SOUTHWEST TEXAS
Steve Nelsen was flipping through the gears, barely keeping the Ford Ranger on the winding dirt road. Without the four-wheel drive, the truck would have careened off the road miles back.
Nelsen had heard over the radio about the Suburban blown to pieces on the bank of the Rio Grande, knew exactly what had happened, had quickly inspected the smoldering shell of a truck, and hurried to the nearest bridge to cross into Texas. He had had to drive five miles through scrub brush and then along a bumpy dirt cow path to reach a rickety old wooden bridge that had looked safe enough for a single walker, perhaps a young boy on a bicycle, but surely not a Ford 4x4 pickup cruising at high speed, followed closely by two Jeep Cherokees with four Agency officers. A lone Mexican customs agent had stopped them before they crossed the bridge, and Nelsen had nearly ripped his throat out while pointing his gun at the man’s head, before Garcia had stopped him and explained calmly in Spanish that they were in hot pursuit of international terrorists and every second counted.
They were waved through on the U.S. side, after calling ahead on the radio first.
It was just after nine in the morning, and Nelsen suspected the terrorists had a few hours head start. His only advantage, he thought, was they would be driving the speed limit, maybe even slower, so they wouldn’t attract the local cops. They couldn’t afford to be stopped. Also, if they had crossed the river across from the bombed truck, then they would have had to drive across extremely rough Texas outback, so they would have been driving slow to keep the bomblets from breaking open.
Nelsen had called in his position for backup by CIA interior officers working out of the El Paso office. Four agents in two other vehicles were converging on their position, aided by Presidio County Sheriff’s units and a pair of Texas Rangers. If everything went as planned, Nelsen would have the terrorists and the bomb boxed in. If he could keep the truck on the road.
He swerved dangerously close to the edge of the dirt track, nearly sliding down a steep embankment.
Nelsen’s partner, Ricardo Garcia, sat in the passenger side of the truck cab grasping the armrest, his knuckles turning white.
“Catching the bad guys would require us living. Isn’t that right?” Garcia asked.
Nelsen twisted the wheel furiously. “You can get out any time, Ricky.”
“Yeah, right.” Garcia glanced behind, but could only see dust. “Do you suppose the boys are keeping up?”
“They know where we’re heading,” Nelsen said. “Besides, they can’t lose us. Just follow the dust cloud.”
“How do you know where these guys are heading?”
Nelsen hated answering questions. If the Agency would let him work alone, he would. “Simple. These bozos aren’t Americans, yet they’ve had help every step of the way.” He paused for a moment, shaking his head, as if to say how in the hell did this guy get into the Agency. He continued, “They’ve been able to keep just out of reach. Somebody in America is supporting them. Sanctioning them. We checked out all possible subversive groups in Texas, and that wasn’t easy. But we knew their nationality, or in their case their multiple nationalities. There were very few nationalized citizens. Those who were did not impose a threat.”
“And you were going to tell me this when?” Garcia asked.
Nelsen disregarded his partner as he braked and braced for a sharp corner. The back of the truck fishtailed. He continued. “So what was next? Students. We checked the databases for every college in Texas, then we had agents, escorted by campus security, check out every one last night. We narrowed it down to five possibles. Then later to two. Both are Iranians. But they aren’t Persians.”
“Let me guess. Kurds.”
“Exactly.” Nelsen thought it over. He wasn’t used to working with a partner. “Sorry, Garcia. I called this in after talking with the Cypriot. I just forgot to tell you.”
The truck reeled around another corner, nearly crashing through a bushy clump of yucca. To the north, the landscape evened off slightly. To the south were jagged points of rock and dirt, topped by scrawny pines and cacti. Nelsen imagined it was a great place for rattlesnakes.
“Get on the horn and see if the locals have cut off the other end yet,” Nelsen ordered. “I don’t want those bastards getting away.”
Garcia switched frequencies and called in. The sheriff and his men were in place five miles away. They had two helicopters in the air, but had not seen any other vehicles yet.
“Fucking podunks. Give me that thing.” Nelsen swiped the handset from Garcia. “Listen Goddammit. You tell those chopper pukes to get their asses in gear and open their eyes. Anything moves out on this wasteland makes one hell of a dust cloud. They should be able to see that for ten miles.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
“Don’t piss these locals off,” Garcia warned. “They’re libel to let the bastards slip through on purpose. Let them head off to a different county.”
Nelsen knew he was right, but he hated to admit it. “If I catch them pulling that shit, I’ll shoot them myself.” He glared over at Garcia for an uncomfortably long few seconds, his eyes away from the dangerous road.
Garcia turned away.
●
The Suburban had been off the road behind high brush when four county sheriff’s cars passed by in a hurry, lights flashing, just minutes before the cars had turned to set up the road block two miles down the open road. A lone helicopter swooped low across the foothills of the Del Norte Mountains a few miles away.
Baskale started the engine and then inched the truck up the embankment, the four-wheel drive digging the tires into the dirt, but not spinning. The map showed a crossroad ahead. Paved. The Suburban crept onto the dirt road, and Baskale checked the rearview mirror every few seconds. The truck headed northeast right at the speed limit. Baskale didn’t want to bring any attention to his truck. He knew that the men were looking for him. Finally, a challenge. He smiled outwardly, but also felt he couldn’t afford to get caught. Not before he was done.
In a few miles, Baskale turned north onto U.S. Highway 67. He had zig-zagged across nearly every dirt road in the county, and now it was time to make up for lost time on a few paved roads. He would head east after a few miles, then north again, repeating the pattern and staying away from any towns of size. He would change vehicles soon, and would have to kill again, covering his tracks. Nothing would be left to chance. There was too much at stake.
Baskale kept looking into his mirror, but there was no one there.
●
Nelsen slowed the Ranger down as he approached the road block. He skidded to a halt and slammed his hand against the wheel. “Fucking shit. Where the hell did they go?”
Garcia got out and started talking with the sheriff.
In a couple of minutes, the two Jeep Cherokees came up behind them, the entire vehicles covered in dust, with only spots on the windshields cleared by overworked wipers.
Nelsen slid out and unfolded a map onto the hot hood. He slashed his finger to the north across the map, figuring they had to have passed the sheriff cars somewhere along County Highway 169.
“It would help if we knew where in the hell those bastards are heading,” Nelsen muttered to himself.
Garcia and the sheriff were at Nelsen’s side now.
“What now?” Garcia asked.
“I want every road within a hundred miles blocked to the north at Interstate 10,” Nelsen started, sliding his finger along the blue interstate line. “Every stinking little skunk trail. Cut off the county lines here and here,” he said, swishing his finger like a knife across the paper. “Call in more air support from Goodfellow and Laughlin Air Force Bases in the east.”
“We don’t have authority for that,” the sheriff said.
“No, but I do,” Nelsen said, his teeth clenched. “You tell anyone who asks that this is by order of the Central Intelligence Agency. As you may or may not know, we have authority and jurisdiction over whomever we need.”
The sheriff headed off.
“That’ll piss off a whole shitload of Texans,” Garcia said.
“It’s my job to piss people off. If they don’t like it, they can go work for McDonald’s.”