MULE

By A.J. Rutgers

-Chapter 1-

The Cooper Hawk caught the early morning thermal and rode it high over the Sonoran Mountains. Her pitched cry pierced the thin mountain air announcing her hunger. Winter was fast approaching and she could see the gathering storm clouds on the peaks of the Muran range, today there would be snow in the passes. She circles, spying for prey, then swoops hoping to surprise a long-eared jackrabbit or gopher that has strayed too far from its burrow. Hugging the contours of the land she darts between the rusted sagebrush, Coachwhip and dense twisted Manzanita of the high desert mountains—dangerous work—and she has many mended bones in her chest to prove it.

        These are the hard lands of the Hopi, the Paiute, the Pueblo and the Shoshoni; carved by heat, wind, rain and snow, burnished by twisted Oak, Ponderosa Pine, Desert Willow and the ubiquitous Cacti; Chollow, Prickly-Pear and Hedgehog. It is home to the Coyote, Mountain Lion, Javelina, and Rattlesnake. It is majestic.

        Turning a wing, she soars over an old, green, canvas-covered, army surplus truck. A plume of dust mushrooms from behind the truck as it rumbles down a dead-end dirt road. The truck's gears grind and the brakes complain as it comes to a stop at the trailhead by the foot of the mountain range. Gliding the hawk circles and then turns away, she knows the hunt is spoiled here––too many men.

        “Ándale, my little burros we have a big run ahead of us,” said Carlos Vasquez as he dropped the tailgate with a bang that sifted powdered rust from the hinges and side panels into the red soil of the desert. Inside twelve lean runners stood and stretched.

        "Ándale," he repeats clicking his cheek with his tongue as if herding animals.

        Javier Galindo jumped from the truck first. Stretching his arms over his head he bends his lean muscular body down and touches his toes. Clutching the back of his ankles he lets his head dangle, then, rising he reaches for the sky, deeply inhaling the crisp mountain air cleansed with the perfume of new falling snow. He too surveys the gathering storm.

        The men form a circle around Carlos, each shaking a leg or an arm, some stretching their necks or haunches, skittish––like horses gathering for a race.

        “Your route today my little mulos is through the San Ramean pass until you come to the border. There you will leave the trail and follow the ridge lines up to the summit and on down into Arizona. Remember, you get paid at the drop off, and if there is trouble you will scatter into the wilderness and return here.” He locks his eyes with each runner individually then with an encompassing sweep commands. “With your packs! The cargo will be here soon––who needs some fuel?”

        Javier sat on the tailgate and surveyed the rest of the herd. They were all from his 'stable', the training facility run by the cartel. Four, like him, were from Chiapas. They could all be from the same Madre–-black hair and eyes, their brown skin etched with sinew, veins and tendons. Hard young men who had worked physical labor their whole lives. The rest of the men were a mix, three more Chicanos from Nogales––northerners—two black Mulattos from Central America, and three gringos.

        He watched Carlos walk from man to man handing out foil packets of drugs––combinations of cocaine, speed, meth, and heroin––whatever they needed to make the run. He grinned a crooked rotten tooth smile at Javier.

        “I know Javier—none for you. You just do this for the money and the excitement of the run. Si?”

        He laughed causing his paunch to jiggle as he continued handing drugs to the other runners.

        “You’re one of the clean ones, just a handful of smart burros like you. Besides, I understand you will be a father soon. You have to set an example.”

        One of the gringos sidles up to Javier, “ Habla inglés, Señor?”

        “Si,” replied Javier.

        “Name’s Stewart,” he said, extending a tattooed arm. All the men had tattoos of some sort on their arms, necks or faces. Javier did not. He was pure. He considered the ink a brand, a sign of ownership. No one owned him.

        “Javier,” he replied, briefly shaking the outstretched limb.

        “How come no drugs man? That’s the best part.”

        “We are going to run a forty mile cross country marathon,” he replied. “With a hundred pound pack--up there in the thin air--I've seen men's hearts explode!”  

        He paused as a second truck pulled up with burlap packs and six heavily armed young Mexicans. Loud mariachi music with deadly lyrics of killing and mutilation blared from the cab—Narco cultura music. These young bucks would not carry backpacks, they were here for their cocky narco swagger and their enthusiasm for killing.  

        Javier looked into Stewart’s glassy eyes and continued, “That’s why there will be eighteen men for twelve packs of marijuana. Our armed muchachos over there will provide protection. If one of us drops—they leave you there for the vermin. They make sure your load gets to market.”

        “Whooowee man! That may happen to some of those others but not me man. I’m like you, like iron!” crowed Stewart, prancing up and down in one place as the drugs started to bite. “In fact I got tested and my body fat is only three percent. I tell ya, I’m in perfect shape.”

        Javier nodded, then turned and yelled at Carlos. “Hey why the heavy artillery?” he gestured at the AK-47s. “We usually travel light, only pistolas.”

        “BORTAC,” Carlos sneered and turned back to the cargo truck.

        “BORTAC. What the fuck are BORTAC?” asked Stewart with a giggle.

        “They’re you, my friend––Americanos—Border Patrol Swat teams, mean hombres. They wait,” he gestured with his head to the pass, “up there. If they catch us it’s jail or worse.”

        “Worse! What the fuck is worse than jail?”

        “If those bastardos get into a fire fight with our gunslinging muchachos, nobodies safe. We could all be dead. Remember nobody gives a shit about us mules; it’s all about the cargo. Never forget that.”

        “Cool man, cool. Well, let’s saddle up or whatever they say––let’s get going. I’m stoked!”

         Carlos Vasquez sat on the tailgate of his truck and lit a cigarillo, the smoke drifting up through his stained untrimmed mustache as he inhaled through his nose. He watched the runners begin their grueling climb up the pass.

        “It’s a big shipment,” he said, to the driver of the other truck as he exhaled. “An important shipment, the last of the season. Perhaps amigo, the storm gives cover.”