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  “Because this is something else,” Barry said. “Or somebody else.”

  Jake frowned. “They’d go to all that trouble just to bring in a person?”

  “If it was somebody important enough.”

  “Sounds important enough to find out.”

  Barry nodded. “That’s just what we’re going to do.”

  * * *

  The truck’s sleeper had a pull-down bed as well as the queen-size bed. Jake used it and slept well. They had breakfast before dawn the next morning in Chet Taylor’s mobile home, surprisingly good flapjacks and bacon cooked by the guide and washed down with strong black coffee. The sun hadn’t quite come up, but the eastern sky was awash with red and gold when the three men set out toward the Big Hatchet Mountains, Taylor leading the way in his old pickup while Jake and Barry followed in Jake’s pickup.

  The air had a definite chill to it that made Jake’s denim jacket feel good. The days might be blistering hot, but the nights in this high desert country got pretty cold year-round.

  They had semi-automatic rifles behind the seat, and each of them carried a pair of 9mm pistols. Each had a sheathed knife strapped to his belt, too. The packs that rode on the seat between them contained several bottles of water each, along with emergency rations, blankets, matches, and other survival gear. Jake and Barry, as well as Chet Taylor, too, of course, were perfectly capable of living off the land for a while if they had to. They didn’t expect that to be necessary, but only a fool was unprepared.

  They followed the highway south toward the border for several miles before Taylor turned east onto a narrow dirt track that led toward the mountains. The wheels of Jake’s pickup bumped over a cattle guard across the gap in the barbed wire fence where the dirt trail started. Taylor’s pickup was already kicking up a plume of dust behind it. Jake drove into it, being careful not to go too fast.

  The sun poked above the peaks, causing Jake to lower the visor on his side and put on his sunglasses. Barry did likewise. Jake mused, “You know, it would be fun if we were going out here hunting for real. All those years when I didn’t even know you were still alive, we didn’t get to do anything like that.” He paused. “You ever miss living a normal life, Barry?”

  “I was able to give it a try, here and there,” Barry replied as he kept his gaze centered straight forward through the windshield. “Somehow, it never worked out well in the end, even when I thought it was going to. Why haven’t you settled down, gotten married and started a family?”

  “Well, there’s my work for the FBI—”

  “Don’t give me that. Plenty of agents are married. They get up and go to work in the morning, come home in the evening. Sure, there are risks, but that’s true for cops, firefighters, and anybody else who deals with the rough edges of life. Being in the FBI isn’t keeping you from doing anything.”

  Jake grimaced and said, “Well, it just seems like there’s never time. I’ve been in a few relationships, but I can’t seem to concentrate on ’em—”

  “Because you spend so much time thinking about catching the bad guys.” Barry laughed. “You ever hear guys in our line of work call themselves sheepdogs? We spend our time looking after the flock and don’t think about ourselves, only the ones we’re charged with taking care of. There’s nothing wrong with that. You just have to accept that you’re probably not going to have some of the things that regular guys do.”

  “But we get to do things that they can only dream about,” Jake pointed out.

  “Yeah . . . like risking our lives in some of the most miserable conditions in the world, while hunting down some of the worst humans out there.”

  “Well, somebody’s got to do it, or else the world would be even more overrun with evil than it already is.”

  “That’s true,” Barry said. “Better slow down. We’re about to get into some rough country.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Colonia el Camello, Chihuahua, Mexico

  In the early morning darkness, Francisco Zaragosa looked around this pesthole of a hamlet, turned his head to the side, and spat into the dust of the dirt street.

  Behind him, his brother Angel giggled. “Look,” Angel said. “You hit a bug.”

  It was true. The gob of spittle had landed on a scorpion. The creature was scuttling around, evidently perturbed by being drenched in Francisco’s spit. Francisco watched the scorpion for a second, then lifted his foot and brought his boot’s heel down on it. The dust was so thick that he didn’t feel a crunch, so he ground his heel back and forth to be sure he had crushed the scorpion.

  “Oh,” Angel said. “You killed it.”

  Francisco patted his brother’s cheek. “It was a stinging bug, Angel. I didn’t want it to hurt you.”

  Angel thought about that and nodded. He said, “I don’t like stinging bugs. Thank you for killing it, Francisco.”

  “Anything for you, brother.”

  They were a mismatched pair, Angel the older of the two in years but with the mind of a child. Somehow, that made him look more youthful. He was tall and slender, with a ready smile and a shock of raven-black hair.

  Francisco was three years younger, half a head shorter, and much thicker. He had lost a lot of his hair, and what was left was shot through with gray, like the mustache that grew under his hawklike nose. He wore khaki trousers and a short-sleeved shirt that revealed brawny, heavily furred forearms.

  He looked back toward the three white SUVs that had rolled into the tiny farming community a short time earlier. The heavy tint on the vehicles’ windows kept anybody from seeing into them. The windows were bulletproof, too. Francisco and Angel had ridden in the middle one with their guest. His nephews Juan Carlos and Javier, his sister Yolanda’s boys, had ridden in the lead SUV. His other nephews, Gerardo and Miguel, sons of his other sister, Isabel, had been in the SUV bringing up the rear. They had half a dozen cartel soldiers in the group, too.

  The cousins didn’t like each other, which was no surprise considering that their mothers had grown up clawing and spitting at each other like a couple of wildcats, but they got along, especially when they were working, because they all feared their tío Francisco. And they treated Angel well, which was another reason, besides the blood tie, that Francisco put up with them. He had promised his madre that he would look after his poor, broken brother, and he was a man of his word.

  Of course, sometimes he wasn’t sure just how broken Angel was. With his good looks and sweet, shy nature, beautiful women flocked to him. Francisco had plenty of women, too, but in his case, it was money and power that attracted them.

  Well, he was about to be richer, which meant he would also be more powerful, so that was one thing to be pleased about, even in this squalid, ugly village in the middle of nowhere.

  Their special guest, the man who was paying the cartel an unholy amount of money to get him into the United States, was a handsome man, too, with his dark eyes and fashionable stubble. Francisco had no idea how he did with women and didn’t care. All that mattered was the money.

  Bandar al-Saddiq got out of the second SUV and walked briskly toward Francisco and Angel. His expensive clothes made him look like he was about to go on a safari rather than trekking across a mountain range. He put his hands in the pockets of his sharply creased trousers and asked in perfect Spanish, “What is the delay?”

  “A problem with our men who are supposed to pick you up on the other side of the border,” Francisco said. “We’ve been in touch with them on the radio. They say there is some unexpected . . . what is the word? . . . glitch.”

  “Glitch?” Saddiq repeated. “I am not paying for glitches, Señor Zaragosa.”

  “Of course not,” Francisco replied, making an effort to hang on to his temper. He didn’t like being spoken to that way. Saddiq was not showing the proper respect. None of his kind did. Fanatics. All they cared about was their so-called religion and hurting anybody they deemed an infidel.

  Francisco went on, “You must admit, the operation has ru
n very smoothly so far. The test run your people made in Nevada—”

  “You had nothing to do with that,” Saddiq snapped.

  “They bought the explosives from associates of mine,” Francisco replied. This time, he allowed a little edge to creep into his voice. Big payday or not, he would take only so much from this Middle Eastern dog.

  “But it was my people who ran all the risks,” Saddiq replied. “My people who wreaked havoc on the Americans in the name of Allah.”

  Francisco shrugged. “They wrecked a train. It’s only half as big a story today as it was yesterday. Tomorrow it will be forgotten.”

  “That was just the beginning—”

  The radio in Francisco’s pocket crackled, interrupting Saddiq’s fervent response. Francisco held up a hand, used his other hand to take the radio out, and keyed the mike.

  “What is it? Will you be ready?”

  “We will, Francisco. You can send the package any time you like.” That was Daniel Colón’s voice on the other end of the connection. He was one of Francisco’s most trusted lieutenants. “I have sent men to take care of the problem.”

  “You split your group?” Francisco wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

  “It won’t be a problem, you can count on that,” Daniel assured him. “I sent only four men to deal with some . . . interlopers . . . and that will be plenty to dispose of them.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Big Hatchet Mountains

  Taylor had been right. They reached a point at the base of the mountains where they had to leave the pickups and go ahead on foot.

  The sun was well above the peaks, and the temperature was starting to rise along with it. Jake had taken off his jacket and left it in the pickup before he put on his pack, and he was glad he did. The sun and the effort involved in swinging along the mountain trails loosened his muscles and felt good.

  Taylor was in the lead. He had the Thompson slung on his back and carried a high-powered rifle. A Colt 1911 was holstered on his hip. It looked vintage, too, like the Tommy gun. Jake hadn’t asked him if it was the genuine article, but he suspected it was.

  As they walked, Taylor pointed out various plants and geographic features. After he’d done that several times, he started to again but stopped himself.

  “Dang it, I’m so used to bein’ a guide, I just let the usual spiel come out. You fellas shoulda told me to shut up.”

  “Not at all,” Jake said. “I like learning new things.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not why we’re here.” Taylor had stopped at a bend in the trail. The rugged landscape fell away sharply on two sides, to their right and ahead of them. The slope wasn’t sheer, but it was steep enough that a tumble down it wouldn’t be a good thing. They were high enough now that they could see for several miles. The view from up here was a sweeping vista of gray and different shades of brown, broken up here and there by blotches of dark green marking the location of stubborn clumps of vegetation.

  Jake saw scattered points of sun reflection, too, and said, “Those glints are worrisome.”

  “Not really,” Taylor said. “That’s not the sun shining on gun barrels, like you’re thinking. There are outcroppings of quartz all through these mountains, enough that a hundred and forty years ago, prospectors flocked all through them, looking for gold and silver. They never found enough to make it worthwhile. No, the Big Hatchets are pretty much worthless . . . except for that.”

  He lifted an arm and pointed. Jake and Barry looked and caught their breaths as they spotted a pair of bighorn sheep standing on a tiny ledge a couple of hundred yards above them.

  “Beautiful,” Barry murmured, while Jake said, “How in the world did they get up there? Fly? I don’t see any sign of a trail.”

  “They don’t need much of one,” Taylor said. “I’ve seen ’em go up slopes you wouldn’t think an insect could crawl up, let alone a big critter like that.”

  The sheep were very picturesque with their massive horns curling around their heads. They stood so utterly still they might have been statues carved out of the mountainside. Then, without warning, they bounded away, their hooves finding near-imperceptible rock ledges to land on, and with flicks of their tails, they were gone.

  “Man,” Jake said, “they’ll take your breath away, won’t they?”

  Taylor nodded. “When you’re out here, surrounded by all this”—he waved a hand at the rugged but starkly beautiful terrain—“and you see something like that, it sort of makes the rest of the world go away for a while. You can forget about all the hating and the fighting and just think that maybe this is the way the world was intended to be all along.” He shrugged. “But then you remember that there are mountain lions up here, too. No matter where you go in the world or how pretty it is, there are always predators lurking somewhere not too far away, just waiting for a chance to strike.”

  Barry said, “Yeah, but the kind of predators you’re talking about kill to eat, not because of politics or religion or some sort of twisted fanaticism. A mountain lion won’t come after you because of who you voted for or what god you pray to.”

  “But if you run afoul of them, you’re just as dead no matter what the reason,” Jake said.

  “You boys can stand around and philosophize about it if you want to,” Taylor said. “I just figured I’d show you those sheep.” He frowned and shook his head. “We came looking for those fellas who’ve been prowling around out here, and I’m surprised we haven’t seen any of them so far.”

  As a matter of fact, other than the people in the few cars they had seen while still on the highway, they hadn’t encountered anyone. Taylor had explained that at the end of that road was the Antelope Wells border crossing, the least used of any official border crossings between the U.S. and Mexico. It consisted of a low concrete wall with a gate in it, a small office, and a travel trailer where the two officers posted there lived. It was probably the most isolated outpost of civilization anywhere in the continental United States.

  Only a few cars a day used the crossing. Anybody who didn’t want to go through the gate, for whatever reason, could try to drive around the wall, but if they did, there was a very high probability their vehicle would get bogged down in the soft, sandy ground.

  Now, as the three men stood on this high trail, Barry asked, “Is it normal not to run into anybody down here?”

  “Sure,” Taylor replied. “As the cartels have tightened their grip on this area, fewer and fewer people come to hunt and hike, and it’s been a long time since I brought anybody out here who wanted to camp. It’s just too dangerous. If I spot somebody else moving around and I don’t know who they are, I lie low and wait until they’re gone. Mostly, smugglers are like rattlesnakes: Leave them alone, and they’ll leave you alone. There’s no way of knowing when they’ll get proddy, though, and start to worry about somebody seeing them. That’s when it can get dangerous.”

  They moved on, climbing higher. The view got even more spectacular, if that was possible.

  After a while, Jake said, “What if we don’t see anything suspicious? Do we just keep coming out here?”

  “Well, what Chet’s told us is the only lead we have right now,” Barry replied. “So I suppose—”

  “Fellas,” Taylor said, “I just saw the sun reflect off something over there on that ridge, and I don’t think it was quartz this time. Three o’clock.”

  He didn’t point, but his words told Jake and Barry where to look. They did so, not moving too quickly so if anybody was watching them, their actions wouldn’t alert whoever it was that he’d been made. Jake turned his head deliberately, as if he were just scanning his surroundings as a man might do in country like this. His gaze reached a long, hogback ridge about three hundred yards away, with a deep valley between it and the trail where the three men stood now.

  Jake looked around just in time to see a flash over there on the ridge. At that same instant, Chet Taylor grunted. He took a quick step back that brought him against the rock wall r
ising on that side of the trail. Eyes wide, he leaned against it and stared down at his chest, where a bloodstain was starting to spread on the thick flannel shirt he wore.

  CHAPTER 13

  Barry lunged toward Taylor and got an arm around him as he started to slide down the rock wall toward the trail. That sudden move probably saved Barry’s life, because rock chips exploded from the wall just behind him as another bullet smacked into it.

  Jake had seen the muzzle flash from the first shot. He brought the rifle to his shoulder in one swift, smooth move and started firing. At this range, without a scope or time to draw a bead, he didn’t hope to hit the sniper on the ridge, but with any luck he could distract the man and make him keep his head down while Barry and Taylor made it to cover.

  Barry half-dragged, half-carried Taylor along the trail toward some rocks a little higher up. They weren’t big enough to provide complete shelter, but they were the closest cover and better than nothing. Jake moved after them, continuing to fire toward the ridge across the valley as he did so.

  Taylor wasn’t dead. His legs were moving, although they seemed too weak to hold him up if Barry hadn’t been taking most of his weight. Barry was tremendously strong for his lean build. He reached the rocks, stretched Taylor out on the ground behind them, and dropped to his belly behind another of the stone slabs. He had kept his rifle in his right hand while supporting his old friend with his left arm. Now that he had the chance to fight back, he thrust the rifle over the rock in front of him and called to Jake, “Covering!”

  Jake ceased fire and concentrated on running up the trail. He covered the twenty feet to the rocks in three long strides and bellied down so that Tayler was between him and Barry.

  “How bad is he hit?” Jake asked, raising his voice to be heard over the sharp cracks from Barry’s weapon.