Hell, maybe Iamthe unhinged one.
While we go silent, Charlie has Erik give us the rundown. Charlie’s South Texas contacts will be waiting for us near the site to help the folks trapped by this circumstance.
Levy and I are to wait in the truck while Charlie and Erik go in to sneak the people out. While I’m itching to get into the thick of it, they want to keep us on comms to provide support and guidance.
Once they have the situation in hand, the people will be transported to a dorm on a piece of property that used to house a convent and will be taken care of there until immigration and reunification can be sorted.
Anders was right—we don’t pass a single police vehicle on the road. That Wimberley crew’s got some kind of power. Soon enough, we’re driving through San Antonio with only big rigs to keep us company. We exit at Von Ormy and spend a few minutes on surface roads before parking in an abandoned strip mall next to an old Walmart.
Erik checks something on his phone, then looks across the dusty, dark space. “Yeah, it’s that one over there,” he whispers, pointing to an eighteen-wheeler truck parked in the back of the old Walmart lot.
I curse under my breath, whispering, “The people areinthe trailer?”
Charlie nods. “Looks like the driver’s in his bunk. He’ll be armed, but he won’t put up much resistance.”
“Shit just got real,” Levy says, taking the words right out of my mouth.
Erik turns and grins, giving us a double thumbs-up. He and Charlie exit the truck, guns in hand, and approach the big rig. We listen in as Charlie produces a Slim Jim and quickly gains entry. Disappearing into the cab, all we get is the brief sound of a scuffle and the guy yelling in Spanish. Seconds later, Charlie reappears, holding the disheveled driver by the scruff of his neck, pushing him toward Erik, who pulls a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket.
When the driver, still cursing them out in Spanish, is subdued, Charlie moves to the back of the truck and opens it. Given how warm it is tonight, I can’t imagine how hot it must be in that trailer. People begin pouring out of the back—adults, children, the elderly—and anger flushes my neck as I note their visible fear.
Charlie pulls his phone out and begins speaking into it, then shaking it and trying again. Finally, Erik starts speaking in halting Spanish. The people closest to him shift from wary to fearful and begin moving away from him. Rumbles go through the two dozen or so people.
“Es migra,” one guy says.
“Es ICE,” says another.
“Shit. They think Charlie and Erik are immigration,” Levy says, getting out of the truck and waving his hands.
“No es ICE!” he says, and I follow suit. “Estamos tratando…help you!”
Charlie looks at his phone again and yells, “No eres mala gente!”
I’m pretty sure that’s wrong, based on their reactions.
Fuck.
This whole thing has gone to hell in less time than it takes to unbuckle my seat belt. Charlie keeps trying to speak into the translator, and it looks like he’s half about to throw it on the ground. A couple of young guys take off running. The families and older folks stay together but back away from Charlie.
Grabbing my phone, I do the only thing I can think of to save the situation from completely spinning out of control.
“Mm…Bram? Tha’ you?” Nacho asks, his voice heavy with sleep.
“Nacho, I need your help.”
There’s shifting in the background. Nacho getting out of bed.
“I’m here. What’s up?”
“Uh, look. I’m going to explain this real fast, and you’re gonna hafta get mad at me later, okay?”
“…Okay.”
“Levy and I are with Charlie and Erik, helping a group of folks trafficked through the US-Mexico border. They think we’re ICE, and they don’t trust us. Our translators aren’t working, our combined Spanish is not cutting it, and I need your help.”
“I thought this was about someone at the ranch.”
“I lied,” I say bluntly. “We intercepted a tractor-trailer full of people who were going to be trafficked into domestic servitude and migrant work. Charlie’s got people coming to support them until they work out the safest way to get them where they need to go.”
