Excerpt

The Border Between

By Kenny Garton

One: The Beckoning Void

Tijuana. The rain had stopped, but the city still dripped, its neon signs bleeding into flooded streets—crimson smears from the brothels, jaundiced yellow from the farmacias, and the cold blue glow of a dentist’s office promising painless veneers. The air clung thick with the stench of frying grease, diesel exhaust, and something worse festering in the alleyways where fentanyl addicts swayed like propped-up corpses.
  Inside the Escalade, black as a hearse, Michael Knox watched a bead of condensation trace the windshield. His Glock 19 rested in his lap, its grip worn smooth by years of use. Beside him Alejandro Soto exhaled sharply through his nose and flexed his hands—his knuckles a topographical map of old violence.   
  Then he started doing it again, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm them. Knox smirked and said, “Hands cold, amigo?”
  Soto stopped and stared at Knox.
  Knox smiled at him. “It’s okay, brother. We all got our shit.” 
  A long time ago, they’d learned the same lesson in different warzones: The real enemies were the ones giving the orders.
  The wipers slashed across the windshield, revealing the tableau outside El Gato Negro: two street kids circling a tourist. He was Tijuana’s favorite prey: expensive watch, probably a Rolex, wrapped around doughy flesh, wedding ring glinting, and breath reeking of top-shelf Tequila. The kind of man who crossed the border chasing cheap thrills and found himself drowning in the undertow. His linen Guayabera was already torn, revealing a pale, hairy belly.
  The wiry kid—maybe seventeen, with a lightning bolt scar through his left eyebrow—yanked the watch off the man’s wrist. His partner, a thick-necked brute with a wooden crucifix dangling over his Adidas jersey, tried to rifle through the flailing tourist’s pockets.
  The victim sagged against the graffiti-covered wall, a sob catching in his throat. “Please… don’t hurt me. Tomorrow’s my daughter’s graduation. I have to be there.” His accent was corn-fed middle America.
  “Estos pinches perros,” Soto muttered. “They come to Tijuana for the girls.” 
  Knox’s jaw tightened. He’d seen a lot of pigs like this one—bartering for underage flesh in dingy alleys from Mosul to Mogadishu. His hand came off the Glock, and he pulled a heavy metal coin from his pocket, cascading it fluidly across his knuckles. The coin’s stamped Reaper flashed—scythe raised, forever mid-swing. Death. The only constant. He nodded toward the kids. “Time to visit the pound,” Knox said. “One’s got the shakes, and the other looks like he licks windows. But they’ll do.”
  Soto’s gaze flicked to the rearview, where a trio of narco cowboys in garish shirts and pointy-toe boots loitered by a taco cart, then back to the kids.  
  “Sí. Tráelos.” Yes. Bring them.
Knox stepped out and the humidity hit him like a wet towel. Mariachi music warred with the distant wail of police sirens—the city’s constant background noise.
  The big kid noticed him first. “¿Y tú qué quieres, güey?” His breath smelled like the bottom-shelf mezcal sold in plastic bottles at the Oxxo.
Knox flicked the crucifix. “Let me ask you something. When you were in the back room with Tío Jesús, did you pray to the other Jesus to make it stop?”
  The big kid tapped his partner with his knuckles. “You hear this puto? Let’s fuck him up.”
  Knox ignored him, pointing at the wiry one. “You’re the fixer-upper. You’ve got the structural integrity of a wet paper towel. We’re going to have to reinforce that sad frame of yours. I’m going to call you Flaco. Try not to snap in a stiff wind.” His gaze shifted to the big one with the shaved head. “You have some muscle but… you’ve got the intellectual horsepower of a rocking chair. All chassis and no engine. Don’t worry. We’ll get a spark out of you.  
  Your new name is Tonto.”
  They gaped at each other, then at Knox—just long enough for the tourist to seize his chance. He spun and bolted. Tonto’s arm shot out, fingers sinking into the soft meat of the tourist’s double chin. The man’s squeal cut off as  
  Tonto pinned his head against the graffiti-slathered cinderblock. 
  The tourist’s eyes darted like cockroaches. “Help! Get these animals off me. I’ll pay you—”
  “Pay?” Knox said to the boys. “He thinks you’re animals. That I’m the zookeeper.”
  Flaco’s nostrils flared. Tonto leaned in, Mezcal-breath fogging the man’s glasses: “Receipt’s due, pendejo.”
  The man’s hands shot up—”NO! PLEASE!”—but Tonto’s fist connected—a wet crunch—then Flaco’s kick folded him sideways. Knox crossed his arms and observed, a cursory glance thrown to Soto as the kids beat the man until he collapsed into a deep, oil-slicked puddle. The man flopped onto his back—a gasping, broken thing, his swollen belly heaving obscenely. Blood snaked from his crooked nose and split lip, dyeing the rainbow scum of the puddle crimson. 
  The boys stood there, panting and high on adrenaline. “He’s right. You are animals. Pathetic, out-of-shape animals.”
  Knox reached down and scooped up the tourist’s soaking wallet. “You didn’t even get what you came for. Too busy kicking his ass to notice his wallet fell out.” He peeled off a couple of damp twenties and slapped them into Flaco’s palm before pocketing the rest. “You’re just scavengers,” he said, voice low, “destined to live on scraps. But if you want to join an empire…” He jerked his chin toward the Escalade. “Alejandro Soto is inside. You know the name.”
  Tonto wiped blood across his cheek. “Mentiroso.” Liar.
  Knox tossed the empty wallet. It landed with a wet plop in the bloody mire the tourist lay in. The man lunged, fingers scrabbling through the filth, snatched it back, and clutched the sodden leather to his chest, great, gulping sobs wrenching his body.
  Knox shook his head. Then he looked at the kids and said, “Tomorrow, it’s another gringo pissing himself. Next week? A cop puts two in your skull. Or maybe a sicario peels you just to hear you scream.” He jerked his chin toward Soto. “Or you crawl out of this gutter and ride with us. Your call—I don’t give a fuck. But remember: The streets are full of hungry dogs. And not all of them bark before they bite.”
  A beat. “So… You pussies in or what?” 
  The boys anxiously stared at each other while another siren began wailing in the distance.
  Knox didn’t wait. He turned and began walking back to the Escalade. A moment later he heard the scrape of worn sneakers on wet asphalt behind him.
  He got in and closed the door on the tourist’s cries. Flaco and Tonto clambered into the back seat.
  Tonto leaned forward so he could get a good look. “¡Hijo de puta! It’s really him. Es Alejandro Soto!” He sat back and his wide eyes snapped to his friend.  
  Flaco sat frozen, except for his Adam’s apple, which bobbed.
Knox smirked at Soto. “Two more for the grinder.” 

 
Two: A Call for Action

San Diego. The morning sun baked the FBI Field Office's manicured lawns to a sheen, steaming off last night's rain. From the visitor’s chair inside his supervisor’s office, Special Agent David Sullivan watched a patrol car glinting in the distance. The world outside was orderly, structured. Inside, Special Agent in Charge Miller’s office was a storm front.
  Miller’s boss, the director, wasn’t speaking into the phone; he was launching an assault. Miller, more accustomed to being on the giving end, paced like a caged animal.
  “…understood, sir. Yes. The figures are unprecedented.” A pause. Miller’s hand braced against a filing cabinet. “No, sir, no source point. The flow is… decentralized. Viral.” His jaw clenched, and the receiver's plastic creaked in his fist. "Yes. Containment is priority. Finding the source…"
  David’s gaze retreated to Miller’s desk, a topography of controlled chaos. Amidst case files, and a half-eaten sandwich, stood a silver frame. A moment of adolescent joy frozen in time: a lanky kid, Miller’s son, Mark, holding up a glistening fish. He had Miller’s jawline and probing eyes, but his face was otherwise softened by a promise the world hadn’t yet broken.
  Behind the desk, a different promise. The Pulitzer-nominated photograph by Art Greenspon. An American First Sergeant in Vietnam, arms raised to an expansive blue sky, a plea to a helicopter or to God himself. The soldiers around him looked utterly exhausted.
  David reached out and picked up the picture of Mark.
  Miller slammed the phone into its receiver. The sound was a gunshot in the quiet office. He snatched the frame from David. "Don’t," he snapped. 
  He placed it back precisely, aligning its edge with a file folder, his eyes avoiding David’s. The mask of command slid back into place. David caught a whiff of Miller’s woodsy cologne.
  Outside, a lawnmower’s drone was a low, insistent hum.
  Miller dropped into his leather chair, springs groaning in protest. He massaged the bridge of his nose, the lines around his eyes as deep as trenches. "Tijuana. Brief me. Skip the brochures."
  David shifted. "It’s fracturing. Vasquez’s stability is gone, and the resulting vacuum is pulling in new players. The violence is metastasizing. Public executions as a form of messaging. Fentanyl labs operating with impunity." He paused. "Vasquez is holding the center, but he’s running on fumes. Leading raids personally, taking irrational risks… his idea of life is basically Hobbesian, sir. Nasty, brutish, and short, but with considerably more AK-47s."
  "Christ, Sullivan." Miller cut him off with a dry laugh. He leaned forward, elbows digging into the desk. "Don't sell me the lone gunslinger myth. You think Vasquez polishes his halo between firefights?"
  Heat flared in David’s neck. He met Miller’s gaze. “He gets results where others have failed. He knows the beast because he’s bled for it. How many assassination attempts? Six? Seven?"
  Miller studied him, his eyes like camera lenses, cold and analytical. The lawnmower droned on. "He gets results… that he does," he said, leaning back. "Well, David, your… admiration… for Vasquez’s brand of chaos makes you perfect for this."
David’s internal alarms sounded. "Perfect for what?"
  "The Tijuana border liaison position. It just became vacant."
The floor tilted. The liaison post was bureaucratic quicksand, a career graveyard. "Liaison? Sir, my value is in analysis—HUMINT, finance, SIGINT. Not navigating political minefields."
  "Exactly," Miller said, a cold glint in his eyes. "You see patterns. Connections. Fentanyl is flooding every state, and my guy on the ground is treating the position like it’s Spring Break. You don't drink. You don't smoke. You carry books like armor. That’s what I need. Vasquez is a wrecking ball. You are the blueprint. Get in there. Harvest the intelligence from his raw sewage. And see what he can't. I need the architecture of this thing, Sullivan. Not just the body count."
  David’s mind reeled. "I need to consider this. The implications—"
  "Reassigned," Miller stated flatly. "Consider this an accelerated immersion. A chance to see if the man lives up to the legend." The sarcasm in his voice was thick.
  The lawnmower’s whine vibrated the windowpane. Miller shoved his chair back, strode to the window, and wrestled the latch open. Hot, gasoline-tinged air rushed in. Miller leaned out. "¡Oye! Kill that engine! Now!"
  The growl sputtered and died. In the silence, the sound of birdsong felt unnaturally loud. Miller stood framed in the window, his shoulders tense.
David rose slowly. "I'll pack my bags, sir."
Miller didn't turn. "Tijuana eats people alive, Sullivan. Try not to be on the menu."
  The door clicked shut behind David. Somewhere outside, the mower coughed back to life. The scent of gasoline and cut grass clung to David’s clothes—like the cloying smell of a trap.
  And yet, David, couldn’t resist the cheese—He yearned for the truth about the man that was more like a legend: Tijuana Police Chief Eduardo Vasquez. 


Three: The Plague

The air hit David first. Not just the oppressive heat of Tijuana, but the smell. A dense composite of exhaust, hot dogs, sun-baked garbage, and an undercurrent of raw sewage.
  Sargento Javier Vasquez was now twenty-three minutes late. Around David, the border crossing churned with a rhythm older than checkpoints—mothers balancing towers of tortillas, day laborers with concrete dust ground into their knuckles, teenagers trading insults over narcocorridos bleeding from a cheap speaker. They stopped arguing and glanced at David. He knew his starched collar and knife-creased slacks screamed federal agent. Tres Letras. FBI.
  Sound was a blunt instrument. The blare of horns, the tinny pulse of cumbia from a storefront, the shouted pitches of vendors, the whine of scooters. A constant, low thrum. Tijuana’s heartbeat. Pollution turned the sky a bruised orange, blurring the faded pink and blue of the buildings. 
  Sweat traced a path down David’s temple. He saw the city’s archetypes brush past: sunburned American students hunting for oblivion, a businessman speaking urgently into a headset, a young woman in a red leather miniskirt scanning traffic with the weary eyes of a professional. Near a taco stand, two boys leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall. Their eyes darting—noting pedestrians, cars, David himself. Halcones. Lookouts.
  Finally, a battered Toyota Hilux screeched to a halt beside him. The passenger window rolled down. Chief Vasquez’s son and lieutenant, Javier. The intensity in his eyes was a direct inheritance from his father, a look of authority that seemed too old for his face. No smile. Just a jerk of the head. "Entra."
  David climbed onto the hot vinyl seat. The cab smelled of cigarettes, oil, and sweat. Javier slammed the truck into gear before the door was fully closed, lurching back into traffic. No handshake.
  Javier navigated the choked streets with aggressive precision, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing as he cursed under his breath. "¡Pendejo! ¡Muévete, cabrón!" David gripped the door handle, watching the city’s jarring vignettes slide past: families huddled beside their belongings, hollow-eyed men swigging from paper bags, blank-faced young women in doorways. The pressure of the place was relentless.
  "Mira," Javier said, jerking his chin toward a side street. "Eyes. Everywhere."
  David followed his gesture to another pair of watchful, motionless boys glaring from the shadows.
  Javier turned sharply down a narrow alley, the truck’s mirrors scraping crumbling brick. The air thickened. Less exhaust now. More garbage, human waste, and a chemical sting that burned the back of David’s throat. Acetone? Ammonia?
  "We make a stop," Javier stated, halting beside peeling posters and gang tags. Among the chaotic spray-painted scrawls, one symbol caught David’s eye—a large black circle, meticulously painted—a serpent eating its own tail. The alley opened into a trash-strewn plaza. "Vente. Come. You need to see."
David got out. The chemical smell became overpowering, mixed with something cloyingly sweet. 
  A gallery of human dissolution. Figures slumped against walls, curled on cardboard, shuffling with an agonizing slowness. Skin stretched taut over bone, eyes sunken and vacant. A shirtless man rocked back and forth, muttering soundlessly. A thin woman stared at nothing, drool on her chin.
Near an overflowing dumpster, a young man convulsed. His body arched in agony, then collapsed. Pink-tinged foam bubbled at his lips.
  "He's overdosing!" David lunged forward, his Quantico training kicking in. "Narcan! We need an ambulance! Now!"
  Javier’s hand clamped onto his arm like a vise. "No. There are too many. Look."
  David looked around. A few feet away, another ghoul-like figure stared with dull eyes. As David watched, the man pulled out a crumpled piece of foil, flicked a lighter, and inhaled the rising vapors, utterly oblivious to the death throes of the man beside him.
  "The ambulancia will not come here," Javier said, his voice flat. He released David's arm and nodded at the body. "Es una nueva cepa. A new strain. Narcan fails. Three breaths, then…" He made a sharp, downward gesture with his hand. "Nada. Another body for the truck."
  David covered his mouth, the chemical stench was coating his lungs. This wasn't just a drug problem. It was engineered lethality. This was the front line.
  Javier turned towards the truck, his face gruff. "Come. My father waits." Before they got back inside, he paused, hand on the door, eyes piercing. "A warning, Tres Letras. My father… he doesn't ask for help. He demands it. And he doesn't like what gringos bring. Expect no welcome. Understand?"
  David looked back at the plaza, at the corpse being ignored. The sensory assault—the smells, the sights, the silent screams of suffering—was imprinted. He nodded mutely, the weight of Javier’s warning and Tijuana's reality settling on him like grime as he climbed back into the stifling cab.