The Investigator (Letty Davenport, #1) (92)

The rest of the palms came down one at a time and were dragged across the road, piled atop one another, to make a barrier of heavy entwined palms six feet high. The men were working fast and efficiently. When they’d finished, they retrieved the block and tackle, and then the chain saw crew dropped the three palms on the other side of the road, on top of those already down.

“That’s a fine mess,” Low said, pleased.

A tractor-trailer was coming down the highway from I-10, slowed and stopped. The driver watched them putting the tools away, then got out and shouted, “How long to clear it?”

“Couple days, anyway,” somebody called back.

“Couple days? What am I supposed to do?”

“If I was you, I’d back it up and go to El Paso,” he was told.

One of the chain saw crew clambered atop the pile of palm logs with an AR-15 in one hand. “Nobody coming through,” he shouted at the driver.

Hawkes was watching. She clutched Low’s biceps and said, “I’m fuckin’ high on life here, Rand. We’re doing it.”

Low looked at her and said, “You know, this isn’t the real big test. The big test is tonight.”



* * *





Five trucks and six men and a woman were left at the roadblock as guards. Hawkes gave them a pep talk—“We’re absolutely counting on you. If you let anybody through, we’re screwed. We’ve all rehearsed what you’ve got to do, what you’ve got to say. Keep your faces covered and we’ll be coming for you tonight. If you get more than you can handle, either call me or get on your walkie talkie. If things go right, won’t be any phones after noon.”

“Got it,” the woman said.

“And you got your bullhorns and your food and drinks.”

“We’re good,” the woman said. “You get on down there, Jael, we got your back door.”

In the truck again, Hawkes took a phone call, listened, and said to Low, “We got the Customs people penned up. They’ve still got their weapons, but we’re working on it.”

“How about the ones who were off-duty?” Low asked.

Hawkes relayed his question to the militia man in Pershing, who said, “I know we got people at their front doors, but I don’t know what happened. Frank told me we got the mayor and the city council locked up.”

“We’ll be there in five minutes. Keep the lid on,” Hawkes said.

“We got it. We’re running smooth,” the man said. “Oh: Rodriguez and the TV truck made it. They got here a while ago.”



* * *





The town of Pershing started with a series of truck parking lots on both sides of the road, then two trailer courts, then the houses, most manufactured, some concrete-block, some wood-frame. They went by Jeff’s Diner, where they’d eaten when they were scouting the town, and the motel, where they’d gone swimming, and down the long slope to the Rio Grande, which was nothing more than a thread of water sitting in a narrow gorge thirty or forty feet below the level of the towns on either side. The bridge over the river was empty.

The border station sat on a slab with an extensive parking lot behind it, a brown building with an American flag hanging limply from a pole near the front door. The militia’s pickups were jammed around the buildings on three sides, men standing behind the trucks with rifles. A yellow concrete welcome to texas sign punctuated the cluster of trucks.

A long-haired man named Dick ran up to them as they stopped, a harried look on this face, and said, “We got the town, if we can keep it.”

Hawkes and Low got out of the truck, and Low asked, “Where’s the mayor and all them?”

“Jail. No problem.”

“Somebody watching them?”

“Two guys, on the door,” Dick said.

“Good. The Mexicans done anything?”

“Watching us with binoculars . . .”

“Get the first shift of bridge guys out there. Nobody goes across, either direction . . .”

“I know, we got that,” Dick said. “We got the Customs guys nailed down, inside, but I kept the fast-reaction team here in case there’s trouble. I could send them to their positions if you think it’s time.”

Hawkes shook her head. “Keep them here until the bridge guys are set up . . .”

The Customs and Border Protection employees were holed up inside the building, and some were armed. One of the El Paso militia members, wearing camo and armor, was negotiating with them, standing by the front door, shouting through it.

The negotiations went on for fifteen minutes, and the camo-clad man eventually walked away from the door and down to where Hawkes had met with Low, Duran, and Crain.

“They’re being stubborn, but they’re arguing among themselves,” the camo guy said. “I think we’ll need the demo.”

“Okay with me,” Low said. “Me ’n Vic will tell everybody.”

“Like we talked about,” Hawkes said. She was wearing a gunbelt with a Beretta nine-millimeter in a holster. She took the gun out, and when Low and Crain finished circling the trucks, Low waved at her, and she pointed the gun in the air, over her head, and fired a single shot.

At her signal, all the men around the trucks began firing in the air, downriver, where there wasn’t much but desert. One full thirty-round magazine, they’d said. Hawkes put her fingers in her ears as eighteen hundred rounds went downriver.