Northbound traffic was jammed up on the Mexican side of the Juarez-Lincoln International Bridge. Three of the four lanes that went through the exit booth were open. The far right lane was closed and blocked off with bright orange rubber traffic cones. Hatch had to stop twenty cars back from the booth in the outside left lane.
Scott checked the sideview mirror. The black Suburban was four cars behind them. The passenger stepped out. He was a tall white man in his mid- to late-forties. Definitely American, with a buzz cut, dark aviator sunglasses, and a tight-fitting olive-drab T-shirt tucked into khaki 5.11 cargo pants. All of which tagged him as having spent a lot of time in the U.S. military. Scott couldn't tell for sure if the man was armed, but he assumed he was. "We have to go, Hitch."
Hitch gestured to the stack of idling cars in front of them. "How?"
Scott pointed to the empty lane. "Take that one."
"It's closed."
"We're sitting ducks here," Scott said as he checked the mirror again. The man with the buzz cut was walking toward them, slowly, like a cop approaching a suspect car during a felony traffic stop. Scott turned in his seat and looked through the dirty rear window. The second man, the driver, was black and just as definitely American. He was in his mid-thirties and had lots of muscle packed under his tight-fitting olive-drab T-shirt, also tucked into a pair of 5.11s. He was out of the Suburban and cautiously approaching the Ta-hoe on foot. "Drive," Scott shouted and pointed to the far right lane. "Now."
Hitch turned the wheel hard right, but the lane next to them was backed up just as bad as their lane.
"Ram somebody if you have to," Scott said, "but get us the fuck across that bridge."
Hitch bumped the car next to them, an old Buick sedan. The driver laid on his horn and cursed at them in Spanish through his open window. Scott didn't understand the words but he understood the hand gestures and the tone.
"Punch it," he told Hitch.
Hitch goosed the motor and with a grinding shriek of metal on metal, the powerful SUV shoved the Buick out of the way. But there was still a third lane of traffic, also backed up to a standstill. A couple of the drivers in that lane, though, seeing the determination of the Tahoe's driver, moved out of the way before Hitch slammed into them. Then they were clear and into the empty far right lane.
Scott checked the mirror. Both Americans were scram-bling back to the Suburban. "Keep going," Scott said.
Hitch plowed over the orange cones and blew through the booth. As they shot past the small Mexican customs and immigration office just off the bridge to the right, Scott saw two uniformed Mexican officials, police of some kind, storm out the door and chase after them, but by then it was too late. The DEA agents were on the bridge headed north. Scott checked the mirror again and saw the black Suburban racing after them. "They're still with us."
Hitch mashed the accelerator to the floor.
The Suburban tried to pass, but Hitch swerved toward the bigger, heavier vehicle and the driver had brake to avoid a collision.
"Good move," Scott said as he tracked the Suburban in the side mirror.
Then the other driver veered away to gain some dis-tance. He cut back hard and slammed the Suburban's left front bumper into the back fender of the Tahoe. Cops called the move a P.I.T., a precision immobilization technique, and the intent was to force the fleeing car into a tailspin that end-ed in a crash. But Hitch knew the technique and knew how to escape it. Instead of turning into the spin, he counter-steered and kept pressure on the Suburban's front end until he forced it off the Tahoe's back fender. Then he cut to the right and rammed the Suburban and sent it spinning into the concrete railing.
"Fucking-A good driving, man," Garza shouted from the back seat. Hitch smiled but kept his eyes glued to the bridge.
When they reached the midpoint of the bridge, where Nuevo Laredo's Luis Donaldo Colosio Boulevard became Laredo's San Dario Avenue, Scott looked back and saw the Suburban again. Both front fenders were bashed up, but it was still chasing them.
On the north side of the bridge, the four travel lanes fanned out into twelve numbered lanes that funneled into a covered inspection plaza manned by U.S. Customs and Bor-der Protection officers. Lane twelve, the far right lane, was labeled OFFICIAL USE ONLY. That was their only chance. Scott pointed at the booth, but he didn't need to. Hitch was already racing toward it.
The CBP officers saw them coming. Two officers rushed out of the plaza with drawn pistols just as three steel posts shot up from the pavement in front of the booth. The retractable posts were an emergency measure designed to stop vehicles from crashing through the lane. A third CBP officer joined the other two. He was armed with an M-16 and took up a kneeling firing position behind one of the steel posts. The three officers took aim at the racing Tahoe.
"Stop before they shoot us," Scott said. He glanced at the side mirror and saw the Suburban was slowing down. Hitch maintained their speed for several seconds, then jammed on the brakes and slid to a tire-burning stop twenty yards from the CBP officers.
"Raise your hands," Scott said as he pressed his finger-tips high up on the windshield. "Show them we're not a threat."
Hitch and Garza raised their empty hands, palms out. The two CBP officers who were armed with pistols ap-proached the Tahoe, while the third, the one with the M-16, maintained his position and kept the vehicle covered. The two approaching officers split up, one to each side of the Ta-hoe. The one on Scott's side reached out with his off hand and pulled the door handle while keeping his pistol aimed at Scott's head through the glass. The door was locked.
Goddamned automatic locks, Scott thought.
"I'll reach down with one hand and open it," Scott shouted through the glass.
"Slowly," the officer said. He was Hispanic, mid-thirties, obviously with some experience under his belt be-cause he handled himself well.
Scott nodded, then reached down and pulled the han-dle. The lock disengaged and the door opened a crack. The officer jerked it all the way open. "Get out of the car and lie facedown on the ground."
Scott stepped out of the Tahoe but stayed on his feet. "We're DEA agents with a prisoner."
"If that's true then you're even dumber than I thought," the officer said. He had his pistol aimed at Scott's chest. "We would have been totally within policy to have lit your asses up."
"That vehicle behind us," Scott said, without turning his head, "that black Suburban, has been chasing us the last twenty miles. We had to get across fast."
"Let me see your ID"
Scott reached for his back pocket.
"Slow and easy," the officer said.
So, slow and easy, just like he'd been ordered, Scott pulled out his leather credential case, with the gold DEA badge fitted into a cutout on the outside. Then he opened the case and showed the officer his credentials, which consisted of two laminated cards behind clear plastic. The top card had 'DEA' superimposed across it in big blue letters, and the bottom card had Scott's official photograph affixed to it, taken in a suit and tie.
The CBP officer lowered his pistol. He peeked into the Tahoe and saw Ortiz handcuffed in the back seat. "I assume that's your prisoner."
Scott nodded.
"Mexican national?"
"Yes, he is," Scott said.
The officer glanced at the black Suburban, idling fifty yards back. "So who are those guys?"
Scott turned. The Suburban's passenger door was open and the tall white guy was standing outside, staring back at him through his black aviator sunglasses. "Hell if I know."