We take it southeast. They call it Cesar Chavez Border Hwy, and it runs along the fence.
On the other side is Juarez, Mexico.
If I ever think we’ve got a tail, or if I’m just feeling cautious, I’ll pick up Alameda Ave to the east and avoid going near the border and fence line altogether. That way we come in from the east instead of the west.
Our destination is a landscape company that sits a mere 600 ft from the border. The place holds stone and gravel of all grades and a line of dump trucks that haul it to various construction sites around town. I don’t know how they move the guns across the border, but I suspect there’s a tunnel somewhere. That or they get them across buried deep in the gravel trucks.
In reality, I don’t give a fuck how they do it as long as the money tallies correctly at the exchange. It’s a dangerous business both in terms of getting arrested and for getting ripped off.
Both Bandit and I were there the night Rio and our club tried to make a deal like this near the border in Santa Teresa. It was the first time any of us had been to New Mexico. It didn’t go so well that night. In fact, we got all our money stolen, and two of the Ramirez crew who were meeting us ended up shot in the head. Not by us, but by their rival, the Morales Cartel.
I know what I’m risking. I know all too well the chances I take every time I make another run, but the pay is too damn good to pass up.
If I want my own chapter someday, I need a nice little nest egg to set myself up.
It’s sunset when we arrive.
The exchange doesn’t take long. I eye the men, and they eye me and Bandit. It’s just the two of us, and that’s the way I want it. The fewer men, the fewer guys I have to share the cut with.
Nerves are high, but it goes smoothly and before the last traces of gold leave the sky, the two of us are back on the road roaring north down the highway.
We don’t run into any problems, and as we leave El Paso and cross into the empty desert, I’m thinking we’re home free. That is until I spot three headlights in my side mirror.
They’re obviously motorcycles by the way the lights bob around. They’re too far back to hear the rumble, but I look over at Bandit. He nods, and we hit our throttles, our bikes surging forward beneath us.
Between the two of us, we’ve got almost forty grand hidden in compartments under our seats. If anyone checks our saddlebags, they’ll find nothing.
As fast as we speed into the darkening desert, we can’t shake the bikes and they’re soon closing in on us.
Up ahead there’s one lone gas station named The Oasis, and having made this trip several times, I know it’s the last bit of civilization for miles. If we don’t stop there, there’s nothing but barren desert ahead of us for miles.
I lift my chin toward the lights shining in the distance like an island of light.
Bandit nods, easing on his throttle.
With the pumps all full, Bandit and I park near the door to the busy convenience store. It seems every trucker on the highway has stopped here tonight.
The place is crawling with activity like any place that has no competition in sight.
We both stand and light up smokes, our eyes on the highway as three bikes slow up and make the turn into the lot. Almost before they round the pumps, I know who they are, but a glimpse of the patches on their backs confirms it.
Fucking Devil Kings.
“What the fuck are they doing this far south?” Bandit hisses under his breath.
“Goddamn it. You think they know about the drop we just made?”
“I’m pretty sure the Ramirez crew didn’t tell ‘em. Not unless they’ve got a rat.”
“Could be they’re working with the Morales bunch,” I murmur.
“Fuck. I hope not.”
“Guess we’ll find out just what they know in a second,” I mutter.
“Two against three. Poor bastards won’t stand a chance,” Bandit teases, bringing a grin to my face and a shake of my head.
“You recognize any of ‘em?” I ask, watching them park their bikes on the edge of the lot.
