“God damn that little shit,” the Sheriff snarled.
Needless to say, he was not in a good mood. He had just received a text from Hunter, his business associate, and learned he was on his way with fresh cargo. Which was expected. What was not expected was that he would be sneaking not one man across the border but seven.
Six men he wanted to sell to the Network, plus the one fucking guy he was actually sent to collect.
What the fuck had gone wrong? Had he figured out this trip was a set up? Did he suspect the Sheriff was out to get rid of him? Or was this a middle finger to the new Coordinator the Network had sent in to handle Arizona and New Mexico? A self-satisfied freak whose way of proving himself was trying to save shit-loads of money, and never mind the mess it could make of things. Or maybe it was Hunter’s way of showing the bastard he had no idea who he was dealing with.
But the thing was, he hadn’t been in on the meeting where this new guy had suggested Hunter's fees were high. Of course, the whiny-assed Coordinator who currently dealt with Hunter had fought against dropping him. The little bastard was known for the quality of men he delivered, so he’d more than proven his worth to the Network. And their district’s initial return on the cargo was now well into eight figures, so he knew the Network’s final gross take was probably ten times that. Not a profit-maker you want to mess with.
Plus Hunter had been smart enough to do his hunting among the low-lifes who were part of the drug cartels. And those who were working for mining and lumber interests, in Mexico, and were trying to take over people’s land or steal their crops. The latter was how his main source for product had become the Mayor of a nice medium-size town up in the Mexican mountain forests. The guys he’d collect from him would be missed by no one...and there had been some damn good-looking ones in there. The Sheriff might not be into male-on-male sex, but he could tell Hunter had the eye and was unwilling to accept anyone who wasn’t up to the Network’s standards. Twenty to thirty-five years old. Attractive. Tested by the little shit, himself, to make sure they could get it up and could be gotten off, even under arduous circumstances. No, there had been no complaints about the quality.
However, even something high-end can get to be too pricey.
But they had to be careful, here, because Hunter also had other connections and connections within those connections. All secret and careful, on his part, meaning they’d lose them once he was done away with. That would hurt. And then there was him being unwilling to answer even the simplest questions from the new guy? Like...who were these connections? Why don’t we know them? How sure was he that the men he was taking weren’t going to be missed?
The Coordinator was also unhappy about the two occasions where Hunter actually was tricked into accepting men who were strictly off limits.
“He claims he’s always on top of things,” the new guy had said, “but he still returned both men to the States, and we lost a huge payment on one.”
“Which was made back,” snapped the Sheriff. “And since both were American, they had to be snuck in. Leavin’ ‘em there would’ve made things worse.”
“But they weren’t even from his usual sources,” the man snarled. “They came from idiots who’d been referred to him by his other connections. He should have known they were using him to get rid of men who were merely problematic. Instead, he fell for their lies and could have cost us everything!”
“There’s always gonna be people like that, and the little shit worked his way ‘round them both. One got dumped near his home and the other left in a place he could be found, both jacked up on drugs so they figured bein’ kidnapped and molested was just a bad trip. You got no reason to bitch.”
The bastard had huffed and puffed and spit out more concerns, and despite it all, the Sheriff had to admit his points were well-made. Hunter was also getting pretty full of himself. Flat out cocky. Which usually leads to catastrophe. Then had come wanting more money...despite having all his expenses paid! Including the money going to the Mayor for his help.
“I’m takin’ all the risks,” he’d said in his snarky way, “so I’m due much better compensation.”
So the Sheriff had finally agreed with the new Coordinator that it was time to have someone else take over the job, at a far more reasonable fee. He made his own connection with the Mayor and asked him to continue providing men of the same quality to a new guy, once they had one hired on. Of course, the son-of-a-bitch had weaseled more money out of them, to agree to it...but without Hunter’s full cut, that still put them way ahead.
The thing is, transporting and selling men into sexual slavery was hardly the sort of enterprise one could just fire somebody from. Nor could you merely decide not to renew the contract. No, the little fuck had to be shut down, completely, in a way that no one in the regular world would notice...and would not piss off the Network. The plan they’d come up with was supposed to be foolproof, considering Hunter had a serious prohibition against taking Anglo guys, no matter what.
“They bring on too much trouble,” he’d said, over and over. “I know the woman who gets women for the Network won’t touch anything blond or light-haired. Too much chance the media’ll use their disappearance to work up panic and help their ratings.”
Which was why the Sheriff had been working with the Mayor to set up a situation Hunter could not get out of.
They’d had Emilio, the Mayor’s assistant, contact a guy in El Paso...a kid, really. Only twenty. But he’d been caught sucking off his commanding officer, in the Army, so he’d been drummed out, nice and quiet. Now he was desperate for money, and he was the kind who wouldn’t be missed by anybody. They’d hired him to come to Mexico with the understanding he was to pretend he’d been kidnapped, then he’d be handed over to Hunter as the Mayor’s new offering.
Of course, Hunter would quickly figure out he was American, but as mentioned...he’d been faced with situations like this, before. So he’d probably plan to junk the guy up on peyote and sneak him across the border, then dump him somewhere to be found while still high.
Except...this time they had arranged for a couple of Federales to catch Hunter...and for one of them to fuck the kid then strangle him...so it would look like Hunter had raped and murdered him. No matter what he said, he’d go down for it, and once that story was out, the Network would cut him off, complete.
But instead...Hunter had gathered six young Latino males to bring across the border, along with the slutty fag. SIX! At Douglas, Arizona. Where he had his own contacts to get across. No way could their plan work, now.
What the hell had gone wrong?
The Sheriff found out, seven minutes after Hunter’s text. The Mayor called, in near hysterics. He admitted he’d let Emilio also handle the transfer of the kid to Hunter, and the dumb son-of-a-bitch had brought in his cousin, Reuben, to help. That had put Hunter on his guard and he had taken control of the situation in nothing flat.
So...those two little shits were the ones who had fucked it up.
“I tell him to meet Hunter outside the casa and to leave before he sees the boy,” the Mayor said in halting English. “And to be alone! But Hunter...he sees Reuben and thinks Reuben has molested the boy, so he captures Emilio and Reuben, both, and calls his connections and it is big disaster. I try to think of how to make this work okay, but I have no time.”
“But that’s just two guys,” said the Sheriff. “Who’re the other four?”
“Hunter is angry. He wants more. So I think of a Muslim boy in town. I think to get rid of him, to make his family go away. But Hunter takes three others, with him. One I know, Oscar, a good boy; the other two I do not know. When I realize his plan, I tell him to stop but he does not. And now they are coming to you.”
“Shit. Call in the Army!”
“Oh, no, I do not want a situation like in the south. They will make them disappear and I know the mother of Oscar...”
“What d’you want me to do?”
“If he is able to get them across the border, they must be returned.”
“And just how the hell do you propose that?!”
“You have the connection in Border Patrol...”
“And Hunter’s got his own damn connections. Hell, I hear he’s even buddies with a drug lord, down there, and that can be messy if not handled careful.”
“I know who this is. He is not involved; he will not care.”
“You so sure ‘bout that?”
“...Yes.”
“Okay...this is gonna cost us a shitload...”
“Hunter keeps the money that was for me. He was angry and refuse to pay for the Anglo boy.”
“‘Course he wouldn’t! That’s why nobody was supposed to be around when he saw the kid. The plan was, he gets stopped with a dead, drugged-up, kidnapped American in his truck and forty-thousand in cash. It’s a one-day story if it happens in Mexico, but this side of the border? It’s news for a week. All kinds of investigations and FBI and Border Patrol; too damn much could come out. So I gotta let him come across, get the guys from him and figure out what to do, next. But it’s still gonna cost us. I wanna keep one of ‘em.”
“Theo,” said the Mayor. “He is the Muslim boy. His parents purchase the pharmacy in the Davelos District, since six years. Many people like them, but many others fear they front for ISIS. They have two other sons. If Theo is to vanish...I will talk them to sell their pharmacy to me. To take the other sons to Mexico City, where they will be safe. Where there are more of their kind. If he is no good, I suggest Reuben, because he has been to an American prison. Oh...but no...no, Emilio will not accept this.”
“Little shit’s got no say in what he will or won’t accept. Now I gotta go. Start gettin’ ready for the delivery. Call off your Federales; if Hunter don’t make it back to the States, won’t nothin’ help us with this.”
The Sheriff closed the door to his office, locked it, sat back at his desk and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey. He needed to think...and after the second shot, he got an idea.
He had another problem that concerned a few of his men. He began to wonder if he might kill two birds with one stone. He also knew a Western was being shot near Old Tucson, so contacted the production manager and learned they were shut down for a few days. Seems the lead actor had gotten drunk and fallen off his horse, breaking his collarbone. They had to wait till he was healed enough to handle the pain before they could resume shooting. So they had a four-room honey wagon available to borrow for a day or two.
That would be perfect. After four more phone calls, he had a plan of action laid out. He sent a driver he knew straight over to pick the honey wagon up, then arranged for six of his men to meet him at an RV park near Sierra Vista. That would now be ground zero.
He headed out, but he was only halfway there when Hunter texted him that he was crossing the border.
“Little shit must’ve hot-rodded that fuckin’ van of his,” the Sheriff growled.
Like a good officer of the law, he pulled over to the side of the road and texted Hunter a single word. Indian. That meant that things weren’t cool. So rather than head for the rendezvous, Hunter would now check into his room and wait to hear from the Sheriff, giving him time to finalize things.
He also received a report that the Feds were planning a quickie drug raid at that same hotel, thanks to a Border Patrol officer who’d been caught doing something illegal. He called the officer in charge, and soon had an idea of who Hunter’s contact had been, in border patrol...which could prove useful.
By seven in the evening, his men had assembled at the RV park. They were big, butch, buff, and brutal, on both sides of thirty. All were in worn jeans and had numerous tattoos peeking around athletic tee-shirts, almost like it was a uniform, and each with a prison record a mile long that also carried a nasty reputation, thanks to becoming a little clique unto themselves, in prison. That made them perfect for jobs like this.
The honey wagon arrived, moments later, and turned out to have four doors to private rooms and two for the toilets, one male, one female, both with small showers. Each room had a fold-out couch and single chair, dressing table, mini-fridge and a sliding door that opened into a narrow hallway on the other side of the truck, leading from the rooms to the toilets.
“You usin’ shit like to transport guys to jail, now?” snarled Elias, a powerful black man with a shaved head and eyes that could kill with a glare.
“Pretty fuckin’ fancy,” said Kilo, who wasn’t quite as black, had a solid if not as built up body, and who carried an aura of gentle danger. He was bouncing on the couch in Room 1, like a kid.
“Cut the shit,” the Sheriff snarled. “We gotta keep these rooms neat. Keep things lookin’ cool.”
“There gonna be any fun?” asked Sinder, a sunburned cowboy who looked like he could bring down a steer with one arm tied behind his back.
“Yeah, but not here,” said the Sheriff. “I want each of you behind a door, includin’ the toilets. When we hit the motel, you come out. And don’t say shit to nobody. Just do as I tell you. Got it?”
They all nodded and positioned themselves.
The Sheriff had already contacted his people at Border Patrol, so everything was in order. He joined Elias, in the first room. It had a window slot that opened into the driver’s cab, so he could watch as they headed for Douglas...and make a few more phone calls to finalize some details.
Things were looking good.
