Tell My Sorrows to the Stones by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online

sun-blanched desert dust as they began to herd the stampede. Two vehicles reached the far end and cut in, blocking the way. Doors popped open and DEA agents leaped out, jackets emblazoned with the bold yellow letters of their agency. Jeeps followed, loaded with Border Patrol.
    The stampede slowed. The mules didn’t know what to do with themselves. The guards were fucked. Now it was just a matter of containing the herd and getting them all into custody. For a minute, it had looked like the operation might fall apart. But the DEA and the Border Patrol guys had moved fast.
    “Look at you,” Brooksy said, eyes bright. “Taking that guy out. You had him fuckin’ dancing, man.”
    Weston’s nostrils flared. “I did what had to be done. That shit isn’t fun for me.”
    “Would be for me,” Brooksy replied, that skittery grin returning.
    The comm. in Weston’s ear clicked and Ortiz came on, sounding like he’d climbed right inside his skull.
    “Weston, come in.”
    He adjusted the comm. so the mouthpiece was in place. “This is Weston.”
    “We’ve got plenty of runners, including at least a couple of coyotes. Take Brooks. Stop as many of the illegals still carrying as you can, but first priority are the guards. Do not let them back across the border. Improvise. You read me?”
    “Affirmative, Sergeant.”
    “Go.”
    But Weston was already moving. He grabbed Brooksy by the arm and started dragging him away from the cluster of DEA and Border Patrol officers who were closing ranks around the corralled mules.
    “What the fuck?”
    “Come on. We’re moving,” Weston said.
    “Where to?”
    “Give me a minute.”
    Brooks fell into step and the two of them ran outside the circle of vehicles. A Border Patrol Jeep had slewed sideways in the dirt and sat there, engine still purring. An officer stood beside the open door, talking into a two-way radio. From somewhere far off, Weston could hear the distant staccato of helicopter blades.
    “Drive!” Weston snapped.
    He ran around the Jeep and pulled the door open at the same time Brooksy was climbing into the back. The Border Patrol officer stared into his vehicle at them.
    “Get the fuck out of there. What do you think you’re doing?”
    Weston leaned over and shot him a hard look. “We’ve got coyotes on the run and orders to stop them. You want to explain fucking that up, or you want to drive?”
    The officer hesitated, but only for a second.
    “Fine,” he said as he slid into the driver’s seat. “But I want your names.”
    He dropped the Jeep into gear and hit the gas, the tires spinning and spitting dirt behind them as they tore off across the desert. Brooksy clutched his M16 like he was bringing flowers to his mother.
    “I’m Weston. This is Brooks.”
    “Austin,” said the Border Patrol man. He drove past the last Humvee and then they were in open desert, headlights illuminating the ground straight ahead but somehow making the rest of the landscape around them even darker.
    “That your first or last name?” Brooksy asked.
    “We on a date?” Austin snapped.
    He picked up the radio he’d tossed aside and got his boss on the line, told the guy he had two Guardsmen on board and they were running down the last of the coyotes the cartel had sent to protect the coke. He had the accelerator pinned. The Jeep jittered in the ruts and bounced across the ground, closing the gap between Paradise and the Mexican border. They passed a bunch of backpacks full of cocaine that had been tossed aside in favour of getting the hell out of the U.S.
    Austin’s boss told him to carry on, inter-agency cooperation, and some other bullshit that meant any pissing matches that were going to happen would take place above their pay grade. Let the DEA, Border Patrol, and the Guard work it out after the op was over and they jostled for credit or blame.
    The first of the strays came in view up ahead. They should’ve rabbited in either direction but they kept going in a straight