Marc Cameron - National Security

His grizzly task completed, Zafir leaned the dead smuggler’s body against the base of a thorny acacia tree. The head, eyes locked wide as if still wondering how such an awful thing had happened, he placed in the lap of its previous owner along with the backpack of cocaine. When Zafir reached for the second smuggler, the young man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he began to writhe against his bonds, wracked with sobs. The high-pitched buzz of his screams purred against the duct tape stretched across his mouth. Zafir paid no attention and dragged the boy to the tree beside his headless friend, where he dropped him like a sack of garbage. The last smuggler was quieter, whimpering softly as Zafir dragged him to the tree by his belt and dropped him on the opposite side of his dead compatriot.

This done, he retrieved his shirt from where he’d left it on a willow shrub by the Rio Grande and knelt beside the quivering men. Up to this point, he hadn’t said a word.

Turning the knife slowly in his good hand, he let the blade glitter in the scant light from a sky of endless stars. He held the freshly honed point to the eyeball of the writhing one, causing him to freeze in the middle of his gyrations.

“When I remove the tape from your mouth, I need you to scream as if you’d just lost an eye,” Zafir whispered in fluent Spanish. “Here,” he said pressing the point home with a satisfying pop. “Let me help raise the volume…”

Frenzied howls from the terrified drug smugglers drew nearby Border Patrol agents to the riverbank. The responding agents’ radio reports quickly brought every agent in the sector, hungry to witness the brutality of such a bloody scene. Zafir was able to slip past what were normally heavily manned observation posts completely unmolested.

He estimated he’d walked almost seven miles before he saw the yellow flicker of a tiny campfire in the woods. He moved in slowly, picking his way through the clumps of prickly pear cactus and thick thorn brush. The night was hot and choked with dust. But for the tangle of so many bushes, it reminded Zafir of his home. Through the darkness, he heard lilting laughter. As he inched closer, he saw two Mexicans, a man and a woman, sitting on a white limestone boulder beside the dying embers of a fire. The woman’s belly was stretched tight under a black shirt as if she carried a huge ball. She was pregnant and very near to giving birth.

Zafir was about to move by, fearing contact with anyone that would slow him down. Then he heard the young husband mention in a soothing voice that his cousin would be arriving soon with a truck to take them to the hospital in McAllen.

He listened to the giggling couple while he knelt in the shadows of dry grass. They dreamed together about the birth of their son, how he would be born in America and experience all the fruits of such citizenship. Zafir smiled at the thought. Very soon America would experience some very bitter fruit indeed, but this young couple would never see it. Their cousin’s car would get him to the Harlingen Airport, where he could fly to Fort Worth. Farooq’s contacts in Los Angeles had provided him with a California driver’s license under the name of Jorge Ramirez. The sheikh’s influence was everywhere.

Quietly drawing the pistol he’d taken from one of the drug smugglers, the Bedouin looked at his watch. It was a U.S. Navy Seals dive model, given to him as an ironic gift from the sheikh. Tritium numbers glowed an eerie green in darkness. It was almost midnight. He began to move toward the sound of laughter.

Time was short and he had business with an old friend from Baquba.

Fort Worth

Carrie Navarro hardly had enough energy to hit the button on the blender for Christian’s banana milkshake. Lately, work had been such a battle. Her new editor at the Star Telegram was nearly ten years younger than her with no real-world experience beyond being a livestock reporter for the farm and ranch section, but still he felt it necessary to change every story she wrote to the point that she didn’t even recognize it by the time it came out in print. Not only was he an ass, he was an incompetent ass, and that was unforgivable. Still, there was little she could do about it but scream, since he happened to be the publisher’s nephew. She’d dealt with her share of idiots over the course of her career, but the fact that this one was her boss made it more of a challenge. If her life’s experience had taught her anything, it was to prioritize the things that stressed her, and the pimple-faced editor of the political section, mired up to his little pierced eyebrow in nepotism, was not going to be one of her stressors, not today anyway. She had plenty of things to give her ulcers without worrying over that little weasel.

It was late, almost time for the news. Christian’s bedtime had come and gone, and Carrie felt a twinge of guilt for being such a rotten mom. Of course he was more than happy to stay up and now sat cross-legged on the floor looking at his favorite Dr. Seuss book. She compensated for her lack of mothering skills by making them a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and banana milkshakes-a late-night snack that would have caused her own mother to throw a bona fide fit. Again, it wasn’t something she was going to let get to her. Dr. Soto had helped her with that.

Paper plate of sandwiches in hand, Carrie flopped down on the couch and patted her lap.

“Climb up here and keep Mama company, little man,” she said.

Nights were not as scary as they had been before she started seeing Dr. Soto, but they were still dark and still lonely. Unspeakable memories popped into her thoughts when she least expected them, particularly if she didn’t keep her mind occupied. Despite his cruel beginnings, Christian proved more than a pleasant distraction. He was her life.

No matter the violent way he came into being, this amazing child had saved her. He was smarter than any other three-year-old she’d ever heard of, already reading hundreds of words. He spoke Spanish as well as he spoke English-and he spoke English like a child three times his age. But more importantly to Carrie her son was a gentle soul. He doted on his mother as if he somehow sensed her inner fears, crying when she cried, often reaching up to touch her cheek with his tiny fingers for no apparent reason. It was as if he was as much in awe of her as she was of him.

Christian cuddled up in her lap, Dr. Seuss book in one dimpled hand, a quarter of grilled cheese sandwich clutched in the other. Who would have thought she could get so much joy out of watching the little guy chew?

“You read,” Carrie said, picking up the remote. “Mama will see what the talking heads have to say before we go to bed.”

“Talking heads.” Christian giggled. “You’re funny, Mom…”

Carrie took a bite of sandwich as she flipped through the channels. She preferred her local news to the cable networks. The reporters and anchors still wore too much makeup, but most of them had enough meat on their bones to look a little more human than the big-haired stick-figure beauties on CNN.

… USE EXTREME CAUTION. DO NOT APPROACH, scrolled along the bottom of the screen, followed by a toll-free number. Carrie sat up with renewed interest. She’d missed the lead-in and the blond, female member of the anchor team of Kip and Jane was running down the top story of the evening. Jane Baily wore big glasses and kept her hair straight, hanging past her shoulders, looking more like a sixties-era flower child than a news anchor. That’s why Carrie trusted her.

“… authorities tell us they’re looking for this man in connection with the theft of highly dangerous radioactive material. They’re warning people who may see him-and this includes law enforcement-not to attempt contact. Don’t even approach him, they’re telling us. Anyone who sees the man in the photograph we’re about to show should call the number at the bottom of the screen immediately. Let’s go ahead and bring up the photograph…”