The Crossing

By John Lytle

The large white man known as Pete told Juan in Spanish to tie the young male reporter’s feet together with his belt so he could hold the struggling female reporter down. Juan did what he was told as he removed his belt and tightly cinched Cal’s feet together and sat him on the ground.

Pete, cool and calm, pointed the gun at the young man’s head and fired. Ginger screamed in horror as she knew her life would soon be over as well.

“Hold her down, Mexican. I’m going to shoot this bitch,” Pete said again in Spanish.

Juan grabbed her by her hair as she was still screaming and crying hysterically. Her body fell limp as Juan did his best to hold her up. Pete stepped back and raised his pistol.

Hundreds of miles north of the rugged, barren desert of southern New Mexico sat the governor in his mansion in Santa Fe. The newly elected governor of New Mexico, Zack Wilson, had a problem. The state’s most highly regarded law enforcement agency was dirty. The governor needed to find the state police officer or officers working with the Mexican cartels before the FBI took action or the media found out.

The governor turned to an old friend to find the corrupt officers, sending a messenger to contact the former police officer turned recluse, Ignacio Quintana. Quintana, now living in the canyon country of western New Mexico, had grown to like his cows more than people and did his best to stay away from town and his former profession. So when he watched as his daughter rode up the dirt road on her horse with a strange-looking “gringo” from back east, it drew his ire and ended his retirement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646542116

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The Crossing

John LH Lytle

Copyright © 2019 Ron L & John LH Lytle

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books, Inc.

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2019

ISBN 978-1-63338-925-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64654-037-2 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-64654-211-6 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

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

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Chapter 1

Heat danced over the desert sand as the sun inched its way across the sky. The fiery orb moved slowly toward the Dragoon Mountains far to the west. Juan Delgado Martinez rested about a thousand meters south of the United States and Mexican Border. He lay with his head against a small cliff, the beginning of a small arroyo leading north. He waited for darkness, letting his mind roam over the trail ahead.

This was his first trip crossing the border, but from listening to others, he knew something about the land ahead, but not as a man does when he walks. It cannot be fully learned by word of mouth or riding in an automobile. Not even riding horseback compared to walking the land, but he had no choice.

Juan was properly outfitted for the trip. He wore a khaki shirt and pants, his leather walking boots were flat soled to prevent obvious tracks, and a black ball cap covered his head. On his belt, Juan carried a small knife. The six-inch blade was sharpened and sheathed in a leather scabbard. He also carried a canteen filled with water. There was, of course, the black backpack carrying a precisely measured ten kilograms of methamphetamine. Hopefully, the clothing would enable him to blend in with the desert landscape.

Juan briefly sat up and watched the sun make its final descent below the western horizon. He was amazed by its beauty as if this was the first sunset he had ever seen. He prayed it would not be his last. It was now dark, very dark, with no moon to illuminate the desert floor.

Juan stood, checked his inventory one last time, and then began crawling north on his hands and knees.

He crawled perhaps five hundred meters before he could safely stand and walk hunched over to keep beneath the thorny mesquite bushes, which covered the banks of the arroyo. He had been told the Americans used motion detectors, heat-sensing waves, and other instruments to detect any movement near the border.

These innovations were incomprehensible to Juan, but he believed the information he had heard and took no chances. Within minutes, he came across an old rusted barbed wire fence, which stretched across the arroyo. Juan crawled under the bottom wire and was now north of the border. He continued walking low and slow, and after about three thousand meters, he felt comfortable enough to walk upright, but then he came to an obstruction. Large boulders from a past thunderstorm filled the arroyo. Juan did not want to leave what he felt was the security of the arroyo. He stopped and thought of moving the boulders, but this would take far too long, and many were too heavy for him to lift. He decided to crawl over the large rock pile despite the risk of exposing himself to the equipment used by the American border guards. He prepared his mind, trying not to think about the consequences of exposing himself. He moved quickly, staying as low to the rocks as possible. Crawling in the darkness, he instantly forgot about the border guards and began worrying about coming across a rattlesnake. In what was only seconds rather than minutes, he reached the other side. Feeling satisfied over his first successful test with adversity, he rose to his feet and began walking with a little more confidence than before. Suddenly, he felt something reach up and grab his knee, and he fell to the sand. A root from a mesquite bush had tripped him. With the little confidence he felt all but gone, he placed his hands on the ground to push himself up.

Unable to see clearly, he heard the rattlesnake give its warning. Juan, frozen in fear and in position, knew to be bitten here would mean a certain long and painful death. Juan listened intently to the rattle of the tail, trying to determine the snake’s location. He slowly raised his right arm and hand to unsheathe his knife. Still positioned in an almost upside-down posture, he made a quick move with his left hand and grabbed at the snake. A move more centered on survival than skill, he managed to grab the snake behind the head. Nearly crazy with fear, he screamed a high-pitched squeal. The snake, which might or might not have been equally afraid, writhed in his hand. Juan tightened his grip, keeping his arm away from his body, and rolled around the sandy floor of the small arroyo. In the darkness, he quickly cut the head from the snake and buried it in the sand. Breathing heavily, sweating, and shaking, he tried to calm himself before slicing the rattle from the tail of the snake. He thought to himself, I’ll give the rattle to Elena. He buried the body of the four-foot rattler by scooping sand over it before proceeding up the small arroyo.

Soon, he heard a car motor and saw headlights bouncing in the darkness coming toward his location. Juan knew that running would not work. His ally was the darkness and being quiet. Up ahead, maybe thirty meters, a large clump of tumbleweeds had gathered near one side of the arroyo. He ran toward the embankment, quickly crawled under them, and stopped as close to the side of the arroyo as possible.

Border Agent Bill Davis, sitting in a darkened room about ten miles west, was watching a Hewlett-Packard computer console screen. Periodically, it lit up, showing brief infrared images of small animals. The images were garnered from various relay points previously positioned in different locations by field agents during the day shift. One particular image caught the eye of Agent Davis.

Aah, it’s probably nothing, he muttered to himself. It’s way too big for a rabbit or coyote, maybe a javelina.

The wild pigs traveled the desert floor, foraging for food at night. They subsisted mainly on mesquite beans and occasional grass roots. They were plentiful but usually traveled in small groups and were unconcerned with border sensors or infrared motion detectors.

No, he thought, this is something else.

He reached over and took the radio microphone from the hook near his desk and spoke.

Boston Blackie Two-Five, you guys there?

Miles away, Border Agents Roger Whitaker and Caesar Hernandez were paired, as usual, in their green-and-white border patrol four-wheel drive SUV. Roger was driving, and Caesar was riding shotgun. Caesar picked up the radio mic positioned in the center console near the computer and answered the call.

This is Two-Five. We’re here. Go ahead, Boston.

Two-Five, I have a bogey in section six. GPS should be coming up on your screen.

Ten-Four Boston, it’s coming up now. We’ll check it out.

Agent Hernandez hung up the microphone in the darkness of the patrol vehicle. His partner, Roger Whitaker, exited Interstate 10 onto the frontage road. Following the directions provided by the GPS, the agents turned south on one of the many unmarked, sandy roads that crisscross the desert. Darkness and unending mesquite bushes prevented the vehicle from exceeding thirty miles an hour. Whitaker and Hernandez had been partners for more than two years. Compatible both on and off duty, little talk was necessary as they understood the actions and reactions of the other.

As the vehicle bounced and growled across the desert, Hernandez asked, Do you think it’s anything, Roger?

Naw, but we gotta check it out or the old man will have our ass tomorrow.

The agents continued south on the dusty dirt road and began to slow.

There’s a small arroyo up here somewhere. We don’t want to crash into that thing. It would ruin the whole night, Whitaker said.

This is good, brother. Let’s check the area. The GPS is usually not wrong, Hernandez replied.

Yeah, here’s your flashlight. I got mine.

Juan heard the vehicle approach and then stop. The doors opened and closed almost in unison. Juan tried to shrink himself and attempted to quiet his rapid breathing and pounding heart, which he thought could be heard for miles.

The agents trudged through the mesquite and clumps of cactus until they reached the arroyo.

It’s gotten deeper than before. You go south, Caesar, and I’ll go north.

No, Caesar said, let’s go together, north first.

Whitaker grunted, and both men walked north. Soon they arrived near the hiding place where Juan had crawled under the tumbleweeds.

Poke around in there and see if he’s hiding, Caesar.

Sure, amigo, give the Mexican the scary part, Hernandez chuckled as he dropped into the arroyo and started forward.

Although Juan did not understand much English, he knew what they were doing.

As Hernandez approached, Juan was still holding the rattle he had cut from the snake. The agent reached for a large tumbleweed just above Juan’s head. Juan shook the rattle vigorously.

Hernandez jumped back and yelled, Son of a bitch, there’s a rattler in there! He looked at Whitaker and said, There’s no way in hell somebody’s in there with that thing!

That’s for sure! Whitaker said. Come on, we’ve done enough. Besides, it’s hotter than hell out here, and I’m hungry.

Juan lay quietly, listening to the receding footsteps of the border agents. He waited until the vehicle started and he could no longer hear the engine or see its lights before crawling out and resuming his journey.

Chapter 2

It was a Monday, just after six in the morning, another beautiful day in Santa Fe. Dawn in summertime always brought a cinnamon red color to the mountains north of the City Different. The mountains called Sangre de Cristo or Blood of Christ rose to over thirteen thousand feet above the high desert plateau, which dominated the geographic makeup of the northern part of New Mexico.

Traffic was almost nonexistent at this hour as the gleaming new black Chevy Impala moved slowly but deliberately through the narrow city streets. The occupants inside the car were two men, similar in appearance but not in age. The driver was William Bogart, special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. He was tall and muscular and dressed in a dark-blue suit and white shirt complete with a blue and yellow tie. His hair was gray at the temples, and his face was of ruddy complexion and deeply lined from too much smoking. The passenger, Oliver Gudette, was also dressed in a blue suit, two shades lighter than William. He too had on a white shirt, but Oliver wore a striped tie of blue and gray. Oliver was in his early thirties, young perhaps to be an assistant United States district attorney for New Mexico, but Oliver’s father was a huge donor to the president. For a time, they rode quietly as Bogart drove to the governor’s mansion.

Then Oliver broke the silence and said, I read your report, well written and good information.

Thanks, Agent Bogart responded. But I’m still not quite sure why we are going to the governor’s mansion. With just a little more time, we can blow this whole thing wide open, an entire state police agency running drugs from Mexico. This is big, and I disagree with letting the governor in on it.

Oliver was staring out the window and said, Normally, you would be right. We would keep this quiet to see how high this goes up, but my boss, the US attorney general, knows the governor, and he told me to have this meeting. He wants to give the governor an opportunity to look into this before we go public. I guess they served in Vietnam together, and he guaranteed the governor is legitimate. So here we are.

Yes, but how can he do it? the agent asked. As we can’t wait too long, we have people in harm’s way right now. I don’t know what he can do to get a handle on this with limited resources and limited time.

That’s true, but the attorney general has a boss too. And if someone gets hurt or this does extend to the governor’s office, then it will be his ass on the line. I know. If it was me, I would dig around to see who is involved and hope and pray it only involves people from the previous administration.

I suppose I’d do the same, Bogart said. Then he asked, How much time will you give him before we move forward?

The attorney general said to give him a week.

The black Chevrolet pulled into the circular drive leading into the governor’s mansion, and it was immediately stopped by a uniformed state police officer. The officer asked for identification from both men, and after recognizing the names, he waved them through saying, The governor is expecting you. Please go through the entrance and turn left to the study.

Both men exited the vehicle and walked through the entrance. The governor’s residence could not be described, by any stretch of the imagination, as a mansion.

It was a large, run-down one-story ranch-style home, which had previously been painted white. The term mansion had been applied by the media and citizenry, and it stuck. The governor who preceded Zack Wilson allocated significant funds toward the modernization of the residence. Modern art pieces influenced by Georgia O’Keefe and southwestern photography dominated the interior.

Governor Zack Wilson was a tall, vigorous man in his late sixties. He had the look that many young aspiring politicians yearn for: handsome, aristocratic, experienced exuding confidence, and power. Underneath this veneer, he was a practical and decent man. He extended his hand and spoke to both men.

Thank you for coming here, instead of my hearing it on the television.

That’s all right, sir. It’s our duty and not a pleasant one.

The man who spoke was the assistant United States attorney, Oliver Gudette, more practiced in the diplomatic arts than William Bogart.

So what’s the damage so far? the governor asked.

Oliver nodded to William Bogart, who picked up the conversation.

As we discussed over the phone earlier, we believe your Department of Public Safety Deputy Secretary Frederick Dailer is involved in drug smuggling. For starters, we have video, audio, wiretaps, you name it, to prove this. He’s a real talker, this one.

How did you get onto him? the governor asked.

Purely accidental, sir. We were watching someone else, but this Dailer fellow just fell into our laps. So we began looking more closely at him, and soon the pieces came together.

Well, I appreciate the notice. How much time can you give me to look into this?

Oliver Gudette answered, Not long, Governor. I’m sorry but the attorney general and president are aware of this. We think Dailer and his henchmen are bringing in another shipment soon so they want to be ahead of this.

Okay, so how long? the governor asked.

Oliver and the FBI agent exchanged glances, and then Oliver said, A week max, sir. We can’t risk the possibility of people getting hurt or Dailer being tipped off.

The governor looked crestfallen but replied, I see. Well, I better get to work and put an end to this. I was just elected last November, and I have no wish to start with a blemish like this.

I understand, sir. So we’ll hear from you soon? Oliver asked.

Oh, yes, of course. This is Monday, so you will hear from me next Monday morning. Will that work?

Yes. Thank you, Governor. It was good talking to you. I wish it were under better circumstances. You know how to reach us if we can help in any way, Oliver