Billy Maddox Takes His Shot - A Border Patrol Novel (Excerpt)

Billy On Line Watch in Nogales, Arizona - Operation Safeguard

Billy shifted from foot to foot at the edge of the parking lot off Sonoita Street. Hours of this could make anyone's legs go numb. A comical vision entered his head of some UDA making a run for it and Billy unable to lift his legs to give pursuit. He glanced over at another line agent—also hopping around—just within eyesight further south on Sonoita. A third was over on Mix. A film of sweat like a membrane coated him, the result of standing under the blazing sun. He inhaled exhaust and diesel from the snarling downtown Nogales traffic.

Billy palmed the slick back of his neck and cursed. Looking down didn't help. The heat just bounced off the fucking pavement so looking down was like sticking his head in the oven. He had his suspicions about why he was in this god-awful position rather than up on the hills just outside town where he could find some peace and quiet and slip into some cottonwood shade.

The way new Border Patrol agents learned their jobs was by working with different journeyman agents who ended up as their de-facto supervisors by virtue of being with the newbies all the time, even though the real supervisor was the guy who got the C&E reports. In Billy's case, this guy in particular had asked him a few weeks ago and in a pretty pissed off tone how Billy had managed to lose an entire magazine of full shells for his Berretta.

But that had passed. Carl was Billy's first journeyman agent but he had rotated out a few weeks ago and now there was this journeyman named Murphy who, it turned out, was a friend of Agent Wilson. Billy guessed Murphy got wind about the little incident at the Golden Burro and, by way of thanks, had given Billy this shit shift. Billy also worried about future C&E reports and whether Murphy would start pulling rabbits out of hats to try to make him look bad.

Billy shook his head now and pulled his cap lower over his eyes. It was three hours into his shift now. What was an agent supposed to do with this much nothing to do? He stooped to pick up his water bottle from the pavement when, over the jousting of car horns and truck engines, a reedy voice came to him: "Hey Border Patrol, Border Patrol man..."

Billy stood up, startled. That was what the homeless guy from his first day on the job had called him! Was he back? But as he glanced in the direction of the voice, Billy spotted a Latino man running toward him from the direction of Bradford Street. The guy looked agitated and so caught up in whatever he had to say, he didn't seem to notice he was about to run out into traffic.

"Slow down," Billy called out, cupping his hands to his mouth and taking a step toward the man. "I'm here. Slow down!"

The man came up short at the edge of the road and called out: "You have to come. There are a bunch of Mexicans coming out of a house over here."

Despite bitching to himself about how hot it was, Billy went cold. "Excuse me?" He had to hear that again.

"About 10, so far! Mexicans. Do you think they built a tunnel underground or something?"

Yes, they build tunnels, Billy thought. "Who are you?" he asked, calling across the busy street. Even though he was clearly from some country south of the United States, the man spoke with an accent that pegged him as someone who's lived among Anglos for a while.

"I landscape across the street. I haven't seen anyone coming or going out of that place for the past couple weeks. About an hour ago, the first guy comes out and then another after ten minutes and another after that."

It was a weird feature of the border. Mexicans legally in the States often didn't like anyone illegal to get in the country because then they ended up looking bad too. Often they turned in their own former countrymen if they weren't here on a legal basis.

"Where are they?" Billy asked. He turned back to shout to two other agents within calling range to give them the heads up that something was happening. Then, when a break in traffic came, he jogged across the street.

The man offered him a Bradford Street number that was no more than half a block away. Billy nodded, caught the man's shoulder in a grip of thanks then started toward the marked house, walking then picking up speed to a good-paced jog. About 20 seconds later, the guy called from behind him: "Do you see?"

Indeed Billy did.