The Savage(63)

*

The sun leveled behind the massive expanse of dirt that climbed, wilted, and dropped as far as their eyes could take them. One man after another stepped across the corroded strands of barb that separated the two territories.

Taking to the open space of heat, the peasants wore faded and hole-pierced ball caps, their locks at odd inches. Wrung by fear and stink, they mustered the packs that held in them bricks of marijuana laced with a sharpening-stone-sized piece of C4. Manny carried the cassette-sized box that would signal each of the plastic’s detonation just as he and Ernesto had done when an obstruction needed moving or ordnances needed banishment.

They’d studied several maps, Manny, Ernesto, Chub, and Minister, explaining to Cotto as they inked terrain, coordinates, and miles to be taken by foot what they were doing, knowing in the recesses of their minds, as they walked with hunter-green packs walling their spines with water, ammo, and other supplies of need for their trek, where they’d go and how long and far they’d navigate by booted foot with pistols clipped down their sides, keeping eyes abound, searching the distance for the unwanted shapes while heat baked moisture from their pores. Manny’s crew kept themselves blended in with the others. Wearing ball caps and ragged denim, they wrung up next to one another like germs to flesh. Each carried a jug of water brought by Ernesto and tied to their waists or their packs.

Several days by foot is what it would take them, until they were within two miles of the pickup location, then Manny’d dial the number in the phone, give the heads-up to the person who’d phone the drivers to navigate them to a safe house and then to the Midwest for work—at least that was supposed to be the plan. But Manny knew better.

Dark surrounded the travelers as they made their first stop for rest when they entered the hills, below a ridge of stone walls that’d been eroded by weather and hardened by time. Peasant walkers sat or leaned on rock with their weighted rucks, men, women, and children who chewed fear of the unknown, trying to imagine their inhabitance within the foreign surroundings. Working the jobs spoiled Americans would not, for a weekly wage that was more than they’d earn in a month south of the border.

“Siéntense. Siéntense,” Manny told them, motioning with one hand while holding a flashlight with the other; Cotto stood by his father, without a hint of smile, his thoughts trashed with images of his mother’s insect-infested torso and the man who’d robbed her from him, but not her memory.

The men sat, shielding their families, afraid to make eye contact with Manny. “Don’t hold any concern of danger for me. I will get you to safety. This I promise.” Pointing to the men’s packs, Manny told them, “But when I tell you to drop your rucks, you drop them. Disperse. Comprenden?”

He was laying the salt lick. Offering them a hint of trust. A warm hand in a cold environment.

Each peasant looked at the other, then made eye contact with Manny and said at the same time, “Sí, sí.”

Trust, it was the first thing Manny had preached to Cotto. If men trust you, see what lengths of sacrifice you’ll offer or go to for them, they’ll die for you. Even if it’s a lie.

Ernesto, Chub, and Minister walked the perimeter in search of unwanted movement. Ernesto came light-footed to Manny. “In the distance, I see lurkers signaling with lights.”

“Head count?”

“Two by my count, one in the north, one in the east.”

“Any vehicle movement?”

“None that I’ve spotted.”

“How far?”

“Several hundred yards.”

But Manny kept his eyes peeled also. “There is at least one following us.”

Lifting his eyebrows with surprise, Ernesto questioned, “And you know this how?”

“Through my field glasses, I noticed a small glimmer, a shadow of human with something of reflection, glass or silver, when we stopped to drink.”

“What do you make of it?”

Manny smirked. “I’ll let you know.”

Manny turned to the peasants, glared at each man, and turned back to Ernesto. “I’ve assured these people we’d get them delivered.”

Ernesto said to Manny, “And you’re a man of your word.”

“We need to keep distance from whoever it is, pretend we’ve no idea they’re here until we have to do what we were trained to do.”

Ernesto nodded. “I’ll keep lookers on them, you rest a bit longer and I’ll check back with intel.”

Manny nodded back.

Cotto looked to Manny, he’d a 9 mm holstered down his waist. Twisted the lid from a plastic milk jug of water. Took a sip. Recapped it. Asked Manny, “You think these people Ernesto speaks of bring trouble?”

“Any time man, woman, or child treks across the desert alone there is concern for trouble. Stay close to me, my son, stay close.”

One of the peasants, a man whose jaws held pits and eyes irritated by allergies, approached Manny. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate what you do. Your honesty.”

Manny offered a hand. “Refer to me as Manny.”

The man reached. “And I am Ricco.”

They shook and Manny spoke, “You come to the U.S. for work?”

“Sí. Sí.”

“What is your skill?”

“Agriculture. NAFTA,” he said, “it came with a promise of better wages. Only thing it did was cut all good earnings throughout Mexico by two dollars on the hour.” Ricco held up his index and middle fingers. Smacked them into his left palm as he rocked back and forth. “The paper that was signed destroyed any worth our crops once had.”