Borderlands (Mitch Kearns Combat Tracker Series Book 6) Read online

  It took him three years to make an inroad into the Culebra cartel in Agua Prieta, at which point he had direct dealings with the lead gangster, Mateo Dizon, and his right-hand man, Rafael Grimero. Tony had posed as the owner of a large trucking company and he had proven himself in several staged drug runs across the border. Mateo always preferred to use independent transportation so nothing could be traced back to the cartel, and Tony had come through on several daring ventures.

  After a year of driving small shipments of dope, Tony got word from his informants that there was going to be a massive drug delivery taking place during the chaotic month of April, when spring-breakers flooded into Mexico, creating clogs in the border security checkpoints at US customs stations. Tony allocated more money to keep the intel pumping in and obtain the wiretaps and drone surveillance needed over Agua Prieta. Tony’s other colleagues in Tucson were astounded at the sheer amount of resources that were being diverted to one agent’s operation via a seemingly unlimited budget, while their own local efforts were floundering from lack of fiscal input.

  Everything was proceeding as planned with what was going to amount to one of the largest drug busts in the Southwest, but then some internal fighting broke out between Mateo and his close colleague Rafael over missing funds from a recent shipment. Tony never believed the story that two brothers, who were longtime smugglers, stole the money. He knew it couldn’t be them because he had seen the money that night at the warehouse, 1.2 million dollars in neatly stacked bundles sealed in clear cellophane, all of it from DEA funds he had secured for this sting. No way those brothers could’ve found a way to launder all that money by themselves outside of the cartel. They would’ve gotten busted by now and they weren’t patient enough to hide it.

  After the conflict between Mateo and Rafael erupted, many of Tony’s informants who were sympathetic to Rafael were rounded up and executed. The resulting conflict drew too much attention to Agua Prieta and southern Arizona, putting a halt to Tony’s well-laid plans and causing the cartel to run the shipments in smaller convoys along the California border.

  Tony’s years of sacrifice and grueling undercover work crumbled apart in mere days. The failure was a major blow to his task force, but also to the DEA: it had cost millions of dollars in resources and assets that the DEA was now at a loss to explain to congressional members thousands of miles away in their air-conditioned offices on Capitol Hill.

  His boss in Tucson kept him undercover for another nine months in an attempt to track down the funds, but after his business relations with Mateo trickled away, he found himself temporarily reassigned to training new recruits until the pressure from DC died down. It was a bullshit assignment, with him acting more like a tour guide of cartel hot spots in Arizona than an actual narco-agent. To keep his cover intact, he drove in an unmarked vehicle and was never involved in busting smuggling rings, only in reporting locations to the border patrol agents on the ground. Three months later, he was still mired in the mind-numbing work of educating guys like Alex in the smuggling routes and backcountry surveillance methods rather than getting back to figuring out how to take down Mateo Dizon.

  With each passing day, Tony was growing more pensive. He had to find another way to use his extensive network and his knowledge of Mateo’s inner circle to crush the man and locate the funds for himself. Even if it meant going off the books with his current plan. Besides, he figured he’d accumulated his share of undelivered hazard pay over the years and if the missing money came up a little short, he’d put the blame on Mateo. He felt like his luck had changed in the past twenty-four hours though, as he had received a text from Mateo inquiring if his freelance services were still for hire. Now he just had to be patient as he waited for instructions in the coming hours.

  Tony glanced up at the rickety billboard along the entrance near Big Nose Kate’s Saloon. Then he gazed at the rugged cliffs in the distance, the cactus-laced rim reminding him of many chases he’d undertaken in such perilous regions while pursuing drug runners.

  This is still the fucking Wild West. I’ve got one more shot at Mateo left in me. He’s already shaved years off my life and whether I get him with the agency’s help or not, I’ll get my money back. Then I’ll gut him with a dull knife.

  He put the idling vehicle into drive and headed down Main Street, past the souvenir shops. Coming to a halt at the only four-way stop in Tombstone, he motioned to his partner to exit. “You go on and mingle with the folks here. It’s good to practice some of your people-reading skills anytime you get a chance in large crowds like this.”

  “Where are you headed?” said Alex as he stepped out and donned his tan ball cap, whose shade changed his skin tone from pasty white to parchment.

  “I’m gonna drive up the mesa behind town and check on our repeater tower up there and then make a sweep back down canyon to look for signs of illegals. If I get anything, I’ll text and then come pick ya up.” He couldn’t let Alex find out about his meeting with the militia group for fear of it trickling back to HQ in Tucson. Though it wasn’t unusual for the DEA and border patrol to occasionally inspect militia encampments, Tony had other reasons for drawing this particular militia group into his circle of influence.

  “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” said Alex.

  “Nah, I’m good. Besides, you can keep an eye out here for anything out of the ordinary. I once caught a couple of immigrants trying to get tap water out of a spigot in one of the residences a few blocks from here.”

  Alex’s eyebrows rose and his hand hovered near his pistol for a second, then he tucked his fingers into the beltline instead. “Whoa—really? That’s incredible—right here in this town, eh.”

  “Yep, so it’s good we’ve got some boots on the ground for a while. You stay sharp and I’ll be back soon, Wyatt Earp.”

  Tony pulled away, watching the young agent in his rearview mirror as he spryly crossed the street behind him. Once he had returned to the two-lane highway, he sped north for three miles then veered off onto a narrow dirt road that was barely discernible from the blacktop. He knew Alex would buy his story about where he was going while he instead made his way towards a critical intel briefing with some key players in his scheme to strike back at Mateo. Like most of his informants, the militia guys were expendable cogs in his plan.

  Chapter 15

  “How much further to the Jacobs place?” said Dev. She was sitting in the back seat beside Amy, who was still shaking.

  “About four miles, but there’s an old shortcut coming up here somewhere if I can just recall that landmark—a sealed-up mineshaft near an ATV trail.”

  “How’s that a shortcut—isn’t it better to stay on this maintained road?”

  “Trust me, darlin’, it will put us right on their doorstep as it cuts from west to east. Besides, this road was always one long washboard—the kind where you lose fillings.”

  A few minutes later, Mitch slowed the jeep and scanned the faint ATV route to the right. He turned down it and was immediately surprised to see a lone figure in camouflage standing twenty feet away. The man seemed out of place and his new fatigues looked like they still had packaging creases. Mitch brought the jeep to a standstill as the lanky figure held his hand out while slinging his AR rifle.

  “Border patrol?” said Dev as she retrieved the .308 from beside her.

  “Don’t think so,” said Mitch, exiting the jeep and making sure his t-shirt hung loosely enough for him to smoothly withdraw his Glock if necessary.

  The thin figure with the sunburnt face casually walked closer. “Operative Edward Bagley with the Kestrel Militia.”

  Operative—are you shittin’ me, thought Mitch as he examined the man’s accouterments, noting his new boots, which had a few scuff marks on the toe section.

  “Something going on here I oughta know about?” said Mitch, who kept his right hand ready while scanning to either side.

  “Just routine patrols for illegals. We’ve got intel that this area is rife with ’
em.”

  Mitch smirked. “You just arrive in Arizona this morning or did you get that news flash from your Facebook group?”

  “You bein’ a smart-ass, mister? ’Cause I’m down here trying to protect what little we got left of our border. I sure as hell don’t need any guff from you.” Bagley took two steps forward, thrusting his chin out.

  Mitch thought of the tactical disadvantage he was at not knowing how many other militia guys were in the area and having Amy to watch out for.

  “You can go about whatever business you were doing. We’re just passing through anyway, so clear off the road and we’ll be on our way.”

  “You can take clear and shove it up your ass, mister. Why don’t you show me some goddamned respect?”

  Mitch let out a gruff exhale. “You don’t want to play this hand with me right now. I’ve had a helluva morning so far.”

  “It’s about to get worse.” Bagley pulled the side of his camo jacket away to reveal a .45 pistol tucked into an appendix carry holster. Then he took another step forward with a half-grin. “Next time, you should…”

  Before he could finish, Mitch rushed up, striking the man with an open finger in the eye while deftly removing the pistol and smashing the butt down on his right cheek. Bagley shrieked and fell back onto the ground. Mitch leaned forward and grabbed him by the ear, twisting until Bagley’s contorted mouth emitted a howl.

  “I should finish the job and bury your ass out here but I’ve got someplace to be and you’re in my way.” He flipped the man onto his side and removed the AR. Then he stood up and slung it over his shoulder while checking for any other firearms.

  “Now, I suggest you use what little brains you have to get the hell out of here before I tell my ranching friends they’ve got someone trespassing on their land.” Mitch tapped him in the ribs with his boot. “You, savvy?”

  Bagley thrust his hands up to his face. “Alright, I got it.”

  Mitch placed his boot on the man’s side and shoved him over the edge of the road, where he slid six feet below into a sandy wash. Then he scanned the ridgelines and trotted back to the jeep. Dev had just climbed back inside as they sped off down the little-used path.

  “Who the hell was that?” she said.

  “Militia, apparently—more like my new arms dealer, it seems,” he said, glancing at the pricey Kimber .45 pistol and the Colt AR with a Swarovski scope and Gem-tech suppressor. He shook his head while scowling. “Some of these militia groups are doing an OK job by reporting illegal activity along the border but others like Operative Ed Bagley have some funny ideas about who they’re protecting our country from.”

  “Sometimes people like that just need an ideology to attach themselves to, whether it’s militant or not. That’s certainly not the first time we’ve seen something like that, eh.”

  A half-mile later, the narrow ATV track ended at a well-maintained dirt road. A few hundred yards beyond was the entrance to the Jacobs ranch. Mitch stopped the jeep before the eight-foot-high wrought-iron gate with the family name on it. He put the jeep in park and hopped out, unlatching the tarnished clasp and then guiding the massive gate inward. Trotting back to the jeep, he sped off down the mile-long dirt road. Mitch kept glancing in the rearview at the dirty face of Amy Jacobs, her eyes still glazed over with shock. Dev was sitting beside her again, holding her hand while the young girl remained balled up against the side panel.

  Mitch had intentionally avoided any interactions with the Jacobs family during his return visits over the years. He’d always felt badly about how he handled things with Nora. Valley Union High School in the town of McNeal was a small place and all of the ranchers’ kids knew one another so there was no escaping the embarrassment he knew Nora must have felt at being left without a date for the senior prom.

  He shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip. Hell, that was so long ago—she probably doesn’t even remember me. He glanced over his shoulder at Amy. And we’ve got way more important things to deal with now.

  Mitch brought the jeep to a screeching halt before the front porch of the main two-story house. Old Walt Jacobs, the family patriarch, came hobbling out on a cane and squinted into the sun with a look of curiosity.

  “Help you with somethin’?” he said.

  “It’s your granddaughter, Amy. There was an accident. She’s fine—with us in the jeep.”

  As Dev stepped out of the vehicle with Amy, a woman in her thirties emerged from around the side of the porch. She was holding a coiled lariat in one hand and tilting her brimmed hat up with the other. Nora Jacobs seemed as surprised as her father at the visitor.

  Walt hastily stepped down the porch steps, rushing to the vehicle. He dropped his cane and reached for his granddaughter. The crying girl threw her arms around the older man, clutching him with all her limbs like a climber on a precarious ledge. Nora dropped her rope and rushed up to Amy, brushing her hair aside and pressing her head against the girl.

  “Found your truck overturned in a canyon about five miles from here near Parsons Springs,” Mitch said. “Steven was missing—looked like he had been carried off by a coupla other fellas, according to what your granddaughter told us and the tracks on the ground.”

  “What?” said Walt, whose face was ashen. He handed his granddaughter to Nora then steadied himself against the jeep as he caught his breath. “My son is gone—who would’ve done this?”

  “I’m guessing cartel-types; there were spent AK rounds all over and one of them was dead—shot up by somebody else in the foothills by the looks of it.”

  Walt stood rubbing the side of his arm, his eyes narrowing. Then he looked up, pulling his shoulders back while looking at his granddaughter then pivoting back towards him. “And you—you saved my little Amy? I can’t thank you enough.” He tilted his head, staring at Mitch. “I know you, son, don’t I?”

  Before he could answer, Nora stepped closer, her red cheeks barely moving as she spoke in a low growl. “Daddy, that’s Mitch Kearns—remember him?”

  Chapter 16

  Ed Bagley stepped out from the shade of the first-aid tent, pressing an icepack onto his purple cheek. He lowered his head as he walked by the other militia members while pulling his brimmed hat down further. He didn’t have an explanation that would save face so all he said was that he’d slipped on some boulders and slammed his cheek on the rocky ground while trekking down into a canyon. He certainly didn’t mention having his firearms taken from him by that gully-jumper who’d pistol whipped him. Fuckin’ cowpie lover—I hope I get you in my crosshairs before this week is out.

  Ed had thought of packing up his gear and leaving—what was the point in looking for supposed illegals in this savage heat only to get stabbed by the unforgiving shrubs out here and be humiliated by some country hick who cost him over two thousand dollars in firearms? He stared into the distance at his truck. I could break down my tent quickly and be on my way without drawing too much attention to my departure.

  He’d say something came up with his wife back home—she was in an accident or his mom died. Then he sighed, realizing that wouldn’t work as some of the other militia members there knew his wife. Plus, if he left now, he might not be invited back to future gatherings in Kansas or Arizona. He was also close to getting his two-year patch of service, which would enable him to take up an instructor role within the militia group back home and would hopefully garner respect from the newer members. He pressed the cold compress into his cheek again. Dammit, this is some border op—but I should stick it out in this hellhole a few more days.

  As he was mulling over his options and thinking about the spare rifle and pistol in a steel lockbox in his truck, Jensen sauntered up next to him, pointing to his face. “Shit, partner, you gotta watch your step out here. That’s quite a shiner.”

  “Yep, this is some tough country, man.”

  Jensen patted him on the back. “Now you got a war story to tell when you get back home—just say you got into a fight with a coupla Mexes and now they’re
buzzard turds.”

  Bagley chuckled, but the act of smiling hurt too much so he just snorted. “Hell yeah.”

  Jensen pointed to a black SUV pulling into the parking area. “What’s coming next will surely whet your appetite, my friend. This guy is supposed be a real badass with the feds.”

  “Cool, right. I just gotta get something first,” he said, still eyeballing the distance to his truck.

  “Hurry up, I’ll save you a seat.”

  Bagley took a deep breath then flung the icepack on the ground next to his gear. He resolved to stick it out to the end, focusing on his anger at the earlier assault he’d suffered to muster his strength. After retrieving his notebook from his tent, he returned to the central briefing area in the main part of camp. A solidly built figure in a loose-hanging blue shirt stepped out from the distant SUV, removing the radio mounted on his belt and placing it on the front seat. The man walked up to the militia commander, David Sutton, who eagerly sauntered up to greet him with a hearty handshake.

  The thirty other members had assembled in their folding camp chairs, exchanging whispered comments about what was about to unfold.

  Sutton walked to the center of the group, followed by the agent, who stood with his arms resting casually on his hips, where there appeared to be a concealed pistol. He pushed his finger into the bridge of his mirrored sunglasses and slid them further up his flattened nose. After a reminder about not taking photographs and a curt introduction which didn’t include the man’s name, the agent stepped forward. A slow smile crept across his lips, his coconut-white teeth accentuated by his dark skin.