"Sector Seven":
I pulled into the station just as the sun dipped low enough to turn the dashboard lights on. Another long shift ahead in this stretch of nothing, out where Arizona meets the line no one wants to cross. My name's Tom, been with Border Patrol going on eight years now. Most days, it's just dust and empty horizons, checking sensors and chasing shadows that turn out to be rabbits. But that night, something felt off from the start.
I grabbed my gear—vest, flashlight, the radio clipped to my shoulder—and signed out the jeep. Dispatch crackled through: "Tom, you're on solo for sector seven tonight. Ramirez called in with the flu. Keep it tight." I acknowledged, fired up the engine, and rolled out onto the dirt track that snaked through the scrub. The tires hummed against the gravel, the only sound besides my own breathing. No partner meant no chatter to fill the quiet, just me and the dark closing in.
About an hour in, one of the motion sensors pinged. Not the usual blip from wind or critters—this one lingered, like something heavy had paused right over it. I veered off the main path, headlights cutting through the brush. The jeep bounced over rocks, and I slowed as the GPS blinked coordinates: deep in a dry wash, miles from the nearest road. I killed the engine, grabbed the rifle, and stepped out. My boots crunched on the parched ground. I swept the light ahead, calling out soft. "U.S. Border Patrol. Show yourself."
Nothing. But there, in the beam, fresh footprints. Not scattered like a group in panic, but deliberate, single file, heading north. Men's boots, by the look, deep treads caked with red dirt. And beside them, smaller prints—sneakers, maybe a kid's. My gut tightened. Smugglers often ditched the weak ones out here, figuring the desert would finish the job. I followed the trail on foot, keeping low, the rifle loose in my hands. The wash walls rose steep on both sides, funneling me deeper into the narrow cut.
A hundred yards in, I spotted the first sign: an empty water jug, slashed open, lying on its side. Then another, half-buried in sand. They weren't tossed random—they formed a line, like breadcrumbs left for someone to find. Or a warning. I paused, thumbed the radio. "Dispatch, this is Tom in sector seven. Got tracks and discards at grid four-two-niner. Requesting eyes." Static hissed back. No response. I tried again, adjusting the antenna. Still nothing. Dead zone, probably the cliffs blocking the signal. Great. I pressed on, ears straining for any snap of twig.
The whispers hit me next. Faint at first, like wind through thorns, but words started to shape up. Spanish, low and urgent. "...no puede... déjalo..." I froze mid-step, light off now, crouched behind a boulder. They were close, maybe fifty feet ahead where the wash bent. I edged forward, breath shallow. Peering around the rock, I saw them: four figures huddled in the gloom, backs to me. Two men, one woman, and a boy no older than ten, his face pressed to her leg. They were ripping at a backpack, pulling out what looked like crackers and a single canteen.
The taller man glanced my way, eyes wide. He nudged the others, and they all went still. Then the woman stood, hands out, palms up. "Por favor," she said, voice cracking. "Agua. El niño... enfermo." Water for the boy. He was curled up, shirt soaked with sweat, even in the cool drop of night. I lowered the rifle a fraction, stepped into view. "English? Habla inglés?"
The tall man nodded slow. "Little. We... lost. Guide leave us." His accent was thick, words stumbling. He pointed back the way they'd come. "He say go this way. Then gone." I scanned them—no weapons I could see, just ragged clothes and hollow cheeks. Dehydration hits fast out here; the boy looked half-gone already. Against protocol, but I couldn't just walk. I unclipped my canteen, tossed it over. "Drink slow. Not all at once."
The woman caught it, knelt by the boy. He gulped, water spilling down his chin, then coughed hard. The tall man edged closer, eyes on my radio. "You call help? For us?" I nodded. "Backup's coming. Sit tight." But inside, doubt gnawed. No signal meant no backup, not till I climbed higher. The second man, shorter with a scarred cheek, muttered something to the tall one. They exchanged looks, quick and sharp.
That's when the boy retched. Not just water—blood flecked his lips. The woman wailed, a short, animal sound, and held him tight. "¡Dios mÃo! He was fine... this morning." The tall man knelt too, prying the boy's mouth open. "Heat. Or... something bad." I moved in, knelt beside them. The kid's skin burned under my hand, pulse fluttering wild at his neck. "We need to move him. Now." I slung the rifle, scooped the boy up. Light as a sack of bones. The woman grabbed the backpack; the men flanked me as we started back down the wash.
We hadn't gone twenty steps when the tall man stopped. "Listen." I did. Footsteps, echoing from behind. Not ours—multiple, deliberate, closing fast. The scarred man spun, fists up. "The guide? He come back?" The woman clutched the boy tighter, whispering prayers. I set him down gentle, rifle ready. "Stay behind me." The steps grew louder, crunching over loose stones. Shadows stretched long in my flashlight beam—three figures, hooded, faces obscured by cloth. Not migrants. These moved like hunters.
"¡Váyanse!" the lead one barked, voice muffled but clear. Go away. He raised something glinting—a blade, long and curved. The tall man shoved forward. "You leave us! You kill him!" The guide laughed, low and mean. "You pay, or you die same." The scarred man lunged, but the guide's partner sidestepped, drove a knee into his gut. He dropped, gasping. The woman screamed, backing up with the boy.
I fired a warning shot into the dirt. "Border Patrol! Drop it!" The guide turned, eyes narrowing through the hood. "You? This no your fight, amigo." He stepped over the scarred man, blade out. The other two circled, one pulling a pistol from his waistband. Time slowed. I backed us up, rifle trained on the guide. "On the ground. Now." He smirked, inching closer. "You alone out here. Radio no work. We know."
The tall man grabbed a rock, hurled it. It clipped the guide's shoulder; he snarled, slashed wild. The blade caught the tall man's arm, blood spraying dark. He staggered but swung again, fist connecting with the guide's jaw. Chaos erupted—the woman bolted with the boy, the scarred man crawling to help his friend. I fired again, this time grazing the pistol man's leg. He yelped, dropped the gun. The guide roared, charging me.
I sidestepped, rifle butt cracking against his wrist. The knife flew, clattered into the sand. He tackled me, fists raining down. I bucked him off, rolled, came up swinging. My boot caught his ribs; he wheezed but grabbed my ankle, yanking hard. We grappled in the dust, grunts and curses mixing with the woman's fading cries. His hood slipped—face twisted, scarred worse than his partner's, eyes wild with that desert madness. "They owe me! All of them!"
I kneed him square, broke free, scooped the rifle. He scrambled for the knife, but I pinned his hand, radioed blind. "Dispatch! Sector seven, armed smugglers, need air now!" Static again. The other two limped off into the dark, dragging their wounded one. The guide spat blood, glaring up. "You think this end? More come. Always more."
I zip-tied his wrists, dragged him to his feet. "Shut it." The tall man slumped against the wall, arm bound with his shirt, blood soaking through. "The boy... she take him?" The woman was gone, vanished into the brush with the kid. The scarred man groaned, clutching his side. "We run two days. He promise water. Then push us here. Say wait."
We trudged back, me prodding the guide ahead, the two migrants limping behind. The jeep was a half-mile out, but every step felt like miles. The guide muttered nonstop, promises of payback, names I didn't catch. At one point, he twisted, hissed at the tall man. "You tell? I find family." The tall man spat back. "You monster. Leave kid to die."
We reached the wash's mouth as dawn grayed the sky. I got a signal, called it in. Backup rolled up twenty minutes later—two units, lights flashing. They hauled the guide away; he laughed as they cuffed him tighter. The migrants got blankets, medics. But the boy... they found him an hour later, a mile off-trail. The woman had collapsed trying to carry him, both out of water. He didn't make it. Heat took him, quiet and cruel.
That wasn't the worst. While the team processed the scene, I walked the perimeter, flashlight sweeping. That's when I saw it: another set of prints, small sneakers, veering east alone. Not with the group. And beside them, drag marks, like something heavy pulled through the sand. I followed, stomach souring. Fifty yards in, under a mesquite bush, the remains. Not the boy—a woman, older, clothes torn, face half-buried. Animals had been at her, but fresh enough the blood hadn't dried full. Throat cut clean, eyes staring blank.
The guide's work, no doubt. Left her days ago, maybe, to lure the group deeper. The medics said she'd been there three, four days. Rigor long passed, but the cuts... deliberate, like he toyed first. I stood there, bile rising, as they zipped the bag. The tall man saw, from the ambulance. He crossed himself, whispered, "Hermana. My sister."
Backup asked if I wanted to sit it out, but I waved them off. Drove home at noon, hands steady on the wheel. But sleep? That came slow. Every creak in the house sounds like footsteps in the wash now. And the radio—still checks out fine. But out there, in the dead zones, who knows what calls don't get through.
Weeks later, at debrief, the captain pulled me aside. "That guide? Not his first. Cartel runner, left a trail of them—bodies strung out like bait." He clapped my shoulder. "You did good, Tom." Good. Yeah. Tell that to the empty jug I keep on my shelf, reminder of the line that never ends. Out in the remote stretches, it's not the dark you fight. It's the ones who know it better.
"Line of Fire":
I joined the Border Patrol right after high school, figuring it was a steady job in a place where work didn't come easy. That night in December stuck with me more than any other shift. We'd been out there for two full days already, hunkered down in this stretch of desert west of Rio Rico. The kind of spot where the ground rolls into deep washes and jagged hills that swallow sound whole. Our team—me, Tim, Bill, and Brian—had set up at a forward site, no backup close by, just us four against whatever might come through.
We'd drawn the short straw for this op. Word from dispatch was that rip crews were getting bolder, those cartel scouts who jump smugglers for their loads. Armed to the teeth, no questions asked. Our job was to watch the smuggling route, a narrow path funneling north from the line. We carried standard issue—shotguns, sidearms, a couple of rifles—but nothing heavy like what those crews packed. Brian, the newest on our squad but solid as they come, kept cracking jokes to keep our heads straight. He was from Michigan, built like a linebacker, always talking about getting back to snow someday.
"Think we'll see action tonight, Gabe?" Brian asked me that evening as we checked our gear for the umpteenth time. We were crouched behind a low ridge, the kind of cover that felt flimsy if things went south.
I shrugged, wiping dust from my binoculars. "Better hope not. Last team that tangled with one of those groups came back with holes in their vests."
Tim, the quiet one with the mustache, snorted from his spot a few feet away. "Speak for yourself. I could use the overtime."
Bill laughed, low and rough. "Overtime? Man, you'd settle for a hot meal. What's for dinner tonight—more MREs?"
We passed around a pack of chili mac, the kind that tasted like regret. The days blurred into waiting: scanning the horizon through scopes, listening to static on the radio, rotating watches every few hours. No fires, no lights. Just the faint hum of our vests' beacons in case we needed airlift. By the second night, fatigue clawed at us. I'd nod off for seconds at a time, jerking awake to the scrape of boots on rock.
Around ten that night, things shifted. Tim was on point, glassing the trail below us. "Hold up," he whispered into his shoulder mic. "Movement. Five shadows, single file. Heading our way."
My pulse picked up. We froze, breaths shallow. The group was maybe two hundred yards out, dark shapes against the faint outline of mesquite bushes. They moved deliberate, like they owned the trail—rifles slung low, packs heavy on their backs. Rip crew for sure. Brian slid up beside me, his rifle ready. "We let 'em get closer. Box 'em in."
Bill nodded, flanking left. "Roger. On your mark."
We waited as they closed the gap, minutes stretching like wire. Every rustle in the brush made me tense—coyote? Wind? Or one of them breaking off to scout? The leader paused once, head tilting like he heard something. My finger hovered near the safety. Tim's voice crackled soft in my earpiece: "Fifty yards. Steady."
They passed right in front of our position, oblivious or cocky. That's when Brian gave the signal. We rose as one, weapons trained. "Border Patrol! Hands up! Drop your weapons!"
For a split second, it hung there—pure shock on their faces, lit by our tac lights. The leader spun first, a burly guy with a scarred cheek, raising an AK that looked too big for the narrow trail. "¡Federales!" he barked, but it came out twisted, panicked.
Then it erupted. Muzzle flashes cracked the dark like lightning, the AK's roar drowning everything. Bullets chewed into the dirt at our feet, kicking up stones that stung my legs. I dove behind a boulder, heart slamming, firing back blind. "Contact! Contact front!" I yelled into the radio, but static answered—signal dead in the wash.
Brian was out there, exposed. I heard his shotgun boom twice, close. "Got one!" he shouted, voice steady over the chaos. But then a scream—his. I peeked out, saw him stagger, clutching his side. Blood bloomed dark on his vest. "Brian! Cover him!" I hollered at Tim, who was laying down fire from the right.
The air stank of cordite and sweat. One of the crew bolted left, vanishing into thorns. Another dropped, moaning, his rifle clattering. But the leader and his second kept coming, advancing like they meant to overrun us. Bullets whined past my ear, close enough to feel the heat. Bill popped off rounds from higher ground, nailing the second guy in the leg—he crumpled, cursing in Spanish.
"They're flanking!" Tim warned, his voice tight. I swung my rifle, spotting movement in the shadows to our left. The leader was circling, using the wash for cover, his AK chattering again. Chips of rock exploded near Brian, who was on his knees now, pressing a hand to his gut. "Gabe... can't... breathe," he gasped over the comms.
Rage hit me hard. I broke cover, advancing low, squeezing the trigger. My shots went wide—he was gone, melted into the night. But it bought time. Bill reached Brian first, dragging him behind the ridge. "Pressure! Keep pressure on it!" Bill barked, ripping open a med kit. Tim and I held the line, ears straining for footsteps over the echoes.
Silence fell, broken only by the wounded man's whimpers below. Minutes dragged—five? Ten? Every shadow looked like a threat. My arms burned from the recoil, ears ringing. Then, distant rotors: chopper inbound, finally punching through the dead zone.
We got Brian airlifted, but the docs said the round had torn through everything vital. He was gone before dawn. The crew? Four in custody eventually, one dead. The leader slipped the net for years, until they nabbed him in Mexico. Turns out their guns traced back to some botched fed sting—Fast and Furious, they called it. Didn't bring Brian back.
That night changed the border game. More walls, more drones, but the crews adapt. I still patrol sometimes, scanning those same trails. And every shadow makes me wonder who's watching back.
"Bleeding in the Dark":
I gripped the steering wheel tighter as our truck bounced over the uneven dirt road, the engine's low rumble the only sound breaking the quiet stretch of desert. My partner, Tom, sat beside me, flipping through his notepad under the dim glow of the dashboard light. We'd been on shift for hours already, covering this remote section of the border near Van Horn, where the land flattened out into nothing but scrub brush and distant hills that looked like they could swallow a man whole. It was the kind of place where patrols like ours happened every night—checking for signs of crossings, listening for the faint crunch of footsteps that didn't belong.
Tom glanced up, rubbing his eyes. "You see anything out there, Joe? Feels like we've been circling the same mile marker for an hour."
I shook my head, keeping my eyes on the faint trail ahead. "Nothing yet. Dispatch said there might be activity from last night's group. Keep sharp." My voice came out steady, but I could feel the weight of the isolation pressing in. Out here, it was just us, the truck, and the radio crackling now and then with updates from the station twenty miles back.
The radio sparked to life a moment later. "Unit Seven, this is base. Got a report of possible vehicle tracks off Route 10, about two miles east of your position. Head that way and confirm."
"Copy that, base," Tom replied, already pulling out the map. "We'll swing over." He hung up the mic and turned to me. "Sounds routine. Probably just some lost hauler again."
I nodded, but something about the call sat wrong. Reports like that usually came with more details—numbers, descriptions. This one felt thin, like the voice on the other end was holding back. I eased the truck onto a narrower path, the headlights cutting through the dark, picking out jagged rocks and the occasional cactus standing like a silent guard.
As we crested a small rise, Tom leaned forward. "Hold up. You see that?" He pointed to the right, where the beam caught a glint—metal, half-buried in the sand, maybe fifty yards off the road.
I slowed to a stop, killing the engine to listen. The sudden quiet wrapped around us, thick and unbroken. "Looks like a fender or something. Could be from a wreck." I grabbed the flashlight from the console and stepped out, my boots sinking into the soft ground. Tom followed, his hand resting on the holster at his belt.
We approached slowly, beams sweeping the area. It was part of an old pickup, rusted and abandoned, tires long gone. No fresh tracks around it, but as I circled, my light fell on something else—a line of footprints, uneven and dragging, leading away into a dry wash about thirty feet ahead. They weren't animal; too deliberate, too human-sized.
"Joe, over here," Tom whispered, his voice low. He was crouched by the truck's side, shining his light on a dark smear along the edge. Blood. Fresh enough to still look wet in the beam.
My pulse quickened, but I kept my tone even. "Call it in. Tell them we might have a body or a fight."
Tom keyed the radio. "Base, Unit Seven. Found an abandoned vehicle with signs of blood. Footprints heading east into the wash. Request backup."
The response came quick, static-laced. "Copy, Unit Seven. Backup en route, ETA thirty minutes. Proceed with caution. No confirmation on hostiles, but chatter suggests a group moved through there last night."
"Understood." Tom clipped the radio back. He looked at me, his face pale in the flashlight glow. "Thirty minutes? That's a lifetime out here."
"We follow the prints. Can't leave it." I didn't wait for agreement; I started down the slope toward the wash, the beam of my light bouncing with each step. Tom fell in behind, our breaths the only noise now.
The wash was a shallow cut in the earth, walls no higher than my waist, floored with loose gravel that shifted underfoot. The footprints grew clearer here—multiple sets now, overlapping, some deep as if someone had been running. We moved single file, me in front, scanning ahead. About a hundred yards in, the prints veered sharply left, up a steeper bank.
That's when I heard it—a soft scrape, like leather on stone, from the direction we were headed. I froze, holding up a hand. Tom bumped into me lightly. "What?"
"Listen." We both went still. There it was again, faint but unmistakable, coming from behind a cluster of boulders at the wash's end. Not wind, not an animal settling. Human.
"Base, Unit Seven," I whispered into the radio, keeping my voice down. "We have movement ahead. Possible contact. Speed up that backup."
"Affirmative. Hold position if you can."
But holding felt wrong. The scrapes grew steadier, like someone shifting weight, waiting. Tom met my eyes, nodding toward the boulders. We crept forward, weapons drawn now, the metal cool in my grip. The air smelled of dust and something sharper—sweat, maybe fear.
We rounded the first boulder, lights sweeping. Empty. Then the second. Still nothing. But the sounds had stopped, replaced by a new one: breathing, ragged and close, from the shadow of the third rock.
"Border Patrol! Show your hands!" Tom barked, his voice echoing off the walls.
A figure lurched out— a man, mid-thirties, clothes torn and caked in dirt, one arm clutched to his side. Blood soaked his shirt, dark and spreading. He staggered toward us, eyes wide, mouth working but no words coming at first.
"Help," he finally gasped, collapsing to his knees. "They... they took the others."
I rushed forward, Tom covering me. "Who? What happened?"
His accent was thick, Mexican, words tumbling out in a mix of English and Spanish. "Four of us. Crossing for work. Men came—three, maybe four. From a truck. Had guns. Said we owed them passage money. We didn't have it. They shot my friend, dragged him off. I ran, but they chased. Hit me here." He pressed his wound, wincing.
Tom knelt beside him, radioing for medical. "Base, we have an injured civilian. Attack confirmed. Multiple assailants."
The man grabbed my arm, his grip weak but desperate. "They're still here. Watching. Don't go alone."
I scanned the darkness beyond the boulders, the wash opening into a flat expanse dotted with mesquite bushes. Nothing moved, but the hairs on my neck stood up. "Where did they take him?"
He pointed shakily north, toward a faint trail snaking up a hill. "That way. Heard screams. Then quiet."
Backup was still minutes out. Leaving the man went against protocol, but so did ignoring a fresh trail. Tom looked at me. "We can't wait. I'll stay with him, you check it quick."
"No. We go together." I helped the man lean against the boulder, tying a bandage from my kit around his arm. "Stay put. Help's coming."
He nodded, eyes darting. "Be careful. They move like ghosts."
We started up the trail, keeping low, lights off now to avoid giving away our position. The hill rose steeply, loose rocks sliding under our boots. Every few steps, I'd pause, listening. The desert played tricks— a twig snap from a rabbit, the distant howl of a coyote—but nothing human. Yet.
Halfway up, Tom whispered, "Joe, look." He nodded to the ground. More blood, splattered in a line, leading to a shallow depression hidden by brush. We approached, hearts thudding in our ears.
Pushing aside the branches, we found him—the friend's body, face down, a single bullet hole in the back of his head. Flies were already buzzing, though it couldn't have been long. Nearby, boot prints scattered in all directions, like the killers had fanned out after.
"Base, we have a body," Tom reported, voice tight. "Execution style. Suspects fled north."
Before the response came, a new sound cut through—footsteps, deliberate and closing from behind us, down the trail. Multiple sets, crunching gravel without care.
I spun, drawing my sidearm. "Contact! Rear!"
Tom whirled too, but they were fast—three men bursting from the wash below, dark figures in hoodies and jeans, faces obscured by bandanas. One raised a rifle, the muzzle flash blooming orange as he fired wild, the crack echoing like thunder.
"Down!" I yelled, shoving Tom behind a rock as bullets whined past, chipping stone. We returned fire, controlled bursts, but they scattered, using the brush for cover. One round grazed my shoulder, a hot sting that made me gasp, but I kept shooting.
"They're flanking!" Tom shouted, spotting movement to our left. He fired twice, and a grunt carried back—hit, maybe.
The radio screamed static. "Unit Seven! Status! Shots fired?"
"Under attack! Three hostiles! Need backup now!" I ducked as another shot splintered the rock inches from my head.
They pressed, voices calling in Spanish—taunts, maybe orders. "¡Entréguense! No saldrán vivos!" Surrender or die.
We retreated step by step, back toward the wash, but the hill's slope worked against us. One of them broke cover, charging low, knife glinting. Tom nailed him center mass, the man crumpling with a wet cough. But the other two kept coming, one circling wide.
I caught a glimpse of the leader's eyes over his bandana—cold, empty, like he'd done this a dozen times. Smugglers, enforcers for some cartel runner, collecting "tolls" from desperate crossers. Out here, no witnesses meant no problem.
A bullet tore through my leg, dropping me to one knee. Pain exploded, white-hot, but I fired back, missing. Tom hauled me up, half-dragging me down the slope. "Keep moving! Almost to the truck!"
The injured civilian saw us coming, eyes bulging. "They're coming! Run!"
We reached the wash, bullets pinging off the walls. Tom fired over his shoulder, buying time. I limped, blood soaking my pants, every step fire. The leader's voice rang out closer. "¡No escaparán!"
Then, blessedly, sirens wailed in the distance—backup, lights flashing over the rise. The attackers hesitated, shadows melting back into the brush. One last shot, wide, then silence.
We collapsed against the truck, the civilian helping tie my wounds. Paramedics swarmed minutes later, loading us up. Tom squeezed my arm as they wheeled him toward the ambulance. "You good?"
"Yeah," I lied through gritted teeth. "But those guys... they'll be back."
In the hospital days later, with stitches pulling and reports piling up, the pieces came together. The dead man was a migrant from Honduras, paying passage to a coyote who double-crossed him. The attackers? Low-level cartel muscle, shaking down anyone in their path. Two were caught weeks later, holed up in a Juarez safehouse, but the leader slipped south.
I still patrol that stretch sometimes, eyes always on the horizons. Every glint of metal, every drag in the sand—it pulls me back. Out there, the border isn't just a line. It's a place where good intentions meet bad men, and one wrong turn leaves you bleeding in the dark.
"Mines Road":
I gripped the steering wheel tighter as the headlights cut through the black ribbon of road ahead. Another long night on patrol along the edge of Webb County, chasing shadows that turned out to be nothing more than coyotes or tumbleweeds caught in the fence line. My name is Alex Rivera, and I've been with Border Patrol for eight years, long enough to know the quiet stretches of these backroads like the lines on my own hands. That night, though, the quiet felt different—thicker, like it was holding its breath.
The radio crackled just past two in the morning. "Unit 47, respond to the Shell station on Mines Road. Female subject, possible assault victim. She's shaken up, asking for help. No description yet, but she flagged down a trooper."
I keyed the mic. "This is 47, en route. ETA five minutes." My partner, Luis, shifted in the passenger seat, rubbing his eyes. "What do you think? Drunk driver? Domestic?"
"Too early to say," I replied, flipping on the blues but keeping the siren off. We didn't need to wake the whole county. The station was a fluorescent-lit island in the middle of nowhere, pumps glowing under the overhang like a beacon for the lost. As I pulled in, I spotted her first—a woman huddled by the air compressor, arms wrapped around herself, wearing just a bra and jeans. Her hair stuck out in wild strands, and her eyes darted like she expected something to lunge from the dark.
The state trooper, a guy named Ramirez with a mustache like a broom bristle, waved us over. "She's yours now. Says the guy who did this is one of you—Border Patrol. Name's David something. Gave her a ride, then pulled a gun."
Luis and I exchanged a look. One of us? That word hung in the air like smoke. I approached slow, hands out where she could see them. "Ma'am, I'm Agent Rivera. This is Agent Garza. You're safe here. Can you tell us what happened?"
She looked up, her face streaked with dirt and what might have been tears dried into salt tracks. Her name was Erika Pena, she said, voice barely above a whisper at first. Mid-twenties, worked odd jobs around Laredo to make ends meet. She rubbed her arms, goosebumps rising even in the stuffy night air. "I met him at the cantina on Grant Street. Around midnight. He bought me a drink, said he was heading my way, offered a lift. Nice guy, uniform and all. Flashed his badge quick, like it was nothing."
I nodded, pulling out my notepad. Uniform. Badge. My gut twisted a little, but I kept my face steady. "What happened after you got in the truck?"
She swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the empty lot behind us, like she saw it playing out again. "We drove out past the city lights. He turned off the main road onto one of those dirt tracks— you know, the ones that just go forever into the brush? No houses, no cars. Just the engine humming and the gravel crunching under the tires. He started talking, casual at first. Asked about my day, if I had kids. I said no, just trying to get by. Then his voice changed. Got low, like he was reading from a script in his head."
Luis leaned in. "What did he say exactly?"
Erika's fingers twisted the hem of her jeans. "He said, 'You know, women like you ruin everything. You think you're invisible, but you're not.' I laughed it off, thought he was drunk. But then he slowed down, pulled over in this dip off the road—total nothing, just mesquite bushes and dry earth. He turned off the engine, and the quiet hit like a wall. Reached into the glove box, pulled out his service pistol. Pointed it right at my knee. 'Get out,' he said. Calm, like ordering coffee."
I felt a cold prickle at the base of my neck. Service pistol. That meant agency issue, easy to trace. "Did he say his full name? Anything else to ID him?"
"David Ortiz," she said, the words tumbling out faster now. "Stationed at the Laredo sector. Said he was a supervisor. Tall, clean-shaven, tattoos on his arms—crosses and anchors, like from the Navy. He made me get out, walked me a few steps into the bushes. The ground was rough, rocks biting into my feet through my shoes. I kept thinking, just run, but the gun was right there, barrel glinting in the moonlight from the truck."
Luis radioed dispatch quiet-like. "Run a plate on a Border Patrol vehicle, possible Ortiz, Juan David. White Ford F-150, last seen heading east on 359."
While he did that, I stayed with her. "What happened next? How'd you get away?"
She pressed her lips together, like holding back a flood. "He pushed me down, face in the dirt. Smelled like oil and sweat on him. 'This is for all of them,' he muttered. I didn't know what he meant—thought maybe a bad divorce or something. But then he cocked the gun, pressed it to my temple. Cold metal, right against my skin. I could hear my own breathing, loud in my ears. That's when I saw it—a loose rock by my hand, big as a fist. I grabbed it, swung wild while he was adjusting his grip. Caught him on the jaw, hard enough to stagger him back."
Her hands shook as she mimed the motion, knuckles white. "I bolted. Didn't look back. Ran straight for the road, shoes slapping the dirt, branches whipping my arms. Thought I heard him yell, 'Come back, you—' but the words blurred. Kept running till I hit the highway, waved down a semi. Driver dropped me at the gas station. The trooper got there quick, but I kept seeing that truck in my rearview the whole way."
Dispatch came back then, voice tight over the static. "Ortiz is off-duty tonight. Last logged at 2200 hours. Vehicle GPS pings him near the Rio Grande bridge. Possible connection to three open cases—female DOAs in the sector, all within the last two weeks. Ramirez on September 3, Luera on the 13th, and two more early this morning. Cantu and a cross-dresser named Janelle Ortiz. All shot execution-style, dumped in remote pulls off county roads."
Janelle Ortiz. The name hit me sideways—same last name, but no relation, just coincidence in a small town. Luis cursed under his breath, then caught himself. "Boss, that's our Ortiz? The guy from briefings? Always cracking jokes about quotas?"
I stared at the radio, pieces slotting together ugly. Juan David Ortiz. I'd shared coffee with him in the break room last week. Solid guy on paper—Navy vet, married, kid on the way. Helped train rookies on vehicle stops. But now... "Erika, you did good getting away. We're locking this down."
She nodded, but her eyes were distant, replaying the truck's interior. "He had pictures in the dash—women smiling, like family shots. Then he said something about cleaning up the border. Said they were 'polluting' it. I thought he meant migrants at first, but no. It was us. Women like me, walking the streets after dark."
We got her in the back of the cruiser, blanket over her shoulders, while Ramirez coordinated with Webb County SO. Sirens wailed in the distance—backup rolling in hot. I climbed into the driver's seat, engine rumbling to life. "Head to his last ping," I told Luis. "The bridge area. If he's circling back..."
The drive blurred into a tense crawl, our truck slicing through the empty veins of the county. Dispatch fed updates: Ortiz's wife called in worried—he hadn't come home, left a weird note about "ending it right." His Facebook lit up with posts: "Time to face what I've done. No more hiding." Cryptic, but enough to spike my pulse.
We hit the Rio Grande sector just as dawn hinted gray on the horizon. The bridge loomed, steel skeleton over the sluggish river, floodlights buzzing like angry wasps. No sign of the F-150. "Split up," Luis said. "You take the east pull-off, I'll check the hotel lot across the way."
I nodded, grabbing my flashlight and sidearm. The east road dipped into a gravel lot used for staging during surges—empty now, save for a rusted trailer and chain-link fencing rattling in the breeze. Footprints fresh in the dust, leading toward the underbrush. I followed, beam cutting swaths through the scrub. "Ortiz, you out here? It's Rivera. Talk to me."
Silence, then a rustle—too deliberate for wind. I swept the light low, caught a glint of metal. The truck. Tucked behind a mesquite thicket, door ajar, engine still ticking cool. Inside, the cab smelled of stale smoke and something sharper—gun oil, maybe. Glove box open, empty holster on the seat. A woman's earring dangled from the mirror, cheap gold hoop catching the light.
"Dispatch, I've got the vehicle. Unoccupied. Signs of a struggle—scuff marks on the dash." My voice echoed flat in the quiet. Then, from the riverbank, a splash. Muffled, like someone wading.
I edged down the embankment, boots sliding on loose shale. The river ran slow here, mud banks slick underfoot. "Juan? Show yourself. We know about the women."
A shadow detached from the willows—tall frame, uniform shirt untucked, pistol dangling loose in his right hand. He turned slow, face pale under the stubble, eyes hollow like he'd been hollowed out. "Alex," he said, voice rough from disuse. "You got my girl? The one who ran?"
"Erika's safe," I replied, hand hovering near my holster. Keep him talking. "Why, man? Melissa, Claudine—they trusted you. Knew you from the streets. What happened out there on those roads?"
He laughed, short and bitter, waving the gun loose. Not aimed, but close enough to make my mouth dry. "Trusted? That's the joke. I gave them rides, sure. Drove 'em out to those godforsaken spots—the county road off 1472, the stretch of 35 where the hills swallow the signal. Let 'em think it was business as usual. Then... click." He mimed the hammer, eyes lighting with something feverish. "Melissa begged, you know? Stepped out to pee, and I just... ended it. Two in the chest, one in the head. Left her there, staring at the stars."
My fingers itched for the radio, but I held steady. "And Luera? She asked about her friend. You shot her point-blank."
"Confronted me at a stoplight," he went on, stepping closer, water lapping at his boots. "Bold one. Pulled her over like I was on duty. Drove her out past the old ranch gate, where the fence wire's all twisted. She fought—clawed my arm. But the gun won." His free hand rubbed a fresh scratch, red lines blooming under the sleeve.
Luis's voice cut in over the radio, close now. "Alex, you copy? SO's got the hotel surrounded. He's heading that way—"
Ortiz's head snapped up, and for a split second, I saw it: the calculation, the cornered animal flash. He raised the pistol, not at me, but at the bank behind him. "Tell my wife... I tried to make it right. The border's full of filth. I just... cleaned a little."
"Drop it, Juan!" I yelled, drawing my own. But he was fast—twisted toward the water, boot slipping on the mud. The shot cracked the night, wild and high, ricocheting off a rock. Backup swarmed from the treeline—Luis, Ramirez, a half-dozen county uniforms, lights blazing.
He went down thrashing, face in the shallows, cuffs snapping on before he could surface. "No, wait—" he sputtered as they hauled him up, soaked and snarling. "I didn't mean—"
But he did. The confessions spilled out later in interrogation, cold and methodical. Four women, lured from the neon haze of Laredo bars, driven to those remote kills—rural tracks and highway shoulders where cell service died and help was miles away. Melissa Ramirez, 29, mother scraping by; Claudine Luera, 42, piecing together shifts for her five kids; Guiselda Cantu, 35, and Janelle Ortiz, 28, both chasing dreams in the shadows. All ended the same: a short walk into the brush, a muzzle flash, bodies left to stiffen in the dust.
Erika identified him in a lineup the next day, her voice steadier but eyes still haunted. "That's him. The one who smiled while he aimed." Ortiz got life, no parole, locked in a cell far from the border he claimed to protect. But those roads? They stay the same—empty, waiting. I drive them still, every shift, scanning the dark for the next shadow that might not be a coyote.
And sometimes, when the radio goes quiet, I wonder how many more rides he gave before that night. How many trucks just like his rumbled past without a second glance.