14, that it would win. It was a combination of déjà vu, because I saw myself winning before I acted, and premonition. Whatever, both times, when I thought about them later, were a little frightening.

This moment, however, was not one of clairvoyance, but more like one that a safecracker must experience when the tumblers all fall into place.

Sonrisa’s constant meanderings along the highway and into Naco.

Sonrisa’s barely disguised contempt for Americans.

Sonrisa at Ted’s airport during the hijacking attempt, eyes wide with surprise and fear. She had expected to get into that plane after the men took it from us.

Sonrisa sitting quietly in Nanci’s car on the way back to the border after the attempted hijack, then the radiation detector going off at the border. Not because of Jan’s stress test, but because of stolen cobalt pencils from the winery that Sonrisa carried in that Huipil pack.

A terrorist had been in the car with us, transporting what was needed to construct a dirty bomb: cobalt pencils.

I. Just. Knew.

I jumped into the car, started it, backed out into the empty street, and hooked a U-turn back toward the border. As I picked up speed, everything else seemed to move in slow-mo time, even my breathing.

Calculating distance and timing, I also knew what I had to do.

How ironic that Sonrisa and I should be destined to share a fate.

The first person to notice me was Jenks.

He was standing by the immigration officer’s desk, half-turned to leave, as my aunt’s car streaked by in the wrong direction, going almost airborne on steep speed bumps. His expression, as I registered it in my peripheral vision, went from quizzical to alarmed. Then he was gone from my field of vision, and only one thing remained, much like when you reverse a telescope.

My hands, freezing and sweating at the same time, lost all feeling. As I sailed over the speed bumps on the Mexican side of the border and landed with a rib-jarring, axel-threatening whomp, I floored the accelerator.

A US border guard who was looking my way, reached toward his weapon. His mouth opened to sound a warning. Another ran to his side, dropped to one knee, and aimed in my direction just as my bumper connected with Sonrisa.

With a sickening thud, Sonrisa went airborne. I stomped the brakes, but skidded under her. She fell onto the hood and my forward momentum sent her head crashing through the windshield, which imploded into a million tiny nuggets. Wide dead eyes stared at me from where the glass used to be, and her tiny body was twisted at an odd angle so I could see both her hands. They were empty. Her Huipil backpack lay in the crosswalk.

Looking into those cold, and truly dead eyes, I had a sudden moment of clarity: I had to get the hell out of Mexico. To the Mexican’s thinking, I had just run down one of their children like they would a stray dog.

Jumping from the car onto lead legs, I smacked right into Jenks, who grabbed me by the shoulders. “Jesus, Hetta, what in the hell just happened here? What is wrong with you?”

Pounding feet and rattling weapons heralded Mexican soldiers, but the US border officials wisely stayed put on American soil. I didn’t blame them, because that was damned sure where I wanted to be.

I pointed at the backpack and yelled, “Jenks, bomb! We have to get across the border.”

He didn’t hesitate for an instant. Yelling out, “American citizens,” he held both hands high, one with his passport in clear view. Following his lead, I threw my hands onto my head, and we both ran, quite literally, for our lives. Problem was, we had a good chance of getting cut down by friendly fire before I had a chance to explain.

Come to think of it, how would I explain? Sonrisa lay dead on the Mexican side of the border, and I had, in front of probably twenty witnesses, killed her in cold blood.

It was at that moment I spotted agent Tim Ramos, crouched, weapon drawn. “Tim!” I screamed, “bomb! In the backpack!” I headed straight for my fellow Texan, praying his knowing me would count for something.

Within seconds Jenks and I were at the bottom of a pile of uniformed agents,  every one of them with a gun or two. Through a break in human limbs, I saw the Mexicans stop and drop, their guns aimed at our pileup.

Although I was pinned like a quarterback with a bad defensive line, I managed to yell, once more, “Bomb! Dirty bomb! In that backpack! She’s a suicide bomber!”

Something very solid, maybe a boot belonging to a fleeing member of Homeland Security, whacked me solidly in the head and I literally saw stars.

Then the world exploded.