Line in the Sand

By C. Isaacs

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” – Arabian Proverb When a ruthless Mexican cartel aligns itself with an Afghani drug kingpin, the Southwest border soon becomes flooded with heroin. But are they planning to import something more deadly than narcotics into the United States? Their reasons are simple, the former for profit, and the latter for revenge. Meanwhile, a new informant introduces US Border Patrol agents Alexander Matthews and Sylvia Cabrera to the tangled web of a violent criminal enterprise. But when the system fails them, will a spur of the moment decision cost the pair their partnership, their careers, and possibly their lives? An investigation that started with cross border trafficking will lead to drugs, guns and the uncovering of a plot that brings the War on Terror into a new and frightening phase. Line in the Sand is the literary debut of a former Senior Border Patrol agent. Though fiction, the narrative brings to life the true relationship between the global narcotics trade, international terrorism and the very real threat to America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Isaacs
• Release date: Aug 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476353593

C. Isaacs

As a Senior Federal Agent, C. Isaacs spent nearly a decade combating smuggling and traffickers. He Later became a Professional MMA fighter and has appeared in a number of Movies and television shows. He currently lives in South East Michigan with his family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

With no luggage except the black leather briefcase carried in his left hand, he was the first passenger from the flight through the terminal. The automatic doors slid open with a whispered hiss, allowing the stifling Mexico City heat to sweep in. The comfort of the terminal’s cool air quickly faded as long strides carried the man to the line of taxis in front of the airport. Waiting for the newest wave of arrivals to be disgorged, the cab drivers fidgeted with nervous energy. In the first taxi, a dark-skinned cabbie leaned across the front seat and invited the man in with a wave of his hand.

Entering the cab, the man was thankful for the air conditioning. His dress shirt already clung to his skin. The man was naturally tanned and could pass as a Mexican elsewhere, but here in the capitol city he was easily identifiable as a foreigner.

Do you speak English? he asked, leaning forward.

Si, the cabbie said with a nod. A disapproving scowl crossed the cabbie’s face when he heard the man’s destination. The man reassured him that it would only be the first stop.

The cabbie nodded assent and headed out of the passenger terminal and pulled into airport traffic, but did not go far. The taxi pulled to a stop in front of the Global Courier Service office. Climbing out of the taxi, the man pressed a twenty-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand, telling him to wait. A gap-toothed smile split the cabbie’s face as he nodded. Si, Si, I wait.

Within a few minutes the man returned to the taxi with a large flat shipping box. Climbing into the rear seat, he gave the cabbie a new destination. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, the man set the briefcase on his lap, popped the latches and lifted the lid. He methodically went to work opening the box and transferred its contents into the briefcase. The cabbie occasionally glanced back in the rear-view mirror, but the lid of the case blocked his view.

Fighting Mexico City traffic for over an hour, the cab arrived in the heart of downtown. The driver cut across multiple lanes of traffic to pull into the entrance of the Hotel Caribe. Coming to a screeching halt, the cab nearly hit the young valet. The wide-eyed teen quickly recovered and rushed to the side of the cab, opening the door with a practiced formality. He welcomed this guest with a small bow and, "Bienvenidos, senor."

The man exited the cab and made his way up the steps that led into the luxurious hotel. The large vestibule was so subdued his steps echoed on the marble tile floor. He wondered if the quiet was more out of fear than etiquette, knowing the reputation of the man who owned the hotel and resided here. He imagined all the hotel’s clean, straight lines were bought with blood money. Perhaps somewhere on the other side of a teak, wainscoted wall hid a dark soundproof room. Shivering slightly at the thought, he passed by the check-in counter and continued to the bank of elevators.

Two large Mexican men, one slightly taller than the other, stepped from an alcove and stood behind the man. Their mere presence kept other hotel patrons back. The expensive suits were a weak attempt to mask the true nature of the pair, gorillas in Armani - purely hired muscle. The trio entered the elevator together, with the tanned man sandwiched between the two thugs. As soon as the elevator doors closed, the two bodyguards went to work. The shorter one yanked the briefcase from the man’s hand as the taller one shoved him up against the wall. The walls of the elevator car were mirrored and he saw them reflected over and over again. He was roughly but quickly frisked for weapons, and the shorter thug waved a small wand over his body and briefcase. To check for listening devices, he said, voice higher than his muscle-bound frame would suggest.

Upon reaching the seventh floor a bell announced the arrival of the elevator. The doors glided open. The trio stood as if nothing had transpired on the short ride. The foreigner fiddled with the silver ring on his finger as he silently recited verses to steel his nerves. The taller thug nudged the man forward, and all three made their way to a suite at the far end. The shorter thug led the way, as the taller one brought up the rear. Entering the large suite, the room's sole occupant was turned around, facing a large wall of windows that overlooked the city, or what could be seen of it through the smog. He set his coffee cup down on a side table before turning around to greet his visitor.

The foreigner, however, was the first to speak.

Thank you for meeting me, Senor Ochoa.

The man knew that Raoul Ochoa was the head of the Sonoran Cartel. In Mexico, narcotics smuggling was controlled by the Gulf Cartel on the East Coast and the Arrellano-Felix Organization on the West. As these two organizations went to war over control of the central trafficking routes, they attracted the attention of the Mexican and American governments. Their grip on the interior corridor of the country loosened as they re-concentrated their efforts in Juarez and Tijuana, respectively. Ochoa and his organization jumped into the vacuum in the middle and quickly expanded. Raoul Ochoa may have started his career as a small time marijuana smuggler, but he proved to be very ambitious.

Ochoa motioned for the man to sit as the shortest thug placed the briefcase on the glass coffee table between them. The tanned man sat in a high-backed chair and cleared his throat before launching into his pitch.

As you know, this meeting was arranged by our mutual acquaintance, Salim. He believes that we can come to an arrangement that will be very lucrative for both our organizations.

So what is your proposal? Ochoa demanded. I am a very busy man.

The tanned man reached forward to open the clasps on the briefcase. The two thugs inched in. Their hands instinctively went to the guns hidden beneath their overpriced and ill-fitting suit jackets. The man decided they weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer. They had already searched the briefcase. Why would they think there was something dangerous in there now?

Ochoa waved them off and leaned forward, intrigued to see what this man had brought to entice him. A knowing smile crossed the drug lord’s face as a small baggie of white powder appeared. The tanned man carefully rested the bag on the top of the briefcase.

What I am proposing is that the organization I represent becomes your main supplier of heroin. What I have here is a small sample of the quality of product we can provide you with. Ochoa took the baggy and handed it over to the shorter thug, who in turn left the room as the man continued.

We have the infrastructure in place to ship the drug here. All we ask is that you use your U.S. distribution routes to supply and expand your customer base.

Ochoa eyed the tanned man, then asked What else do you have in that case?

The foreigner opened the lid and turned the case to face Ochoa.

Once we have reached an agreement, I have brought you a gift of five kilos of approximately eighty-five percent pure Afghan heroin.

Thirty minutes later, after the heroin was tested to be pure, a deal was struck. The tanned man exited the elevator on the main floor, alone this time. He smiled to himself as he took out a cell phone, check that he was unobserved, and dialed a number from memory.

It is done, my Sheik. The Mexicans shall do as we require...

CHAPTER 2

Heading South on Interstate 19, a white Dodge pickup left the Tucson city limits. The driver, Sylvia Cabrera, brushed a wind-blown strand of long black hair out of her face before angling the visor to block the rays of the early dawn sun.

Blah, blah, blah, her passenger muttered, folding the newspaper he had been reading and tossing it to the floor.

What is it now? Sylvia asked, her voice still retaining a hint of her Bronx accent. She was beautiful, her skin olive and smooth, her cheekbones high, eyes large and dark. She glanced at her passenger, Alexander Matthews, as he leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

Oh, just the same ol’ crap about Mexico’s commitment to stopping narcotics and human trafficking. Hell, that’s half their economy!

It’s a little early to be so cynical, don’t ya think?

Well marijuana is Mexico’s number one cash-crop, and with hundreds of people streaming across the border daily to send dollars home, why would they do anything to stop it? Sure, the government fights the cartels, but that’s more about control. Control of the power and the profits.

And that’s is where we come in, to make sure they keep all that stuff on their side of the border, she said.

Yeah, right. America’s last line of defense, doing nothing more than drawing a line in the sand, he said.

Sylvia and Alexander were U.S. Border Patrol agents assigned to the investigative unit, Disrupt. The Disrupt unit worked short investigations, and sometimes undercover. Their sole mission was to disrupt smuggling operations of narcotics, human trafficking, and to stop other contraband crossing the U.S. border. Sylvia took that for what it was, making it harder for the bad guys to run their business. Alex was more inclined to think it was like taking out the garbage – there was always more coming along. They agreed to disagree.

A few miles after pulling off the interstate, Sylvia turned off the pavement onto a dirt road. After another couple hundred yards they stopped at a peeling, green metal gate. Dust from the road billowed past the pickup. Alex jumped out after it cleared and opened the gate with a rusting creak, waiting for Sylvia to drive through. He glanced up at the faded wooden sign that announced: Dan’s Towing. Closing the gate with another painful shriek, he jumped back into the truck and they headed down the long drive to the front of a ranch-style house.

A large man in his mid-forties, Daniel Jefferson, the tow company owner and operator, stepped out the front door of the home, a wide grin on his ruddy face.

So what do we have today, Dan? Sylvia walked over, hand extended in greeting.

Shaking hands, he said, Well, as I told you yesterday when I called, this Chrysler minivan was towed in last week. He motioned to the vehicle parked along the side of the house. Your guys stopped it with eight wetbacks, and yesterday this guy calls lookin’ for it. He handed over a copy of an official Border Patrol vehicle storage form. Alex glanced at it over Sylvia’s shoulder before inspecting the van.

What was the name of the person who called about the van? Sylvia asked, studying the form.

Hell, he didn’t give no name, but he was a Mexican fella. Couldn’t barely speak no English. Dan pulled up his sagging jeans.

And he’s supposed to show up at ten? She pulled out her cell phone to check the time.

We only work by appointment out here.

Hopefully he’s on time.

She went over to the van where Alex was giving it a good once-over. Find anything?

"Sure did. A bunch of pesos in the ashtray, a cassette of Narcocorridos, Mexican drug ballads, in the deck, aaannnddd… He grinned. …a cell phone bill."

In the distance, a plume of dust approached, winding up the drive. A few moments later a dark blue sedan turned tan by a layer of dust stopped in front of Dan’s office. The driver, an older Caucasian man, got out and went directly to the minivan.

Can I he’p you? Dan called out to him.

Yeah, I came to pick up this van. The driver looked through the windshield at the VIN plate. He pulled a piece of paper out of a folder, and held it out for Dan. Sylvia recognized it as a vehicle title before Dan took it and then passed it over to her.

I believe these folks wan’ to talk to you b’fore we settle up the bill. Dan moved aside as Sylvia and Alex stepped forward, displaying their badges.

* * *

Five miles to the southwest, a seismic ground sensor was activated along a remote foot trail that wound north from the border with Mexico. Jorge Hernandez, a veteran Border Patrol agent, was the first to find footprints and strands of burlap snagged among the low hanging branches of a Palo Verde tree.

Hernandez pointed out the snagged burlap to his two trainees, Genevieve Ginny Crump and Bryon Merritt. Burlap sacks are the most common material used by backpackers to carry 40- to 80-pound packs loaded with bricks of marijuana. The three Border Patrol agents headed out to follow the group of suspected drug mules through the Coronado National Forrest.

Ginny had to give the smugglers a certain amount of credit. It was hot as hell out here, even in the mountains, and the terrain was challenging even without an 80-pound bag of grass on your back. Her uniform shirt was soaked with sweat in minutes. So was Bryon’s, although Jorge didn’t seem bothered by the heat or the elevation.

The agents tracked the backpackers down into Diamondback Canyon as dawn broke over the eastern peaks of the San Luis Mountain. They followed the trail, for the most part, looking for footprints in the sand or scraps of burlap and the occasional discarded water jug. Near the canyon floor from where he was leading the group, Ginny heard a slight scraping sound. She looked up to see several individuals scrambling up the far canyon wall away from a small copse of trees.

Ginny and Bryon sprinted after the men, but Jorge Hernandez, who had stayed behind, began laughing and yelled after the men, Correle, run you bastards. The two young agents slowed and looked back at Hernandez.

Shouldn’t we go after them? asked Ginny.

Didn’t you notice that they weren’t carrying anything? He laughed. Rookies, always so eager. He pulled a pack of Marlboros from his breast pocket and took a slightly bent cigarette out with his teeth. Lighting up, he drew a slow, deep nicotine-filled breath.

If we go after them, they’d split up and come back to pick up their load after we’re gone. Let ‘em go. They stashed their load somewhere around here, we just gotta look around for it. Back in Mexico those guys will be facing some pissed-off drug lord who will do to them way worse than we ever could. He walked past Ginny and Bryon. There was no sign of ‘em ditching their load before, so there’s a good chance it’s hidden in these trees, or somewhere among the rocks.

After a few minutes, Hernandez spotted a darker section of rock at the foot of the canyon wall. Ginny hadn’t even noticed it. Having only recently been unearthed, the rock was still moist. The morning sun had not yet dried it out. The three of them located and uncovered several more burlap-wrapped bundles. Stacked together, the ten bundles were much more than they could carry out of the canyon themselves. Hernandez attempted to radio for assistance, but the high canyon walls prevented any communication with the outside world.

I guess you two are on guard duty till I get back.

Where ya going? asked Bryon. Ginny thought Bryon needed to lose some weight and work out. He looked whipped, his shirt dark with sweat, his face grimy. She supposed chasing around in the canyons and mountains would take care of that, though.

Hernandez pointed to an old horse trail that wound up the canyon wall. There’s no reception down here. I’m gonna take a little walk. Keep an eye out for those boys to come back.

Hernandez went out of sight. Bryon plopped down on a rock, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. This job’s not quite what I expected.

Ginny