Chapter 1

23:25 Wednesday, April 24th, 1991
1115 E 113th St
Los Angeles, CA 90059

Ruben Aragón was enjoying a damn fine high. Earlier in the evening, he'd been to some comedy stand-up place in Hollywood. Paul Rodriguez did his usual "I'm more Mexican than you" routine, and Ruben had laughed his ass off at the comedian's antics.

It had been a long week for Ruben, first he'd ferried trucks from El Paso to LA, and then unloaded the trucks at night. Last night had been the worst night of the week. Ruben's truck had been one of three arrivals, and all needed to be emptied before the trailers were brought back to the yard they came from.

He'd earned the night out, having unloaded trucks all day into shithole warehouses, and now he was kicking back in the shithole neighborhood nearby. He didn't want to go to a motel and pay cash, and he didn't want to leave a credit-card trail, so he crashed at this pad, which belonged to one of the hired help. He had a pretty good network of such people and such places.

Ruben figured there was no need for anyone to know just how many cousins and brothers he'd helped across the border, how many he'd helped find work picking vegetables and fruit. Likewise, there was no need to tell anyone about the cheap drugs, the medicinal kind, that he helped his brother pull out of Mexico. The drugs were mostly horse medicines and antibiotics, not narcotics. The competition over narcotics amongst the LA gangs was intense. Only a fool or a pretty-powerful organization would try to enter that market.

Ruben was living it up a little since this last haul was going to be pretty damned profitable. He hadn't wanted to go to Nevada and blow it all on hookers. That place in Pahrump had tossed him out and fucked him up pretty good, those fuckers, and he'd someday get back there and make the bastards pay for that.

Ruben figured it probably was safer not to go to Vegas again, soon, either, since he was a tiny fish in a big pond there. His brother's repeated warning to stay the hell out of Arizona when not working was fresh in his mind. His brother had somehow heard he was going to Phoenix to spend some time. He'd come yesterday from God knew where to cuff Ruben along the head while Ruben worked a hand-truck, pulling pallets out of the hot trailer into the hot warehouse.

"Stay the fuck away from where they can get a pattern on you, little brother. You spend too much time in Guadalupe. If you don't learn this, you will be raking rocks in the Federal prison at Florence, and it's fucking hot there, bro. You will not like it, and I'll cry to think of my only brother sentenced to spreading rock."

Ruben had only nodded, not willing to escalate things with his brother into a fight in front of the hired help.

Too bad, he was going tomorrow to visit a girl, a nice Catholic girl, near Phoenix, the daughter of a man he'd helped across the border, though she'd come across legally to attend her dying grandmother. He'd heard she was in town, and Ruben figured it was time to find a good wife.

They called Joaquin "Dom Porfiro", after the turn-of-the century dictator of Mexico. His name was similar, José de la Cruz Joaquin Aragón, and he'd played up to the Porfiro image of distinguished Abuelo and man of military power throughout his childhood. Ruben had to admit Joaquin had a certain flair, a style, that made people love him or hate him. And, more than a few followed him. Even if his exploits were illegal, they made money. When taken to task for the more questionable things Joaquin helped import into the US, he pointed out he made it possible for so many sons and daughters of Mexico to lead a better life with their cousins here in the US.

What Ruben understood from the visit was that his brother was getting ready to move out again, to drive to Chihuahua and Juarez and find some small goods to ferry across the border into El Paso. Ruben didn't know specifically what was in the trucks and boxes on the pallets he drove and unloaded and Ruben didn't care. If his brother were gone for a week, then he could go down to Guadalupe, and maybe see little Maria, sweet and pure, waiting for him to come take her away and marry her. Tomorrow was another day - and tonight was tonight. Why think about the drive to Phoenix tonight?

He lost himself in the world of what-could-be as he drank his cerveza and drew the rich smoke from his cigarillo.

05:35 Thursday, April 25th, 1991
32° 42' 10" N 116° 0' 10" W
(South of Ocotillo, CA)

Sammy lay, gasping as the sun climbed higher. The rifle bullet had half-torn his right arm off, smashing the bone. Even if he lived, he knew he'd never use it again. Trailing uselessly behind him, he couldn't even feel if he were bleeding from it. God, I'm fucking tired.

The .40-cal pistol bullets were just as bad. Three had smacked him, jerking him only fractions of a second apart. One got him in the upper thigh, and that hurt like hell. The one in his gut felt like it tore a bunch of fat loose, and his belly burned.

But what was going to kill him, if the Border Patrol didn't save him first, was the one which penetrated his lower right flank, broken ribs, and ripped into his torso. I don't know what that hit, maybe my liver or something. The pain from that was intense, flaring with every twitch he made, and he knew he'd bleed to death if he didn't get to an emergency room.

He had to stop crawling, the pain from his side was so great. He could only hope the Border Patrolmen still here found him, before going to join the chase for Benny, Joaquin, and the rest. Those idiots are probably halfway to Mexicali by now.

Ahead of him, the Suburban stopped, and the door slammed. Lifting his head cost him, but he needed to see, damn it.

"That's the asshole who shot first," in English. The Agent stood over him. Sammy could barely make out the meaning, the pain demanded his attention.

He missed the next few words, but heard the end of the other Agent's reply. " ... save the cost of a trial."

Sammy agreed. He'd be useless as a man now, with no right arm. If he survived, in order to avoid prison, he'd have to turn US Witness, waiting for someone to find him and kill him. With no right arm, he couldn't defend himself.