Positive Match - Brossura

Bending aside the microphone of his headset, a man wearing a Lone Star Beer T-shirt, faded jeans, and lug-soled trailboots popped a stick of chewing gum into his mouth.  He hated the wait, especially on nights like this, when the wind blew toward Mexico and he couldn't smoke because it might betray his presence.  It was bad enough just worrying about the Border Patrol.  If those bastards stumbled across him they would demand to know what he was doing out here at this hour in an electric golf cart with a shitload of exotic equipment.  What could he say--that he was a NationalGeographic photographer like the guy Clint Eastwood played a few years ago, the one who chased around Iowa after that broad from the rafting movie?

The man checked his watch again.  It was finally 2230 hours.

Another day, another dollar, he thought, reaching for a cylindrical unit that looked like a radar gun.  He climbed up on the seat of his golf cart, anchored his left elbow in a cleft in therocks, and readjusted his headset into a more comfortable position.  As he powered up the Starlight nightscope and squinted into the eyepiece, his lips tightened into a mirthless smile.

Right on schedule, the first runner was working his way down a ridge toward the river.  The slim, barefooted figure was clad in black and would have been impossible to spot with ordinary binoculars.  But through the scope, the large X on the front of the runner's nylon shell--made with an ink visible only through an infrared lens--shimmered like a pale-green neon sign.

He tilted the scope up a few degrees and locked on a cluster of figures standing atop the ridge.  They were out to bag three runners tonight, the ones who had tested out as the healthiest and strongest.  Confirming that two other shirts were also inked with Xs, he returned his attention to the river.

The first runner was just now wading out of the water and moving up to dry land.  He knelt to kiss the Texas soil, then sat, opened his gym bag, and took out a pair of shoes.  They look brand-new, thought the man; enjoy 'em while you can, my little wetback.

The runner knotted the laces and stood.  He glanced around for a few moments, then started for the northernmost arroyo.

The man in the Lone Star T-shirt swung the headset microphone close to his mouth and keyed the unit.  "Eagle One here," he whispered.  "Our pal's done his usual outstanding job painting the targets."

"Amen," replied Eagle Two.  "Whoever he is, we ought to hire him to prep our next turkey shoot."

Now Eagle Three keyed into the loop: "Looks like the firstcholo's coming your way, Eagle One.  Good hunting."

"I roger that.  Eagle One out."

The man powered down the scope and lowered himself onto the seat of the golf cart.  He had forty-five minutes to kill.  Damn, he could use a cigarette.  Instead, he popped another stick of gum, released the vehicle's brake, and stepped on the accelerator.  The cart glided away with a whine too faint to carry on the wind.
Once past the steep climb at river's edge, Guillermo found the trail less difficult than El Zopilote had described.  The arroyo was indeed strewn with obstacles, but he could easily pick a path with the thin beam of his Mag flashlight.  The young Mexican was sweating heavily.  It was no longer nerves; the nylon jogging suit was simply too heavy for this hot, clammy night.  Yet he didn't mind,because ten minutes earlier his ears had picked up the first faint drone of traffic on Texas State Highway 170.

How far had he come?  Far enough for a drink of water.  He dug out the bottle and treated himself to a long tug.  Then he pulled the directional receiver from his back pocket.  El Zopilote had warned them the devices might not work until they were clear of the arroyos, but Guillermo couldn't resist.  The light-gray screen glowed to life to reveal a pulsing black triangle--just like in the practice sessions back in Nueva Cuenca.

Confidence renewed, Guillermo stowed his gear and resumed his trek.  He allowed his mind to wander to the things he had to do in the days ahead.  As soon as he arrived in Denver, he must find the post office.  El Zopilote had asked to be sent a postcard.  Then there was the letter of thanks to Don Joaquin, accompanied by a bag of sweets or several packs of Marlboros.  Finally, he would write Dr. Dupree of how he had outwitted the liver-eaters.  Or might that offend the norteamericano, who had meant well no matter how scary the stories he told?  Perhaps the note to Dr. Dupree needed more thought.

Up ahead, the arroyo veered off to the left.  Forty minutes earlier Guillermo would have anxiously probed the darkness with the flashlight before proceeding; now he did not even hesitate.

He was ten paces past the bend when he heard a soft click behind him, like a pebble bouncing off a rock.

He snapped off the flashlight and froze.

Guillermo had never been as numb with fear, not even when Luisa's father had caught them together, naked, in the grove beyond the fields.  Be brave, he thought, struggling to control his bladder.  Eight...nine...ten.  If it was an animal, or la migra, surely something would have happened by now.  He permitted himself a shallow breath.

There was the noise again.

Guillermo wanted to flee.  Instead, moving with agonizing slowness to keep his nylon outfit from rustling, he turned and pointed the flashlight in the direction of the sounds.

He mouthed a prayer and flicked on the beam.

A split-second glimpse of a shiny metal pole tucked behind an outcrop of rock and then his eyes were assaulted by a flash of pure white energy that exploded not with the sharp crack of lightning but the soft pop of a soda bottle being uncapped.  The young Mexican staggered backward and caught his left heel in a rut and then he was falling and thudding to the ground with enough force to drive the wind from his lungs.

Though blinded and dazed, Guillermo was dimly aware of a new sound: footsteps crunching ever nearer.  Suddenly a strong arm was encircling his chest from behind and pulling him upward.  A brief whiff of stale tobacco, cologne, and chewing gum but before he could scream his face was smothered by a cloth that carried a stench as vile as the devil's breath.  No matter which way Guillermo twisted there was no escaping the pungent fumes that made him light-headed and sick to his stomach.

The man in the Lone Star T-shirt felt his prey surrender to the chloroform.  He lowered the limp body to the ground and waited for his high to subside before raising one of the runner's lids and beaming a penlight onto the pupil.  It remained dilated.  Out cold, so there was no need to duct-tape the kid's mouth.  Good.  Gags had been discouraged ever since one runner reacted badly to the chloroform and choked to death on his own vomit.

Hoisting the young Mexican into a fireman's carry, he labored up a steep path to the rim of the arroyo, where he had parked the golf cart.

The cart's passenger seat featured several unusual custom accessories: a lap belt with two wrist cuffs and, anchored to the floorboard, a pair of ankle cuffs.  The restraints were made of rip-resistant 400-denier Cordura fabric and fastened by way of a special noiseless Velcro developed by U.S. Army researchers in the late 1980s to improve battlefield security.

After strapping in the unconscious runner, he returned to the arroyo to retrieve the kid's gym bag and flashlight, as well as the tripod-mounted stroboscopic flash that he had fired to trigger the ambush.

With the aid of his scope, the man crept the cart away from the river.  On reaching a narrow trail that paralleled the Rio Grande, he stopped, pulled on his headset, and keyed the unit: "Van, this is Eagle One.  Bagged my quota for the night and am raring to come in.  Any Smokies out and about?"

"That's a negative, Eagle One.  You are good to go."

The man in the Lone Star T-shirt breathed easier; no BorderPatrol bastards had entered this sector.  "I roger that, Van.  EagleOne out." He switched on a small spotlight mounted on the front of the cart, turned left onto the trail, and sped off to collect his bounty.

Two minutes short of his destination, he stopped and doused the spotlight.  He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply before opening the kid's gym bag.  It contained clothing, a water bottle, a new Bible printed in Spanish, and a Ziploc bag that held papers, a bus ticket,and cash.  The cash was off-limits--back at the van, Phil would be counting it to make sure all one hundred bucks was there--and who the hell needed a Trailways ticket to Denver?  And damn, no Walkman or electric razor or designer sunglasses, like some of the runners carried.  He rezipped the bag and played his penlight on the kid's wristwatch.  A crappy Timex, but new enough to give one of the nephews for Christmas, so he pocketed it.  He took a last drag from his cigarette, switched on the spotlight again, and floored the accelerator.

The hum of a massive compressor was audible before he rounded the final bend.  He skirted several parked vehicles--a late-model minivan, two pickup trucks, his own 750cc Harley-Davidson--and approached the source of the hum, a long refrigeration van rigged to a Peterbilt cab.  The van bore license plates from each of the four states along the U.S.-Mexican border.  It was unmarked, as always.  Each time, though, they painted a new sign on the door of the cab; tonight's read: ALAMO ICE CREAM FACTORY, SAN ANTONIO,TX.

He continued around to the rear of the van and parked at the base of a ramp that led up to the open back doors.  The man had a pretty good idea of what went on in there but tried not to think about it too often.

Two men in polo shirts and Bermuda shorts emerged from the darkened interior and hurried down the ramp.

The baby-faced one got into the cart and drove it up the ramp.

Phil, who was stocky and in his late thirties, approached holding out an envelope.

"Thanks, Phil.  Hey, any idea when you all are fixing to do this again?"

Phil shrugged.

The man in the Lone Star T-shirt tried to hide his disappointment; the kids needed stuff for the new school year, and another fast six hundred bucks would come in handy.  "Well, see you around."

"Yeah.  See you around."
As Phil climbed back up the ramp he heard a motorcycle coughing to life and roaring away.  He hurried through the darkened rear of the van, where they stored the golf carts, and pushed through a metal door.

He squinted while his eyes adjusted to the bright circular halogen light that was suspended over a full-scale operating table on which the young Mexican lay.  The temperature in this room was a good thirty-five degrees cooler, thanks to the van's massive refrigeration unit.

Two men--the anesthesiologist and the baby-faced scrubnurse who had driven the cart up the ramp--were cutting away the runner's nylon jogging outfit.

The circulating nurse, a pleasant-looking woman in her late thirties named Marta, had already donned a surgical gown.  She was standing before the built-in shelving that covered one wall of the van.  On the shelves sat some two dozen aluminum-sided containers that looked like picnic coolers fitted with dials and gauges.  Each bore a decal that read PROPERTY OF MEDEX.  She finished checking one last gauge, then picked up a rather shopworn device the size of a paperback book.  It was a personal digital assistant, or PDA, a handheld computer lacking a keyboard and mouse; the user operated it by touching the screen with a stylus.

Earlier Marta had started a file on each of tonight's patients, using the blood- and tissue-typing data furnished to MedEx by some Mexican border-crossing guide.  "Phil," she said, "mind giving me a hand ID'ing this one?"

Phil opened the runner's gym bag and dug out the false identity papers: "Guillermo Echeverria, it says here."

Marta used the stylus to pop the Echeverria worksheet upon-screen.

"We about ready to go?" asked Phil.

"Two minutes," replied the anesthesiologist.  He started to prep the patient for an IV needle.  "Damn, I think the chloroform's wearing off."

"So get the drip started.  I'll go fetch Lester."  Phil opened the locker containing the disposable surgical gowns and the black neoprene body bags.  He pulled on a gown, went to the front of the van and knocked lightly on a door, then continued to the sink to begin his scrub.

A tall, balding man in his mid-fifties emerged from his makeshift office with a CD in his hand.  Like many surgeons, Lester Haidak preferred to operate to music.  "I thought we'd start the evening up-tempo," he said, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses.  "The Big Chill soundtrack.  Any objections?"  Hearing none, he slid the disc into a boom box and joined Phil at the sink.

It was the prick of the IV needle that brought Guillermo back to the cusp of consciousness--along with the opening chords of"I Heard It Through the Grapevine."  Do they have parties at the offices of la migra? he wondered groggily.  And how could it be so cold if the sun is shining brightly enough to burn through my closed lids?  A mosquito was attacking the inside of his left elbow.  Guillermo went to scratch it, but his right arm wouldn't move.  He forced his eyes open, then quickly shut them against the merciless glare of the overhead halogen light.

"Not a problem," the anesthesiologist announced as the patient began to squirm.  "The penny's kicking in."

Guillermo, unaware of the Pentothal now coursing through his veins, tried to clear away the mists that eddied through his head like early-morning ground fog.  Where was he?  Mindful of the painful light above him, he cautiously cracked open an eye.  Slowly things swam into focus.  Instead of the green-shirts of la migra, he saw norteamericanos in the kind of gowns and caps and masks they wore on the doctor shows that Don Joaquin so enjoyed watching.  Instead of a mosquito biting his elbow, he saw a needle from which a thin clear plastic tube snaked.  And just beyond his arm he saw a cart that held glistening instruments like the ones in Dr. ...

is the future of health care. Few people know its balance sheet is fueled by a hidden trade in human organs. Only one person suspects where the organs are coming from.

But Dr. Nguyen-Anh Dupree can't prove his dark suspicions without help. Enter Maggie Sepulveda, a hard-charging investment banker at Marx Dillon & Neil. She is about to land the deal of her career, financing the expansion of Caduceus 21; but the more she learns about her new client, the more her elation turns to fear. Soon Dupree and Maggie are drawn together, running for their lives as they try to expose the shocking truth Caduceus 21 had hoped to keep secret forever--a secret nothing short of global murder....