Storm of Lightning (4 page)

“We could, but it's not as safe. Security is much tighter here. And the town on the other side of the border, Agua Prieta, has undercover DEA agents looking for drug smugglers. No one cares about Naco. Less chance of problems that way.”

“How far is it from Naco to the ranch?”

“About two hours. But we won't be going tonight. It's too late.”

“Why is it too late?” I asked impatiently.

Scott looked at me with a stern gaze. “The dirt roads to the ranch are dangerous to drive anytime, but especially at night. And if there are still Elgen around, they'll see our headlights long before we get there. Hardly anyone goes out that way but us, so if they're there, they'll be waiting for us.

“There are also drug cartels operating out of some of those areas. If they mistake us for
Federales
, we're in trouble. Trust me, it's best we wait until tomorrow. For now we'll cross the border into Naco, Mexico, then leave early in the morning.”

“What time will we leave for the ranch?” Tessa asked.

“I think the best time is just before dawn.”

“Just like George Washington attacking Trenton at sunrise,” Ostin said, nodding. “Surprise them while they're still in bed.”

“We're not
attacking
anyone,” Scott said. “If the Elgen are there, we pull back.”

“How do we get across the border without passports?” Ian asked.

“It's not hard getting into Mexico,” Tessa said. “It's coming back that's the problem.”

“They'll still stop us,” Scott said. “People smuggle guns into Mexico. But we've got passports for you. We had them made while you were in Taiwan, just in case we needed to fly somewhere else. Now let's go. We can talk more on the way. I'll drive.”

Jack handed him the keys, and Scott climbed into the driver's seat. “Michael, sit up here with me.”

“All right.” I walked around to the front and got in.

Everyone got into the van except for Boyd. “Good luck,” he said to us. “And be careful. I'll see you in a few days.”

“You're not coming with us?” I asked.

“No. Someone needs to stay with the plane.”

“Vámonos,”
Scott said.

I saluted Boyd as we drove off. We took highway 80 northwest to Bisbee, then turned south toward Mexico. The road down from Bisbee led us into a great, sloping plain with the Sierra Madre of Mexico rising ahead of us in the distance.

I soon discovered that there are two Nacos—Naco, Arizona, and Naco, Mexico, the two small towns divided by a twenty-foot-wide gravel road surrounded on both sides by a ten-foot metal fence lined with razor wire. I couldn't tell if the fence was rusted or had just been painted to look that way. There was an uninhabited border control truck about fifty feet from the crossing.

The town looked deserted, and we didn't see anyone until we reached the border crossing, which was pretty quiet as well. It was a single-lane crossing, and a female Mexican immigration officer with a badge and a khaki uniform sat on a folding chair near the stop sign, smoking a cigarette and looking bored. As Scott had told us, this wasn't a popular crossing. From what I could see, neither of the towns was very large, which I guessed was one of the reasons we'd chosen to cross here.

As we approached the gate, a red light came on, signaling us to stop. The immigration officer stood and walked up to our van. She said with a heavy accent, “May I see your vehicle registration, please? And your passport and credit card.”

Scott must have been familiar with the routine, as he already had all the items ready. The officer shone her flashlight back through the van.

“You have many youths,” she said to Scott.

“Yes, I do. They're friends.”

“What is the purpose of your visit to Mexico?”

“We're here on vacation. I'm chaperoning.”

“Just a moment, please.”

The officer went into the building. A moment later she returned. “Are you carrying any guns or drugs?”

“No, ma'am.”

She looked back at us again, then said, “There is a twenty-seven-dollar fee.” Scott counted out some bills and handed them to her. She handed him a clipboard with a form. “Sign here, please.”

Scott signed the paper and handed back the clipboard. The officer tore off the top sheet and handed it back to Scott. “Please keep this paper with your vehicle. How long will you be in Mexico?”

“Only a few days,” Scott said.

“Okay. You may go.”

Scott put the van in gear, and we drove over some weird, shiny metal balls that were imbedded in the asphalt, across the border.

“We're in Mexico,” Jack said.

“Mexico,” Tessa sighed. “Makes me want a burrito.”

T
he Mexican town of Naco looked rustic—like the movie set of an old Western. The main street was lined with stucco-covered buildings: taquerias, ice cream shops, and, most noticeably, a
farmacia
, which was one of the largest buildings in the town. There were also a lot of skinny stray dogs running around in packs.

A couple of blocks from the border we passed the Cruz Roja—the Mexican Red Cross—which Scott told us had been set up there to help illegal immigrants who were caught and deported from the United States.

“Every year the border patrol catches more than three hundred thousand illegal immigrants attempting to enter the U.S.,” Scott said. “They return many of them here. Most go back to their homes, but not all of them.”

After we passed what looked like a taco stand, Ostin asked, “Is anyone hungry besides me?”

“I think we're all hungry,” I said.

“I was serious about the burrito,” Tessa said. “Think we could find some decent Mexican food?”

McKenna looked at her. “Are you kidding?”

“What? I just don't want any more Chinese food. Especially swamp eel.”

“There's a restaurant across the street from the hotel,” Scott said. “But let's check in first. Michael, open the glove box.”

I reached down and opened it. Inside was a thick bundle of brightly colored bills. “Go ahead and take those. That's a thousand pesos. In case any of you want to buy something.”

“Whoa,” Jack said, leaning forward. “
Mucho dinero.
”

“Don't get too excited,” Scott said. “It's only worth about sixty U.S. dollars.”

*  *  *

A few minutes later, we reached the Naco Hotel. Scott parked the van near the front doors, and we all went inside. The hotel clerk was an older Mexican man with salt-and-pepper hair and a gray mustache.

“I need six rooms,” Scott said. “Do you have that many?”

“
Sí, señor
. For how many nights?”

“Just for tonight,” he said.

The man looked at the screen of an aged computer. “That will be 7,286 pesos.” He brought out a calculator and typed in some numbers. “That's four hundred and sixty American dollars. Will that be on a credit card?”

“No, I'll pay with cash,” Scott said, taking out his wallet. “You take dollars?”

“Sí, señor.”

Scott laid out five one-hundred-dollar bills.

“I only have change in pesos,” the clerk said.

“That's all right,” Scott said. “We can always use pesos.”

The man figured out the change on his calculator and gave it to Scott. Then he unhooked six brass keys from the wall behind him and set them on the counter.

Scott turned back to us. “We're going to sleep two in a room, so buddy up.”

Ostin looked over at me, and I nodded.

“Is the taqueria across the street still open?” Scott asked the man.

“For all of you to eat?”

“Yes.”

“
Sí
. I will call the owner and he will open. He is my
amigo
.”

Scott said to us, “Everyone grab a key and put your things in your rooms; then we'll meet across the street at that restaurant.”

As I took our key, Taylor touched my arm. “What floor are you guys on?”

“Three.”

“We're on the main floor. We'll wait for you.”

The hotel had an elevator, but it was tiny, so Ostin and I just took the stairs. We were in room 327, a small, rectangular room with one window and two beds covered with sun-bleached chocolate-brown bedspreads.

“I'll take that one,” Ostin said, throwing his bag onto the bed closest to the door. “If you don't care.”

“I don't. Let's go eat.”

We locked our door, then went downstairs, where Taylor and McKenna were waiting for us. The four of us crossed the wide street to Miguel's Taqueria.

The restaurant was old, but fairly clean. Three tables were already set with utensils, tortillas, hot salsa, and iced bottles of pineapple and strawberry Mexican soda pop. Everyone was eating flour tortillas and tortilla chips with guacamole and bean dip. Taylor, McKenna, Ostin, and I sat down at the table with Scott. There was a black lava rock bowl in the center of the table piled high with fresh guacamole. Scott pushed a woven basket of tortillas toward us.

“These are fresh. They just cooked them for us.”

“I love homemade tortillas,” Ostin said. He rolled up a tortilla, dipped it into the guacamole, then took a big bite. “That's better Mexican than Idaho has.”

“You think?” Zeus said sarcastically. “Maybe it's because
we're in
Mexico?”

“Idaho has excellent Mexican food,” Ostin said. “We have lots of Mexicans living there.”

“Everyone, look over your menus,” Scott said. “Lillia will be back in a minute to take our orders.”

“Who?” Taylor asked.

“The owner's wife,” Abigail said.

The menu was printed in both Spanish and English, though the English translations were pretty funny. There was pig-spit. (I assume they meant pig roasted on a spit.) Roasted rabbi. (Rabbit?) And Jack's favorite, “The water served here was passed by the owner.” No comment.

I was really hungry and ordered a combo plate with two shredded beef tacos, a chile relleno, and a side serving of rice and refried beans.

Taylor ordered the same but with only one taco. Less than twenty minutes later Lillia brought out our meals. While we were eating, Scott said, “Naco's really an interesting town.”

“By ‘interesting' do you mean ‘lame' or ‘ghetto'?” Tessa said.

Scott grinned. “Maybe not as interesting as it used to be, but it has history. Its nickname was, ‘
Un pueblo chico, olvidado de Dios
.' ”

“A small village forgotten by God,” Ostin translated.

“That about sums it up,” Tessa said.

“Naco is where the longest sustained battle of the Mexican Revolution took place. Any old building here still has bullet holes. The hotel we're staying at used to advertise that it has thirty-inch-thick mud walls that are bulletproof.”

“That's how to advertise a resort,” Tessa said. “ ‘You probably won't be killed until you go outside.' ”

“For entertainment, U.S. citizens used to line the border to watch the fighting. The Mexicans were careful not to shoot over the border, because they didn't want America getting involved in the war.”

“Now, there's a wholesome family activity,” Tessa said. “Let's go down to the border and watch them kill each other.”

“Speaking of bullets,” I said, “let's talk about tomorrow.”

Scott groaned a little. “
As I said
, there're not going to be any bullets or fighting. If we see any sign of the Elgen, we turn back.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” I said.

Taylor looked at me with a worried expression. She knew I wanted to fight.

Scott continued. “I asked the hotel clerk if he'd seen any Americans wearing black or purple uniforms. He said he hadn't, but he did tell me that there had been some explosions down south, then some smoke for several days. He thought that either the Mexican Army was conducting war games or there was a raid on a drug cartel. Of course he didn't know anything about the ranch.”

“Did you ask if he saw any other Americans?” I asked.

“I asked if your mother or Ostin's parents had stayed at the hotel. He didn't remember them, and he couldn't find their names on the guest register.”

“If they came this way, I doubt they'd use their real names,” Taylor said.

“No, they wouldn't,” Scott said. “And to escape the Elgen, they might have gone west or even south.”

The idea of my mother fleeing for her life made me start ticking. Taylor put her hand on my arm to calm me.

“What time are we leaving in the morning?” McKenna asked.

“The ranch is a two-hour drive from here, so I think we should leave around four. We'll be coming in from the east on an old mining road that will give us some cover. With Ian's help, we should be able to see them before they see us.”