Border Crossed (Taylor #10) - Chapter 1

Córdova de las Americas International Bridge, El Paso

“I should be out fishing,” Alejandro Torres said to his partner, handing the passport back to the short man standing in front of him. “Adelántate. Bienvenido a los Estados Unidos.”

“No kidding. At least we’re on walking patrol and not stuck in one of the booths,” Gabriella Ortiz, his partner, said.

Alejandro just grunted as they stepped off the pedestrian walkway and into the line of cars.

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the bridge, the border crossing already bustling in spite of the early hour. The sky still held the last signs of dawn, its brilliant canvas of pink and orange hues gradually fading into a pristine blue, promising a beautiful day ahead. The early spring air was crisp and cool, a light breeze gently fluttering the flags on each side of the bridge.

The queue of cars, trucks, and buses waiting to cross the border already stretched for half a mile. Families with young children, business people, and tourists alike sat patiently in their vehicles, their breath fogging up the windows as they waited their turn to enter the United States. The thrum of idling engines mixed with the occasional honk of an impatient horn.

On either side of the cars, a slow but steady stream of people made their way down the pedestrian walkway, vendors moving among them, hawking their wares, hoping to entice potential customers with the scent of fresh tamales and piping-hot coffee.

Walking along the line of cars, Alejandro exchanged a concerned glance with Gabriella, thrusting his chin at a large, battered truck, its engine sputtering like a smoker’s wheezing cough. The truck driver, a burly man with a thick beard and sweat-soaked, grimy clothes, gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands. The man wasn’t looking at them directly, but Alejandro’s sharp eyes focused on the driver, recognizing the side-eye stare he’d 'seen hundreds of times before from nervous men trying to watch someone without being seen to watch them.

Gabriella gave a nod in agreement, breaking off towards the passenger side of the truck as Alejandro held up a hand, slapping the trunk to get the man to stop rolling forward. The truck lurched, dipping down slightly as the man smashed the brake a little too hard. Rotating his hand in the universal cranking gesture that meant ‘roll down your window,’ Alejandro continued around to the driver’s side window, stopping slightly behind the driver so his body was partially covered by the truck.

“Mornin’,” Alejandro said gruffly, one hand on the truck’s doorframe, the other resting on his hip. “What’s your business in the States today?”

“Just crossin’ over. Got a delivery to make on the other side,” the driver replied, his voice cracking.

The truck shifted slightly as Gabriella stepped up on the running board, holding onto the large side mirror, peering through the passenger window at the floorboard and around the driver’s feet. The man’s head whipped around to her and then back to Alejandro, in a jerky motion, his hands clenching and then relaxing on the steering wheel.

“A little jumpy?” Alejandro asked.

“N-no, sir. Just been a long night. I’m tired, you know?”

“Sure,” Alejandro said, looking past him and through the passenger window at Gabriella.

She didn’t make any gestures or facial expressions, but they’d been partners for a few years, and he could read her well enough to know she was thinking the same thing he was.

“We’re gonna need to take a look inside the truck,” he said.

“Uhh, sure. I … yeah, that’s fine. It’s padlocked though,” the driver said, his face going a little pale.

Alejandro stepped back and gestured for the man to get out, pointing towards the back of the truck. The driver leaped down from the cab, instead of using the running board, his boots hitting the pavement with a hard thump. Alejandro looked him up and down as he walked to the rear of the vehicle, noting his legs seemed a little shaky.

Mexican drivers didn’t have the same regulations they had in the US, so it was possible the guy really was tired. These morning deliveries usually came from somewhere deep in Mexico, bringing a late shipment out, and driving through the night. Alejandro didn’t think so, though. The guy just didn’t feel right.

That feeling was reinforced by the way the guy fumbled through his keys, looking for the right one to the small, gold-colored padlock looped through the rear door latch. Alejandro exchanged another glance with Gabriella, who rested her hand lightly on her sidearm, a slight frown on her face.

The man had just found the key and inserted it into the lock when an earth-shattering explosion ripped through the air, fire engulfing the truck and the surrounding area in a searing inferno. Alejandro and Gabriella were vaporized instantly, along with the truck driver, neither having the chance to realize what was happening before being torn to pieces. The smaller cars closest to the now shattered truck were blown away, flipping over cars on either side, with two smashing onto the pedestrian walkway.

The shockwave knocked anyone not close enough to be engulfed in flame or launched into the air off their feet, sending them sprawling onto the ground. For a moment the only thing anyone could hear was a deafening roar, followed by shrieks as people ran in every direction.

As smoke and fire billowed into the sky, the bustling bridge was transformed into a scene of chaos and destruction.

***

Washington D.C.

Whitaker sat in the big, overstuffed armchair, almost disappearing into it as she cradled the baby in her arms. Her face softened as she looked at his little face. The infant’s chest rose and fell gently, his tiny hand wrapped around one of Whitaker’s fingers.

Kara perched on the arm of the chair, brushing his thin hair gently with two fingertips, completely concentrating on her little brother. Since the baby was born six months ago, her visits home had become more frequent. Even though the fancy apartment she shared with her best friend Mary Jane, and her best friend’s secret service detail, had all the amenities one teenager could want, she’d started making runs home to ‘do her laundry.’

Both Whitaker and Taylor saw through the ruse. Even with them, she was often very reluctant to let anyone see her more vulnerable side, a consequence of the hellish life she’d had before Taylor had freed her and brought her home with him, making her part of their family. They didn’t say anything about her paper-thin pretext, however. Both were just happy to have their adopted daughter home more often. They’d only had a year or so with her living at home with them before she got into her fancy school and moved in with Mary Jane so she could be closer to the school.

Kara smiled, a smile hardly anyone other than Whitaker and Taylor got to see, her eyes shining with affection as she continued to stroke the child.

“She’s so perfect,” she whispered.

Whitaker glanced at her with a tired smile, giving a small nod of agreement. “Yeah, she really is.”

“It’s crazy how I can see both of you in him. She’s got your eyes and nose, and Taylor’s chin and ears. It’s like someone morphed you two with a computer.”

“She’s got Taylor’s stubborn streak, too. She’s going to be a terror when she gets older.”

Both women shared a laugh, the sound light and easy, and then stopped as they both looked at Taylor, who from all appearances was on another planet. Hunched over his computer, his fingers dancing across the keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Whitaker frowned and said, “Taylor, these moments won’t last forever. Take a break and come sit with us for a little while.”

Taylor looked up, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice, “I will in a minute.”

“You’re looking for her again, aren’t you?” Whitaker said, heat in her voice.

They all knew who ‘her’ was. Six months ago, just before the birth of their baby, Taylor had a run-in with an assassin. More than that, she’d practically been a ghost. Until he got on her trail, no one in law enforcement even knew she existed, in spite of the over one hundred kills Taylor had traced to her so far. The list was a little terrifying. Mobsters, cartel members, judges, federal agents, even a bishop made up her impressive body count. Taylor had almost gotten her, tracking down her real identity and where she lived, closing in on her as she made a run for it. She’d outsmarted him, though, which wasn’t something that happened to Taylor often.

She’d set up a series of explosions, making it look like she’d blown herself up. It had taken the better part of two days to clear out the rubble from the building she’d half-collapsed on herself, where they discovered a well-constructed tunnel that led to an exit half a mile away. By the time they found it, she was long gone.

Bonnie had been hiding for a long time and was an expert at not being found. It was only dumb luck and desperation on her part that had led Taylor to her in the first place. And he’d been obsessed ever since, spending almost every waking moment talking to contacts and making inquiries into possible sightings, trying to find the one that got away.

“No, I’m not. Lopez has a pretty good contract lined up to provide security for a major company in the middle of a nasty set of lawsuits. Threats were made that look very credible. He’s also got a possible government deal with the state department. Both are going to require him to hire on guys, and we’re working on the details. I’m not just ignoring you. If this wasn’t time-sensitive, you know I’d rather be over there with you than sitting here.”

Taylor’s phone chimed and he was gone again, lost in whatever message he was responding to. Whitaker held up a finger to Kara and handed her the baby. The younger woman gladly took the small bundle, leaving the two adults to deal with their problems as she sank into the now-vacated chair, staring down at the little figure in her arms.

Whitaker moved silently, creeping up on him. Taylor was usually very observant and was incredibly hard to get the drop on, but she knew him well enough to know when he was distracted and completely focused on something else.

“Contracts my ass,” she said with an icy tone, looking over his shoulder. “You have got to get over this. It’s no longer about justice or doing your job. Ever since that woman got away, you’ve become obsessed.”

The monitor had multiple windows open, and some were, in fact, emails from Lopez with contract details, but more than a few had information about Bonnie up on them.

“Yes, I am,” Taylor said, swiveling in his seat to look at her. “Do you have any idea how dangerous she is? She knows who I am and she knows where we live. There is no amount of protection we can get to keep her from getting to any of you if she wanted to, and I’ve given her a lot of reasons to want to. The only way I can keep you safe is by putting her either behind bars or in the ground. You think I don’t care about my family? This is me caring about you. There is no level I wouldn’t go to keep you safe.”

From the corner of her eye, Whitaker saw Kara start to nod, looking up for a second to make eye contact with Taylor. More secrets in their little family. She loved Kara, but she’d never have the bond that Taylor had with her, and there were still several things the two of them had never told her. Robles had made a few comments telling her something had happened when Taylor had been in Africa the previous year, but no one was telling her what happened.

“I appreciate that, and it’s one of the reasons I love you, but you’ve got to get a grip. If she was going to come for us, she would have done so by now. She already had the entire federal government on her trail, and she managed to get away. Someone like her isn’t going to want to kick that hornet’s nest again.”

“Whitaker, I …” Taylor started to reply when he was interrupted by his phone rattling against the table as it vibrated.

As he reached to pick it up, her mouth formed into a tight, angry line. She was just about to yell at him when she saw the name on the caller ID, which caused her to stop the tirade she was about to launch.

“Yeah, Joe, what’s up?” Taylor asked after pressing the accept button.

Joe Solomon was their boss at the FBI. It was very unusual for two FBI agents to work directly under the Director of the FBI, but they were an unusual pair. Taylor, while he’d proven himself to be indispensable to the organization time and time again, wasn’t actually an agent.

Technically, he was a contractor there to lend his skills at finding people who didn’t want to be found or anything else the Director felt needed someone with an unorthodox approach to handle. That was how he’d met Whitaker, who had been a rising star in the organization until her connection with him slowed her rapid ascent. While the outside observer might think reporting directly to Solomon was a good sign, it was actually because almost no one else at the agency wanted to work with Taylor, who was notorious for how little he cared or paid attention to things like procedure and protocol, which had set him at odds with nearly every agent he’d been in contact with, with the exception of herself and Agent Robles, who didn’t count, since the two had come into contact before Robles joined the FBI.

“Okay, we’ll be right there,” Taylor said, and disconnected the call.

“What?” Whitaker asked as he set the phone down.

“Something’s happened in El Paso. Joe wants us to come meet with him and said we’ll be flying out as soon as we’re briefed.”

“Is it serious?”

“Sounds serious. Some kind of bombing at the main border crossing.”

“I can stay with the baby,” Kara offered from her chair.

“Only until I can get ahold of my sister. She’ll probably need help though, so if you could be around, that would be great,” Whitaker said, adding the last part when Kara’s face dropped.

“I can do that,” Kara said with a determined nod.

The two grabbed their go-bags and rushed out the door. Whitaker hated leaving the baby, but she felt a rush of excitement at the chance to get back in the field. She’d been on desk duty since the third trimester, and she missed the real work.

***

Hoover Building, Washington D.C.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor and Whitaker found themselves in Joe Solomon’s office. The luxurious space was adorned with hardwood furniture and dark leather padding, a testament to Solomon’s status as director. Though antique and expensive furnishings were common among high-ranking bureaucrats, Joe’s desk stood out as a well-used piece stacked with mounds of files, showing that it was more than just a prop for photos.

There were many things about Solomon that irked Taylor, from his rigid adherence to policy to his prioritizing politics over results, but at least Joe was no poser. He took his job seriously and genuinely cared about the agency’s performance.

Not that Taylor would ever admit that to him.

“How much do you two know about what’s been happening down at the border?” Joe asked, sitting in the large chair behind his desk, his voice firm.

“Not much,” Taylor said. “I just finished up that Klan thing in Alabama, looking for the Postal guy.”

“I saw something on the news this morning about an explosion,” Whitaker said. “The story was light on details, but it looked pretty bad. I’m assuming you’re sending us out there.”

Taylor gave Whitaker a side-eye. She had been waking up early to pump milk for their baby, watching the news while doing so. They hadn’t discussed it, but he suspected it was her way of compensating for feeling left out when he was working a case and she was on maternity leave.

“It is, but let me give you some background first. We’ve been dealing with a massive influx of drugs coming across the border. Contrary to what politicians and the nightly news might say, most drugs that make their way into the country come in through ports of entry, not carried over by mules. It’s a matter of volume. They can send one guy on foot carrying twenty-five or maybe forty pounds of stuff, or they can pack hundreds to tens of thousands of pounds in cars and trucks, each driven by the same guy. Our nation’s appetite for this garbage is at an all-time high, so they need to throw as much as they can at the border to meet the demand.”

“I’m assuming something in that equation has changed,” Whitaker said.

“It has. You see, when the volume of smuggled drugs increases, we usually witness a corresponding rise in the amount we seize at the border. It’s a numbers game. Border Patrol has never been able to halt all the drugs coming across, partly because the cartels keep devising new methods of shipping it, partly because of Congress cutting funding, and partly because a portion of this country doesn’t seem to want us to stop the drugs. All that adds up to us having fewer agents and tools to do something about the drugs and everything else making its way into the country.”

“I remember how easily Qasim got in,” Taylor said, referencing a case very personal to him.

The terrorist responsible for the extensive and years-long torture Taylor endured had slipped into the US several years ago, after brutally murdering a lone border patrol agent who had inadvertently crossed his path. Taylor later discovered that if it hadn’t been for that agent, sitting off duty in that very spot where he wasn’t supposed to be, Qasim would have sauntered into the country undetected. It was only because of that agent’s sacrifice that they had been able to stop Qasim before his plan to unleash a massive bioweapon attack could succeed.

“Exactly. However, they do intercept a percentage of the drugs, and like with any statistical model, an increase in volume should mean an increase in seizures. But that hasn’t happened. Interestingly, the small amount smuggled on foot over the border hasn’t increased either. We’re still catching about the same volume from illegal border crossers as we did a year ago.”

“Could it be some new transportation method Border Patrol doesn’t know about?” Taylor asked. “If it’s different enough, we might not be catching any of it, so it wouldn’t affect the amount they’ve been seizing using the more traditional methods.”

“I won’t say it’s impossible, but Border Patrol is fairly confident that isn’t the case. They’re pretty sure the drugs are coming in through some new route, other than the major ports of entry. And given the volume, it’s unlikely they’re being carried on foot. Three months ago, the Attorney General ordered a joint task force between the FBI, DEA, ATF, and Border Patrol to be formed to tackle the issue, tasked with figuring out how these drugs are entering the country and stopping them.”

“How does this tie into the bombing?” Whitaker asked.

“I was just getting to that. Shortly after the task force arrived at the border and started working, we had our first bombing. It occurred in an area where the task force wasn’t operating and hadn’t even considered problematic. The explosion happened on our side of the border in New Mexico, causing minor damage to a warehouse. No one was hurt and, for a while, the task force wasn’t sure it was even related. Since then, the bombings have become more frequent and deadly, though nothing on the scale of the El Paso explosion.”

“How recent was the last bombing before the one in El Paso?” Whitaker inquired.

“Four days. The one before that, three days. Before that, a week. You can see the pattern of escalation in the time between bombings.”

“How many were killed in the previous blasts?” Taylor asked.

“Seven in total and another thirty-two injured. No single blast claimed more than one life, and fatalities only occurred in two consecutive incidents. In most cases, the task force determined that the people injured or killed were secondary targets, not the primary objective. The damage in most of those blasts was minimal, which is why you haven’t heard much about them on the news. If it weren’t for the explosions starting so soon after the formation of the task force and their increasing frequency, even we might’ve concluded they were unrelated.”

“So this thing in El Paso is a major escalation,” Whitaker stated, more as an observation than a question.

“Yes, and that’s one of the reasons you were brought in. The task force has been working on this for a while, but they’ve made no progress in finding the drugs or identifying those behind the bombings. Now that it’s high profile, we’re stepping up our efforts. Each agency is doubling its members on the task force. This is in addition to some outside security contractors brought in after the fifth bombing.”

“Security contractors?” Whitaker asked, surprise in her voice. “For an inter-agency task force?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s strange. These bombs are mostly homemade, and some of our guys who served overseas said the devices resembled the IEDs they’d encountered there. The AG decided that additional experts were needed, so they contracted a group that’s been working in war zones, rebuilding infrastructure and clearing explosives.”

“And we’re part of the FBI’s additional manpower?” Taylor asked skeptically.

Taylor knew his reputation in the law enforcement community, and seriously doubted Joe would want the backlash he’d get if he tried to put someone like Taylor on an inter-agency task force.

“Obviously not. I think we can all agree that your area of expertise isn’t exactly what the task force needs. No, you’re assigned to the bombing in El Paso specifically. If your investigation happens to cross paths with the task force, then you can look into the drug situation.”

“It still doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t in demolitions or engineering in the service, and aside from one case several years ago, I haven’t worked many bombings. I have to imagine you have people more suited to this kind of assignment than me. What aren’t you telling us?”

Solomon held Taylor’s gaze, which Taylor met unflinchingly.

“The explosives trace back to the Army,” Solomon finally said, breaking eye contact. “One of our forensic teams linked the chemical signature of the C4 used in the explosion to a batch that was supposedly destroyed two years ago as part of its munitions turnover.”

“I would have thought anything called ‘munitions turnover’ would mean using it to blow something up,” Whitaker said.

“C4, at least the kind used by the Army, has a full efficacy shelf life of ten years,” Taylor explained. “After that, it’s still dangerous, but it becomes less stable, which can mean misfires, accidental detonations, or underpowered explosives. If I remember right, they dispose of any unused batches of C4 after ten years in storage, and they do spot checks on any older than seven years since it can sometimes go bad before then.”

“Correct,” Joe continued. “The DoD is extremely concerned about the negative publicity they’ll get from this. They’re checking their records and talking to people who worked at the disposal site where this batch was supposedly destroyed, but so far, they don’t know how much is missing. They’re already demanding control of the hunt for the missing munitions and whoever has them. The AG is, of course, vehemently opposed to this, as are the heads of every agency involved in the task force. The Army has made it clear that their only goal is finding the missing explosives and whoever has them so they can determine if more are out there. They couldn’t care less about the drug angle, which is why it’s a problem for us. If they’re given any kind of role in this, they’ll bulldoze their way across the border, sending the cartels scrambling for cover. A month or two after they inevitably pull out, the cartels will be right back to shipping narcotics, having had time to improve on whatever has allowed them to evade our radar. And we’ll be back to square one.”

“How is the Army even going to work along the border? They have no law enforcement mandate or any kind of jurisdiction inside the US,” Whitaker asked.

“They’ve already convinced the governors of Texas and New Mexico to authorize deploying the National Guard along the border and put the command of those units in the hands of the regular Army. The AG is still protesting, but there’s some precedent that we’re worried they might use to get it to pass constitutional muster.”

“So you all decided I was the answer,” Taylor said, more as a statement than a question.

“Yes. You made some friends in the DoD last year after that incident at the base in Texas, and they agreed with the AG to give you a chance to get the situation under control before they send in the Army. I’ll be honest, several of the agency heads are aware of your previous work and weren’t thrilled with the idea, but after the President threw her support behind the idea of making you our point man, everyone fell in line.”

Almost two years ago, Taylor and Whitaker had been sent to an army base in Texas where a substantial amount of supplies had vanished, and several locals had been murdered. As it turned out, the general in charge of the base was a serial killer, using the missing supplies to cover his twisted hobby. All the missing equipment had been recovered, but the incident had left a black mark on the Army.

“How long do I have?” Taylor asked.

“Two weeks, although if something happens between now and then, they might jump the gun. Apparently, this is the fourth unaccounted-for loss of army supplies in the last five years, counting that mess in Texas, and it’s got them all on edge. It won’t take much to push them into jumping the gun.”

“Does this have anything to do with General Lane’s operation?”

“I don’t believe so. This stuff went missing out of a disposal depot in California. I’m assuming the DoD has checked into it all the same, but no one over there is in much of a sharing mood.”

“So two weeks, or probably less, to find the explosives, whoever blew up the bridge, if they’re connected to the increase in drug smuggling, and shut it all down. That’s a big ask. What kind of resources will we have?”

“Whatever you need. We already have several forensic teams down there, and you can commandeer anyone you need from the task force. If there are any disagreements between you and the agents in charge, we’ll err on the side of supporting you unless you go really far off the rails. Everyone has agreed to give you a free hand in this as much as we can, as long as you show results. Your track record so far may scare the other agency heads, but they can’t argue against your string of successes. Of course, if you fail this time, it will be harder to get your way next time.”

“Of course,” Taylor said sardonically.

“They also want you to keep as much of a lid on this as possible. As you can imagine, the media is sniffing around hard. They won’t be surprised to see you there, considering some of the high-profile stuff you’ve done in the past, but we think they’ll assume you’re there in a support capacity since they also know all of the gossip surrounding your history. Everyone, and I mean everyone, wants most of all for you to stay off the news. Understood?”

Taylor had ended up on the front-page numerous times, including when he stopped the assassination of then-presidential candidate Caldwell in front of news cameras. He’d also pissed off a lot of people over the years, all of whom had been happy to go on talk shows discussing how much of a loose cannon he was any time he ended up in the news. Taylor honestly didn’t mind, since he didn’t want the spotlight any more than the people who hated him didn’t want him to have it.

“Understood,” Taylor said.

“Good. We have the jet waiting for you at Andrews. Get down there and find these guys.”