Cut to the Bone(103)

They drained their water bottles, then headed into Peck Canyon. “Smugglers hide in these rocks,” Charvat explained as they bounced along the hard pack. “Waiting for the drivers who’ll haul the drugs up to Phoenix and Tucson. You want to hunt bad boys, you start here.” He gave Davis a long look. “I know, vacation postcard, right?”

“It’s dangerous,” Davis agreed, hearing the warning underneath. “But I’m used to that.”

Charvat grinned. “‘Course you are, tough guy - Chicago SWAT’s no picnic,” he said. “But this isn’t the big city, with backups just seconds away. It’s . . . Mars.” His lips pursed with long-held frustration. “Your department has, what, 10,000 cops?”

“More or less.”

“I’ve got 200 for a wilderness the size of Rhode Island.” He bit into the half-a-burrito left over from their supper at a lime-green cantina on the Mexican side of the fence. Made a face. “Not as good cold as I’d hoped,” he said, throwing the rest out the window. It splattered on a cactus, beans flying one way, tortilla and jalapeños the other.

Davis stared at the passing scenery. The tangerine-infused sunset had dissolved, replaced by a velvet-Elvis starscape and a full yellow moon that shimmered through crevices in the canyon wall. A wild dog howled, setting off an orchestra of beasts. A lively wind brought scents of juniper, mesquite, and grasses, spiced with animal spoor and road dust. Hawks swooped and soared on the heat eddies. It was achingly beautiful.

And dangerous as a rabid wolf, he reminded himself. The borderlands were awash in desperation: Illegals who’d do anything for a job to feed their children. Coyotes who guided them across in exchange for their life savings - and sometimes their lives, if the water ran out. Bandits who robbed everyone except the apex predators: the traffickers, the narcos, who hauled billions of dollars’ worth of drugs, weapons, and human beings across the invisible border that separated Venus from Mars.

“Out here, you’re on your own,” Charvat expanded. “Put out an SOS and you might get help in an hour.”

“Or, never.”

“If the radios don’t work, sure,” Charvat said, skirting a beagle-sized lizard moving sluggishly across the road. “You know, I get lots of cops asking for ride-alongs. I’m happy to oblige because it’s good for both of us to see how the other half lives.” He shook his head. “But you’re the only fella ever asked to work a week for free just to see if you liked it enough to take your job and shove it.”

Davis shrugged. “I’m a moron.”

“Good. You’ll fit right in with the Killer Bees.”

Davis arched an eyebrow.

“B for Brian. BP for Border Patrol,” Charvat explained, flicking the toy bumblebee hanging from his rearview. Its zigzag grin glowed coppery in the moonlight. “Which makes me the Killer Bee.”

Davis laughed. “I’m going to work in your hive?”

“Yep. We’ll even issue you a government stinger.”

“Don’t need it,” Davis said, spreading his hands. “Mine’s a mile long.”

“Mine’s a mile, too,” Charvat said. “Wide.”

“Rock breaks scissors,” Davis laughed, holding out his fist for a bump.





Ortega stiffened as if electrified. “Quick, Jefe. Top of the ridge,” he grunted, blading his hand to the south-southwest. “Behind those dead saguaros.”

Garcia peered through his night-vision scope. Saw the Jeep with the forest-green stripe. It was the Border Patrol, kicking up dust on the road into the canyon that hid Garcia, his crew, and carefully bundled sacks of profit.

He studied the jouncing vehicle for clues to its destination. One agent sat shotgun, elbow out the window. The other was behind the wheel, hands at ten and two, head on an easy swivel, reading the landscape. Both appeared relaxed. Not on the radio and not clutching weapons. Not scanning the sky for tactical teams in helicopters. Not looking for anything in particular. Just seeing what they could see.

“Routine patrol,” he decided.

“And if it isn’t?” Ortega challenged. “If someone ratted us out and they’re coming to check?”

Garcia patted the backpacks stuffed with enough Taliban heroin and Colombian cocaine to ease the withdrawal pains of Godzilla. He stroked the ammunition belts crossing his chest, the cartridge at the top of each curved magazine winking brassy in the moonlight.

“Ten of us. Two of them. Do the math,” he said.





“My boss has juice in D.C.,” Charvat said. “She’ll get you assigned to my sector.” He wagged a crooked finger. “Assuming, of course, we accept your application, you graduate with distinction from the Border Patrol academy, and you don’t kill your dumb ass training.”