Dreams and Nightmares

By John J. Carpenter

Dreams and Nightmares is the third book in the Mike West trilogy. After violently losing everyone he loves, Mike West is a man with nothing to lose. He gathers a group of like-minded friends to take on violent Mexican cartels who are enslaving innocent children and bringing drugs into his country. Although a novel, Dreams and Nightmares tells the real story of the border conflict which threatens to destroy America. Written with the help of active Border Patrol and ICE agents and thoroughly researched, Dreams and Nightmares will expose you to the truth that the news will not cover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647011352

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Dreams and Nightmares

John J. Carpenter

Copyright © 2020 John J. Carpenter

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-134-5 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-135-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormented.

—Elie Wiesel

Acknowledgements

I’d like to acknowledge Agent Lawrence Carter for his help in gathering information used in this story. I would also like to thank all the patriots who take their citizenship seriously. Time after time, I see every day Americans who train with their firearms and who are ready in the event of a crisis to step into the breech and render aid. We were blessed to have wise and thoughtful men who gave us a divinely inspired Constitution and recognized our natural and inalienable rights. May we be found worthy of their sacrifices.

Chapter One

Gilbert, Arizona

Mike shambled out to his front room in the darkness of the early morning, careful not to smash his toes into anything. For the past several years, this had become his nightly routine. He hadn’t been able to sleep through the night ever since his life had been turned upside down when Rachel was murdered and his home burned down. He found that taking prescription sleeping pills helped, but he feared addiction, so instead he accepted his evening odyssey from his bed to an overstuffed recliner. On a positive note, he thought, he had developed a better understanding of Asian stock markets that were active this time of morning. The Hang Seng in Hong Kong, Mumbai Sensex in India, and the Nikkei in Tokyo had become his favorites. The Shanghai Composite was always a driving factor, but Mike considered it to be unreliable and too volatile because of its communist central planning; he preferred the unpredictability of the freer, less contrived markets found in more capitalist countries.

This time of year, the weather was still cool enough to open the windows and allow the brisk evening air to permeate the house, providing comfort and allowing him to turn off his air conditioner. Soon, the valley would heat up, forcing him to shut the doors and windows. Luckily, he concluded, he was able to get some fresh air circulating in the house and sit under the slowly turning fan that was mounted above him. Sitting in the dark, watching the twenty-four-hour business channel, Mike listened as a random car drove down the nearby thoroughfare. He often wondered where the driver was going this time of the morning and what was awaiting him.

The Asian markets seem to be down, Mike reasoned. I bet the Dow futures will be in the red. Oh well, that’ll provide another buying opportunity.

As he listened to the various talking heads reveal what they surely believed was unique wisdom, Mike’s mind strayed off to thoughts of Rachel and how their life would be. By now, he speculated, Rachel would have given birth to their daughter, and she would be close to a couple of years old. He liked to call her Penelope. Mike was especially fond of the name. He felt it was important to name someone after a historical figure that embodied strong qualities and a heroic character. Penelope was the wife of Odysseus, the hero of Homer’s The Odyssey and the queen of Ithaca, who has long been recognized for her fidelity to her husband. Rachel liked the name Emma because that was her grandmother’s name. Oh well, different strokes… It really didn’t matter. The reality was that his daughter was buried with her mother and neither one of them were alive. He had put a bullet into the face of the monster that ripped them away from him, and all the professionals assured him that’d satisfied both revenge and provided the all-important psychological closure he needed, but sitting alone in the darkness of another sleepless night left him feeling empty and desolate. As tears formed in his eyes, he looked up to an unremarkable ceiling and the heavens above and whispered, I miss you, babe. I hope you’re doing well. As he lowered his head, he was greeted by the image of an attractive Asian lady who was talking about the importance of soybean sales. Mike wiped the tears from his face as he pulled his tired body out of his chair and turned off the TV to make the lonely trek back to his bed.

Direct Action Academy

As Mike arrived at the academy, he was greeted by one of the newer instructors, Marco.

Good morning, boss, Marco greeted Mike with a smile and his omnipresent cup of coffee. Marco was one of those people who couldn’t be civil without first ingesting at least one cup of coffee in the morning. Once he swigged down his morning brew, all was good with the world. But if you tried speaking with him before his morning habit, all you’d get was the most rudimentary responses. Mike likened it to speaking with a teenage boy—a series of grunts and grovels. Although funny, Mike couldn’t find too much fault in him, as his sleeping troubles led him to ingest a steady stream of energy drinks. Mike usually stopped at a convenience store on the way to work each morning and purchased a couple of whatever was on sale. He was particularly fond of the Rockstar brand, but anything with caffeine and taurine would do.

Marco entered Mike’s office and collapsed into a chair. So, boss, are you going to let me run those ICE Agents through the shoot house this afternoon? Marco used his best puppy dog eyes to drive home his request.

Mike was fond of the younger instructor. Marco had served in the Marines for four years and got out as a corporal (E-4). Being in the infantry, he led a fire squad, which in his case was a light machine gun group. Now, he chiefly instructed handgun and practical rifle classes. Even though Marco was separated from the corps, he still wore his hair in the high and tight fashion that is attributed to the Marines. Marco was also very fit. Mike was sure it was a discipline thing, but he also remembered the advantages of having a nuclear-type metabolism that allowed a twenty-something guy to eat almost anything he wanted. Those were the days, Mike pondered while inspecting his near fiftyish reflection in a nearby window. Mike secretly admitted that he was a bit jealous of Marco and his youth. Mike fondly reminisced about the days before his new relationship with ibuprofen, when he could run and gun with the best and move without making inelegant sounds. But it seems he had traded those days for graying and thinning hair. Marco wanted to step up to working with professional groups and eagerly advocated to do so whenever an opportunity presented itself. With the upsurge in activity along the US/Mexico border, the academy had started running classes for local border patrol and ICE units. It was more cost-effective to train at the academy than sending dozens of men and their equipment across the country to the federally owned training facility in Georgia.

Let me give you some friendly advice, Mike said, wiry. If you want to be taken seriously, use the correct name. They’re Homeland Security Investigations (HSI) agents. They’re a division of ICE, but they’re the ones that do all the door kicking and handle trafficking and smuggling cases.

Well, excuse me, Marco said in his best imitation of Steve Martin. "After all, I’m just a crayon-eating gyrene, what do you expect? Marco took a long slurp of his brew before adding, Well, what do you say?"

Mike got up and slid open a nondescript steel file cabinet and, while archiving some class rosters, offered, I don’t know how far we’ll get today. It’s a new class. Then as if to throw the young pup a bone, Mike added, If we get as far as team movement, I’ll need another set of eyes. I’ll give you a call. Looking for a positive sign from the eager instructor, Mike fired Marco a glance that conveyed the unspoken message of That’s as good as it’s going to get. Take it or leave it. Marco excitedly shot out of the chair and all but kissed Mike’s ring. I’ll have my radio on channel thirty-three. If you need me, just call and I’ll be there. With that, he promptly darted out of Mike’s office and down the hallway.

Mike sat back down and spun his desk chair around to face a window that overlooked range one, which was known as Patriots’ range. The range bore a bronze placard that was dedicated to Wildcat, Thor, and Hot Dog, three of Mike’s friends who were killed during the Aztlán war and buried nearby. A lot of changes have taken place since the academy opened, he reflected. Since he and his friend Arrow had started building the academy several years ago, they had survived a war and dealt with various antigun groups and hostile politicians. Luckily, although his spiritual leader Isaiah would say it was providence, everything seemed to work out, and now the academy was thriving. They had built their business around a solid reputation of excellence, quality instruction, and government contracts. As Arrow had envisioned, the academy provided world-class facilities with up-to-date, real-world instruction to the whole shooting community. Mike was honored to be a founding member of such a tremendous success. As he continued his mediation, he reasoned, Lest any unforeseen events, the business will continue to enjoy perpetual growth. It doesn’t need me. In the beginning, like a child, a business needs constant direction and support from experienced hands. But the time comes when the mechanics of repetition take hold and what needs to happen takes place automatically. That’s the stage the academy was at.

Mike’s reflection was interrupted by an alarm set on his phone that reminded him he needed to greet his HSI students. Mike pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed his sunglasses off his desk before heading down the hallway toward the classrooms. As he passed Arrow’s office, he glanced inside and noticed his friend wasn’t in. That’s strange, he thought to himself. Arrow is usually the first guy in the office every morning. Mike decided to ask Arrow’s assistant if she knew anything. Tonya, has Arrow arrived yet?

Tonya spun around from her computer and answered with a pleasant smile, Not yet. He called about a half hour ago and said he’d be late getting in. Tonya’s answer was very nonchalant, which gave Mike the impression that she wasn’t concerned.

Okay, thanks, Mike replied. Hey, do me a favor and ask him to give me a shout-out on the radio when he gets in, okay? he added as he continued towards his appointment.

No problem, Tonya casually answered back.

When he arrived at the designated classroom, he was met by Special Agent Robert Bob Harris. My guys are gathering inside, Harris said as he extended his hand to Mike. I’m confident you’ll find these guys are well trained and safe. They’ve all recently passed their quarterly firearms training, so they’re tuned up. Bob struck Mike as both serious and responsible. Bob’s face was framed with a closely trimmed beard and his short-cut salt-and-pepper hair betrayed his early forties age, but a swift glace at his body told a whole different story. Bob was powerfully built with a barrel chest and muscular arms jutting out of his polo-style shirt. Over the left breast of the shirt was a golden shield topped with an eagle. On the shield was a blue section which read Homeland Security Investigations. No doubt he had a regular gym routine, Mike thought to himself. So how long have you been with the investigations unit? Mike asked.

I started out as an INS agent working for DOJ and transitioned over to Investigations in 2013 after Homeland Security was organized, Bob explained. I started doing counterproliferation investigations, mostly nuclear, biological, and chemical (NBC) stuff. I did that for a while and then got a chance to kick some doors with a group that was handling trafficking and smuggling. I guess you can say I got hooked on the adrenaline, so I switched over and have been doing it ever since.

Well, I’m excited to get going with your guys, Mike interjected as he released Bob’s handshake. I’d like to start by introducing everyone to our philosophy and the new curriculum with the tactical medicine module. Your team will be our guinea pigs. How does that sound?

Sounds like a plan, Bob replied with a chuckle. You’re the boss.

The academy had been teaching tactical medicine for a while and was enjoying great success. The academy leadership wanted to include the instruction with their entry courses that they taught to law enforcement teams. The section was taught by a guy named Tim Wilson, who was a former Special Forces medic (18D). Tim had started working at the academy close to a year ago and had allowed the academy to bring in a lot of new business. The course Tim taught followed the tactical combat causality care (TCCC) guidelines that were developed by the Army and upgraded during their involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan. It was simple enough for anyone to learn and improved survivability tremendously. In addition to teaching how to best use the equipment, each student built their own blowout kit that they’d carry on their gear. During advanced evolutions, the instructors would randomly call out an injury, and that individual would either have to self-administer, or if the instructor designated the injured teammate as unconscious, others would have to use the injured individual’s blowout kit to treat him while the other either provided suppressive fire or helped move the injured teammate to cover.

Bob and Mike entered the classroom and motioned for the agents to stop talking and pay attention. My name is Mike West. I’ll be your head instructor, Mike announced in a bold voice. I’ve spoken to your Group Leader and he says you guys have just finished your quarterly firearms quals. I’m sure you are all tuned up, but since we’ll be covering some new territory, we’re going to start by making sure everyone is on the same page. I don’t care how you shoot, and I’m not going to expect you all to shoot a particular style. What I will demand is that everyone is safe and follows the same unloading and safety protocols. Mike looked around for any hands and then followed with Does that make sense?

He continued, We’ll also be introducing a tactical first aid section that will be taught by a gentleman named Tim Wilson. You’ll meet him later. He’s the real deal. Tim was a Special Forces medic and did several tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan, so when he tells you something, you can be sure it was learned under fire. Mike looked around the classroom and repeated Any questions? before moving on.

When we start shooting and moving, we’re going to work in teams of four with others as backup. Our shoot houses allow us to move the walls to create different environments, and everything is videoed, so we’ll be watching and critiquing every move you make. Each of you will have a designated space in our locker room where you can store your gear. All we ask is you guys keep things clean, as we do not have a cleaning crew to gather up your crap. Mike chuckled as he added, Just remember, your mothers don’t work here.

The initial briefing took about forty-five minutes, and then everyone filed out to one of the ranges for their basic safety briefing.

Nogales, Arizona

Nogales is one of the few towns in the US that shares the same name with its sister town across the border in Mexico. Nogales is home to Arizona’s largest and busiest international crossing. It is located in Santa Cruz County at the end of Interstate 19 and the beginning of Mexican Federal Highway 15. Although Nogales records nearly $30 billion each year in trade with Mexico, it’s not a beautiful modern town like San Diego. Instead, it’s a small rural town that appears more Mexican than American. Matter of fact, the 2010 census found that 95 percent of its residences were Hispanic.

Rual Pelón Martinez sat in a dim two-bedroom house located on a dirt road just east of downtown. Pelón had just injected himself with a syringe of heroin and was starting to feel a rush as the chemical engulfed his brain, releasing a flood of endorphins. A few minutes before, he was dope sick. His symptoms were predictable, as he had fought them off twice a day for years: nausea, restlessness, and an overall achiness. If he didn’t shoot up soon, the pains would increase, and soon he would be vomiting and running to the nearest toilet with diarrhea. Fortunately, none of that was happening. The drug had replaced all that with a general feeling of calmness and drowsiness. As he fell into a comfortable drug-induced sleep, his body, which was covered with prison tattoos of Aztec warriors and the number 21, slumped down on the floor, and his eyes rolled back into his head. Life was good.

Pelón was a member of the Barrio Azteca gang. He had risen to the rank of lieutenant and had recently started his own chapter in Arizona. The gang had its roots in El Paso, Texas. It started in 1986 inside the Coffield maximum security prison, where it was still run by the founding fathers of the gang known as Pachucos. The members of Barrio Azteca were known for being both heartless and unforgiving and now served as enforcers for the Sinaloa cartel. In exchange for drugs, money, and weapons, members of Barrio Azteca would hunt down people inside the US who owed money to the cartel and often murder whoever was green-lighted. They were known for loyalty to the family and an undying dedication to whatever their job was. Pelón started his new chapter in Nogales to take advantage of the growing business in drug and human trafficking. He had earned his stripes, or as the family called it, his Muaraches on the streets of Juarez, where he killed whomever he was told to kill. Pelón and his Indians had brought a new level of ruthlessness to the area, and no one dared stand in their way.

Hector Fuentes was one of Pelón’s soldiers. He was new to the gang and was just starting out. Pelón had been his patrino when he first started hanging out with the gang. Since then, Hector had become Pelón’s right hand in growing their family and building business. Hector walked into the dimly lit room and saw Pelón sprawled out on the floor. A beam of sunlight shimmered with dust as it cast an eerie shadow on the wall next to Pelón’s body. Hector knew that Pelón had just shot up and that his boss wasn’t going to be able to make any decisions for the next while, so he crept out of the room, being careful not to disturb his lieutenant.

Where’s Pelón? asked another soldier in a curt manner. Is he all fucked up again?

Hector looked at the other gang member and sternly answered, "Fuck you, ese, don’t worry about Pelón. His business is no concern of yours. Hector meandered over to a chair and sat down. Whatever message you have for Pelón, you can give to me."

You’re not a fucking sergeant, you’re just a lowly soldier, the other gang member responded. "Who the fuck do you think you are? Are you looking for a calentada?" The guy used the word for a severe beating. Normally, a calentada was reserved as a disciplinary act and was only allowed after a family member was found guilty of insubordination.

Hector immediately shot out of the chair and pushed the other guy across the room. Let’s do it, asshole. Do what you have to do! Hector yelled at his foe as he pushed his chest out in a defiant manner. Hector understood that allowing another member to call you out was a serious show of disrespect, and if he wasn’t ready to fight, the word would quickly get out that he was a bitch. That wasn’t going to happen. Just then Pelón stumbled out of the side room.

What the fuck is happening? Pelón commanded in a slurred voice as he ran his fingers through his hair.

I got a message from Diablo’s crew across the border, the other gang member said while refusing to take his eyes off Hector. Evidently, there’s a package coming across tonight, and they want to make sure you’re there to receive it.

Okay, tell ’em I’ll be there and everything will be fine, Pelón replied while shaking the mental cobwebs from his mind. Now get the fuck out of my house before I beat your ass.

Pelón watched as the other guy left, and as the door closed, he looked at Hector. What was all the yelling about?

"No problem, jefe. He was talking shit about you, but don’t worry, I have your back."

The package was a group of illegals and some children, or as they are officially known, unaccompanied minors. Like any business, the cartels were always looking for a better way to make money. They learned that people with children could take advantage of a loophole known as the Flores rule to get into the US easier. The Flores rule goes back to a 1997 court ruling that established that minors could only be held in custody for a maximum of twenty days and then had to be released. The cartels and their friendly lawyers coached the illegals on how to request asylum, and then they would be processed as an asylum seeker, but since they had an unaccompanied minor (UM) with them, they had to let both the minor and the adult who claimed to be the minor’s parent loose into the interior of the US. Of course, the authorities would tell the illegal to return on a specific date and place for their asylum hearing, but often that date was years in advance and hardly anyone ever returned. The cartels used the minors to get the adult illegally into the US. The illegal was charged extra for the use of the kid, but it was money well spent. After the illegals were released from custody, the kids would be recycled and the adults were set free. That was if full payment had been made, but sometimes even if the illegal had paid in full, the cartel might have other plans. If the alien was a teenage girl, it wasn’t uncommon for the cartel to sell her into sex slavery. After all, what is the girl going to do, go to the cops and risk being deported? Some of the children might be sold into the sex trade as well. Although Hector wasn’t into pedophilia, he knew there were some that would pay good money for a child. Oh well, money is money. It spends the same, Hector thought uncaringly. The way this would normally happen is that Pelón’s crew would go to a safe house and help divide up the cargo. The kids would be separated so they could be sent back to Mexico and used again, and the adults would be moved to another room where their fate would be determined. Of course, there was the obligatory debrief to find out what questions the Border Patrol were asking and if any changes needed to be implemented. It wasn’t unusual for an especially attractive girl to be culled out of the group and given drugs and raped by multiple gang members. It was a normal occurrence. What did these people expect? Everyone knew the cartels or their enforcers weren’t choirboys.

Another thing everyone knew was that the cartels, in this case the Sinaloa cartel, controlled this part of the border. If you wanted to cross it and get into the US, you had to deal with the cartel in one way or another. The American politicians wanted to live in their make-believe world of rainbows and unicorns where only they and their ivory tower homes were the only things that mattered. The real fact was that just like so many Mexican politicians who had accepted bribes from the drug lords, American politicians were no different. They could be and were often bought off just as easily. Of course, no one passed envelopes full of cash. That was Hollywood. Instead, the money was sent to offshore, private, numbered accounts in the Bahamas or Gulf States like Bahrain, where powerful Americans hid their fortunes. Why do you think American politicians are always ready to send the military to defend so-called interests in the Middle East? They act like wholesome and righteous servants of the people whenever a camera is around, but not too far under, a deceitful veneer lays the truth—every one of them is a money-hungry liar only interested in power. They didn’t care who was hurt or how many lives were destroyed; they are all selfish hypocrites. Life is cheap, and the ugly truth was that brown skin is cheaper than white. Hector didn’t blame politicians; they were simply using their positions to enrich themselves. He understood the game and played it his way. In the end, he’d be worm food, and it didn’t matter how his life ended up. What mattered to him was having fun. If that meant he had to steal or kill, so be it. The one truth was that if he didn’t do it to others, they’d do it to him. So what if he did drugs, beat someone up, or had his way with some random girl? In the end, the only thing that mattered was loyalty to his family and his reputation.

Chapter Two

Direct Action Academy

The HSI agents had gathered for their first room-clearing runs. Mike