“Usted parece fuerte,” one of the workers said to the young helper standing behind the urn of water as he helped himself to a cup of water. “Usted debe estar fuera allí de ayudarnos.” The helper smiled and nodded. “Venido. ¿Usted puede tomar mi lugar, okay?” The helper only nodded again, keeping his eyes averted. The worker looked at him with some aggravation. “¿O usted tiene gusto quizá de trabajar en la cocina como una mujer?” The helper only nodded again, then headed back to the truck. “Hey. ¡Vete a hacer punetas, amaricado!”
“Watch your language, José,” Maria scolded the worker. “Go back and sit with the lettuce if you want to swear.”
“Well, that asshole is just ignoring me,” the worker named José said. “What’s his problem?”
“Maybe you’re scaring him, you big bully,” Maria said playfully.
“Where do you find these pendejos, Maria?” Jose asked. The urn of water was almost empty, so José had to tip it forward to fill his cup.
“I will gladly hire anyone willing to put up with the likes of you, José. Now get out of here and finish your meal before you make him cry.”
“I would like to see him cry, Maria,” the worker said, laughing. The helper was just coming back from the truck with a full urn of water, carrying the heavy seven-gallon metal jug with both hands. “Maybe he would not do so well out in the field after all—looks like he can barely carry that jug. You need some help, pedo?”
The worker wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing, and as he tipped the urn farther and farther, the lid slipped off. The young helper noticed what was happening, and in a flash of motion dropped the urn of water he was carrying and lunged for the lid. But it was too late. The lid fell, but was prevented from hitting the table by some wires. José lifted the lid and examined it—and that’s when he noticed what looked like a tiny camera lens built into the lid.
“Hey! What’s this…?” The young helper snatched the lid out of José’s hand. José glared angrily at the helper—and then realized that he had blue eyes, something not often seen out in the fields. “Who the hell are you?”
“¿Problema, amigo?” the older helper asked, stepping over to the younger man and pushing him toward the delivery truck. “You, pick up that water and stop being so damned clumsy.” To the worker he said in Spanish, “Don’t worry about him, amigo. He is my wife’s cousin’s boy.” He tapped the side of his own head. “He is a little slow, you know what I mean?”
But as he spoke, he realized he recognized the worker named José…and at the same instant, José recognized him too. Paul Purdy closed his eyes, but it was too late. He could only mutter, “Oh, shit…” before the whole place erupted into sheer bedlam.
“Purdy…puneta! It’s Purdy!” José turned toward the others squatting next to the road eating. “¡La Migra! ¡La Migra! ¡Inmigración!” Workers scattered in all directions, dashing through the cilantro and lettuce fields as fast as they could.
“Smart move, Purdy—the men can spot a federale a mile away, especially if he has blue eyes,” Maria said with a smile and a shake of her head as she started to pack up her pans. “Why did you hire a gringo to go undercover with you in a migrant farm? Are you crazy?”
“I got the best help I could find, darlin’,” Border Patrol Agent Paul Purdy replied with a smile as he began to unzip his overalls.
“You know, I’m never going to be able to work in this part of the county again, Purdy—everyone will think I work with the federales now,” she said.
“I told you I’d make it good, Maria,” Purdy said as he climbed out of his overalls and retrieved his utility belt, badge, bulletproof vest, police jacket, and sidearm from the truck. “I found a job for you out in Twentynine Palms…”
“Twentynine Palms? You mean, working at a military base? No way, Purdy!”
“I found schools for your kids and a job for your husband…”
“I said no way.”
“Okay, Maria. Oh, did I mention…?”
“What now?”
“It comes with a green card.”
“¡Acepto!” Maria said immediately.
“I thought you might. My boys are taking your kids to the church right now, and they’ll move you to a place up there and keep an eye on you until our operation is over. Trust me, will you? Have I ever steered you wrong, love?”
Maria smiled, shook her head, and waved her hand down the road. “Just go, will you? Unless you’re going to leave your blue-eyed assistant with me to help clean up?”
“Sorry, sweetie. He’s got work to do,” Purdy said. He turned to Richter. “Any hits on that gadget of yours, Major?”
“Stand by,” Jason Richter said, hopping into the milk truck. With Maria’s baby daughter looking on with interest, Jason pulled out a small tablet PC computer and awakened the screen, which was flipping through pictures of each of the migrant workers who had come up to the tables for their morning meal. The DDICE, or digital distant identification and collection equipment system, digitally scanned every person who walked within thirty feet of the fine line scan digital imager on top of the water urn, measuring and cataloging hundreds of different physical parameters in a matter of seconds. The system then compared the collected information with a database of known suspects, and would alert the user if there was a match.
“C’mon, Major, we don’t have all day,” Purdy said anxiously, scanning the fields where all the workers had scattered. “In about two minutes they’re all going to be gone.”
“Still processing.”
“Nuts to that,” Purdy said. He continued scanning the fields until he found what he was looking for—one worker who wasn’t running, hiding behind the front of the tractor, watching. “I got him, Major. Follow me.” He turned on his walkie-talkie and ran out into the lettuce field. The young migrant worker looked confused. “Hold it, Victor! ¡Parada! It’s me, Purdy! ¡Espera! Dammit!”
Jason looked over in amazement. “How did you know that was Flores? How did you know he wouldn’t run?”
“I told you, he knows me—they all know me,” Purdy said. “They know I’m not out here to screw them.” Thankfully Victor Flores stopped a few yards later—Purdy had run less than fifty yards but was already feeling winded. But then Flores starting looking around—not like he was searching for a better direction to run, but searching for something else. “Hold on, Victor. It’s me, Purdy. I’m here to help you. Wait and I’ll…”
Suddenly Flores turned and bolted down a row of lettuce—just as an immense geyser of mud and shattered lettuce erupted in the spot near where he was standing. “Shots fired, shots fired!” Purdy shouted into his walkie-talkie. “Get some help out here, Richter!” He drew his service automatic and flattened out on his stomach, with nothing but a row of lettuce to shield him. To Flores, he shouted, “¡Consiga abajo! Victor, get down!” Victor ran a few more yards before half-jumping, half-tripping face-first into a plowed furrow.
Back at the delivery truck, Jason keyed another handheld communicator: “Talon Two, this is One. We’ve got a sniper out here somewhere on Highway 111. Bring in the Condor and see if you can draw some fire.”