Sworn to Protect (4 page)

Chapter 5

Give justice to the poor and the orphan; uphold the rights of the oppressed and the destitute.

Psalm 82:3

On Thursday morning, Danika sped down Old Military Highway in the Tahoe assigned to her for the day. Felipe kicked up dirt in his jeep ahead of her, and Jacob followed behind her. Another truck with two more agents led the convoy. They’d gotten a call from an informer about a safe house filled with illegals and drugs. The caller, a man with a thick Hispanic accent, gave the location and hung up. Later the supes at the station would analyze the voice, but the agents’ job was to make arrests and confiscate the drugs.

She thought about the illegal who had shot Barnett. She’d dug into the shooter’s records and questioned the other agents who had brought him in for medical treatment. One more time, she’d hit a dead end. Except his knowledge about Toby’s death was in his database. He refused to give his name, but she wouldn’t forget his face or his claim.

Within seconds, all four vehicles swung in front of a dilapidated one-story house, penning in a ten-year-old van with a dented-in passenger side. Two large dogs, a shepherd and black Lab mix, snarled their reception at the agents. Both animals were lean enough to eat an agent for lunch.

Danika lived for this excitement—the thrill of danger—in the landscape of her being. Five years ago, she would head into a field of sugar cane for one illegal, but after she got pregnant, she took a few more precautions. After Toby’s death, she curtailed the daredevil tricks.

Danika opened the door of her Tahoe and gulped in stifling heat to mix with the adrenaline pumping through her body. She doubted if many of the American public understood the danger BP agents faced the moment they buttoned up their uniforms. Sometimes an illegal fought back, and a good agent had to be prepared. When she was fresh out of the academy, an illegal had swung his fist at her, nearly breaking her arm. Jacob had been with her that day and took action. The two became friends, and Jacob had introduced her to Toby, a high school math teacher and track coach. She often wondered if Jacob regretted his matchmaking.

Most of the illegals were simply hardworking people who risked all for a better way of life. She knew many of them were driven by desperation, believing they had no other options to provide for their families’ basic needs. When apprehended, they wore the cloak of defeat and misery. Some cried. Some swore. Others were silent and fingered a cross or a rosary. The cost of entering the U.S. ranged from two thousand to four thousand dollars, life savings from family and friends. And for what purpose? To be returned with nothing to show for the financial sacrifices of others?

Guides and drug smugglers were more dangerous. They carried weapons and had no intention of letting a future behind bars jeopardize their current lifestyle. Adrenaline surged through their veins too, but their motivation was pure and simple greed.

She drew her weapon and approached the parked cargo van. It was locked but empty. Later the agents would check inside. Drugs could be concealed in the floorboard, doors, ceiling, tires, gas tank, or specially constructed compartments. She walked up the driveway with Felipe while other agents spread out to surround the house. All had their handguns drawn. Ready.

A door thudded shut in the back, and she raced with several other agents toward the sound.

“Patrulla Fronteriza,”
an agent shouted.
“Alto.”

Nine men raced from the rear of the house toward the thick brush of spindly trees and tall grass. Odd, no women or children were with them. Three agents took off after the obvious illegals, while Danika and Felipe made their way to the back door, where the men had exited.

“Patrulla Fronteriza. Salgan con las manos arriba,”
Danika said.

No response. The two dogs had tired of following the other agents and the illegals and growled at Danika and Felipe. Were they about to be attacked by those possibly still inside the house or by angry dogs?

“Get out of here,” Felipe said to the mangy animals, but the dogs inched closer. He stepped inside the house, and Danika trailed him, shutting the door behind her.

The house smelled of unwashed bodies, stale cigarettes, and rancid food. Quiet. Eerie. As though trouble was a wound jack-in-the-box ready to pop.

All around the carpenter’s bench.

Empty bags from Burger King sat on a kitchen table. Chairs were overturned. A beer can on its side dripped its amber contents from the table to the floor. Opened soda cans with frosty sides sat on the counter.

Felipe’s voice filled the house. “There’s no place to hide. Come out peacefully.”

The monkey chased the weasel.

Felipe kicked in a closed door on the left. Danika entered a room on the right where a radio blared Hispanic music.

That’s the way the money goes.

Bundles of marijuana and cocaine were stacked tightly in a corner beside six cases of Pampers. The diapers were used to wrap the bundles and deter the checkpoint’s K-9s.

Pop goes the weasel!

“Felipe, I found a stash in here,” she called, keeping her eyes on one last room and its closed door. “Looks to be at least a million dollars—maybe more.”

He appeared in an instant. “Plenty of sleeping bags in there. Two of them are still warm.”

“I didn’t see any women with the group that raced out of here.”

“Neither did I.”

She nodded at another closed door and motioned a silent message for Felipe to cover her. She turned the knob and flung open the door into a shadowed room. Two women huddled together, one holding a toddler, and another woman lay unmoving on the floor. The stench of what had gone on in this room churned her stomach. One woman’s T-shirt had been ripped from her neck to her abdomen. These women had been abused and left behind. Sobs rose like a bubbling pot.

Compassion surfaced Danika’s sympathies. “U.S. Border Patrol. No need to be afraid.” Her gaze swept over each woman’s face. Bruises and hollow eyes met her. They were young, too young to be involved with this. A prostitution ring or an isolated incident? “Who did this to you?”

Nothing.

“Would you like some water?” Danika knelt at their side. “Are you hungry?”

“Sí,”
came the reply.

“These women need medical help.” Felipe pointed to a young woman in the corner. “She’s not moving.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Danika asked the others. “Is she sick?”

No one responded. The women trembled; one of them started to cry. No doubt they had heard the Border Patrol were monsters, instead of people who revered human dignity more than those who had taken their money and, in this case, ravished their bodies.

Danika swallowed the acid inching up her throat. Whoever had done this deserved to rot in jail—or worse.

Felipe walked across the small room and felt the pulse point of the still young woman. “She’s alive.” He yanked his radio from his belt. “Need an ambulance at our location on Old Military Road. Apprehended illegal women in bad shape.”

* * *

Jacob watched the ambulance speed away in a flurry of dust and dirt with its siren alerting all to clear the road. Three injured young women and Danika were inside the vehicle. The one in critical condition could not speak from the beating someone had given her. They looked to be about the same age as Nadine. He’d kill a man who ever attempted to hurt his daughter. And those girls’ fathers weren’t even around to protect them.

Nadine . . . what had happened to his precious little girl? All he ever wanted was her happiness and to keep her safe from those who would break her heart. But in the last several months, she’d changed. His eldest daughter had become sullen, rude, and preferred being in her room to time with her family. Barbara had caused this, spoiled her by allowing her to spend nights with girlfriends and attend parties. He’d have to talk to his wife—set her straight on who ruled his house.

Jacob watched the young man in front of him. He looked to be around sixteen or so. He’d lagged behind the others and spit obscenities at the agents. None of the illegals had admitted it, but this smart-mouthed kid with the cell phone was most likely the guide. Because of his underage status, he’d be escorted back across the border only to lead another group across the Rio Grande tomorrow. They’d kept the other illegals outside of the trucks and jeeps until the ambulance left in hopes one of the men might comment on the injured women. The illegals huddled together, docile, as was usually the case.

Most of the men had been drinking, and three were drunk. Surprising that none of them drowned last night crossing the river with that much alcohol in their systems. All of the men claimed not to have any idea about the maltreatment going on in the back bedroom. One man expressed visible emotion at the sight, and another appeared angry. Not all of the men who claimed they wanted work to take care of their families were hardworking illegals; two wore gang colors—Zetas. Those men were searched and cuffed.

“I’m an honorable person,” a man, about forty-five, said. “I want to work in the U.S., not hurt anyone.”

Jacob believed him. He understood an empty belly and poverty moved a man to do what he could for his family.

Another curse came from the youth’s mouth. Ire twisted through Jacob. All he could think about was the condition of the young women on their way to the medical center. He grabbed the kid by the shoulder and swung him around. This was the kind of derelict that needed to stay away from Nadine.

“Go ahead and punch me,” the kid said.

“Shut up and keep up with the others.” Jacob raised his fist.

“Jacob!” Quin, one of the other agents, called. “Let him go. This isn’t worth getting fired.”

Jacob heard him, and his grip on the kid loosened.

“I’ll escort him,” Quin continued. “Come on, man. Give it a rest.”

Jacob dampened his lips and stiffened.
Back off.
He released the kid and shoved him toward the others in custody. Running his fingers through his hair, he inhaled and exhaled to gain control. “Thanks, Quin. All I could think about were those young women . . . and my daughter.”

Quin, a tall Caucasian who’d served in the Marines like about 25 percent of the Border Patrol, clamped his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “We’re all shook up. Only animals could have treated those girls like that.”

* * *

Alex knew the Border Patrol’s protocol for bringing undocumented Mexicans to the medical center for treatment. Agent Danika Morales would stay with the women until he gave them clearance to travel back across the border, unless one of them had a record. In that event, they were handled by ICE. During her ten-hour shift, she’d guard them from anyone who might intend harm or aid in escaping the jurisdiction of the agents.

Two of the young women—actually they looked more like kids—were treated and released into the custody of another agent for processing. They’d looked worse than their injuries had indicated.

The third was a different story. She had five stitches on her left temple, and he’d set her left arm. But her nonresponsive attitude and tender internal organs alerted him to more extensive injuries. Alex guessed her age at around fourteen—probably frightened and all alone.

Danika held the young woman’s hand and smiled. She spoke softly to her in Spanish, offering the same reassurance that Alex had done. He’d conducted a little investigation of his own about Danika. She was Toby’s widow. His old friend used to bring undocumented workers who needed medical attention to the hospital, but Alex chose not to reveal that information to Danika. He had no idea how much she knew about her husband’s work as an immigration activist. Alex realized now why Toby had never invited him to his home, refused e-mail contact, and asked him to use Toby’s cell phone only. Certainly with his wife a BP agent, their controversial views about immigration must have been an issue in their marriage.

“Better call your supervisor,” Alex said, writing out his orders. “I need to keep this young woman at least overnight for observation and additional testing. Don’t suppose she gave you her name?”

Danika stared at her bruised face. “I couldn’t get her to say anything. In fact, I wondered if she could speak at all.”

“She’s in shock and afraid. No wonder, considering she’s been sexually assaulted.”

Danika shook her head. “Two of the illegals were gang members. Although they denied abusing her, my guess is it was them. One of them claimed it was the guide.”

“Perhaps she’ll tell us when she’s not so frightened.” He thought back over the number of abused women he’d treated during the past few months. Could this poor girl be a link to the brutal beatings of late?

“I’ll do my best.” Danika bent to the girl’s face and smoothed back her black hair.
“Pequeña, ¿cómo te llamas?”

Tears formed in the girl’s eyes. Yet she didn’t utter a sound.

“Perhaps I can earn her confidence while I’m with her,” Danika said.

Many times Alex had seen compassion and pity in Border Patrol agents, and Danika appeared to genuinely grieve the abuse of the young woman. “She had a picture of Saint Toribio in her back pocket.”

The saint who was supposed to help Mexicans cross the border safely.

Most of the undocumented immigrants only wanted to work and were afraid of the Border Patrol. Which was why he believed the U.S. immigration laws needed reform. Those who needed U.S. jobs to feed their families deserved an opportunity to better themselves. However, he had no solution. Did anyone? What he despised were the drug smugglers. The gang leaders and cartels were in the news daily—often with gruesome pictures of those they’d killed. Lately they’d begun to exploit their cruelty via the Internet. Those lowlifes deserved all they received.