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At least he had plenty of water to drink. He should have furnished more water for the nineteen Mexicans hiding behind the extra hay bales in the trailer. They’d be even hotter back there than he was in the cab. But never mind, he’d be crossing into the good old USA toward evening. Once he got across the bridge into Eagle Pass, he’d find a quiet spot, crack the rear door, and turn them loose. They could find their own water.
Stella had warned him not to transport illegals. Human cargo was too risky, she’d said. Too many things could go wrong. But Stella wouldn’t have to know. He had her usual supply of high-grade heroin and cocaine loaded and sealed in the truck’s spare gas tank—the cartel’s payment for the guns he’d delivered to the ranch. Lute knew better than to touch the drugs. He would have to account to Stella for every ounce. But when he’d found out how much cash he could make smuggling passengers across the border—all of it his to keep—the temptation had been too much to resist.
Despite the sweltering day, he was in high spirits. What Stella was paying him for this run was a pittance compared to what he could make on the side. A thousand dollars apiece from those Mexicans in the back, paid in advance. The thought of that thick wad of cash hidden inside the dashboard, and what it would buy, was enough to make his head spin.
But that was just the beginning. He’d hit it off pretty well with Don Ignacio, the owner of the cattle ranch. They’d gotten to talking, and Lute had discovered the man was a fancier of fine horses.
When Lute had casually asked what Don Ignacio would pay for a trailer load of first-rate Texas cow ponies, along with one flawless palomino stud colt, the rich man’s eyes had lit with interest. The cow ponies would be useful, of course, he’d replied, and he would be willing to pay a good price for them. But owning a magnificent palomino stallion had long been a dream of his. If the colt was truly as splendid as Lute had described, and if Lute could get it to the ranch in good condition, Don Ignacio had quoted a figure that made Lute stifle a gasp, inflating his dreams of wealth like a hot-air balloon.
The risk of loading a trailer with Tyler ponies and trying to get them across the border might be too great. But the palomino would be well worth the trouble. Sedated, the foal would be easy enough to smuggle in a truckload of hay or other cargo, but only if he had the skill, or the luck, to drug the precious little creature without killing it, especially given the heat. Again, risk was a big issue here.
A better plan would be to take the mare along to keep her foal calm and fed. With the right official-looking paperwork, making the transfer look like a legal sale, the pair could be hauled openly, in a comfortable trailer. Too bad he hadn’t thought of asking the Mexican rancher about that before he left. Now he’d have to find his own way around the problem.
But the horses could wait. Right now Lute had more pressing concerns. The road marker he’d just passed indicated that the border was 200 kilometers away. According to Lute’s math, that translated to roughly 120 miles, or a couple more hours of driving.
It would be dusk by the time he reached the border. All to the good. The guards would be nearing the end of their shifts. They’d be tired, less alert, and the fading light would make it harder to spot suspicious details. But the most dangerous part of the trip lay ahead. He would have to be prepared.
Getting into Mexico had been easy. The guards on the Mexican side of the border had recognized the Haskell rig that hauled hay south to the remote ranch. They’d glanced at Lute’s paperwork, stamped it, and waved him on. But getting back into the U.S., with the border patrol on constant watch for smugglers, was trickier.
Stella’s contact had done a good job with the fake U.S. passport he carried. Lute was entitled to a real one, but with no registered copy of his birth certificate available, the red tape was more bother than it was worth. His other documents—his trucker’s license, the registration, and the insurance on the rig—were genuine and shouldn’t be a problem. Lute had all the paperwork handy, ready to present on demand.
The illegal cargo was a different matter. But Lute would hopefully have a hidden ace. One of the guards, a Texan named Albert Sanchez, was tight with Stella. She passed him a generous tip every time he “inspected” one of her returning trucks. The cash was waiting for him now, folded into a sandwich bag and tucked under the floor mat on the passenger side of the truck.
Stella had assured Lute that Albert would do his job. The only tricky part would be timing the truck’s arrival at the border to catch Albert’s shift and choosing the line that would take him through Albert’s station.
There were two bridges, with border stations, crossing the Rio Grande into Eagle Pass. The larger Camino Real International Bridge had one lane for big commercial trucks and multiple lanes for passenger vehicles. But Albert worked on the other, smaller bridge. The mid-sized Haskell rig was okay to pass here, but, unfortunately, it was more likely to be singled out for inspection.
When Lute had last phoned Stella, the word from Albert had been that he would be working that evening when the truck reached the border. But that had been yesterday. Arranging for his human cargo had taken Lute an extra day. Knowing that the delay would make Stella suspicious, he hadn’t called her back.
So now, where the border was concerned, he was pretty much flying blind.
Lute shoved a lock of greasy hair out of his face. His mouth formed a string of obscenities, the sound of them lost in the roar of the engine. There was still a chance he’d find Albert and make it through the crossing. But what if he’d screwed up—really screwed up?
Getting caught with a truck full of drugs and illegal immigrants could land him in federal prison for years. Ditching the truck and crossing on foot would at least save his skin. Stella would be pissed about the drugs, but the truck was insured, and anything would be better than getting arrested. He’d have to make up a cover story, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
With a backup plan in place, Lute felt better. He drove until he could see the lights of Piedras Negras through the murky dusk. Passing into the town, which he knew well enough, he found a supermercado with a big parking lot, less than half a mile from the bridge. He parked at the outer edge, switched off the engine, and yanked his T-shirt back over his head.
Taking the documents for the truck, the roll of bills from under the dashboard, and the cash for Sanchez, he stuffed the papers in his jeans and the cash in his boots. If he walked to the bridge and found Albert working, he would come back and get the truck. Otherwise, he would just keep walking.
As an afterthought, he took the jugs of drinking water he’d brought along and walked around to the back of the trailer. Unlocking the door, he raised it a few inches and tossed the jugs
into the darkness. Scrambling sounds and the mutter of voices told him his passengers had survived the long, hot day. Lowering the door, he left it unlocked so it could be raised from the inside. If he didn’t come back, they would figure it out. They might even be smart enough to look for the hidden drugs.
Even with his boots stuffed full of money, it didn’t take him long to walk to the bridge. The Mexicans waved him through when he flashed his passport. Why should they care who was leaving their country? He hung back as he approached the U.S. entry lanes. He’d seen a photo of Albert Sanchez, but none of the guards on duty looked anything like the man. Some of them even had dogs, burly German shepherds sniffing every vehicle.
Trying to look casual, Lute sauntered up to one of the guards, a husky red-haired man who shot him a questioning glare.
“I’m looking for a friend who works here,” he said. “Albert Sanchez. Do you know when he’ll be coming in?”
“Sanchez?” The man guffawed. “You won’t be seeing him around here. He got his butt fired this morning for taking a mordida from some rich tourist. Damned lucky for him he didn’t land in jail. If he’s a friend of yours, kid, you need to find better amigos.”
Muttering his thanks, Lute wandered away, found the line for foot traffic, and checked through on his passport. In a restroom on the U.S. side, he took the papers for the truck, ripped them up, and threw the pieces in the trash, along with the set of keys to the vehicle. He was walking away from this adventure with almost twenty thousand dollars in cash. But Stella was going to be mad as hell about that truck. He’d better have one good story ready to tell her.
Maybe he’d be better off not going back at all.
Beau was standing on the front porch, finishing his coffee, when his cell phone rang. Caller ID flashed Tori’s name.
“I just spoke with the sheriff,” she said. “He’s got the results of the ballistics test back. He wants us in his office as soon as we can get there.”
