Crossing the Line Read Online Free PDF Page A

thinks we’re a B-movie company that’s going to use it for a Western set. Behind that hill”—she indicated the sharp, spiny-looking ridge behind the buildings—“the land drops three hundred feet to the Roan River. Jesús Hidalgo has been staying at a property on the other side, only a half-mile upstream.”
    It was bizarre to think of him being so close. Of this legendary bad guy, head of the Mexicali Mafia, being in my state at all. I’d become a Wyoming cop to take down drug dealers, but never imagined I’d get the chance to participate in taking down
the
drug dealer. I didn’t even mind that the Feds would surely take all the credit. If everyone would just loosen up a little, this might even be fun.
    Mary added, “According to our intelligence, he’s there right now and intends to stay for a while.”
    Her words gave me a charge of anticipation, not unlike what I felt when staring up at a virgin wall. But Mary again refused to give any further information on how we might climb it.
    In the starlight I could make out a large cabin that probably served as the camp’s dining room, kitchen, and lounge. Three smaller cabins stood nearby. Off a little ways, against the edge of the crater, there was the black shape of a barn that appeared to be tilted a little to one side. The only trees were some stunted junipers along the slopes and ridge and a few dehydrated cottonwoods near the main cabin.
    I started to park the Pig in front of the main cabin, when Mary ordered me to drive to the barn.
    “He has a plane,” she said by way of explanation. “It flies up from Mexico City or Mexicali every couple of weeks. We don’t want to take any chances.”
    I thought they were being overly cautious. But then I didn’t yet know their plan.
    The two swinging doors leading into the partially collapsed barn were open. The darkness beyond them resembled a black hole. Mary got out again and shone her little flashlight’s beam around the interior. The narrow cone of light revealed a cracked and heaving concrete floor, piles of rotting timber, and some corroded farm implements.
    I pulled to one side, letting the Suburban drive in first. When I wanted to leave I didn’t want to have to ask Tom to move his car.
    Without being told, we were quiet as we got out of the trucks. Doors were bumped shut with hips rather than slammed. Mungo stayed so close to my side that she was leaning against my thigh. Overhead, the barn’s roof creaked and groaned in the wind. I doubted that if the inevitable occurred it would do much damage to my rusty iron truck. But it would sure play hell with the fancy paint on the Suburban. The taxpayers, of course, would foot the bill to keep the Feds looking sharp.
    We walked as a group over packed dirt and through weeds to get to the main cabin. Tom walked behind Roberto, staring hard at my brother’s back. Just three hours earlier he’d seen him come screaming out of the sky. Now Tom acted as if he expected him to be jerked back up into the air.
    Mary knelt on the porch before the door and again used her flashlight to work the combination on the padlock. The door stuttered open. She shone the light inside.
    “Welcome to our new home, gentlemen.”
    Sand was sprinkled liberally over the plank floor from where it had blown in through chinks in the log walls. Spirals of dust floated in the flashlight’s beam. Mouse turds lay among the sand and dirt. There was a kitchen area along one wall, with a stove and sink, and two wooden picnic tables with benches that were the only furniture in the large room. The interior doorway to an added-on bathroom was open but a brief glimpse of what was beyond wasn’t welcoming even after hours on the road.
    Following Mary and Tom inside, I swept my hand through cobwebs next to the doorjamb, and felt a light switch.
    “Don’t,” Mary said, turning suddenly and pointing the beam at my hand. “The electricity’s supposed to be on, but first I want to cover the