Star People Legacy by Smith, T.L. (feel good books to read .txt) 📕

Second worst thing than dead illegals was dead illegals that got bombed because a pilot couldn’t see them going a million miles an hour. “I’ll check with Delgado when we get back, see if he knows what’s up. Maybe the Mexican Army has stepped up patrols on their side.”

“Yeah, like that would ever happen.” Lutz let the storage lid drop, giving the hasp a crank to keep animals from getting into the box. He picked up the handset on the emergency call box. “Sgt. Brandon Lutz reporting. Sector 5, RS3, negative restock.” He hung up when he got a confirmation the call box was working. He grinned as he came back to his 4W. “When do I get to meet this Delgado? We’re range partners, virtually siblings, but I still don’t know how a Marine ended up with Border Patrol?”

I holstered the scanner. “Sergeant, picking needles out of your ass doesn’t make you my brother and it ain’t nobody’s business who I date.” I jerked my head down the mountain. “We got two more boxes to check before we head back.”

Lutz snickered. It wasn’t the first time he’d razzed me about Delgado, and it wouldn’t be the last. He fired up his 4W and took the lead again. I liked to be able to see how he handled the bike. He was infinitely better than when he’d started, but we were heading into rougher terrain. I kept enough distance to see anything dangerous and give him a heads up.

He reached the bottom of the ravine, a natural wash. It wasn’t monsoon season yet and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so I had no worries about flash floods. Driving through the wash was easier than the rocky slopes. He spun his tires in loose sand, but I could tell it was for fun.

I did the same thing as I hit the wash, then continued to follow him. We’d go up the wash a few miles to the next relief station. Most of the boxes were near washes. They provided easier footing for the illegals, water if it was the rainy season, and the flags identifying the drop boxes were easy to see. Driving along them was easier too. My mind went to Delgado.

Lutz was right about our unusual relationship. There was no animosity between the Marines and Border Patrol, any more than there was between us and any other branch of the services. But there wasn’t much of a future either. The military transferred us regularly. I managed to extend this assignment, because of my unique qualifications, but that privilege had its limit. For the first time in any relationship, I didn’t know what to do.

I hit a dip, bouncing hard. Damn! This was not the time or place to figure it out. I shoved my personal problems down again.

The next relief station was coming up. Lutz slowed down, looking for the trail. This deep into the mountains the only paths were created by wild animals, illegals or us. I checked out the sandy wash for footprints. Nothing.

Reaching the summit took a lot longer this time. Coming from the Mexico side was easier, but the U.S. face of this particular section of the range had a lot of steep drop offs. It took us a good hour to reach the top.

I did the scans while Lutz checked the site. He slammed the lid on the storage box. “Not a single bottle of water missing. I might be new, but I can smell wrong and this totally reeks.”

“I agree, but let me check out a few things before raising any alarms.” Lutz scowled at me as he got back on his 4W. I ignored him, calling HQ. “This is Capt. Castle. Moving on to final check point.”

“Confirmed Team Bravo.”

“Come on Sargent, one more checkpoint. Then back to base and a cold beer.”

He looked out at the final hilltop, the flag visible from this point, as were the other three. “I tell you, I got a sick feeling about this.” He continued to scowl. “Last thing I want is to find a ditch of bodies.”

CHAPTER

2

Relief Station Five was the most dangerous. It was the closest to the Mexican border. Sometimes we got shot at from across the fence. Bad shots, or they were only trying to scare us. Border Patrol often reported the same attacks, and a few with fatal results.

We returned to the dried up mountain wash, but this time I took the lead. As we reached a fork in the wash, I noticed something odd. Stopping my 4W, I waved Lutz to join me.

I also grabbed a stick, whacking the rocks as I edged along the side of the wash. “Go away, my little friends.” As a kid I learned to warn rattlesnakes of my presence. They much more preferred to leave of their own accord, than be stepped on or otherwise surprised.

Lutz followed me a few yards into the other wash. “What’s up?”

I knelt down, looking at the ground. “See the patterns in the sand?” I mimicked them with my hand. “Someone was through here and attempted to hide it.”

He knelt down, looking at the swishes. “I see what you’re pointing at, but I don’t get it.”

I shook my head. “People get this idea that if you rake out the sand behind you, you can hide your footprints, but I can see the swiping movements. The patterns aren’t natural.”

Seeing a loose branch of Palo Verde, I broke off the limb. “Walk out and back.”

Lutz did what I asked. Then I did the swishing, wiping out his footsteps. “That’s what you have left.”

“Ohhhh-kay, I see it.” He shifted to look up the wash. “Someone did the same thing.”

“Yeah.” I walked out to where I’d started the swishes. “If you want to do it right, you have to alternate swishes with whacks.” I randomly beat the tracks to show him what I meant. “Now it looks more like tumbleweed rolled through here, than some deliberate attempt to hide