The Investigator (Letty Davenport, #1) (94)

Hawkes spoke directly to the camera: “We will block the bridge. We will stop them.” And, a little self-consciously, “They shall not pass!”

Rodriguez had more questions, and when he was done, and the camera turned away, Hawkes looked back to the locals, noticed that the young woman was no longer there.



* * *





Low called Hawkes on her cell phone: “We got a problem. A couple of Border Patrol guys have barricaded themselves inside a house up the hill from the border station. They sent a guy down to tell us if we didn’t back off, they’ll start picking us off. The guy they sent says they have rifles.”

“Got it. How are we doing with the rest of the town?”

“We’re all over it. We’re being friendly and cool. Telling people we’ll be leaving no later than day after tomorrow. But these Border Patrol guys . . .”

“I’ll go talk with them,” Hawkes said.



* * *





Hawkes trudged back down the hill, where Low was waiting with a tall Hispanic man who said he was with the volunteer fire department. “I know the two guys and they’re tough guys,” the firefighter said. “I was walking down the hill to see what was going on, and they waved me down and told me that if you don’t clear out of the station and give the other border guys their guns, they’ll start shooting you.”

“Which house are they in?”

The man pointed up the hill, to the right, and said, “That one that looks like brick. It’s really tarpaper, but . . .”

“I see it,” Hawkes said. To Low: “Get the fast-reaction team up there above that house, out of sight, behind cover, tell them channel sixteen on the walkie-talkies. I may need to talk to them all at once.”

“You sure you want to go up there?”

“Should be okay,” she said. She grinned at him from behind her mask. “I’m a girl.”



* * *





Low got on his phone to talk with the leader of the fast-reaction team as Hawkes climbed the hill toward the house of fake bricks. As she got closer, she saw that one side of the house had slumped to the right, and the tarpaper siding was warped and beginning to peel off. She looked back at the border station, and saw that the men inside the house must have chosen it because of their command of the station. On the other hand, they must not have thought clearly about the positions above the house, and behind them . . .

As she came up to it, a man inside the house shouted, “Who are you?”

She couldn’t see anyone behind the windows. “I’m with the Land Division,” she called back. “We need to talk.”

“We sent a message down there. If you don’t—”

“We’re not going to do any of that. You need to listen to me, as I explain this situation.” There was no immediate reply, and Hawkes turned her head up the hill where her fast-reaction team was concealing itself. The badly dressed young woman she’d seen at the TV truck was leaning against the side of a house, watching her, hand still in her pocket. Then a man inside shouted, “We’re listening.”

“We’ve got two hundred people here,” Hawkes shouted back. She was lying; they had a hundred and seven. “We’re all armed. I’m sure you heard the shooting when we were challenged by the Army helicopter. We’ve got AR-15s, AR-10s, AKs, we’ve got .50-cals, we got ten thousand rounds of ammunition. You guys are inside a house that couldn’t stop a .22. If you shoot anyone, if you shoot at anyone, we’ll put so many rounds through that house that it’ll fall down on your dead bodies. On the other hand, if you don’t shoot, we won’t shoot at you. We won’t even ask you to come out of there, or surrender, or give up your guns. We’ll be leaving town tomorrow afternoon, or the next day, and you’ll still be alive. We’ll even send you a pizza for dinner tonight, if you don’t have food. A couple beers, if you want them. Pancakes, tomorrow morning.”

The man shouted, “Hang on a minute.” Then, a minute later, “Okay, we won’t shoot at you.”

“Good. You guys chill out,” Hawkes called. “I’m going to shout out my phone number, if you have any more concerns. Have you got a pencil?”

“Yeah.”

Hawkes called out the number of her burner phone and a man inside said he’d written it down.

“If you need anything, call me,” Hawkes shouted. “Take it easy, and day after tomorrow you can have a couple drinks with your friends and talk this all over. The TV people will probably want to interview you.”

Back down the hill, Hawkes told Low, “We’re okay. They won’t be shooting at us. You got your speech?”

“I’m cool.”

“Then you hold things here, I’ll walk around town. I want to make sure that everybody’s gotten a leaflet. Rodriguez should be transmitting my interview out to El Paso by now . . . Did you talk to Bernie about the caravan?”

Bernie was a one-legged alcoholic Iraq veteran largely confined to his house in El Paso, since the VA never quite got him walking right. He was a valued member of the militia, who spent his working days monitoring police radios, mining for tips he’d call to the local television stations and, a few years before, to Crain’s and Low’s car-theft ring.