Chapter Forty-Five: Number Eight
Abigail Tarrant did not like the heat.
Sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup truck was Abigail's friend and employer, Chela Arevalo, Chairwoman of the Board of Directors of Skaianet.
Both Chela and Abigail had binoculars, with which they diligently scanned the the arid, cactus-sprinkled hills to the south.
"Why does your friend have to cross the border in the middle of the day?" Abigail grumbled, wiping sweat from her neck with a rag while observing the distant hills of Mexico. "It's way too fucking hot out here."
"You really do not like the heat?" Chela gave Abigail a sidelong glance. "I had you pegged as a summer person."
"I am a summer person," Abigail grunted. "This isn't summer. This is a fucking oven."
"You would not have enjoyed summer in Ponce," Chela chuckled. "This is nothing."
"Who is your friend, anyway?"
"His name is Andrés Carrero," Chela replied. "He grew up with me in Ponce. We were nearly married, but he went to war, and not all of him came back."
"Which war?"
"The War," repeated Chela. "World War Two."
"What landed him in Mexico?" asked Abigail.
"He drifted from place to place," said Chela. "Mexico was the most recent place."
"And the kid your friend is bringing?" added Abigail. "She's last of the eight?"
"Yes." Chela lowered her binoculars to pick up her water bottle, taking a quick swig. "They are all accounted for."
"Wait." Abigail squinted into her binoculars, focusing on a specific hill. "I think I see them."
Chela raised her binoculars and spotted a small group of seven people trudging down the hillside in the near distance, crossing the border into the United States. "Yes, that's them."
Abigail started the engine and accelerated in the direction of the approaching group of immigrants. While driving, Abigail checked the rear-view mirror and saw that she and Chela were being followed by a jeep. "Well, shit," swore Abigail, noticing the little United States flags mounted on the pursuing jeep's hood, flapping in the wind. "We have company."
Chela was already studying the open-top jeep through her binoculars, and she could not see any of the usual marks which would identify the vehicle as Immigration Police or Border Patrol. Two burly men with horseshoe mustaches, wearing sunglasses and bandannas, sat in the jeep's driver and passenger seats. "They seem to be volunteers," observed Chela. "That makes life simpler. Can you handle them?"
"Sure." Abigail chuckled quietly. "Should we bury their bodies or burn them?"
"Do not shoot those men, Abigail," warned Chela. "That is paperwork I do not want to fill out."
When they spotted Abigail and Chela's approaching pickup truck, several members of the immigrant group began to run away, but after the elderly gray-haired man leading the group shouted something, the fleeing people were convinced to return.
Abigail brought the pickup truck to a halt, killing the engine and swinging herself out of the driver's seat. She looked at the oncoming jeep, preparing to deal with the border patrol volunteers. Looking down at the ground, Abigail selected three good rocks and picked them up.
"Andrés!" Miss Arevalo took a moment to climb out of the truck, making her way over to the leader of the immigrant group, who was holding hands with a curly black haired child no more than three years of age.
Andrés Carrero gave Miss Arevalo a broad grin as they embraced. "It's good to see you again, Chela."
The three-year-old girl holding hands with Andrés looked up at Chela with curious cyan eyes.
Chela crouched down to be at eye-level with the child. "And what is your name?"
"Anna," replied the child.
The border volunteers' jeep came screeching to a halt, and the two portly men hopped out, pulling AR-15 assault rifles from under their seats.
"Nope." Abigail sprinted towards the two men before they could take aim, hurling her three rocks. One of the border volunteers was struck in the head and thudded to the ground, unconscious. The other volunteer was struck on the hand and shoulder, which made him drop the rifle.
"You little bitch," growled the border volunteer, but it was too late for him to pick up the rifle, because Abigail was already within striking distance.
One well-aimed blow was all it took for Abigail to knock the man off his feet, and he did not get back up.
"We should go," Abigail said to Chela. "They probably radioed for backup."
"Ven conmigo," Chela said to the group of immigrants, waving for them to follow her to the pickup truck.
Abigail climbed back into the driver's seat and started up the engine, while Andrés Carrero shepherded the members of his group into the open back of the pickup truck. Once everyone was aboard, Chela got back into the passenger seat, and Abigail floored it.
The immigrants watched Mexico grow further and further away.
END OF INTERMISSION II