Chapter 34
Shane looked at his watch and said, “Jesus, how long does it take to get across the border?”
Flynn pulled a toothpick out of his mouth and said, “It all depends on what’s happening at any given moment. Don’t start to
piss your pants. It doesn’t mean he’s caught.”
They were sitting inside a Freightliner semi-tractor at a cross-dock facility within the Mariposa border crossing, on the
western edge of the city of Nogales. They’d arrived before the sun had risen, taking all the paperwork Taco had provided to
prove they were the legitimate carrier to long haul the load to its destination.
Of course, while the paperwork was real—some miracle that Shane didn’t question, involving a customs broker and a legitimate
importer of fertilizer—the load in question was not, and it made Shane nervous. The last thing he wanted was to be caught
hauling a tanker full of liquid fentanyl, in what he was sure was the largest load ever smuggled in one take across the Mexican
border.
He said, “How long are we going to wait?”
“Until it gets here.”
Shane stole a glance to see if Flynn was serious, and Flynn said, “Look, it’s a three-step process, and there could be holdups
at any point. First, the Mexicans have to deliver the truck to the customs broker—and we know that’s happened, because Taco
said he was on the way.”
Shane said, “That was over eight hours ago. Don’t you worry that he’s in chains right now? Maybe they’re coming for us, and they’re just now getting their ducks in a row.”
Flynn exhaled and said, “He has to drive the trailer to the Mexican customs point, where it’s cleared. Then he has to drive
it across the border to our customs, where it’s cleared. Then they bring it to us. It takes time. Sometimes it takes more
than a day.”
“We were told fertilizer was quicker, since it’s just a tanker full of liquid. They don’t have to inspect a hard cargo truck
full of pallets.”
“Yeah, we were told that, and we were also told it could be a while.” He faced Shane, raised his sunglasses, and said, “Pinky,
you don’t have the stones for this, then say so.”
Shane returned to looking out the windshield, saying, “I’m good. I’m good. Just thinking is all.”
Flynn leaned back into the seat again and said, “The customs broker is real. The commercial invoice and bill of lading are
real. If there was any issue, the broker would come talk to us. He hasn’t said anything, so no news is good news.”
Shane saw a door open at the CPB facility and the man they had coordinated with before coming out holding paperwork. He said,
“Here comes the customs broker. This is either good news or bad.”
Flynn said, “It can’t be the end of the road because he’s not being trailed by CPB guys with guns.” Even with the confidence,
Shane could see worry on Flynn’s face.
Shane stepped out of the cab and the man said, “Your load is cleared. Bay twelve.”
He handed Shane a thick packet of paperwork. Shane took it and said, “Thanks, man. This is my first trip with the company.
Any tips I should know?”
The man said, “Don’t dawdle. They’ll pay for expenses, but you come late and they’ll be sticklers on covering anything they
say is your fault.”
Shane nodded and said, “I meant from driving a load out of Mexico.”
“Oklahoma City is on the bill of lading, so use the straightest route to that destination. You get pulled over for speeding or have a mechanical issue and you’re outside of a common-sense route, the cops will cause you trouble—which will cause you to be delayed and take money out of your pocket.”
Shane reentered the semi-tractor cab, tossed the paperwork to Flynn and said, “We’re good to go.”
Flynn slapped his leg, a grin on his face, the forced confidence melting into relief. “Let’s get the load and get the hell
out of here.”
Shane drove around the complex to the cross-dock bays, moving to bay twelve. He saw a low-pressure deep-drop fertilizer tanker,
a reinforced tube of gleaming stainless steel shaped like a giant cigar with a bulge in the middle and a ladder running up
the side.
To the right of the truck was a man waiting to guide him in. He pulled forward and then reversed, following the directions
of the man near the trailer. He missed.
He pulled forward and tried again. On his third attempt, with Flynn growing aggravated at his lack of skill, he connected.
Flynn exited, saying, “What the fuck did they teach you at that school? Only how to work the radio?”
A little embarrassed, Shane hopped out as well, meeting the guide, who also ribbed him on his driving. They completed the
hookup of the trailer, tested the brakes and lights, checked the emergency dump valves, then did a final comparison of the
paperwork. Five minutes later, they were pulling out of the bay.
They exited the gates of the customs facility, following a long line of trucks onto Mariposa Road. Shane didn’t relax until
they merged onto I-19 headed north. He exhaled and said, “We did it. I can’t believe we’re hauling six thousand gallons of
liquid fentanyl.”
Flynn smiled and said, “Biggest payday we’ll ever get.”
Shane said, “Where is this payday? Where are we going? Hopefully it’s somewhere close to OKC, because that’s what the bill
of lading says.”
Flynn narrowed his eyes and said, “What happens if it’s not? We don’t have to check in with the Department of Transportation or something while we drive, do we?”
“No, but we’ll have to do some explaining if we get pulled over and we’re nowhere near Oklahoma.”
Flynn leaned back into his seat and said, “Start thinking of excuses, because we’re going to Washington, DC.”