Cliff Ryder - Aim And Fire

Tracy didn’t reply, but steered the Bronco into the wide wash carved out by long-ago flash floods. She saw a grade that she thought they could make, and turned into it before she could think twice, flooring the gas pedal. “Grab something back there and stay low!” she shouted.

The Bronco spun its way out of the wash as its front end launched up into the air and crashed down on the road with a bone-jarring impact, the heavy-duty off-road tires and shocks absorbing most of the landing. Tracy feathered the wheel as she kept the SUV moving in generally the same direction the road was going, although she did come close to the ditch on the other side for a heart-stopping second.

Nate fired several rounds at the approaching truck, hitting the windshield again, and making steam plume from the grille. The pickup’s engine revved as it tried to keep up, but the buckshot had hit something vital, for they were pulling away.

Nate climbed over the seat back and practically fell onto the cushion. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where in the hell did you learn to drive like that, Beltway rush hour?”

“Growing up with three brothers obsessed with the stock car circuit. It was either play with them or play alone, so I learned a few things along the way,” Tracy said.

“I’ll say. You can be my wheelman anytime.” Nate leaned back in the seat just as the flashing cherries and blueberries of the Border Patrol, sheriff’s department, El Paso police and even a fire truck appeared out of the hazy desert, barreling straight toward them.

Nate surveyed the damage to his Bronco with a doleful expression. The entire passenger’s side, from the engine to the back bumper, was crushed and dented, with the front quarter panel bent down to within an inch of the tire. The right rear window was gone, matching the missing windows from both doors and the back. Bullet holes pocked the cab and the side, as well. “I knew I shoulda signed out a truck. It’s gonna take forever and a Sunday to get all this fixed,” he said.

Once the cavalry had arrived, he and Tracy had gone back to the barn, where the rest of the Border Patrol had immediately starting rounding up the rest of the immigrants before they got hopelessly lost in the desert. Overhead, a helicopter swept the area, herding scattered groups into the waiting arms of the patrol. They had found the shot-up truck, abandoned about a mile from the farm with tracks leading away, but when Nate let the rest of his people know they were zetas, they let them go, as per standard operating procedure.

Tracy, however, was less than pleased by this turn of events. “What do you mean, you’re letting them go? They did just try to kill us, or have you already forgotten?”

Nate jerked a thumb back at the battered Bronco. “That seems to be pretty good evidence to back up your story.”

He took her aside. “Look, I’m gonna be in enough shit as it is about this—it’s bad enough we had a run-and-gun in the first place, not to mention me using an unauthorized weapon. Rules of engagement say we’re not supposed to engage armed illegals out here, but are supposed to let them go whenever possible.”

“So instead, you deliberately put us in danger by confronting them? Are you insane? We came this close to being killed!” Tracy was aware of the attention she was drawing from the other Border Patrol members, but at the moment she didn’t care.

Nate whirled on her, his voice low. “We were already in danger the moment that truck appeared. If we hadn’t done something, our backup would have come out here and found two dead bodies—ours. Or maybe they would have taken you with them so you could have been gang-raped before being killed. Get this straight—this isn’t a comfortable office in Washington where you get to sift through evidence at your leisure before sending a report to your boss. This is the border, and out here you either make a decision and follow it or else you die. There’s no room for error, and no second-guessing yourself after the fact. You need to stop analyzing everything to death and start acting on what you know.”

Tracy scowled, even as a part of her knew he might be right. “None of that excuses your behavior, Agent Spencer.

We could have held them off from inside the barn until help arrived. Let me remind you who’s in charge here.”

“In that case, it’ll be a wonder if either of us survives the day,” Nate said angrily.

Stung, Tracy was about to really lay into him when a shout came from the barn.

“Hey, Nate, you might want to come take a look at this,” a man called.

Nate immediately turned and walked, followed by Tracy, to a trio of men in a corner of the barn clustered around a strange-looking handheld metal machine that rested on three small legs.

“We were doing our usual sweeps when Jason took out the CryoFree radiation detector and took a pass. He found an unusual concentration of residual radiation in this corner—not enough to be a threat to our safety, but certainly more than should be here. If, at some point in the last day or so, something radioactive was here, it apparently was leaking a bit.”

Jason, the far-too-young-looking hazmat tech, beamed with pride as he held his new toy. “We just got this a month ago. First time I ever got to use it, and got a hit, too.” His expression sobered. “Come to think of it, that isn’t a very good thing, I mean, that means I just registered radioactive material coming through here.”

Nate exchanged a knowing glance with Tracy, who spoke up first. “Let’s keep this to ourselves right now, gen-tlemen. That’s the Model 25, right? Is there enough here to find out what kind it is or where it might have come from?”

“It was doing the type analysis when y’all came over.”

Jason checked the readout again. “Son of a gun—says it’s plutonium 239.”

“That clinches that.” Nate straightened up and looked at the open doors where the illegals had gathered. “Did you find a guy near here when you cleared the barn?”

“It was empty, but we found blood spatter over there.”

The agent pointed toward the front door where Nate had wrestled with one of the zetas. “You lookin’ for anyone in particular?”

“Yeah, the guy I head-butted in the nose.”

“All of the illegals are being held near the house until we can transport them to process.”

Nate headed toward the open doors. “Come on, let’s go see if they caught him,” he said to Tracy.

“Just a minute, Nate.” Tracy still faced the three crime-scene techs, and showed her identification. “Gentlemen, I remind you that this investigation is a joint effort between the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI. Therefore, I must tell you to treat this information as confidential and not to disclose it to anyone else. The only people who should receive your final report are myself, Agent Spencer or Agent Robertson. Failure to comply with this order will result in charges of obstruction of justice being filed. Is that clear?”

The expressions on the three mens’ faces had been relaxed, almost condescending, but by the time Tracy had finished speaking, all three men had stiffened almost to attention, and Nate thought Jason was on the verge of salut-ing her. They all nodded and answered affirmatively.

“All right, get as many soil samples as you need from the area and go over them as quickly and as thoroughly as you can. I want a full workup and report by tomorrow morning.”

With that, Tracy turned on her heel and caught up with Nate.

“A bit officious, don’t you think?” he asked.

“We don’t need this mission compromised because one of your boys decided to share this with one of his drinking buddies, and the next time we hear about it is on the nightly news.”