Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

“Great!” says Herman. “That cuts it. What do we do now?”

There is no time to think or talk. “Stay here and keep an eye on her.” I step out of the bushes and walk as fast as I can along the side of the road toward the gas station at the end of the block. If we lose the truck now, we’ll never find it again. We could get ourselves killed, but what choice do we have? I’ve never done anything like this before, but then I’ve never been in a situation like this. Sometimes we surprise ourselves-what adrenaline can do.

When I reach the corner, only one of the men is outside, keeping an eye on the trucks as the pump continues to fill the empty tank on the U-Haul. The guy is moving around over by the container. He is checking it out, making sure it’s fastened down tight on the rails that form the bed on the back of the cargo carrier.

The others are still inside the mini-mart. When I look back, the guy at the container truck has moved to the other side.

I notice that the back of the U-Haul is not locked. I swing the handle on the catch out of the way and gently lift the roll-up gate just enough to crawl inside. Once in, I lift the gate a little farther so Herman, down the street, can see me. Holding the gate in one hand, I’m motioning with the other for them to join me, and to make it fast.

Before they can move very far, I hear voices coming out of the mini-mart. A foreign tongue that isn’t Spanish. I put my hand out and Herman steps off the road and into the bushes with Maricela once more.

As I quietly lower the gate, I see a small piece of wood on the bed of the truck, just inside the door. I slip it under the edge at the bottom of the door just enough to keep the outside hand lever from sliding into the lock and sealing me in.

A few seconds later the voices get louder as they approach. I hear someone pull the fuel nozzle from the tank and hook it back to the pump, and a few seconds later the doors as they open and slam closed. Off in the distance I hear the diesel engine on the container truck as it turns over and starts, and a second later the U-Haul ignition as it kicks in, then the deep rumble of the engine.

I stand and lift the gate high over my head and look for Herman. He sees me from the bushes. I point with my thumb, like a hitchhiker, to the other side of the street.

Quickly Herman grabs Maricela by the hand and the two of them scoot across the street and end up behind an old pickup truck off its wheels on blocks at the side of the road.

It’s a gamble, but I’m assuming these guys have pulled off the highway for gas, which means they may be heading back to the highway. I hear the container truck as it swings in front of the U-Haul to make the turn back down the dusty street to the freeway. The U-Haul starts to make the turn to fall in behind it. I am holding on to the gate to steady myself, hanging on to it over my head as the truck rocks back and forth leaving the pavement and going onto the dirt.

The driver misses a shift and grinds the gears just as Herman steps out from behind the parked pickup. He is carrying Maricela on his shoulders and before the truck can get up to ten miles an hour he tosses her up to me. All I can do is break her fall with one hand and part of my body as I hold the gate for Herman. A second later he is on board.

I look down at Maricela. She’s smiling back at me. She’s fine. Herman and I carefully lower the gate and I stick the piece of wood underneath it again.

We can barely see each other in the dark, but there is no chance they’re going to hear us up front, not with the rumble of the engine and the road noise.

“May as well make ourselves comfortable,” says Herman. He grabs a heavy packing blanket off the top of a wooden crate up front, brings it back, and spreads it in a double thickness on the floor, for us to sit on.

I catch my breath, but still can’t believe we’ve just done this. That we are so close to risking it all.

So they have no idea where the truck is headed?” said Rhytag.

Thorpe shook his head. “According to our agents the Mexican police are pushing them pretty hard. They got the captain and two of the others down belowdecks right now teaching them about the inquisition.” Thorpe was talking about the ship’s crew, the captain and the others brought on board the Amora to replace the original crew members, who have all disappeared except for two who signed on in Colombia.

“All we know right now is that the current crew members appear to be connected to the Tijuana cartel. Most of them are seamen or have some sea experience. They were contacted by people they knew in the cartel to bring in the ship. They’re telling the Mexican authorities that’s all they know. When they were shown the photos taken by Nitikin’s daughter, they IDed Nitikin as being on board as well as at least three and possibly four other individuals in the photographs. According to the cartel crew members, they have no idea what Nitikin was doing or what was in the container. We did get a good description of the container, color and size. It’s a twenty-footer, lime green, and one of the crew members gave us a partial plate number off the truck. It was a Mexican commercial plate. Mexican government is checking it now as to the owner and possible destination. Also, there was another vehicle, a box truck. One of the crew members said he thought it was a rental truck of some kind but he couldn’t remember the name of the company or the license number. There was one thing that was curious though.”

“What’s that?” said Rhytag.

“Some of the crew members said it looked as if the Russian was being held captive. According to them he was being guarded pretty heavily and was locked in a cabin on the ship most of the time.”

“You think he’s acting under duress?” said Rhytag.

“Who knows?”

“What about the others, the people with him?”

“All foreigners. One of them spoke Spanish and some other language. He seemed to be doing all the interpreting. The crew members said they didn’t know what the other language was, and they claim they didn’t overhear any of the translated conversations. The Mexican authorities don’t believe them. According to them somebody had to overhear something. It’s why they’ve got the captain and the others belowdecks having discussions.”

Rhytag took a deep breath and thought for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was a near whisper so that none of the others in the room working the computers or the telephones could hear. “For the record, I didn’t ask this question,” he said, “but have the Mexicans taken them surfing?”

“Surfing” was a euphemism for waterboarding. ACLU types condemned it as torture, but experience had proved that when time was of the essence, it was the one sure way to extract information and to do it quickly. Oftentimes less than two minutes.

“That may be a touch too subtle for the Mexicans,” said Thorpe. “According to our agent on the scene, they got the captain hooked up to a car battery with a coil and alligator clips, charging up his nipples and various other body parts every minute or so. They let him rest just long enough to stop glowing. If he knows anything, he’s not talking. Seems the Mexicans are willing to keep at it all night. If they have to, they’ll bring the crew down in shifts and get some more batteries.”

“The problem is that if the crew doesn’t know where the truck is headed, all that pain is likely to extract is false information. Which means we could find ourselves sent on some wild-goose chase,” said Rhytag. “What do we have by way of assets up along the border?”

“You mean besides the world’s biggest traffic jam?” said Thorpe. “At last count we had two hundred highway patrol men, another hundred on the way. The NEST team is already deployed to San Ysidro. We’re assuming that’s the nearest border crossing, so that’s likely to be where they try to come in. We’ve pulled in border patrol from as far east as Yuma. We have two FBI SWAT teams, and Delta Force is sending us two of their crackerjack sniper teams, but we’re told that’s not for public consumption. We’re also bringing in one of our own hostage-rescue teams.”