Seeking Tierra Santa by Michael M. Pacheco (read me like a book txt) 📖

Chapter 1

"This is where you have come to die!" barked the man with the balding head. "Unless you listen to me. What I'm about to tell you will save your life every blessed day."
The brochure had said adventure and excitement awaited him if he joined the U.S. Border Patrol. And though he was a romantic dreamer, Landon never imagined his reveries would bring him here.
"This is your new home, the El Paso Border Patrol station." The chrome-domed captain paused and cleared his throat. "Um, excuse me. I guess we're now known as ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement."
Landon's first day on the job as a fully sworn border patrol agent reminded him of boot camp. But this place was different. It was more like being at home with a strict father.
Landon wasn't sure he liked this guy, but as a seasoned veteran of the border patrol at fifty-nine years of age, Captain Skip Jackson probably offered real wisdom and not mere hype on how to survive in the stress-filled world of a border patrol agent. Jackson paced slowly in the air-conditioned conference room before the two rows of new agents, eight men and two women, their new Homeland Security uniforms clean and pressed. One of the women was Ricki, Landon's friend from boot camp.
Landon's forest-green uniform was stiff and uncomfortable. He felt much better in the sweat pants and T-shirt he'd worn during training days at the academy. He rolled his shoulders, trying not to draw attention to himself.
A tall Indian in uniform stood listening near the exit door with his arms behind his back, his face expressionless. Landon had read in their online bios that the captain and an Indian named Bingo had served together in Vietnam. This was likely that Indian. They no doubt knew each other well. Jackson stopped momentarily, as if to gather his thoughts, and then spoke again.
"To start with, you need to get comfortable with the desert heat of this area."
Several of the new agents snickered at the captain's comment, realizing the temperature outside would likely climb to 115 degrees. Jackson restarted his pacing, the heels of his boots thumping hard on the tile floor.
"I know a couple of you are former military from 'round here. That's a good thing. The rest of you will just have to learn to adapt. I'm not talkin' bout adapting to the illegals. I'm talkin' proper hydration and avoiding overexposure to the sun, not to mention the scorpions and rattlers out here."
He looked at Landon's friend, Ricki, and then at Landon. He had likely read their files. Both of them had graduated at the top of their class from the basic academy in Quantico, Virginia, the new training site since the creation of the Department of Homeland Security.
Ricki had demonstrated a fluent proficiency in Spanish, though she was of Italian descent, scoring perfect scores on her written and oral exams. Her instructors were impressed that she had a working knowledge of Arabic, French, and Italian as well.
Landon was the expert on weapons, not only in identifying them but in understanding how they worked, as he'd proven on the firing range. He was an expert marksman with a rifle. However, his specialty was explosives—building, detonating, and disarming them.
Skip's gravelly voice continued, "I know y'all got training on proper attire for this job and how we present to the public, and so on and so forth. Now that you're here, you'll notice we make exceptions to those rules."
He paused again and glanced at his Vietnam buddy. The Indian was still near the exit door. Landon glanced at him and noticed a frown at Skip's reference to rule-breaking. The Native American then made a sudden pivot on his left heel and disappeared quickly down the hallway.
"All right, let's get down to brass tacks. For all you newbies, rule number one is when you're out in the field, you always travel in groups of no less than two. I don't care if you're just using the john; you go in twos. Second rule: wear what you want as long as you display the badge and protect yourself from the elements and carry plenty of water. Rule number three: communicate, communicate, communicate with each other."
The captain positioned himself squarely in front of the group. He straightened his back and studied the rookies. "On occasion, you might find yourself in some nasty situations, and by that, I don't mean in some whorehouse. God knows we got plenty of 'em 'round here."
This time, all the rookies laughed. Landon glanced at Ricki and saw that she, too, had a grin on her face. They'd heard of the prostitutes from Juarez across the Rio Grande, who enjoyed misdirecting the attention of the agents by having sex with them in their pickups as scores of Mexicans scurried into the United States. Coyotes, the people traffickers, paid the prostitutes $500 for each crossing event, a big step up from their usual pay.
"I'm talkin' damn dangerous, where your life is in the balance. You have to learn to travel, work, and rest with the rhythm of the desert. Do not waste time and energy struggling against things you cannot change. Your survival will depend on your brains, your water, and God's mercy, so keep your cool; remember your training, and you'll come out fine. Any questions?"
When it was clear no one was going to speak, he added, "All right then. We've assigned two rookies to one experienced agent. The assignments are listed on the corkboard behind me. Men, Women, welcome to paradise."

* * * * *

On the wall was a big call-chart. Landon found his and Ricki's names under the name Bingo. "Desert Vector E-100" was inked below the names on a neat grid corresponding to their patrol areas.
Ricki and Landon were ecstatic when they discovered their assigned agent was Bingo Sohappy, a legendary American Indian, who, almost single-handedly, had nabbed several major drug dealers and high-profile criminals trying to enter the United States illegally. At boot camp, Bingo's heroics were often cited as examples to which rookies ought to aspire.
Landon saw him first as they walked down the corridor to the garage. "Yo, Ricki, there he is, man."
The man pulled something from his locker and stuffed it into a government-issued backpack. It was small bundle wrapped in a white terry towel. Landon knew that border patrol agents were often military men, spit and polish. Their Ford trucks were probably clean and new; their uniforms were sharp, and from the looks of this one, their lockers were squared away.
The two rookies approached him and extended their hands.
"Mr. Sohappy. We're Landon and Ricki,” said Landon. “We're so happy to meet you."
The man straightened his six-foot-four-inch frame, pushed out his barrel chest, and glowered at them—first at Landon, then at Ricki, and then at Landon again. He was an impressive figure with wide shoulders and the profile of a powerful warrior. He crossed his arms over his chest like an angry Indian chief.
After a few seconds of silence, Ricki felt compelled to say something. "What we mean, sir, is that we're honored to be assigned to work with you. We weren't trying to be funny." She turned to Landon as if asking for some backup.
"That's right, sir. I mean, that's what I meant to say."
When their smiles faded, a look of seriousness and concern replaced them.
Bingo Sohappy apparently had done this to a lot of rookies. He curled up the ends of his mouth and broke into a wide grin, revealing a healthy set of perfect teeth. Landon and Ricki hadn't noticed that at least a dozen other agents had meandered toward them and had joined Bingo. They all broke into raucous laughter.
"Just messin' with y'all," he said, extending his hand in return. "Nice to meet you, too."
Landon and Ricki felt like fools but at the same time were relieved this giant man had a sense of humor. They secured their rifles on the gun racks and their packs on the floorboard of the double-cab truck that Bingo pointed out and then hopped inside.
Landon's suspicions had been correct: the man's truck was spotless. Bingo pointed out the functions of the radio display buttons and how to engage the four-wheel drive. "Keep the air on maximum cold," he said. "Just turn the fan, fast or slow."
Bingo took his time driving through the downtown El Paso traffic and then headed east on Interstate 10. It was only 9:00 a.m., and the mercury was already in the triple digits.
"It's gonna be a doozie," said Bingo, looking at the cloudless blue sky and then out Landon's window to Juarez, the lower part of the Rio Bravo Valley. "There's sixty-five to seventy thousand people cross that border every day. Most of them go home after work."
Ricki looked at Bingo's face in the rearview mirror. "You mean from Mexico or to Mexico?"
"Both," he said, nodding his head. "Some come to work in the restaurants and hotels and then walk back to Juarez after their shift is over. A few actually go in the other direction, especially the higher-ups in the maquiladoras."
Landon's face took on a puzzled look. "Help me out, Ricki," he said, turning to her.
"Maquiladora, it's an assembly plant," said Ricki. "It can be anything from computers to auto parts."
"Well, there's no assembly plants where we're going today," said Bingo. "Our assignment is a stakeout at a location between El Paso and Fabens."
"I've never heard of Fabens," said Ricki. "Where is it at, and what's at this location?"
"Honestly?" he asked rhetorically. "There's nothing out there. That's why we were assigned there."
"Sir, if there's nothing out there, then why are we staking it out?" asked Landon.
"Okay, this is as good a time as any to tell you what really goes on out here." He took a deep breath, as if preparing to jump off a high cliff. "First, don't call me 'sir.' Bingo's fine with me. Second, we get orders from every agency in the U. S. government and sometimes from the Mexican government too. Most of the time, we patrol only a very small portion of the Mexican-American border. Truth be told, Mexicans can walk freely across the border almost anytime they want. We don't have the