Gayne Young - The Tunnel

“I have,” José declared from behind the wheel. “They wait for you.”

“We already had most of what you requested,” Hunter offered. “What José picked up for you today with sent across the border via other channels. You can’t just drive guns and ammunition into Mexico, you know. Well, we can, but it’s easier not too. Boss has plenty of Border Patrol on the payroll but likes to save their services of looking the other way for more important situations.”

“Why are we driving into Mexico, by the way?” Taylor asked. “Why didn’t we fly direct?”

“The plane is owned by one of the companies our employer owns. We’re pretty sure it’s clear but with the DEA, you never know. The last thing Miguel needs is for any agency to follow us to the tunnel.”

“What about this truck? Can’t they follow it?” Taylor inquired.

“I steal this morning,” José boasted. “We change again when we cross.”

“Well, there you go,” Taylor mused aloud. “Problem solved.”

José drove Hunter and Taylor across the bridge and into the city of Juárez, Mexico. Unlike the spacious urban sprawl of El Paso, Juárez was a city seemingly shoved together haphazardly. Its streets were narrow, its buildings sandwiched together and on top of one another, and its pedestrians sardined shoulder to shoulder upon the street. The usually heavy traffic was even more so, and it took José 20 minutes longer than he anticipated to reach the two-story parking garage where the three men would change vehicles.

José pulled the Suburban next to a khaki-colored Chevy Tahoe outfitted for ranch work with oversized tires, a brush guard, and a winch. He exited the Suburban first then nodded for Hunter and Taylor to follow. The men exited and Taylor stood silently, watching José transfer the bags from the Suburban to the Tahoe. As Taylor watched, he made note of his surroundings. The garage was decades old, crumbling in upon itself, and it reeked of stale urine and vomit. A rat sat eating some kind of food material near a crack in the outer wall and pigeons drank from a puddle on the ground next to the entrance.

“I promised you.” Hunter laughed and slapped Taylor on the back. “Only the best for you.”

Taylor’s response was interrupted by José calling for him and Hunter to join him at the rear of the Tahoe. Taylor and Hunter walked to the back of the vehicle and watched as José opened the medium-sized Pelican case that sat inside the cargo bay.

“The fun stuff’s at the ranch,” Hunter offered. “But this will get you started.”

José took a holstered Sig Sauer 9mm P320 pistol from the case and handed it to Taylor. Taylor removed the pistol from its nylon home, checked it for fit, and insured that it was loaded. He put the holstered pistol on the right side of his belt then took from José two double pistol magazine pouches. Taylor checked each magazine to ensure that they too were loaded then attached them to his belt as well.

“Knife? Taylor asked.

José handed Taylor a SOG fixed blade knife and sheath. Taylor affixed this horizontally to the back of his belt then turned to take the envelope that Hunter held out before him. Taylor took the envelope and opened it.

“Mexican passport, ID, and firearm license,” Hunter explained.

Taylor nodded and put the contents of the envelope into his front shirt pocket.

Hunter pulled a small pistol from the inside front of his pants and handed it to José who in turn handed Hunter a rig similar to the one Taylor had just assembled on his person. Hunter put the belt containing his holstered Glock 19, ammo, and Leatherman multi-tool on, and moved toward the front passenger-side door of the Tahoe.

“Come on,” Hunter instructed. “Christmas is over. Time to get to work.”

José drove Taylor and Hunter through the city then east on Highway 2. The road skirted the Rio Grande and the men passed large agricultural fields of vibrant green and dotted with laborers. These gave way to smaller ranches and to a landscape of scrub brush and of mountains of weathered rock painted with a tapestry of cactus and a myriad of thorned plants. They drove through this for two and a half hours before they turned south on a single-lane dirt road. They passed through an open gate and over a cattle guard, continuing south for another hour until they came to a small ranch compound. It consisted of a half a dozen buildings circled by the remnants of pecan trees that had long since died from a lack of watering. José parked the Tahoe in front of a large barn constructed of old weathered wood and rusted corrugated tin. The three men exited the vehicle and Hunter led Taylor into the barn.

Taylor’s mindset changed when he entered the building. The trip thus far had been relaxing and one of relief and rebirth. He’d put aside most of his old life and resigned himself to starting a new one. A life that would return him a world of never-ending training and monotony sprinkled with periodic episodes of inhuman violence. He entered the building prepared for such and took note of his immediate surroundings.

The building appeared to have once been a large barn or hanger of some sort. The huge open space had a packed earth floor and held a truck and cattle trailer, a cache of shovels, picks, pry bars, and other handheld digging instruments, wheelbarrows, and a flatbed trailer piled high with dirt and rock. At the far end of the barn was a ramp that led downward and toward a closed garage door. Office doors lined the left wall and the air within the building smelled of loam, diesel fuel, and carried with it the faint hint of blood and rot.

An office door opened, and a tall, thin, corporate-looking man exited. He waved to Hunter and called him over. Hunter led Taylor across the expansive floor and to the entrance of what Taylor could now see was an empty conference room.

“Productive trip, I hope,” the man offered to Hunter as they shook hands.

“Very productive,” Hunter replied, turning his gaze back to Taylor. “I got what I went to get.”

The man smiled at Hunter then held out his hand to Taylor. The men shook hands and sized each other up.

“Captain Taylor,” the man offered, still grasping Taylor’s hand. “I am Eduardo León. I handle Human Resources for Señor Alvarado.”

“Human Resources?” Taylor questioned in disbelief. “The Acuña Cartel has a Human Resources department?”

“Our branch does, yes,” Eduardo said stoically. “One of the best. In fact…”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect…” Taylor interrupted. “It’s just…”

“I understand,” Eduardo insisted. He nodded to Taylor then invited him into the conference room with a wave of his hand.

Taylor entered the room and was followed by Eduardo and then Hunter. The office was spacious but sparse. It had a cement floor and contained large conference table that held what Taylor assumed was Eduardo’s workstation. Hunter closed the door behind them, and Eduardo took a seat behind two large computer monitors.

“Where’s Alvarado?” Hunter asked as he took a seat across the table from Eduardo.

Taylor took a seat in the chair adjacent to Hunter’s.

“Señor Alvarado will be here shortly,” Eduardo stated. “He looks forward to meeting to Captain Taylor and to hearing of your plan to get the tunnel construction back on track.”

“Call me Taylor,” Taylor insisted.

“As you wish,” Eduardo politely replied as he turned one of the screens around to face Taylor and Hunter. “Taylor, I’ve taken the liberty of opening an account for you at the same Swiss bank Hunter and the rest of his team use. I assume that will be alright with you?”

Taylor looked at Hunter in disbelief then muttered, “Sure.”