Across the Border

By Scott Schuff and Jim Bullard

"Across The Border" is a gripping and action-packed novel about America's mission to destroy the Sinaloa-Durango Cartel (SDC). Deeply relevant and filled with historically accurate insight into America's self-proclaimed War on Drugs, this must-read novel will appeal to readers of historical fiction and those with an interest in Military History. The cartel is profoundly threatening to the United States, and taking it down requires intelligence, commitment, and ferocity. Is Jason Maines, Former Navy SEAL, and CIA covert operative, up to the task? Find out in this heart-pounding story.

Last year alone, more than a hundred thousand Americans died from overdoses or drug-related crimes, four billion U.S. dollars were funneled into the coffers of the Sinaloa-Durango Cartel, and a hundred times more than that was spent trying to stop the tidal wave of death from crashing across the southern border. The cartel's informants everywhere in American government and law enforcement keep the SDC a step ahead of the Americans. With public outcry at a fever pitch, the American president must act decisively and has issued a classified executive order to the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA).

In this story, Jason Maines, former Navy SEAL and CIA covert operative, is brought in to form a clandestine, off-the-books DEA team with a single objective: destroy the SDC. He recruits Mindy Sinclair, a brilliant FBI analyst and SDC expert along with Raul Vega, a trusted and capable cartel persecutor to form the core of his team.

But Jason soon learns that honor in warfare has no place in the fight against the cartel. Instead, he must operate with the same vicious ferocity as the SDC, and do so in such a way that the cartel will destroy itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667823164

Book preview

Prologue

THE NIGHT WAS COLD and rainy, the wind blowing steadily from the north. To the two teenagers, the bad weather at Thanksgiving in the northern suburbs of Chicago was as dependable as the holiday itself. The young man and his girlfriend had just begun their college careers, he as an engineering major at the University of Chicago and she at The Juilliard School in New York City.

Waving over the dark blue Kia Uber ride that was picking them up at the deserted park, they climbed in and headed to another part of town, much different from the expensive, well-kept homes and manicured lawns of Oak Brook. The car turned onto a long, dimly lit side street. Loose trash swirled from the cold wind that was amplified by the buildings on either side. A split-second flash of lightning lit up the buildings, followed by the distant rumble of thunder. Then semidarkness prevailed once again.

Only a few people were out. Most were African Americans, young and tough-looking. Others looked lost and ragged, wandering without destination. The driver hesitated, unsure whether to go on, but slowly proceeded at the girl’s command. She directed him to a specific corner, ahead on the right side of the street, where a young man stood. As they drew even with him, they realized he was just a boy. He wore dark jeans and a Raiders sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over the Raiders hat on his head. He reached out his hand to slow them down. The driver watched as the kid took money from the girl, pocketed it, and gave instructions to drive ahead to the next intersection. A second kid tossed a small packet of heroin into the girl’s lap, which she tucked into her bra.

Ten minutes later, the driver dropped his riders back at the park and sped away, relieved to be done with this fare.

The young couple walked hurriedly through the park, directly to the public restroom. The cinder block walls kept the wind outside. She pulled a spoon, a syringe, a cotton ball, and two rubber straps out of her purse. He took the spoon, emptied half of the white powder onto it, added a small amount of water, and heated the mixture with a lighter while she tied the rubber straps around their arms. She put the cotton ball into the spoon to soak up the concoction, inserted the needle into it, and filled the syringe. He took the syringe from her, gave her the first shot, and injected himself with the remainder. They removed the straps to allow the drug to circulate through their veins and sat back against the wall to await the rush.

The high was immediate, but just a few minutes into it, the euphoria turned to panic as their hearts beat wildly out of control, pumping the heroin too quickly into their brains. Unable to process the overwhelming influx of the drug, their bodies systematically shut down. They both lapsed into unconsciousness as their bodies made one final, desperate attempt to defeat the poison, but to no avail. They were both dead in an hour.

The homeless man who stumbled into the restroom three hours later discovered the bodies and used the girl’s phone to dial 911 but not before going through their belongings and relieving them of the sixtytwo dollars and the rest of the heroin. He shuffled off into the darkness as the approaching sirens grew louder.

Chapter 1

FROM HIS PERCH ACROSS the canyon, Jason Maines watched a small group of deer slowly make their way down to the stream that meandered through this lonesome part of southern Arizona. He was dressed in camouflage, matching the desert oak he was hiding in, with camo paint on his face. He had hiked into the area and was sitting on a low hill toward the east side of the stream. He was ostensibly hunting deer, but in reality was on assignment with his current employer, the Drug Enforcement Administration’s (DEA) Special Response Team (SRT). Prior to his career in SRT, Jason was a Navy SEAL, followed by an eight-year stint with the CIA’s Clandestine Service. Twelve years of overseas fieldwork had established him as an elite operator but, like many others in his line of work, had severely strained his marriage.

Jason saw the deer’s ears perk up. As if on cue, they bolted in a dead run, back up the hill they had come down. He scanned the area below, looking for whatever had spooked them. He was camouflaged and motionless, with the breeze in his favor; he knew he had not been discovered. Perhaps it was a mountain lion since there were plenty of those in the area or even a jaguar that may have wandered up from Mexico.

The location he watched was only a half mile from the Mexican border. The landscape was thick with oak and littered with granite boulders. Below him ran a small stream, and he could faintly hear the water breaking over the rocks in the stream bed.

Jason’s binoculars slowly scanned the trees and the bottom of the stream, yet nothing moved. He watched as the sun began its final descent downward, its last warm rays soon to be replaced with a cool breeze coming down the canyon. The desert’s autumn colors were highlighted at this time of day. The sun’s last rays shimmered through the tens of thousands of needles on the Saguaro cacti that dotted these hills, illuminating them like a mini light show. The scattered oak leaves were slowly changing their colors, and the rusted blond granite boulders, laced with quartz and iron, sparkled in the late-day sun. These were the desert’s fall colors, and he loved the sight of each display he could see.

He first heard the crackling sounds of footfalls on the rocks and the distant sound of voices that grew louder as the minutes ticked by. This was not the first time he had run into illegals since this part of Arizona was an ideal transit route from Mexico. But he expected smugglers, who transport people or drugs, make money off the poorest of the poor, and bring death with the drugs they moved into America. What was odd, Jason thought, was that the voices were coming from the north and heading south, not the usual direction the illegals came from.

Soon, they came into view: two weary men stumbling along. Each man wore dark jeans, camouflage hats, and brown shirts and carried heavy packs on their backs. The sound of their boots on the rocks and the occasional snap of a dried branch grew louder as they approached.

As they headed south, adjacent to the stream bed, Jason figured they would pass within forty yards of his location. These days, all drug runners and traffickers carried cell phones, allowing them to be in contact with the scouts who guarded the hilltops around the areas where drugs or human cargo were moved. If there were border agents in the area, the scouts knew and warned the transporters, ensuring a high percentage of the drugs and the people ended up in the United States. This surveillance network had required Jason to be especially careful to avoid detection when hiking in.

When the two men reached about sixty yards upstream from Jason’s position, they stopped, took off their packs, and sat among the rocks. Lighting cigarettes, they spoke in Spanish. Jason had grown up in a well-todo home and had a Mexican nanny who taught him the language. From the age of four until his parents divorced just after his sixteenth birthday, he spoke nothing but Spanish to the nanny, so he was bilingual. During his time with the CIA, he had also learned Farsi and a passable Arabic. Knowing four languages had helped him with the Agency.

As he listened, he barely twitched his eyes. He was so close that someone with the proper background and training could pick him out. He was also glad that he didn’t smoke, since even the stench of cigarette smoke on his clothes could easily blow to them if the breeze changed.

He heard them talk about how long they thought they would be waiting until they were met by someone, no doubt coming from the opposite direction. Then the talk turned to their families awaiting them in Chiapas, down in the heart of Mexico. Eventually, conversation ceased, and it became quiet as they sat in solitude.

A light breeze blew toward him from the west, and he could smell their sweat and their cigarettes. Time seemed to freeze, each man seemingly lost in his own thoughts, and the only sounds were the quail calling from up on a hill to its mate and the soft burbling of the water in the streambed.

After what seemed an eternity, Jason heard a distant cough and footsteps coming up the stream from the south. Soon another person materialized. Jason knew this was the man meeting up with these two smugglers. As he approached his comrades with a smile, they stood excitedly, knowing they would soon be making their way out of here and on their way back home to their families in Mexico.

As this new man approached, he waved to the two men and smiled. He walked up the hillside opposite of Jason and motioned for the two men to follow. They started to pick up their packs, but their contact told them to leave them where they lay. Then, as Jason watched, the man drew a hidden weapon and put a bullet into the chest of each smiling man and into their heads to make sure they would tell no tales. The gunshots echoed in the canyon, followed by an eerie silence as the birds and the breeze quieted.

As Jason struggled to understand the reason for the murders he had just witnessed, his finger found the trigger of the rifle he was carrying as his training took over.

The killer stood on the opposite hillside at about the same elevation as Jason. Slowly, he made a complete turn, momentarily looking straight at Jason but not seeing him. He kept turning and looking as if he had a feeling that he was being watched. Jason figured, correctly, that this man was not trained in Special Forces tactics. He was just another sicario in the long line of sicarios that Mexico had produced over the past fifteen plus years. These sicarios, or hitmen, were hired by the hundreds by the cartels as they fought each other to monopolize the best smuggling routes into the US.

The sicario walked over to the backpacks, opened the first one, looked inside, and pulled out a sheet of paper. He looked at the note for what Jason felt was an eternity and then moved to the second pack where he did the same. Once satisfied, he closed both packs, hefted the first one, and angled up the hill toward where Jason was laying.

Jason tensed as the man made his ascent, not turning his head to follow him to ensure no movement caught the sicario’s eye. He knew that once beyond his peripheral vision, he could be the victim of a bullet from above if the man had detected him.

Descending to the second pack, the man passed several yards closer to Jason’s prone position and carried it back up the path he had taken with the first pack. Jason eased and shifted his gaze to watch as the man hid both packs behind a large boulder, lit a cigarette, and withdrew a handheld GPS unit to record the exact position of the packs. Soon, the man left, following the same route he had taken on his way in. As Jason watched him walk away, he noticed the sky becoming a somber pink, announcing the end of a day marked by two more deaths, courtesy of the cartel and America’s insatiable appetite for drugs. An eerie silence once again settled over the landscape.

Twenty minutes later and under cover of darkness, Jason used a red lens flashlight to find his way to the boulder where the packs were stashed. The red lens aided night vision and helped hide one’s position. He needed both if he were to avoid becoming a target in case the man doubled back in this direction.

Opening the first pack, his breath caught in his throat as he shone the light on more money than he had ever seen. He picked up pack after pack of counted bundles of hundred-dollar bills. He had once read that a million dollars in hundreds weighed about twenty-two pounds, and after hefting the pack, he figured it was a little over sixty pounds. A quick search of the second pack confirmed he was dealing with the same amount. He realized that he had over six million dollars in cash at his fingertips. He was pleased that he had uncovered evidence of a major operation, but he lamented the loss of the two Mexicans.

A distant coyote howled. The stars were out now, and, satisfied that he was alone, he replaced the red lens flashlight in his pack and extracted a more powerful white mini light that he attached to his hat. He did not intend to remove the packs; instead, he needed to prepare them for the journey ahead. After fifteen minutes of working with the backpacks and erasing his footprints, he felt his job was done for the night. The temperature was dropping with each passing minute as the mountains around him released the cool air from above. The breeze, along with the hitman, were both traveling south, toward Mexico. Jason headed north.

Jason carried a compass and a GPS, which marked the locations of his vehicle and the six million dollars. He only had five miles to walk almost straight north. As he made his way to his rented vehicle, he knew he had to make a phone call, but he decided it could wait until the morning. Then, as the nearly full moon rose, he saw his vehicle reflecting the moonlight, hidden among the scattered oak trees.

Before leaving the area, he removed one of the DEA’s near military-grade drones that could remain aloft for thirty-six hours by virtue of the hydrogen fuel cell it carried. He positioned it in the trees near his truck, ensured its vertical ascent would clear any branches, climbed into his truck, and drove away.

Once back in town, Jason headed to a twentyfour-hour Walmart, switched the license plates with those he had pulled from an abandoned old Chevy, and parked the truck in the middle of a parking lot near some motor homes. He relaxed and felt good since the critical part of his mission had gone smoothly. Inside the store, he strolled the back aisles, just another customer perusing the hunting and fishing gear. In reality, he watched to see if anyone was following him. He knew he wasn’t being tailed, but years of CIA training had made this a habit. When the moment presented itself, he slipped unnoticed out the back and through the loading area, walked out to his waiting Land Rover, and drove home.

Chapter 2

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL spring day, the aroma of blooming flowers perfuming the air. The jacarandas’ purple flowers spread out like spikes hanging high up in the branches. The dew-covered grass gave off a musky scent that Javier Salas had always found invigorating. In the background, he could hear his horses being tended to by one of his trainers, who cared for them as if they were his children.

It was late last night by the time each of his seventy-three lieutenants in the Sinaloa-Durango Cartel, or SDC, checked in with the circle of twelve. Six of the twelve reported to him, and the other six reported to his brother Ramón. By midnight, he had accounted for around eighty-four million dollars that had flowed into Mexico during the week.

Most of the cash came down the lanes and corridors from Arizona and California, where he had established footholds in the towns with the local police and politicians. Each received handsome stipends for their noninvolvement.

Although Javier had control of the trafficking areas in Sinaloa and Durango, he nevertheless had to pay a hefty toll to the cartel controlling the Sonoran region in southern Arizona and New Mexico. It was this group that allowed him to cross into the United States through their land. The arrangement had always bothered Javier since his group was much larger than theirs. This uncomfortable relationship served its purpose for now though, and he did not challenge it because Susanna, his wife, was the daughter of the Sonoran jefe. Their marriage was a peace that benefited both the Sonoran cartel and the SDC.

Javier grumbled that the money this week was less than he expected. He knew that some of his people skimmed off a little cash here and there, even though he made examples of them and their families whenever he caught them. Fear was his tool, and he wielded it with swiftness and precision. His people knew him as ruthless or caring, switching from one to the other in the blink of an eye. Loyalty was what Javier valued most in his people, and he paid them very well for it. Most of his trusted associates would take a bullet for him, knowing that their families would be well provided for.

Glancing out the kitchen window, Javier could see his heavily armed elite guard force spread out every hundred yards around his five-hundred-acre Concordia hacienda.

Leading away from the luxurious main residence, he had built four large underground tunnels, wide and high enough to accommodate the two fueled and ready Range Rovers he kept in the tunnel entrance. Remotely operated generators powered the tunnels’ lights and exhaust systems. The main tunnel forked at about the two-mile point. One tunnel led directly to his mother’s relatively modest home next to his property. The other tunnel led to a drainage terminal point with exits to roads, leading out in three different directions. If necessary, he could activate the tunnel lights and exhaust by a remote control, be in his getaway vehicle with his family, and be on the move in less than two minutes while the DEA, Mexican military, or rival cartel force was still coming up the curved, mile-long driveway.

Javier had six other haciendas similarly equipped with redundant escape routes, but this complex was his favorite, both because his mother was nearby and because he enjoyed the mild winter climate. Closest to this hacienda was the town of Concordia, and roughly two hours west of that was Mazatlán, where Javier often went for business, to take his wife to their beach house, or—more likely—to be alone with one of his many mistresses.

He sat on the expansive veranda with his morning coffee, enjoying the only quiet time his days afforded, taking in the aromas and sounds of the season, and appreciating the still-cool air that accompanied them. A slight breeze that blew through the assortment of trees surrounding his property created an illusion of peace and harmony.

More than ten thousand people had died in the past nine years in the ongoing war Javier fought with Mexican and American law enforcement. But his larger war was with the other cartels that wanted to take over his transit routes going into the United States.

His organization employed close to a hundred thousand people in Mexico and the United States. Of that amount, roughly five thousand were former soldiers, most of whom were disaffected or corrupted former Mexican army troops. Some were American exsoldiers, who helped ensure the cartel’s version of law and order was maintained. Some of Javier’s best people were former Mossad operatives who came from Israel, seeking to make their fortunes in exchange for their consciences. Javier also had locals who watched the roads coming into his place and around town. They were always on the lookout for an increase in military activity, which could mean a raid was imminent.

He also had thousands of small, family-run