Michelle Gagnon - The Gatekeeper

“See if you can find the lights,” Kelly said.

Rodriguez vanished. Kelly kept her weapon raised. She didn’t know what she’d do if they rushed her, there were too many to stop and no one appeared to be armed.

Suddenly, the lights clicked on. Kelly blinked with the others: after the dusky half-light, the glare was startling. The room was no more than ten-by-ten feet, but at least twenty people were crammed inside. Most were in their twenties or thirties, but a few appeared to be teenagers. Filthy, as if they had gone months without bathing, a fine layer of grime rendering them nearly indistinguishable.

“Jesus,” Rodriguez said, reappearing at her side.

“Ask them why they’re here,” Kelly said. The room issued a palpable sense of misery, as if long after they left the walls would still be laden with it. She couldn’t even imagine what would be worth subjecting yourself to these conditions.

Rodriguez asked what sounded like a question, and one of the men replied. Rodriguez motioned him closer, and they spoke in low voices for a minute. The man waited, watching with imploring eyes, while Rodriguez came over to explain.

“A coyote brought them here, a white man,” he said. “Guaranteed he’d be able to slip them past La migra and the Minutemen. But once they got here, they were told they’d have to stay. That the coyotes had a plan for them to slip away during a parade. Only then would it be safe. Someone comes by once a day to give them food and take them to the toilets.”

“A parade?” Kelly knit her brow, turning back to the main room. “So they’re waiting to be brought out of here on a float? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Rodriguez shrugged. “Fourth of July is coming up, I’m guessing the float is for that. Maybe their coyote thought it would be easier to have them slip away in a crowd.”

“They could just drop them in a Latino neighborhood in San Antonio,” Kelly said, shaking her head. “Doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Rodriguez frowned. “Plus that doesn’t explain how the good ol’ boys at the other warehouse tie into it. Why would Minutemen be coyotes?”

“It is kind of perfect. They know the border better than anyone else,” Kelly pointed out.

“Yeah, but most of those guys would pay to shoot a Mexican. They’re fanatical about it.”

“You’re right, it’s strange.” Kelly eyed the float. It looked garish in the austere surroundings. Here she was trying to tie up loose ends, and instead she kept adding more threads.

“What do we do with them?” Rodriguez asked. A few of the immigrants had crowded in the doorway and were watching them silently.

Kelly hated what she was about to say, but knew there was no other option. “You have to explain that we’re going to lock them back in until their handlers come. As soon as they hear the doors open, I want them to make as much noise as possible.”

“You want to be able to claim exigent circumstances,” Rodriguez said.

“It’s our only way in, especially if Laredo P.D. is working with them.”

“What makes you think they’ll come? If they think their operation has been compromised, they might take off.”

“We rattled their cage. I’m guessing someone will come by soon to check on things, maybe even move them to a new location,” Kelly said. “And I’m willing to bet it’ll be our favorite Minutemen brothers.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Rodriguez asked, voice hard.

“Then we call the ICE.” He didn’t respond, eyes focused on the ground. Kelly examined him. “We’re still the law, Rodriguez.”

“Yeah, I know,” he responded after a minute.

Kelly considered reminding him of what he’d said earlier, about the flood of people being a burden the country couldn’t sustain, but she didn’t have the heart. Things that were good in theory changed when you faced a couple dozen hungry, desperate faces. Kelly didn’t like the thought of deporting them any more than he did, but she had no other option. She had to use them to snag the coyotes, so she could finally figure out what the hell was going on.

“I’ll go explain,” Rodriguez said, avoiding eye contact as he turned back toward the room. “But they might take some convincing. I suggest you keep your weapon drawn.”

Dante couldn’t stop scratching his arm. He could swear a rash was forming. He checked his dosimeter for the hundredth time. Still black, all but one circle filled in. He had showered twice, scrubbing so hard his skin was sore. It didn’t help.

Damn that Grant, he thought, lip curling. Bastard had to complicate things by playing the hero. Dante had never been a fan of this phase of the plan, in fact he’d repeatedly said there was too much room for error.

It had been a bad few days. First the loss of the girl, and two of his best men with her. The arrests at the bar, the contamination of the warehouse, then having to waste Thor and the others. Now the rest were too spooked to be reliable. His army had been badly decimated. Dante could get more-the network was large, and one phone call would muster reserves. But he’d handpicked the men who were closest to the operation, and look how that was working out. He decided to stick with who he had, using fear to keep them in line. That was the problem with cons, he thought irritably. They had no sense of honor. Jackson was right, they were only suited to be grunts on the ground.

Dante’s cell phone rang. He squinted at the number, then clicked it open. “Yeah?”

“We got ’em at a house outside Winters, California. What do you want?”

Dante thought for a minute. A vision of Grant’s face crossed his mind, cocky and gloating after the spill. “Take ’em.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. And the girl, the young one? She goes first.” A long pause. “There a problem?” Dante snarled, scratching at his arm again.

“Well, sir…there are four guards. And they look…”

“Yeah?” Dante said impatiently.

“They look like they know their shit, sir. I’m just saying, it’s the two of us.”

Dante rubbed his eyes with his free hand, thought it over. “All right. I know some guys near there.” He glanced at his watch: Jesus, nearly 3:00 a.m. “I’ll let you know when they’re coming. Don’t leave your position. And if they start to move again, call.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t fuck this up,” Dante warned. “And when you kill the girl? Tape it. I got someone here should see that.”

Dante hung up the phone feeling uniquely satisfied. He probably should have run the revised plan past Jackson, but he always hated to be bothered with details. And after the shit Grant pulled today, he needed to face some repercussions. Dante smiled as he imagined showing him that video. He’d see who the smart one was. And if Dante’s boys did him proud, it would be the sort of death no father would ever want to witness.

Jake blinked a few times, still half-asleep. He frowned. The light fixture above his head dangled precariously from a cord, swinging slightly in the breeze through the window. Outlet covers were scattered across the coffee table. The fan in the kitchen canted at a crazy angle. Syd sat cross-legged on the living room floor, papers spread in an arc around her.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said without looking up.

“Man, I slept hard. What time is it?”

“After nine.”

“Really?” Jake sifted through the mess for his watch. “Dang. Thanks for letting me sleep.” He looked up. “You weren’t at this all night, were you?”

Syd shrugged. “I grabbed a few hours.”

She was intently perusing the papers in her hand, brow furrowed. Jake watched for a minute, repressing a yawn, before asking, “You find anything?”