as he grabbed his rifle from the rack behind the seat. Clay took his from the opposite side.
Kino left the vehicle to investigate the solitary footprint where someone had stepped from the asphalt before returning to the impenetrable surface. This was the only visible sign of the smuggler’s passing. But farther up, he saw more tracks.
His brother slammed the passenger door shut and swore. “And this isn’t even the hot part of the year.”
“They crossed here,” said Kino, pointing to the narrow gap of open ground between two thorny bushes. His brother fingered a bent branch.
Clay, the better tracker, saw things that even Kino missed. He squatted to study the imprints upon the sandy ground.
“Carpet shoes,” he said and stood, returning his attention to the unrelenting sun. “If we were home I’d be tracking elk right now instead of men.”
“Not men. Man. Just one and these guys can lead me right to him. Then we can head home.”
“It won’t change anything,” said Clay.
“Family first,” said Kino, echoing his father’s favorite expression.
Clay made a sound through his teeth before backtracking to the vehicle to retrieve their water. When he returned, he handed Kino his bottle and they both clipped the plastic containers to their belts, leaving their hands free for the rifles. Kino also carried his service pistol, a semiautomatic, but Clay would not carry one. It was a difference between them. Kino was the law and Clay an ex-con. Not a felony, but since his release, his brother despised handguns. Their captain, Rick Rubio, had told Clay he could carry, but to no avail.
Prepared to track on foot, they stepped into the thorny brush, following the faint depressions left by the distinctive carpet-soled shoes that marked the trespassers as smugglers. Clay went first and then Kino.
“Another,” said Kino, pointing at the slight disruption of the unbroken sand. The indentation was small and circular, definitely a track.
“Good work, little brother,” said Clay, slapping him on the back, making his shirt and bulletproof vest stick to his shoulders. “How many?”
“Three?”
“Four,” he corrected, noting the different tracks visible to Clay, even though the group had walked in line and often in each other’s footsteps.
Walking was cumbersome because he and Clay wore full SWAT gear, as required even for them, and the standard equipment ringed their narrow hips. The water bottles knocked against their legs with each step, and the portable radios, ever ready, sat heavy on their left shoulders. Kino had left the satellite phone in the SUV. His semiautomatic was holstered around his waist and anchored to his thigh with a wide black strap. On their sleeves was the arrow-shaped tan patch that read Shadow Wolves. In the center was a fierce black wolf with one eagle feather tied to its fur.
Kino and Clay had taken one liberty with the uniform. Neither wore the regulation boots, preferring instead the lighter, higher moccasins that had been specially made for them by their grandmother. They were knee-high and sewn from soft buckskin. The lining was a paper-thin fabric that was totally snake-and thorn-proof. The rawhide soles were equally so. Kino’s moccasins had a thin vertical band of beads in a traditional pattern of arrows in red and white, while Clay’s sported beaded crosses of black and yellow. Anyone who knew the Apache would recognize the brothers’ people instantly by the distinctive tab at their toes. No other tribe wore moccasins quite like theirs.
Kino and Clay were Black Mountain Apache, used to winter snow and cool mountain air. But Kino had put in for a leave of absence to sign on for this mission. Only then had his older brother, who worked for the tribe’s cattle association, decided to come with him. As far as Kino knew, this was the first vacation Clay had taken in the six years since Clay’s release from juvenile detention—if you could call this a vacation.
They were on temporary assignment with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. ICE’s mission was to apprehend smugglers and traffickers along the borders that included the stretch that ran straight through the Sonoran Desert and the Tohono O’odham reservation. Because the Americans had missed things, ICE had formed the only special unit composed exclusively of Native Americans. Sanctioned through the US Department of Homeland Security, the Shadow Wolves were members of an elite drug-tracking force. The unit was composed of the best trackers to be found anywhere.
Their mission was to cut for sign—to look for footprints, spot broken vegetation or tire tracks that might indicate evidence of the traffic that washed drugs into the US from Mexico. That was their official mission but Kino wanted one particular smuggler, the one known as the Viper.
The Shadow Wolves were here on sacred land by special invitation of the Tohono O’odham people. And though they worked closely with the US Border Patrol, they did not answer to them. Border patrol secured borders from illegal entry or illegal products. ICE handled enforcement and removal operations. The Shadow Wolves, numbering only sixteen, were here to see what the Americans could not and to find the ones who were slipping by under their noses.
Kino followed the tracks, his brother trailing behind, both staying well clear of the slight indentures.
“Getting close to the rez,” said Clay.
Kino glanced up to take in his surroundings. The land didn’t look any different. Saguaro cactus rose above the ground; sage, barrel cactus, rock and sand stretched for miles. But this land was different because this side of the road belonged to the Tohono O’odham Nation of Arizona. Sacred land. Indian land.
Kino continued on the trail.
“The border patrol captain requested notice of our location if we enter the rez,” said Clay.
“Lucky we don’t report to him,” said Kino.
It was true. They worked directly under Captain Rick Rubio, an Apache who reported to the field operations supervisor for ICE. Still, if they found illegals, it was US Border Patrol that would be called to detain and deport them.
“Should we call Rubio? He can call Barrow.”
Gus Barrow was the pain-in-the-neck overachiever, control-freak captain out of Cardon Station whom Kino avoided when possible.
“I left the phone in the truck,” Kino told him.
“I can radio Rubio. He can call BP,” said Clay.
“Wait a bit. The O’odham are damned sick of border patrol. You heard the council leader. What’s his name?”
“Sam Mangan,” said Clay.
“Yeah,” said Kino. “He welcomed us personally. Invited the Shadow Wolves onto the rez. They’ve got no beef with us.”
Clay gave a lopsided grin. “Because we’re not the ones stopping them every time they want to visit their families in Mexico.”
“Exactly. So leave BP out. We might not need them.” Kino pointed to a track. “They’re fresh. These guys are close.”
“I know that. That’s why I want to call in. Captain Rubio said that Barrow wants notice when we cross onto Indian land.” Clay snorted and stopped tracking. “You used to be more fun.”
Kino
