Border Games: A Novel

By Tom Russell

Career Army Sergeant Sterling Archer is a respected military man who suddenly finds himself out of a job, out of luck, and penniless on the mean streets of Las Vegas. When an old Army buddy presents him with an opportunity to make more money than he ever imagined, Archer jumps at the chance, unaware of incoming catastrophe.

Soon, the pyramid scheme goes sour, and Archer ends up behind bars in federal prison. His only way out is to turn government informant. As if things could get any worse, his new partnership with the FBI places him square in the sights of a Mexican drug cartel, and Archer’s life is turned upside down as he fights to stay alive, no matter the cost.

He must now desperately weave his way through the dark underworld of gunrunning, human trafficking, and the illegal narcotics trade. But Archer’s troubles don’t end there as the investigative trail leads him across international borders and into the high stakes world of espionage and political intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483456430

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BORDER GAMES

A Novel

TOM RUSSELL

Copyright © 2016 Tom Russell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5642-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-5643-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016912788

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 10/21/2016

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Author’s Note

About the Author

In memory of my dad,

a cop’s cop and my best friend

October 2, 1922–April 19, 2015

and to Ron Stuart, a good friend and confidant

Acknowledgments

M ANY THANKS TO MY SISTER, Sharon Tedsen; her husband, Roy; and my daughter, Kara Williams, for reading my manuscript and offering their honest, well-thought-out opinions and to my wife, Patty, who gave me the support and courage to go forward with this novel.

Prologue

Present Day

B Y THE TIME THE MORNING sun touched the unshaded window, the temperature inside the twenty-two-foot travel trailer had already soared to an uncomfortable ninety degrees. A sharp pain pierced his temples as his bare feet hit the floor, and he wondered exactly what time of day it was and approximately how much alcohol he’d consumed the night before. Damn, he groused out loud, surprised by the raspy sound of his own voice. A whiskey bottle spun wildly across the floor and shattered into hundreds of pieces as it hit the furnace grill on the far side of the trailer. The hungover retired FBI agent covered his ears a split second too late against the ear-piercing noise. It’s like being back on the firing line at Quantico , he thought aimlessly. He thanked his lucky stars that he’d been humanely relieved of the silly-assed game a year before. Tomorrow would mark the one-year anniversary of his decision to pull the plug on a thirty-year career with the bureau—a career that had seemed like a lifetime ago until yesterday. Yesterday Dutch had shown up unannounced on his doorstep.

Dutch had been one of his CWs. The bureau used the abbreviation CW for cooperating witness in their never-ending attempt to compartmentalize almost everything within their reach. Upper management demanded the designation be applied to a preferred federal informant, separating that particular individual from the more distasteful and numerous collection of unsavory government informants and snitches. The numerical destination, on the other hand—for filing purposes—was left up to the individual agent. Field agents were required to maintain a minimum number of active informants in their working caseloads, and Sterling Archer had happened to be his seventh in line. In true twisted cop humor, Special Agent John Paul Provost had been unable to resist hanging a couple of zeros in front of Archer’s number and demoting him one full pay grade from his iconic counterpart 007, hence, officially, he was known as 006. However, his working title had been simply Dutch. Other than the iconic numerical designation, Provost had found nothing particularly special about Dutch. Dutch had been just another snitch—at first anyway. In the end, history had proven Provost wrong. Ultimately, CW-006 had officially been credited with more than a dozen of the most significant and high-profile sting operations in the bureau’s history.

Dutch had been retired officially from service a year ago, along with his handler. Neither carried his official title into retirement. Provost wasn’t Special Agent Provost anymore, and Dutch was once again just plain old Sterling Archer.

Then why did he follow me to this godforsaken part of the country? Provost asked himself as he peered out the front window of the trailer, shielding his eyes against the blinding sun like a six-year-old kid waiting for Santa to appear. He had to take a wicked piss, and that fact alone finally drove him from the comfortable confines of the trailer and into the inhospitable terrain outside. The superheated gravel in the rock pit burned the bottoms of his feet as he hopscotched from shady spot to shady spot, from one clump of low-growing bunchgrass to the next. Geeze, he squealed as he ended his forced pilgrimage alongside the metal equipment building housing the massive generator, welding equipment, and excavators, his eyes following the orange power cord that ran serpentine along the ground from the power outlet and ended in a snakelike coil where the expensive RV—now vanished—had been parked.

The day before, Sterling Archer had shown up like some estranged relative, arms outstretched, wearing a shit-eating grin. Where do I park the RV? he’d asked nonchalantly, and then he’d added quickly, Can I plug into the power grid, or do I have to run this noisy generator all night?

Provost had reluctantly waved him in alongside the equipment shed and run the power cord to the RV, unable to shake a gnawing distrust in his gut. Maybe it was his cop’s instinct—that thing that shouted, Watch out! and bristled the hair on the back of the neck. That was exactly what he’d felt as he watched the ex-informant disappear inside his luxurious accommodations. The whole deal smelled of a setup, the same type of greasy operation he had constructed countless times in his career—the kind of nefarious crap the FBI was famous for. Thinking on his feet, Provost had yelled as the door closed, Barbecue at my place!

Later that evening, the ex-agent had discovered during his little soiree that he and Archer still shared at least one thing in common: an affinity for Scotch. The retired agent had had the remnants of a full case of the stuff left over from his daughter’s wedding a few years back—flotsam, as it turned out, from an already-sunken marriage. He’d burned a couple of steaks and engaged in superfluous conversation while the out-of-practice and unsuspecting ex-government informant had poured whiskey down his throat. When convinced that he was properly lubricated, Provost had hit him between the eyes. Whadda fuck are you doing on my doorstep?

Startled and with dulled senses, Archer had tried to cobble together a plausible answer. Well, I, uh … he’d said, stuttering.

Remember who the hell you’re talking to, mothafucker, Provost had said, cutting him short, his slurred words dripping from his mouth like warm molasses. Archer had been dumbstruck, and without a plausible answer, he’d just stood there sprawl-legged, and as best as Provost could remember, that was how the night had ended.

Now it was Provost’s turn. Twelve hours later, with the RV gone, he was the one standing sprawl-legged in the brutality of the midday sun, leaning up against the steel building, supported by one hand while pissing in the wind and wondering what the hell had just happened.

Chapter 1

T HE ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE United States sat in the early morning stillness of his White House office with his elbows propped on his desk, holding his head in his hands. An unsigned letter of resignation lay in front of him. It was September 2014, two months prior to the midterm elections, and there was a real chance the Republicans could gain control of the House of Representatives. But that wasn’t all that worried the administration. A federal judge had denied the official request to withhold papers relating to the failed Operation Fast and Furious from the public. The death of border patrol agent Brian Terry—who was killed in the line of duty by a Mexican cartel with a firearm that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives had allowed the cartel to walk away with—haunted the White House. The failed operation had been a tremendous embarrassment to the administration. The Department of Justice had given the FBI the responsibility of sweeping up after the BAFT. The federal agency was notoriously autonomous, and there was no way to predict where the investigation might lead them, but the president could ill afford to have his attorney general in the line of fire during crucial elections.

He’d been directed to fall on his sword. It was his duty, he was told. The attorney general picked up the pen as if it were a loaded revolver and signed the letter.

Other agents in the bureau called him Slick Nick. His official title was Supervisory Special Agent Nicholas Bonsono. A strict Mormon, he was known to be a heat-seeking ladder climber and, according to his office staff, an obnoxious prig. He changed duty stations the way other agents changed underwear, adhering to the axiom that the government could put up with nearly anything or anyone if the duration was short enough. His most recent move—from San Diego, California—had landed him the position of special agent in charge of the Portland, Oregon, office two years earlier.

As SAC, he worked tirelessly, making himself indispensable to the top brass and avoiding any real cop work. He clearly saw himself as the next director of the FBI, and when he wasn’t polishing apples, he was working out at the gym. The workouts kept his six-foot-one frame trim, and at forty-five, he admitted to still looking good in a high-end Oxford business suit. Rumor held that he had a full-length mirror as a headboard to a California king-sized bed where, to the great disappointment of his wife, he spent hours practicing for his next job interview.

Early in his career, he’d been forced to admit that the iconic J. Edgar Hoover, in the end, had been a disappointment to the bureau he’d established. Bonsono had read the books and seen the movie, and he refused to believe any of it. Still, the recent brouhaha about homosexuality made him nervous. What if any of it was true? He cringed at the thought of it. No one could think of the founder of the FBI as anything but strictly heterosexual. Since assuming command of the Portland branch, he’d even considered taking down the picture of the lecherous old fart that adorned the far wall of his office, but he feared it might add fuel to the fire with his subordinates. He decided on the military’s past Don’t ask, don’t tell policy and tried to put the shadowy thoughts as far out of his mind as possible.

Presently, he’d been assigned to Operation Double Tap, an investigative strategy born out of the salacious Operation Fast and Furious. The director wanted accountability. He wanted the drugs to stop, he wanted the firearms back, and he wanted justice for Brian Terry.

The undercover operation is two pronged, hence the name Double Tap, he told the agent sitting stoically in front of him. First, we want the border closed, and we want the head of the Sinora cartel brought to justice. You good with that? the SAC asked rhetorically.

Special Agent John Paul Provost sat stone faced in the chair and smiled. He always smiled when an honest answer would have gained him little more than additional grief.

I’ll take that as a yes, the SAC said with a sour smirk, pulling his office chair even closer to the heavy metal desk in front of him.

It wasn’t, Provost thought dismissively. The man was an idiot.

Okay, then lets wade into the weeds. Operation Double Tap will commence in exactly one month. At first, we considered having you go undercover—you know, grow some facial hair. A beard, a mustache—that sort of thing. Maybe slick back your hair the way the greasers in LA do. He waved his hand dismissively. But we thought better of it; you’d still look like a fed, notwithstanding the cowboy boots.

Provost’s eyes trailed down to his well-worn Tony Lamas. His boss hated cowboy boots. In fact, he hated nearly everything about the agent he was forced to supervise. Probably could use a shine, he admitted in typical screw-you fashion.

No, wouldn’t want to curb your style, Bonsono said sarcastically, adding another layer of insult. Anyway, the powers that be came up with a better idea: work toward a suitable cooperating witness who could take on that role. We’d sign you on as his handler.

Maybe you oughta find someone better suited for the operation, Provost said, hoping they’d pick some other unlucky agent. A field agent was expected to have a significant number of active informants as part of his caseload, but handling an undercover CW—even the most well behaved—was a pain in the ass. Sending one into the Mexican cartel was suicide.

The SAC pursed his lips, as if considering the possibility. Maybe, but both you and I know I can’t, he said with a hopeless tone in his voice. Groaning, he pushed away from the desk in front of him as if he’d just finished a heavy dinner. Truth be told, I would rather take a beating than have to depend on you for such an important operation, but unlike you, I refuse to disappoint my superiors. Someone up the chain of command likes your work. God knows why, he continued, shaking his head in despair and holding his open palms toward the picture of J. Edgar as if appealing to a higher power.

Perhaps it’s my boots. Provost grinned. Bonsono was what field agents referred to as a tight-ass. Field agents in general hated management, and they regarded Bonsono as little more than a suit. Standing there now, Provost thought he looked about as real as a cardboard recruiting poster depicting today’s progressive FBI image. In reality, he was heavily ensconced in the banality of FBI dogma: he was college educated with an MBA from Brigham Young and was a mainstream Mormon.

Special Agent Provost was his polar opposite. He’d come up the old-fashioned way, through the ranks, when it was still possible to do so. His two-year community college degree in criminal justice had gotten his foot in the door, albeit the back door. He had begun his budding career as a clerk in the mailroom and had somehow survived the clerical stigma—few did. With hard work and thick skin, he eventually had been grandfathered into a field agent’s position. But now, decades later, he was part of a dying breed. Gone were the old-time gumshoes; knock-and-talks were things of the past. Computers and electronics were center stage, and if an incident wasn’t recorded on a body wire, phone tap, or videotape, as seen in the movies, it didn’t happen. He also realized that nothing short of his resignation would ever satisfy his self-serving supervisor. In Bonsono’s eyes, Provost was expendable, and he no doubt viewed the pending undercover assignment as another opportunity for a little ethnic cleansing. All non-Mormons take one step forward and get shot, Provost thought.

Okay, Bonsono said, suddenly coming to life and pushing a thick manila folder across his desk toward the seated agent. Read this. It’s a pretty decent work product from the intel boys down the hall. It’s an easy read. It’ll serve well as a briefing paper for the United States attorney’s office. It might be fairly in depth, but toward the back, there’s a link analysis. Study it. It’ll make it all come together for you, he said sardonically.

The agent nodded, said nothing, and read silently for the next several minutes. The target of the operation was the leader of the Sinora cartel: El Marcado, or the Scarred One. He shook his head. The FBI had been fighting the Mexican drug war for more than a decade. It was their personal Vietnam, and he had no doubt it would end in similar fashion. The country had no stomach for closing the southern border. Both countries viewed the southern boundary of the United States like the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea. The last Unclassified for Official Use Only report, or U//FOUO, he’d read claimed the United States border patrol was capable of patrolling only about 7 percent of the total landmass. The immigration cops themselves referred to their enforcement activities as nothing more than border games. The rules of engagement were simple: catch and release. There was no Guantanamo for drug traffickers.

However, occasionally, things got out of hand, and there was a real skirmish. Sometimes it involved firearms, and sometimes someone got shot. In 2010, Brian Terry got shot.

With every gunfight, there was a rush to blame the other side for the incident. It was all part of the game. The Mexican government blamed all their woes on guns they were able to trace back to the United States. They claimed that 70 percent of the firearms came back to the United States. Much to their delight, in 2009, they found a receptive ear with the American president. President Obama gave Mexico a pass and redirected blame for the high number of identified guns to the private gun shows held inside the United States. The reason seemed childishly simple. An unclassified document later explained, The possible passage of new restrictions on firearms and the return of military veterans facing significant challenges reintegrating into their communities could lead to the potential emergence of terrorist groups or lone-wolf extremists capable of carrying out violent attacks.

Everyone who read the document couldn’t help but draw similar conclusions. The president was worried that the very the warriors he had entrusted to safeguard the homeland would return and overthrow him. Now he wanted to take away their weapons? It seemed outlandish and the height of paranoia, but there it was, in black and white. When one considered the administration’s anticop mentality and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives’ failed attempt to paint private gun owners as vigilantes, things began to make sense. No one bothered to trace the firearms coming from South America, where anyone with one eye and an asshole could follow the trail of AR-16s coming from warehouses deep inside Colombia—guns abandoned by the United States following the failed drug war there.

In return, the United States government blamed the Mexican government for passively allowing marijuana, methamphetamine, cocaine, and heroin to flow across the border like the Rio Grande—some $25 billion annually. The whole thing was a Mexican standoff.

And just how do we get someone inside a sophisticated cartel that has been operating with impunity inside Mexico for decades? Provost finally asked coolly.

We have a few things up our sleeve. The bureau still has in place the infrastructure left over from Abscam—boats, jewelry, and even some of the townhouses.

Agent Provost slung his head back and forth like an anxious racehorse refusing to enter the starting gate. You expect to send someone unannounced into the heart and soul of the Sinora cartel, armed with fucking bling? Are you nuts? Cartel alumni are generational and not easily impressed, you know.

The SAC smiled as if he had the secret to the Bermuda Triangle. Although he hated to admit it, Provost had a good point. You’ll be working with a trusted ally of El Marcado, a fellow now serving time at one of our finest federal facilities.

For?

A little scheme gone badly: murder for hire.

The agent tossed the folder onto the table like discarded garbage. Abscam, Fast and Furious, Gunrunner—all were botched government undercover operations. Now the FBI wanted to hitch their wagon to a bad guy who couldn’t shoot straight. It didn’t make sense. Why me? Provost said.

To be brutally honest, you’re perfect for the assignment: recently divorced, kids graduated from college, no animals to tend to.

You mean no one will miss me?

Bonsono just grinned. You have a month. Make something happen.

Chapter 2

H E HATED THE WAIT NEARLY as much as he hated the confines of his prison cell. Sterling Archer paced back and forth in the ten-by-twelve-foot cubical, anticipating the arrival of the guard who would cuff him, search him, and take him to the prison conference room for the scheduled meeting with the attorneys. He would have his, and the government would have theirs. The aging prisoner knew that inside prison, time could be his best friend or worst enemy. It was a cruel paradox, and in the federal system, inmates got a double dose of it. Unlike the state system, in which good behavior was rewarded with a reduced sentence, the feds didn’t give a shit. Since they didn’t lack bed space, there was no reason for reducing sentences. If you do the crime, you do the time, his attorney had said years ago, summing it up neatly. He deserved to be behind bars—there was no doubt about that—but why couldn’t his prison time have been during his younger years, when he could have handled it better? At sixty-two, with his temples turning predictably white, it was tougher to watch the years passing by. He was getting a little too long in the tooth to enjoy it. When the offer for early release had come, he’d felt like a teenager offered a hand job. He just hoped he wouldn’t wake up from the dream and find it was his own hand.

Archer! The grating sound of the guard’s voice echoed in the cell, causing him to turn instinctually, as if the command had come from his old army drill sergeant. The aging inmate walked mindlessly toward the cell door and placed his hands through the slot, forcing a smile. Click. The guard snapped the handcuffs on his wrists and opened the cell door. The guard gave him the mandatory pat-down and a shove in the right direction. Moments later, a second door opened, and Archer received another push. He took a step into the room and found himself looking straight into the faces of three serious-looking individuals. He recognized one. Sit, the guard said. Click. The leg restraints snapped shut around his ankles.

Morning, Sterling, Harold Best said.

The shackled man looked up at the familiar face of his attorney and nodded.

This is Assistant United States Attorney Brian Kennington, and the fellow to my left is FBI Special Agent Provost, he continued.

Archer nodded in turn to the two men. The fashionable one—who was dressed in a finely tailored microtwill suit with a perfectly knotted double Windsor tie and had equally perfectly messed-up, air-blown hair—was certainly the attorney. He wore a look of expectation on his face. The other, dressed in western attire, showed only disdain. He might as well have had FBI tattooed on his forehead.

You know why we’re here today, Sterling? his attorney asked with an unmistakable Cajun drawl.

I hope like hell it’s to bail me out, the shackled prisoner said, only half joking. He held out his cuffed hands as if his attorney had the authority to free him then and there.

Not so fast, Kennington cautioned, finding more than a little irony in Archer’s impatient attitude. There are a few specifics to be discussed, forms to be signed, and judges to be consulted. Minor things like that.

Sterling brought his hands slowly back to his chest. Why doesn’t that surprise me? he asked, hope falling from his face. Dare I forget I’m dealing with the feds.

The attorney gave his client a well-practiced Don’t fuck this deal up look and sucked in a deep breath. There are a few stipulations—details—to be worked out that might take a few days once agreed upon.

Such as? Archer asked earnestly.

Such as, Kennington said, your past. The assistant United States attorney reached down into the legal attaché case near his chair and produced a thick file folder. He opened it and began to read aloud. ‘Sterling Anthony Archer, a.k.a. Sterling Buddy Archer, a.k.a. Tony Archer, a.k.a. Dutch Archer.’ Which do you prefer I use?

All names I’ve used in the past.

Which is it?

I prefer Dutch.

Okay, Dutch, now that we’ve established the essential you, should I read from your somewhat substantial criminal history? It’s indexed.

Spare me, the inmate mumbled.

Fine. What if I just read the convictions you’re currently serving time for then?

Archer shrugged and sank lower in his chair, as if to avoid the shrapnel headed his way.

‘Conspiracy to commit murder. Aiding and abetting murder. Tax fraud. Tax evasion. Theft of government property. False statements as in lying to a federal investigator. Sound familiar?

Archer rocked back in the steel prison chair, trying to act nonchalant and play the part of an innocent man. He hadn’t heard the