LITMIR.BIZ

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as a reward for their good behavior.

      Gently shifting her daughter, Silvia, asleep on her lap, to a more comfortable position, Consuelo wiped sweat from her forehead and glanced around at the rest of the people crossing the border. The truck held a mixture of men and women from across Central America—from fellow Mexicans to those from El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua and other places, all looking for a new life.

      But sitting at the front of the truck were three men who looked markedly different from the others, and whose intense gazes made her flesh crawl. Whereas no one else carried anything with them save the clothes on their backs and perhaps a bit of food and water, the three bearded men had brought a large crate, roughly two and a half yards long. They always stayed close to it, hauling it across the border and through the desert without a word of complaint.

      Although the box had attracted curious looks from several people in the back of the truck, no one had asked the trio about it, since they didn’t speak to anyone save one another, and then in a melodic language that Consuelo couldn’t understand. The only potential trouble had come when everyone had entered the truck for the last leg of the trip. One of the Mexican men had tried to sit on the box, but had been ushered away by one of the three men with a determined shake of his head and violent hand gestures.

      Whoever they were, Consuelo was certain they weren’t from anywhere in Central America. She wondered why they were traveling this way, but the idle thought passed quickly, replaced by more pressing matters—like the wail of a siren that suddenly pierced the walls of the truck. Her heart sinking, Consuelo knew what that sound meant—they had been caught by the Border Patrol. The truck lurched forward, everyone in the back swaying with the sudden motion, but a cooler head must have prevailed in the cab, for they started to slow down.

      Conversation throughout the truck stopped, and all eyes turned toward the large metal door at the back. Several men uttered quiet oaths, but most of the people around her looked resigned to their fate. As Consuelo shook her daughter awake, her eyes strayed to the three men at the front of the truck. They were clustered together, two of them with their backs to the rest of the group. She heard a strange metallic clicking sound, then two of them turned and stood in front of the crate, while the third pushed his way to the rear of the vehicle, his hand resting against the colorful tail of his loose-fitting shirt.

      The truck stopped, and the engine died. A loud voice outside called out in Spanish. “Attention, everyone inside the truck. This is the United States Customs and Border Protection. When the door is opened, you will file out one at a time, keeping your hands in plain sight, and kneel at the side of the road in a single line.”

      Consuelo’s son exchanged a troubled glance with her. “What should we do, Mama?”

      “Listen to the men, and do as they say. If we are sent back, we will try to find another way across,” she replied. She had no idea how they would manage another crossing. It would be months before her sister could send the money to try again, and who knew what might happen to them in the meantime?

      A metal rattle echoed through the cargo bay, and the segmented door was pushed up, revealing the bright headlights of a white SUV illuminating the men and women packed into the truck. An agent stood a few feet away from the back of the truck, one hand hovering above his holstered pistol. “Step out of the truck one at a time and take your place over here. Kneel on the ground, cross your legs at the ankles and keep your hands in plain sight,” the agent commanded.

      Blinking in the sudden bright light, the men and women jumped down to the dirt road and lined up as directed. As the first bearded man stepped off the truck bed, the Border Patrol agent’s eyes narrowed. “Hold it—” The bearded man pulled a compact pistol out from underneath his shirt and fired, spraying several rounds at the agent, hitting him more than once and shattering one of the SUV’s headlights.

      As Consuelo watched in horror, the agent fell to the ground and slowly tried to draw his pistol. The man stepped over him and fired once at the agent’s head, stilling him.

      The group of immigrants burst into panicked motion, those still inside the truck jumping out while others on the road scattered into the darkness. The gunman continued firing, mowing down several fleeing people. Grabbing Esteban’s hand, Consuelo lurched toward the open back as she heard another strange metallic clatter behind her, then the deafening sound of some kind of terrible weapon.

      “Run, Esteban!” she shouted. Pulling her son along, she scrambled toward the open door. Around her, men and women died in their tracks, bullets from the chattering, deadly weapons punching through their bodies. Shouts and screams were heard both inside and out, and Consuelo realized one of the voices was her own, shrieking in dazed terror. One arm was wrapped tightly around her daughter, and her other hand clutched Esteban’s fingers in a death grip.

      And suddenly, they were at the door, miraculously unscathed. Consuelo didn’t stop, but leaped out of the truck, dragging Esteban behind her. She fell hard, landing on her knees, right beside the body of the Border Patrol agent who had collapsed against the side of the truck. The woman’s oozing blood stained her uniform black in the bright lights and heat. Around her, the three foreign men methodically killed everyone in sight. The first one now stood on the patrol vehicle’s hood, shooting anyone who moved. Bodies were strewed everywhere, cut down as they tried to escape.

      Sucking in a breath of hot night air, Consuelo staggered to her feet, helped by Esteban, who was now tugging on her. “Hurry, Mama, hurry!” She let him pull her into the darkness, stumbling past yucca plants and Amargosa bushes. She saw a thick cluster of guajillo a few yards away, and knew if they reached the thicket, they might be safe.

      A shot cracked out from behind her, and Consuelo felt something punch her hard in the lower back. All of the strength drained out of her legs, and she collapsed in a heap, still holding Silvia, who was clinging to her neck.

      “Mama, get up, we have to get out of here!” Esteban pulled on her hand, pleading, tears streaming down his face.

      “Esteban, take your sister and go.” Consuelo shook her head, trying to think. “Follow the—the road.” Scattered shots came from behind them, the cries and pleas of the others falling silent. Suddenly she was tired…so tired.

      “No, I won’t let you. Don’t hurt Mama!” She felt Esteban drape himself over her back, and all Consuelo could think to do was to huddle over her daughter, who had suddenly turned limp and heavy in her arms. Consuelo tilted her daughter back and saw Silvia’s head loll on her shoulders. Looking down, she saw dark blood from where the bullet had passed through her and into her daughter’s body.

      “Oh, no…no, not Silvia…” She felt Esteban, still yelling and struggling, suddenly lifted off her, and then a single, sharp crack, punishing her ears. Strange, but she couldn’t hear her son’s voice anymore. The shot has deafened me, she thought.

      Consuelo drew her daughter close again, wrapping her arms around the small body as footsteps crunched in the sandy soil next to her. She looked up to see one of the men, his eyes expressionless, a pistol held at his side.

      “Please…my daughter…she is hurt….”

      He spoke to her in mangled Spanish. “Your son had heart of warrior. I give him quick death. Good death.”

      “Please…help my baby…let her go….”

      He raised the pistol again. “They will be at peace, if Allah wills it.”

      Just before she saw the blinding muzzle-flash, she heard him say one last thing in that strange language, and in the flash of a second before Consuelo’s death, she somehow understood the words, although they did not ease her passing one bit.

      “Allahu Akbar.”

      1

      Nathaniel Spencer tilted his cowboy hat lower over his pale blue eyes and leaned back in the seat of the battered, primer-gray Ford Bronco. He appeared to be just another gringo taking a siesta in the ovenlike afternoon heat on the road in front of a line of small businesses along Oregon Street. But Spencer stared through the loose weave of his straw

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