The tunnel was about twelve feet in depth and ran for three and a half miles, towards the Texas-Mexico border, under the sagebrush-clogged desert. Its southern opening was accessible via a hidden trapdoor in the rear of an abandoned barnyard storage shed. Its northern opening was located in a small cleft in the hillside at the bottom of an arroyo within eyeshot of the Texas border. The tunnel had always been a busy conduit for smuggling operations, with its clandestine traffic focusing originally on illegal immigrants and then, with the passing of time, narcotics and weapons bound for the black markets of Texas.

Tonight, some thirty yards north of the tunnels northern opening, just inside the Texas border, two stripped down lightweight Chenowith Fast Attack Vehicles and a dusty old deuce and a half transport sat hidden from view. The transports windshield had been blown out, and the broken glass lay scattered all over the hood and interior. Both men inside the cab were dead, slumped backward in their seats, the woven upholstery soaked with blood and chewed to ragged scraps by the fusillade of bullets that had passed through or near the flesh of the corpses. Each of the lifeless Chenowith drivers had been shot, execution style, with a small caliber automatic and left sitting in an identical fashion as those in the transport.

Above the arroyo a half dozen men, dressed in desert camouflage fatigues, were positioned on sandstone ledges along the eastern and western walls of the gulch, the Aerospatiale SA-330 Puma medium lift transport helicopter in which they had arrived and was left in a clearing three hundred yards further to the north. Each of the men carried either Soviet manufactured 5.45mm AK-74SU sub machineguns or 7.62 x 39mm AK-47 assault rifles fitted with triticon dot sights and flashlight attachments. On the outcropping directly over the tunnel mouth was a wiry, dark-skinned man with a neatly trimmed beard and coal-colored hair that was swept straight back from his forehead. Beside him on the rock shelf was a small cylindrical shaped object with a whip-thin antenna telescoping from the top. With his weapon slung over his shoulder he studied the ground just in front of the tunnel entrance from his elevated vantage point, unaware that he too was under observation.

Higher up on the arroyo's northwestern slope Dorjan and Winston crouched behind a wide slab of rim rock, their features obscured by camouflage paint and dirt. Dorjan's face was a mask of anger and disgust. He and Winston had arrived just in time to see the soldier's gun down the smugglers in cold blood.

Calm and motionless, wholly focused on the surveillance of those below, the two men watched from their solitary position of concealment. Each of the men wore a set of lightweight, black fatigues and tactical assault webbing with .45 caliber Heckler and Koch Mk-23 SOCOM pistols secured in hip holsters. Lying on the ground between them was a matching pair of 9mm Mechem BXP SMG's, each fitted with a six-inch long, cylindrical sound suppressor. The firearms had been brought along only as a precaution. If either of the men were forced to use them it would mean that their mission had failed dramatically.

Peering through the eyepiece of the digital DVD recorder he held in his right hand, Winston surveyed the scene below. He already had footage of the soldiers killing the smugglers, so he now switched the recorder to camera mode and, after adjusting the night vision attachment, snapped off a series of still frame shots. The purpose of tonight's mission was to gain irrefutable evidence of Axler's illegal activities.

Satisfied, he zoomed in tightly on the bearded man and pressed the record button.

Salazaar hated going into the hole. Hated entering the shed with its swine food bags piled everywhere, with rats scurrying everywhere. Hated lowering himself onto the precarious wooden staircase that, with each downward step, creaked, swayed and buckled underfoot. Hated the holes stifling heat during the day, and the miserable cold of the night. Hated the sound of the incessant insects buzzing in a darkness so thick it felt as though someone was smothering his skin with black sludge. Perhaps the thing he hated most was the fetid odor of sweat, unwashed clothing, and bodily waste that seemed to permeate throughout the narrow tunnel in spite of the ventilation shafts scattered every 200 yards along its entire length to pull in fresh air.

He hated going down into the hole yes, hated every moment of walking through the twisting, turning, stinking, dark tunnel with its walls crudely shored up with old wooden sleepers and concrete, but still looking as though they may collapse around him at any moment. Though he hated it, he knew that the tunnel was probably the only reason he had never been caught, and had lasted a decade in a business that had put countless numbers behind bars in a fraction of that time. Salazaar was sure that Axler had had dozens of 'coyotes', as the smugglers were more commonly referred as, but he knew that there were no others beside himself that Axler would entrust with such a large shipment of not only narcotics, but also weapons and illegals destined for the black markets of Texas' larger cities. And while this job was far richer than any other he had undertaken, he knew that the money that he was about to be paid was only a small fraction of what would be made once the weapons and narcotics hit the street. Normally he would sit back and allow others take the risks, but due to the size involved with this shipment Salazaar had decided to assume some of the risk and accompany the shipment personally. If things went according to plan he would become a booking agent, taking his cut of the action, instead of a conductor and traveling with the cargo.

Un Coyote, Salazaar thought reflectively. This was the popular term given to those that were in the business of smuggling human beings and contraband, though he was sure that not all connotations could be regarded as flattering. Fast, canny, and dangerous, wise to their surroundings, the creature was also an optimist that would scavenge its meals wherever and however it could, going as far as stealing another's kill in times of hardship.

With his hand resting on the pistol grip of his Colt Python revolver, and the flashlight shining into the gloom he moved through the tunnel ahead of his 'mules', as he called them, who now carried the narcotics and weapons. Almost forty illegals, by his hasty count, none older than twenty- two, perhaps two thirds of them female - the youthful couriers, many destined for slavery or prostitution, were themselves followed by eight of Salazaar's own gunmen. It made for around fifty people, give or take, double the usual number he'd brought down with him on previous run, easily double. 'Madre dios', he hoped that the walls were able to withstand the tread of all those feet.

Whether it was imagined or not, the increased degree of a cave-in during this particular run only worsened Salazaar’s normally heightened state of unease. As, he supposed, did the weapons being carried by his enforcers. Normally armed just with pistols, Salazaar had ordered them to bring along something a little more significant in firepower due to the size of the shipment they were guarding. The Mexican government was fond of propagandizing that Salazaar and his fellow coyotes had turned the remote villages near the Texas border into armed camps and sources of slave labor. But that portrayal failed to make mention of the abominable conditions that the inhabitants had had to endure before their supposed occupation. Government reports failed to mention the starving families that lived in adhoc shelters pieced together with cardboard boxes and corrugated tin. That was until Salazaar had arrived in the area and replaced them with more permanent structures. He had even used his own money to entice several qualified doctors into the area to look after the health of the inhabitants. Which alternative left them better off?

Salazaar rounded an abrupt bend in the trail and paused momentarily. Adjusting the variable focus beam of his flashlight revealed countless overlapping footprints on the earthen floor of the tunnel. Some of them were relatively fresh, whilst others were little more than faded scuffmarks that were most likely generations older than he was. The conical beam the flashed across a jumbled heap of scattered rubble that acted as a trail marker of sorts. At last he was reaching the final portion of the underground march. He called a brief halt to proceedings, allowing everyone the chance to have some water and beef jerky before continuing onward. In another sixty or seventy yards, the tunnel would begin a final ascent to its exit on the western side of the arroyo where Axler's men would be waiting with their transport. Salazaar and his men would have a short break while their cargo was loaded onto the transport, then he would collect his money and return once to the hole for the return journey back. Tiring work for even the fittest men - and the growing paunch above the belt of his jeans was ample evidence that he had never been good at self-maintenance.

After another fifteen minutes or so of walking, the ground finally began to rise and a stream of fresh cool air relieved the tunnels stagnant atmosphere. Soon afterward he began catching brief glimpses of spectral moonlight through the break in the rock face that opened into the arroyo. Despite his weariness Salazaar increased his pace, determined to get out of the tunnel.

Heinrich Thurston had been patient up till now. Resisting any impulse to act prematurely. He had waited for several breathless seconds after Salazaar had appeared from the tunnel's entrance, waited until the long line of illegals had filed into the arroyo behind the stupid cabron. Waited until a few of Salazaar's enforcers had emerged before he reached a hand down and retrieved the radio transmitter unit from the ledge beside him. Then, with a quick tug on the antenna to make sure it was fully extended, he pressed down on the devices firing switch.

The resulting explosions was almost instantaneous as the transmitter sent a jolt of electricity through the wires leading to several kilos of Composition 4, more commonly know as C4, the Thurston and his men had planted along the final few yards of the tunnel. Once the explosives were in place the mercenaries covered them with a mixture of dirt and stone to keep them from being detected. The explosion clapped and rolled throughout the arroyo, shaking its very walls. A massive ball of flame and smoke came lashing out of the tunnels entrance. Debris pelted down from the rolled edges of the fireball like meteors, buffeting those who had been lucky enough to avoid the initial explosion, slamming them to the ground.

Tossing the transmitter aside, Thurston scooped up his AK-74 and aimed the rifle at Salazaar, the beam of the torch attachment centering on the back of the smugglers head and opened fire. Like an overripe watermelon, Salazaar's head exploded as the rapid fusillade of 5.45mm knocked him to the ground, his arms and legs jerking with the impact of each round. He poured several more bursts into the now prone body, and, when Salazaar finally stopped moving he turned his attention to raking the bottom of the arroyo with gunfire, the Soviet made rounds kicking up tiny geysers of sand and rocks into the air as he fanned his weapon from left to right. Screaming in pain and terror, the helpless young illegals were cut down where they stood, some crawling on the ground under the weight of the bulky loads they had been forced to carry.

Suddenly the gunfire ceased. The mercenaries began emerging from their firing positions. All across the arroyo floor lay the bodies of their victims. Most were clearly dead. Those that weren't soon were as the mercenaries summarily executed any survivors with a single round to their skull. All in all the slaughter had taken less than ten minutes from beginning to end.

At the sound of the initial explosion Dorjan was on the radio telling his men, and the militia gunmen accompanying them, to hold their positions until otherwise ordered. Winston quickly reinforced Dorjan's order before realigning the camera and recording a few more minutes of footage. Through the lens of the camera he watched as the mercenaries descended into the arroyo to retrieve the drugs and weapons. They worked quickly and efficiently, cutting the straps of the dead courier's bundles, with what appeared to be K-bar fighting knives, then tearing them from the lifeless bodies and tossing them in a single bundle. While this was happening, two of the mercenaries, under Thurston's orders, broke away from the main group and began scrambling toward the northern end of the arroyo, presumably, in Dorjan's opinion, to bring the helicopter closer, to haul away their score.

Winston considered waiting around for them to return, and make an all out assault on the choppers, but Dorjan, more experienced in these types of operations, argued that they were on an information gathering exercise and that the risks involved far outweighed the potential value of the material they would obtain. Why push the envelope? Dorjan knew that there was sometimes the temptation to make a game out of things. He also knew that taking superfluous risks could lead to needless loss of life. He knew the risks involved in trying to seize both the helicopters and the weapons and knew that is was now safer to fall back to the main rendezvous point, and return once the mercenaries had left the scene.

Disappointed that he had been overruled, but understanding that Dorjan was correct, Winston detached the night vision scope from the camera and put both into the small padded backpack then, like Dorjan, shouldered his weapon and silently retreated into the darkness.