Jenna Kernan - Shadow Wolf

Kino and Clay were Black Mountain Apache, used to winter snow and cool mountain air. But Kino had put in for a leave of absence to sign on for this mission. Only then had his older brother, who worked for the tribe’s cattle association, decided to come with him. As far as Kino knew, this was the first vacation Clay had taken in the six years since Clay’s release from juvenile detention—if you could call this a vacation.

They were on temporary assignment with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. ICE’s mission was to apprehend smugglers and traffickers along the borders that included the stretch that ran straight through the Sonoran Desert and the Tohono O’odham reservation. Because the Americans had missed things, ICE had formed the only special unit composed exclusively of Native Americans. Sanctioned through the US Department of Homeland Security, the Shadow Wolves were members of an elite drug-tracking force. The unit was composed of the best trackers to be found anywhere.

Their mission was to cut for sign—to look for footprints, spot broken vegetation or tire tracks that might indicate evidence of the traffic that washed drugs into the US from Mexico. That was their official mission but Kino wanted one particular smuggler, the one known as the Viper.

The Shadow Wolves were here on sacred land by special invitation of the Tohono O’odham people. And though they worked closely with the US Border Patrol, they did not answer to them. Border patrol secured borders from illegal entry or illegal products. ICE handled enforcement and removal operations. The Shadow Wolves, numbering only sixteen, were here to see what the Americans could not and to find the ones who were slipping by under their noses.

Kino followed the tracks, his brother trailing behind, both staying well clear of the slight indentures.

“Getting close to the rez,” said Clay.

Kino glanced up to take in his surroundings. The land didn’t look any different. Saguaro cactus rose above the ground; sage, barrel cactus, rock and sand stretched for miles. But this land was different because this side of the road belonged to the Tohono O’odham Nation of Arizona. Sacred land. Indian land.

Kino continued on the trail.

“The border patrol captain requested notice of our location if we enter the rez,” said Clay.

“Lucky we don’t report to him,” said Kino.

It was true. They worked directly under Captain Rick Rubio, an Apache who reported to the field operations supervisor for ICE. Still, if they found illegals, it was US Border Patrol that would be called to detain and deport them.

“Should we call Rubio? He can call Barrow.”

Gus Barrow was the pain-in-the-neck overachiever, control-freak captain out of Cardon Station whom Kino avoided when possible.

“I left the phone in the truck,” Kino told him.

“I can radio Rubio. He can call BP,” said Clay.

“Wait a bit. The O’odham are damned sick of border patrol. You heard the council leader. What’s his name?”

“Sam Mangan,” said Clay.

“Yeah,” said Kino. “He welcomed us personally. Invited the Shadow Wolves onto the rez. They’ve got no beef with us.”

Clay gave a lopsided grin. “Because we’re not the ones stopping them every time they want to visit their families in Mexico.”

“Exactly. So leave BP out. We might not need them.” Kino pointed to a track. “They’re fresh. These guys are close.”

“I know that. That’s why I want to call in. Captain Rubio said that Barrow wants notice when we cross onto Indian land.” Clay snorted and stopped tracking. “You used to be more fun.”

Kino paused and pointed at the tracks. “I’m not giving a white man notice that I’m on Indian land. We got permission from Mangan and we answer to Rubio, not BP.”

“Fine.”

Kino ignored the ire behind the single word Clay spit at him and continued following the tracks.

Clay blocked his path.

“Why do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Captain says to coordinate with border patrol, you don’t. They say to go left, you go right. Clyne and Gabe tell you to stay home, you come here. They’re shorthanded as it is. It was a rattlesnake rattle they found. Anyone can get them.”

“But not everyone leaves them inside dead bodies.”

And, yes, his brother Gabe wanted him home in his absence. And, yes, as a Shadow Wolf, it was his job to find smugglers. But, really, he didn’t want them. He wanted the one who was killing them.

“Family first,” said Kino again.

“Your family is at Black Mountain and up there in South Dakota. That’s where we should be.”

“I’ve got business here.”

Because word had reached him that they were finding Mexican smugglers with rattlesnake rattles shoved into the bullet holes in their dead bodies. He’d read the reports. Sometimes the rattles were in the victim’s cheek, or the shoulder, the breast or in the belly, right next to the navel. But always, the rattle was there, just like the one they found ten years ago in the body of Kino’s father. And Clay knew exactly how Kino had known it was there.

Clay rubbed the back of his neck.

“You gonna help me or what?” asked Kino.

“I should be helping Gabe and Clyne. They’re going to the powwow without me.”

“This is more important.”

Clay gave him a look that told him he disagreed. “Grandma wants us there.”

Kino waved his arms. “Why’d you come, then?”

“Not to chase a ghost.”

“The Viper isn’t dead.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

Did he mean their dad, then? Was Clay so willing to let his father’s murderer go unpunished? Kino wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Look. He’s here. I can feel it.”

Clay sighed and swept his hand forward so Kino could continue along the trail.

They traveled nearly a mile and were climbing a ridge when Clay slowed Kino with a touch.

“Stay down.” Clay motioned to the rocky ridge. “Don’t give them your silhouette.”

Kino nodded, lowering his profile as they neared the top. The prints were fresh. Their quarry was close.

That was when they heard the distinctive pop of four rifle shots. Both men exchanged a glance, hunched down and ran in the direction of danger.

They crested the small incline and fell in unison to the ground. There, below them, was a red pickup truck. Four men lay motionless on the ground. Another man stood over them, a rifle relaxed in his left hand.

Looked like four Mexicans from appearances and, given their parallel positions, Kino guessed they’d been kneeling then shot execution style. The ethnicity of the one still standing was questionable.

Clay lifted his rifle and took aim.

Kino placed a hand on Clay’s shoulder. He knew his brother was an excellent shot. Not as good as Kino, but excellent.

“Wait,” whispered Kino. He was already certain, but he wanted to see the man do it and then he wanted that shot himself.

Clay took his finger from the trigger but continued to watch through the scope.

Kino did the same.

“I can’t see his face,” whispered Clay.

“Damned cowboy hat,” replied Kino.

The man was slim, broad-shouldered, obviously fit, and spitting tobacco as he went methodically from one body to the next, checking each with the toe of his boot.

None of the Mexicans moved.

“Rancher?” asked Clay.

“Don’t think so. Too light for an Indian. Why is he on Indian land?”

Clay shrugged. “Not border patrol. No gear.”

The man wore a white work shirt and jeans cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt that held a knife housed in a black nylon sheath. He also had a pistol holstered to his hip. On his head rested a straw, sweat-stained hat. His truck was old, faded red in color and rusted at the wheel wells. There was a gun rack behind the seat.