Border Alert- Terrorist Penetration
BORDER ALERT
TERRORIST PENETRATION
Glenn Ball
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, incidents and events either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2020 by Glenn Ball. All rights reserved.
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Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1. Santa Muerte
CHAPTER 2. The Pentagon
CHAPTER 3. Smuggled
CHAPTER 4. Attic
CHAPTER 5. CIA Strategy
CHAPTER 6. Halcones
CHAPTER 7. Zika Monster
CHAPTER 8. Death Squad
CHAPTER 9. Under Fire
CHAPTER 10. Iraq
CHAPTER 11. Night Predators
CHAPTER 12. Crossroads
CHAPTER 13. Night Tortures
CHAPTER 14. Jaws of Death
CHAPTER 15. Snow: A Pearl Cast from the Sky
CHAPTER 16. Zika: Dark Secrets Brought to Light
CHAPTER 17. A Lost Pearl
CHAPTER 18. Off the Grid
CHAPTER 19. The Vow
CHAPTER 20. Stashed Away on a Rainy Day
CHAPTER 21. Hunt for a Hidden Pearl
CHAPTER 22. Stories in the Dark
CHAPTER 23. Break Out
CHAPTER 24. I Will Lift My Eyes to the Hills
CHAPTER 25. Departures into Danger
CHAPTER 26. Down
CHAPTER 27. A Fight for Flesh
CHAPTER 28. Out of the Pit
CHAPTER 29. Sparks
CHAPTER 30. Traps
CHAPTER 31. Epiphany
CHAPTER 32. Home Invasion
CHAPTER 33. Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
CHAPTER 34. Beyond Reach
CHAPTER 35. In the Arms of ‘Justice’
CHAPTER 36. Snatched
CHAPTER 37. The Reckoning
CHAPTER 38. Dark Descent
CHAPTER 39. Aroused
CHAPTER 40. Naked and Afraid
CHAPTER 41. An Accounting
CHAPTER 42. Ninjas in the Night
CHAPTER 43. Forty-Seven Meters Down
CHAPTER 44. Heaven or Hell
CHAPTER 45. Apart
CHAPTER 46. Ambush
CHAPTER 47. The Lab
CHAPTER 48. Extermination
CHAPTER 49. Awakenings
CHAPTER 50. Shock
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The chill of the Sonora desert night pervaded the pristine warehouse as they stood near the loading dock, watching the semi-trailer being loaded by a forklift. It was one large crate. The chaotic thumping inside the trailer reverberated like rats in an oil drum as the men broke the crate down to movable pieces and stacked it up against the front wall of the semi-trailer, placing a false wall against it making it absolutely hidden. The false wall was then fastened, making it look every bit the permanent wall the customs’ agent would expect to see should he inspect the trailer.
After the wall was fastened a man walked up to it and pounded on it in various places. Then with the intensity of a snake hunting for prey he oscillated, studying the wall with a floodlight. Straightening he turned to exit the trailer, his face showing an expert’s approval.
The warehouse was the main access point for the entire underground laboratory. The lab was built into the side of a hill, with sand and desert shrubs camouflaging its roof. Its sunken entryway was the only portion of the building visible from the outside, and it was obscured by a corn field.
A sharply dressed man with dark hair stood inside the warehouse giving ear to a man wearing a turban.
“You have convinced me that your smuggling operation and your means for the distribution of the product is adequate for our project. But I have yet to see your lab and the test results. I need to be sure that your product will meet our expectations.” Abdul Al-Faheem’s gaze was as sharp as an eagle’s, known to cut men to the quick.
Antonio Ochoa Machado was unmoved, “I have saved the best for last. Come this way.”
The smell of grease and diesel faded as a forklift beeped behind them. They were passing through shelves stacked to the ceiling with cartons of detergent, a perfect cover for the four illegal substances produced in the lab and shipped for distribution.
Al-Faheem observed that four sections of shelves were different from the rest, and were labeled one, two, three and four. A uniformed man had placed a detergent box labeled two on the corresponding shelf and was returning to a steel gray door.
“Not that way,” Ochoa remarked. They would not enter the door of the uniformed man.
Stopping at a thick glass door Antonio keyed in a code and put his eye to a laser reader. They stepped into the brick building that could by all appearances be a hospital. The hallways were sparklingly clean and the air notably free of contaminants. Air conditioning is not to be found in all parts of Mexico, but here it was used freely. It was like walking into a cooler.
Their leather shoes clip clopped along the marble floors, echoing down the hallway. On the right was a sealed steel door with a reinforced window. Above the window was a large “one”.
Shortly after passing door one they arrived at a dead end, the hallway before them sealed off by a large door. Antonio again put his eye to a laser reader on the side of the doorway and the doors opened for them, making a swooshing sound as the airlock was unsealed.
“Due to the volatile nature of our production the entire building is fireproofed, with each lab being self-contained as an added precaution,” Ochoa explained, as they passed through the twenty-centimeters thick wall.
As they passed steel door number two on the right, Abdul Al-Faheem became aware of the numerous fire-extinguishers that lined the wall, and the elaborate system of sprinklers in the ceiling.
“Again, those are just extra precautions. Each wall is embedded with ceramic fiber insulation. Several ventilation units have been installed in every lab, funneling toxic fumes out through the hilltop via vent pipes. And our techs are the best in the business,” Antonio said with pride.
“You have quite an impressive operation here,” Abdul commented. “With your proficiency, I am surprised at your lack of notoriety.”
“Now I don’t know whether to take that as an insult or a compliment,” Ochoa Machado responded. “These are clandestine operations. I select who I want to do business with. If everyone knew about my operations, I wouldn’t be that efficient, now would I?”
“No, I guess you would not.” Abdul laughed from his throat.
As they moved into hallway number three Al-Faheem asked, “Are none of these labs at work on my product?”
“Actually, lab one is merely to refine our cocaine. Lab two produces crack cocaine, and this one heroin. Lab four in the next hallway produces methamphetamine. As I am sure you are aware all our products are the purest on the market,” Ochoa remarked with an inquisitive eye.
Al-Faheem did not return the gaze. His silence for the next couple of minutes was deafening.
At last they reached the end of hall four.
“This next hallway contains the product you came to see,” Ochoa announced, much like the opening act of a show. At last they reached door number five. “This is it,” Antonio blurted, like a kid eager to open his Christmas presents.
The room they entered was an observation room with an entire wall of thick clear polycarbonate, making for an impact, chemical and heat resistant window through which they could observe the goings on inside the lab.
The lab itself w
as lit with shadow-less lighting. The chemists inside were dressed in air-tight white hazmat suits complete with oxygen masks. They mixed and prepared their compounds with exactitude that only professional chemists could achieve, checking their results under microscopes.
Al-Faheem was visibly impressed.
“You see Señor Abdul we are a long way from the sweat shops that only mix street drugs. We have the best-trained chemists, and state-of-the-art labs. We can afford to. Our clients only want the best. But you already know that. You’ve tasted enough of our goodies.”
Mr. Abdul made no response to the snide remark.
“But then we decided with the quality of our drug labs, why not offer chemical weapons. Hell, we’ve invested heavily into these labs; why not get a bigger payback? And here you will see the results of that decision. It’s called XK23.”
Al-Faheem’s eyes began to show more interest. He then followed Antonio through another sealed door that led them into an adjacent observation room like the first. On the other side of the window however, the scene in the lab was quite different from the first.
Four men dressed in hazmat suits and equipped with large hoses awaited instructions. They were surrounding a man dressed in normal clothes whose eyes were wide with terror.
Ochoa stepped to a microphone. “Proceed,” he commanded.
Ochoa Machado looked at his watch. “Now you’ll see what XK23 can do,” he said. His sadistic tone revealed an undercurrent of vicious pleasure in the torture that was about to be inflicted. He pressed some buttons on the panel next to the mike. A video camera came on.
Mr. Abdul paid no attention to the flipping of switches and clicking of buttons. He was entranced by the horror of the scene beyond the glass. The men in the hazmat suits had begun blowing a dust out of their hoses. It made the room somewhat hazy as if with a light fog.
Al-Faheem stepped up close to the window, his nose almost touching that of its reflection. The man without a suit began to squirm and twitch, much like a roach sprayed with Raid. The man danced in circles jerking erratically as if his feet were on fire. Then his eyes caught sight of the turbaned man and he charged the window.
Abdul did not move; he did not flinch. The victim hit the glass full force, but merely bounced back, thrown violently off balance.
His observer remained as still as a statue. He did not even blink. Al-Faheem was enthralled as he observed the victim before him.
The victim then grabbed at his own arms as if he were trying to scrape something off of his skin and it just wouldn’t come off…at first. Then his actual skin began to peal as he rubbed it. At that moment he screamed and began to shake frantically.
“Ooh…that’s the end of him!” Ochoa Machado proclaimed, as if cheering for his favorite team that had scored a goal. “Once they open their mouths it gets all up inside of them and does to their tongue and their lungs what you saw it do to his skin.”
It wasn’t long before the screams turned to gurgles of agony. The poor victim looked like a fish flapping out of water gasping for air. Then the flapping stopped.
There was a click as Antonio turned off his video recorder. He looked at his watch. “Four minutes and twenty-five seconds. I think we have a new record.” He turned to Mr. Abdul. “So, what do you think of XK23?”
Al-Faheem had a faint smile. His eyes were gleaming. Then he turned to face Ochoa, and his eyes were like two stones. “XK23 is satisfactory. Now I need to see your biological weapons. If they are as good as this, you have a deal.”
Still bubbling over from the demonstration of XK23, Ochoa Machado laughed and began walking. “Sure thing…right this way.”
“It appears obvious to me that this was not the first man you used as a test subject. How do you acquire your test subjects if you don’t mind my asking?” On the surface one observed a grace in every word and movement about Al-Faheem; less detectable was the undercurrent of ruthlessly calculating decision-making. It was not compassion that motivated his curiosity.
“Here in Mexico we know how to get the most out of every little thing. When I was a kid my aunt made me use water that was not clean enough to drink to wash the clothes. Then she made me use that same water when it dripped into a bucket to wash the floor. Then the dirty water was used to flush the toilet and feed the plants in the garden.
“We do the same thing with our people. If we cannot make enough of a profit on their passage to the US, we keep them hostage until we are paid for their ransom. If we do not get the money we ask, we take them into our service as soldiers and prostitutes. If they are not usable, we harvest their organs. If we find their organs are not up to par, they still have value to us: as our test subjects.”
CHAPTER 1
Santa Muerte
Alicia Espinosa strained to catch her breath. Her eyes were frantic as they peered about trying to pick out a path in the dark.
The woods were getting thicker as she raced further from the highway. The whirring of cars was no longer audible. A faint rumble of a semi was abruptly interrupted by the crack of a pine branch. Alicia’s eyes grew wide with terror. He couldn’t be more than one hundred feet from her.
Impulsively she darted to the densest part of the woods.
Blackberry vines tore at her arms and face as she plowed between the trees. The half-moon cast an eerie glow as it blinked at her through the tree branches. She felt naked and exposed, as if it were a spotlight plastering her silhouette in broad view for her pursuer. Yet the sinister light deprived her of everything but shadows.
With her arms outstretched in front of her, she felt her way like a bind woman, ducking under a few low tree limbs, and thrusting aside branches of saplings. She clawed at the bushes and vines, forcing her way. Her arms and cheeks stung from scratches. “Ouch!” A small tree branch had recoiled and poked her in the eye.
The woods were full of insects buzzing, like thousands of skill saws screaming all around her.
“Snap.” That sounded closer than a hundred feet. How long could she run till he caught her? She pictured an axe in full swing, slicing into her leg. She flinched at the thought and kept running.
Her cocktail dress snagged. Rip… “There’s another one,” she thought. It was the story of her life: everything beautiful torn to shreds.
The uneven ground jarred her feet, threatening to twist her high heels from under her.
She could hear herself breathing. She was heaving, gasping for air. Every sound she made seemed amplified. Leaves crunched beneath her. “Kerplack.” She snapped a dry branch.
She had to find a place to hide and catch her breath. “Umph,” she fell. A vine had caught the toe of one of her pumps, causing her to fall headlong. With her forearm she broke her fall, landing on a layer of wet pine needles that pricked her in the stomach.
She sat up, sobbing quietly, and felt for her shoe. Her hand groped along the ground: pine needles…a stump… “Ouch,” more blackberry vines… there. That was it. She found it. Ramming her foot into the shoe, she jumped to her feet.
She heard leaves rustle only fifty feet away.
She lunged forward, but her ankle buckled under her, as a sharp pain shot through her leg. Catching herself, she balanced on the other leg, while she pressed her right foot down gently. The heel of the shoe had broken. Frantically she yanked at the heel till it came off completely.
Hobbling painfully, she searched for a hiding place. The ground seemed to be sloping downward. She caught hold of a small tree trunk to keep her balance. Something grabbed her arm. It felt like a slithery hand. She almost burst out in a scream, picturing his muddy hand on her arm, but then the “hand” jumped off. It was just a tree frog.
The woods in front of her were pulsating with frogs. Their croaking reverberated all around her. She must be getting close to a lot of water.
Her feet made a gurgling noise, as her remaining high heel sunk in some mud; with a slurp she pulled it out. The ground was becoming boggy. It would be no use going further.
Sh
e turned back, and found some nearby bushes to hide in. The ground was a little bit soft, but at least the bushes completely engulfed her, provided she didn’t stand up.
Once again, she became aware of her breathing. Everything seemed suddenly still, like a theater audience on the edge of their seats, waiting for the heroin to be knifed to death in the final scene.
A mosquito needled her in the neck. She dared not slap at it. Silently she waved it off, only to hear a buzz, and then a tiny jab behind her ear.
What would he do to her? Her mind was jumping wildly from one vision to another. She could feel his cold hands like vice grips handcuffing hers behind her back around a small tree. She kicked and screamed in terror, as he ripped her dress off of her. She tried to shut out her mind to what would come next.
That was just Antonio’s henchman. What frightened her most was what Antonio would do to her.
But the thoughts kept coming at her. She could see the lit end of a cigarette searing her bare flesh, like a branding iron, as Antonio seethed with wicked, angry delight. That would be merely the preamble to the tortures he would inflict upon her.
She quivered, shaking herself from the vision. But then another one swallowed her thoughts. At the end of all the torture there would be blackness: an endless, empty, soundless expanse. What was it like to die? Maybe it wasn’t just a void. Maybe it would be like her priest used to say… fire, or worms or something. She tried to get ahold of herself. She mustn’t think about dying.
But the thought of worms gave her the jitters. She shuddered, writhing at a grotesque image of him throwing a snake on her. She could feel its creepy cold skin around her neck.
No, it wasn’t just her imagination. Something cold was hanging around her neck, sliding down her skin, about to drop inside of her dress. She snatched it, ready to fling it from her, but realized it was her pearl necklace. It had come loose.
She felt along the string of pearls, making sure the string had not popped. No, it had merely become unhitched. She was grateful it hadn’t come loose sooner. She stashed it in a hidden zipper pocket of the dress, murmuring “Gracias a Dios” as she made the sign of the cross.