Novels

A bomb explodes at a U.S.-Mexico border crossing. Six people are dead. Dozens are injured. Detective Michael Barrish of the San Diego Police Department is recruited to cross over into Mexico and bring the perpetrators to justice. There, he discovers the true nature of this unthinkable crime.

A gripping thriller that starkly chronicles the aftermath of a terrorist attack, Kingdom of God is an engrossing portrait of people and cultures coming together to combat the forces of fear and darkness.

Read an excerpt from the first chapter below:

It was the Sunday before Easter. Michael was pulling the last of the dishes from the dish washer when his phone rang. It rattled on the slate countertop underneath two pieces of green construction paper cut into the shape of palm leafs. He brushed the paper aside. The word “Private” appeared on screen. He picked up the phone, hit “Accept” and muttered hello. He recited a security code and stood with the phone to his ear for a minute. He held his breath for the entire minute.

     Michael stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room. The lights were already on. A small desk with a computer atop it was crammed in the corner of the room. He hit the keyboard, and the computer monitor came to life. He turned and walked into the living room. He grabbed the remote off the coffee table, turned on the television and switched to the local news. An orange light flooded the room.

     “No TV after 6:00,” Mary yelled from the other room. A field reporter’s voice filled every corner of the house. Michael left the living room and walked back to the computer. He pulled the chair out from under the dining room table and sat down staring at the monitor. The television was visible through the doorway. Mary walked down the hall and repeated “No TV.” She stopped in the doorway to the living room.

     “Oh my God, what happened?” The orange glow from the television blinded her. She looked through the doorway into the dining room where Michael was seated at the desk. He did not respond. His eyes were glued to an open window on the monitor. Mary turned back to the news.

     A minute later, Evey entered the living room and asked her mother what was going on. She did not reply. Sam came in from the kitchen and started watching the news as well. Mary instructed them to finish their homework and ushered them into the hall. They left without saying a word.

     Mary walked into the bedroom twenty minutes later to the sound of the shower turning off and the curtain peeling back. She clutched a laptop in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She placed the glass on her bedside table and sat down on the bed.

     Michael emerged from the bathroom drying himself off with a towel. He put on a pair of brown-and-yellow thick-rimmed glasses and hobbled toward the dresser. He grabbed a pair of boxers and a light blue, button-down shirt out of the dresser. He buttoned the shirt over his protruding stomach and tucked it into a pair of khaki pants. He looped a belt around his waist and grabbed a broken-in pair of leather wingtips out of the closet. He began packing a duffle bag with a pair of black sneakers, three more shirts, seven pairs of socks and underwear, and a SDPD-branded windbreaker with the name “Barrish” stitched on the chest.

     “Okay,” Mary sighed. The computer was on her lap. “How long do you think it’ll be?”

     “Huh?” Michael picked his hearing aid off of the dresser and inserted it into his left ear.

     “How long do you think it’ll be?”

     “At least a couple days.”

     “Okay. I’ll take a late lunch to pick up Cole at school tomorrow. What time is tee-ball?”

     “5:00.” Michael pulled a navy blue tie out of the dresser and draped it over his shoulders. He sat down on the bed next to his wife.

     “I’ll have leave work early on Tuesday.”

     “And Thursday.”

     “And Thursday, right.”

     “Get Evey or Sam to pick him up.”

     “No, Evey’s got a final.”

     “Get Sam to do it.”

     “He’s got band that day.”

     “It’s just a couple blocks away.”

     “No, I’ll leave work early.”

     “You know they can help out.”

     “I know.”

     “You don’t have to complain about it.”

     “I’m not complaining.”

     “If you say so.”

     “What about Sunday?”

     “What’s Sunday?”

     “Point Loma. We’re going to Point Loma after church.”

     “I wouldn’t count on it. You and the kids can still go.”

     “I don’t know if Evey and Sam would want to go again.”

     “Just take Cole then.”

     The cell phone on the night stand buzzed. Michael picked it up, hit “Accept” and recited his security code again. He jotted down a few notes on his notepad and flipped a few pages over. Every sheet was filled. He thanked the person on the other line and hung up.

     The sound of the news blared from down the hall. Michael and Mary turned their eyes to the door.

     “Sam? Evey?” Michael picked up this duffle bag and stepped out into the hall. The two teenagers emerged from their rooms and stood before their father. They both sported t-shirts, sweat pants and long blonde hair that was sticking up on end.

     “I’m going to be gone a couple of days. I want you two to help out mom with a few things, all right?” The two nodded. “Cole’s got tee-ball on Tuesday and Thursday. Sam, I want you pick him up. Then you can go to practice, okay?”

     Sam nodded “yes.” Michael stepped forward and hugged Evey with his free arm. He kissed her on the cheek. He did the same with Sam. He proceeded down the hall and into the living room. An orange light emanated from the television.

     Cole was sitting cross-legged on the carpet a few feet in front of the screen. He slammed every button on the remote control.

     “Hey, you should be in bed.”

     “It’s no fair. They got to watch TV.” Michael crouched down next to his son.

     “I'm not going to be home for a few days. I’m going to miss practice this week.” Cole’s eyes remained locked on the remote. He continued to pound every button.

     “Will Coach Joe be there?

     “Yes.”

     “I don't like Coach Joe.”

     “Hey, don't say that. What do we say? If you don't have anything nice-”

     “But he's mean.” Michael took the remote out of his son’s hands and turned the television off. Cole turned to face his father. “How long are you gonna be gone?”

     “Just a few days.”

     “Who's gonna help me with math?”

     “Mom will, okay? You like it when Mom helps you, right?” Cole wrapped his arms around his father's stomach.

     “I want you to do it.”

     “It's okay. Mom’s just as good at helping you.”

     “Okay.”

     “You still want to go to Point Loma this Sunday?”

     “Is that the tide pools?”

     “That’s right. You want to see the tide pools?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Great. You know I love you, right?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Just making sure.” Michael patted his son's shoulder and gave him a kiss on the head.

     “I love you too, daddy.”

     Michael placed his hand on his lower back and slowly rose to his feet. Mary stood in the doorway with her arms folded and her head down. Michael stepped passed her on his way to through the kitchen. He grabbed a granola bar off of the counter and walked out the front door.

     The last of the day’s sun splayed across the horizon. Michael’s unmarked cruiser glided down the South Bay Freeway. He flicked on his indicator and drifted into the left-most lane heading for Interstate 5. The car’s radio emitted a police frequency. Calls came in every fifteen seconds.

     As he neared the on-ramp, traffic slowed to a crawl. A stream of red taillights stretched for miles ahead. Michael’s gaze drifted from the on-ramp to the red and violet sky over the southern horizon. His throat closed. A column of black smoke rose over the U.S.-Mexico border.

*    *    *

The voice of Sergeant Steven Bishop bled through the walls of the atrium in the Southern Division Station. His voice boomed over the three phones ringing in the room. Michael peered at the wall to this left as he stepped through the metal detector. Three handcuffed men sat on a plastic bench to this right. Dozens of uniformed officers rushed through the lobby. As he approached the front desk, Officer Lincoln waved at the detective. She ran around the partition and handed him a large vinyl-covered binder bursting with pages. Michael cradled it in his arms.

      “It was too big to email,” she said.

      “This everything on the bomber?”

      “No, that’s just jumpers.”

      “What about the bomber?”

      “714’s on that. They want us on jumpers. Forty or so.”

      “So we’re not working on the bomber?”

      “I don’t know. Bring it up with Bishop.”

      Michael drew a short breath through his nose. He nodded toward the wall to his left.

      “Can you tell him to move it downstairs? They can hear him in here.”

      Still cradling the enormous binder, Michael skulked down a flight of stairs. He entered a bullpen of empty desks spread across the entire basement floor. He stepped into his office in the back corner of the large room and flicked on the light. He plopped the binder down on his desk and lowered himself into a large, swiveling chair.

      At 6:37 a.m., ringing phones and the patter of fingers hitting keyboards filled the floor. Michael hunched over his desk pouring over each page in the binder. He had identified two of the vehicles that crossed the border without clearance the night prior. One was a black SUV operated by an American couple that turned themselves in to the Chula Vista Police Department earlier that evening. They were cleared an hour later. The other was a blue sedan captured by surveillance cameras outside Mercy Hospital in Arcadia Heights. The two occupants were apprehended at a residence in Grant Hill and eventually released.

      Michael raised his head. The clacking of a woman’s high heels overwhelmed the noise coming from outside the detective’s office. He peered through the window and saw a young woman striding toward him. She clutched two leather binders against her chest and sported a charcoal pantsuit with long black hair tied into a ponytail. She stepped up to Michael’s office and knocked on the doorframe.

      “Detective Barrish?”

      “Yes.” She walked up to him extending her hand.

      “Hi, I’m Special Agent Jennifer Chau with the FBI.”

      “Nice to meet you.”

      “I’m working with Joe Callahan on the-”

      “Oh yeah. Me and him go way back.”

      “He’s outside. He wants to speak with you.”

      “Oh sure.” Michael jumped out of his chair and followed the special agent back through the bullpen.

      They walked out the rear door of the station and into the parking lot. A few streaks of blue broke through the cloudy sky overhead. Joe Callahan stood just off the curb with a cigarette in his mouth. He spotted the two approaching. He took one more drag on the cigarette before throwing it on the ground and smothering it with his foot.

      “I thought Mel got you to quit,” Michael said. He and Callahan shook hands.

      “Grew my balls back. What time did you get in?”

      “About 8:30. I didn’t hear for fifteen minutes.”

      “That’s too long.

      “It is too long.”

      “Where you coming from now?”

      “Spring Valley.”

      “You didn’t stick around here?”

      “Mary wanted to move north. Evey might be headed that way too.”

      “Oh really? What for?”

      “School. She got into-” Jen took a step closer to the two men.

      “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a lot of work to do. We-”

      “No, you’re right,” Callahan took one of the binders from Jen’s arms and handed it to Michael. “That’s FBI.”

      Michael opened it and started flipping through the first few pages.

      “Oh this is great. They just got me working on jumpers from last night.”

      “Hey, could get us a beat on suspects.”

      “I hope so. I don’t want them deploying any of our guys on the other side.”

      “Oh it’s ‘dispatch.’ Not ‘deployment.’ ‘Dispatch’ and ‘security’ for the investigation. We’re not ready to call this an act of terror yet.”

      Michael nodded toward the other binder in Jen’s arms.

      “What’s the other one?”

      “National Guard.”

      “We couldn’t get real army guys down here?”

      “They are real army guys, Mike. Trust me.”

      “Can I keep this?”

      “Yeah. You’re gonna need it. There’s a briefing at 0700. It goes over everything.”

      “Can you just give me the minutes? I want to get back to my desk and unpack this first.”

      “Yeah.” Callahan cleared his throat and turned toward Jen. “Hey, can you excuse us for a minute?” She nodded, spun around and walked toward the corner of the building facing 27th Street. Joe snatched the other binder from her arms as she walked away. He held it aloft in front of Michael.

      “You’re, uh...gonna need this one too. You’re our lead in Mexico.”

      Callahan placed the binder atop the one Michael was reading. It slipped out of his hands. Michael snatched it and clutched it tightly against his stomach. He looked wide-eyed at Callahan.

      “Wait, wh-what do you mean?”

      “You’re leading the dispatch into Mexico.”

      “What are you talking about? I’m local.”

      “They want local down there to approve every move and confirm evidence. You’re our most senior det, so we assigned you.”

      “But I don’t know T.J. I’ve never been down there.”

      “We’ve got another guy there that can help you. He’ll be with you every step of the way. And you’ll have a whole regiment with you. You’ll have Juan helping you out. Aerial surveillance. All of it.”

      “Why not someone from the Bureau? You know T.J. You could-”

      “It’s SDPD’s scene. It was either you, me, Bishop or Woods. Hell, Woods isn’t even around anymore.”

      “Why didn’t you take it?”

      “Because I-”

      Callahan twisted around. A rumbling noise filled the air. Around the corner, five desert-camouflaged MTVRs rolled in front of the station entrance on 27th Street. As each truck came to a stop, a line of national guardsmen dressed in tan-colored fatigues poured out. They formed two long lines and filed into the station. Callahan turned back to face Michael.

      “I did my time down there. Four months on the other side. All I’m asking for is a week, tops. And I gotta stay here. I got higher-ups breathing down my neck. I got a press crying for blood.”

      “I haven’t done field work in fifteen years.”

      “Doesn’t mean you can’t now. Maybe it’ll get you to a national agency. It got me the Bureau.”

      “You think a week on the other side will get me the Bureau?”

      “Hey, worked for me and Woods. It got Bishop to sergeant. We’re doing fine. I wasn’t worried about putting my girls through school. You can do it. You got the brains. You just got to deplo...dispatch them...properly.”

      Michael tilted his head to get a better look at the stream of guardsmen entering the station.

      “Joe...Cole is only five. These kids, you know, they’re growing up faster and faster every day. I can’t spend that long over there. At least your girls are out of school. I don’t know if I’ll even...you know, come back. He needs me.”

      “You wanna wait ‘til he’s all grown up? When is that? When you’re seventy? This is coming one way or another. We all did our time down there, now you’re up to bat. You really want to be there for your family, you really want to protect them from these psychos? This is your chance. I know it’s a tough spot, but you’ll knock it out of the park. I know it.” The last of the guardsman entered the station, and the trucks’ engines stopped rattling. Callahan took a step toward Jen, who was still standing at the corner of the building. She was looking down at her phone. He turned back toward Michael.

      “Hey, what school did Evey get into?”

      “Santa Cruz.”

      “That’s great. Good for her. Give her my best when you get back.”

      Both Callahan and Jen rounded the corner and approached the station’s front entrance. Michael remained in the parking lot with the two binders cradled in his arms. He was the sole person outside the station.

      At 7:04 a.m. Sergeant Bishop stood at the dais at the front of the basement briefing room. He rested his right arm on the podium.

      “This meeting doesn’t directly relate to all of you. This is about the information we’ve attained and a dispatch down into Mexico. Only ten, eleven, twelve of you will actually head down there. Most of you will stay here, keep the peace, track down those that crossed illegally last night.”

      Over one hundred guardsmen and officers were packed inside. Every table and chair was filled. More police and military personnel lined the white, windowless walls of the briefing room. A loud buzzing emanated from the vents overhead. Wires and metal ducting dangled from the exposed ceiling. Michael stood beside Callahan and Jen near the room’s only door.

      “But of course this meeting affects you. What happened last night affects all of us. It took two of our brothers. So no matter what your assignment is, you do it with a full heart and a clear purpose. Because there are enemies knocking at our door, and they’re knocking loudly. You’re the protectors of this house. You keep it safe no matter what.” Many of the officers nodded.

      “I’m gonna hand it over to Detective Barrish. He’s our most senior guy, been with us almost thirty years. He’s going to be leading our dispatch down in T.J., so you hang onto every word he says. Mike.” The sergeant stepped away from the podium. Michael shuffled toward the front of the room and placed the leather binder down on the dais. He pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded over to the door.

      “Can we, uh, get the AC and lights please?”

      The lights shut off and the buzzing ceased. A satellite image of the San Ysidro Port of Entry was projected on the whiteboard behind him. The picture displayed a large plume of smoke pouring from a hole underneath the crossing’s concrete canopy.

      “As, uh...you are aware, at 1907, an explosive detonated approximately nine yards from the San Ysidro Port of Entry. Six people are confirmed dead. Another thirty-six are injured. And about forty vehicles crossed the border without proper identification or clearance. Here is what we have ascertained from evidence collected by border patrol, FBI and precinct 714 last night. Techs estimate that five hundred pounds of a gasoline-based explosive detonated in the back of a white Chevrolet Express. The plates show that it was last owned by a church organization. It’s, uh...highly likely that the van was stolen, but we are trying to find any connection we can to the owners. All but one body has been moved from the blast site. It is a male in the driver’s seat of the van. Forensics is still looking for, uh...still looking to identify this man, and we are still determining if he is our main culprit.” Two officers seated in the front of the room diligently took notes. Every other officer and guardsman remained still.

      “We have not yet declared this an act of terrorism.” The room creaked. “We anticipate that it was premeditated. It was detonated at the highest volume of traffic, 7:00 p.m. on a Sunday. But we do not know if this an attack against the U.S. or Mexico, we do not know who the man in the driver’s seat of that vehicle is, and we do not have a motive.” Whispers echoed throughout the room.

      “But we have, uh...in the last few hours or so, we have identified a P.O.I.” The image projected behind Michael changed to a large photo I.D. of a Hispanic man. His eyes were open wide, his hair was disheveled, and his head was tilted back to reveal a scarred chin and dry, cracked neck.

      “This is Julio de la Cruz. A few minutes before the explosion, de la Cruz was stopped at the border with a similar vehicle—a brown van—that contained five barrels filled with gasoline. We believe he was coordinating with others in a deliberate attack. After the blast, he ran south and was lost by border patrol and local law enforcement. De la Cruz is a Mexican citizen born between 1987 and 1988. He has been to the United States once on a work visa in 2014. Other than that, he has no known ties to any terrorist organizations, extremist groups or cartels.”

      Michael signaled toward the door again. The fluorescent lights overhead slowly flickered back on.

      “Our primary objective is to find de la Cruz and the source of the procured vehicle, starting with that church org. We will be sending a small expeditionary unit down to Mexico to conduct an investigation. If you have any questions-”

      “When do we deploy?”

      Michael looked around the room for the source of the question, but he could not find the man that uttered it.

      “This is not a deployment. This is a dispatch of investigative and security operations. PT and CISEN have requested that we not have troops accompany our investigative team, so we will need absolute discretion on this. We will move out at exactly 0900 after a manifest has been-”

      “Who’re you sending out?” a guardsman asked from the far corner of the room.

      “Your assignments will be posted. If you have any questions, you can report to your commanding officer or me. We will answer them as best we can.” The room started to fill to chatter as the officers and guardsman filed toward the exit.

      “One last thing.” Michael tried to raise his voice over the crowd. “You should not have any contact with the press or social media. Absolutely nothing leaves this room. Nothing...”

      His voice trailed off. The soldiers continued to march out of the room. As Michael gathered all of the papers off the podium, Callahan saddled up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

      “Hey, good job.”

      “Yeah,” Michael sighed. “I’ll be director in no time.”

      “Hey, don’t worry about a thing down there. I’ve assigned our best man to help you out. He’s very driven, very results-oriented. Listen to everything he says, okay?”

      “What’s his-“

      “I mean it. Everything he says. His intel’s very reliable.”

      “What’s his name?”

      “Don’t worry about it. He’ll correspond with you down south. Just stay safe.” He gave Michael another pat on the shoulder and turned toward the exit. Michael could see his friend lean over and whisper something in Jen’s ear before leaving the room.

      Michael exited the station and stopped before a line of light brown trucks and black-and-white cruisers idling on 27th Street. He scanned the pages inside a manila folder in his hands and spotted the MTVR reserved for him and the unit. He walked over the truck, opened the door and pulled himself up into the cab. Jen was already seated inside.

      The vinyl bench seat squeaked under the detective’s heavy frame. His sidearm pressed into his lower back. He removed the firearm and placed it in a compartment in the dashboard.

      The guardsman began piling into the back and securing their equipment. Michael peered through the small plastic window dividing the cab from the bed. He watched each officer as they took their places in back. The ten members of the unit appeared stoic. Their faces were shaved with their eyes trained on the floor. They all brandished black bands around their arms with the letters “JD” and “AR” stitched in white thread.

      Michael turned around and leafed through each page in the manila folder, connecting the names and faces of every guardsmen in the unit. The two seated closest to the cab were Sergeants Devin Blaylock and Christopher Dowd. All of the other members were listed as privates and specialists. A large brown and black Belgian Milanois sat in front of Blaylock. The sergeant had a hold of the dog’s leash. Michael could hear its panting over the engine’s roar. The manifest listed the canine’s name as Bronco.

      The detective leaned over toward Jen.

      “Excuse me, Special Agent, uh...”

      “Chau.”

      “Chau. Have you ever been on an investigation like this?”

      “Yes, we looked into threats at a nuclear facility in Arizona.”

      “Was that a threat or an attack?”

      “It was a legitimate threat.”

      “Did you have a team of guardsmen like this?”

      “And women.” She tapped the folder, pointing to Kaylen Starr on the manifest. She was the only female in the unit. Michael turned around and attempted to find her. She was sandwiched between Privates Jeremy Peters and Thomas Garcia, obscured behind their bulky frames.

      “You’ll have about twenty minutes on the site to look for new leads. Then we’ll head straight for the consulate.”

      “How long have you been working with Joe?”

      “About nine months.”

      “Are you originally from here?”

      “Let’s keep it related to the case please.”

      “Fair enough.”

*    *    *

Two cruisers flanked the MTVR as it trundled down Interstate 805 toward the San Ysidro border crossing. Outside the passenger window, flowers, candles and hand-written notes lined on the guardrail on the southbound side of the freeway. More and more memorials appeared on the side of the road as they proceeded south.

      The truck came to a stop before an array of tents and pop-up canopies. An officer in fatigues stepped behind the truck and started screaming at the guardsmen in back. They swiftly poured out of the rear doors and rushed around the vehicle

      “That’s their staff sergeant,” Jen noted. “Don’t worry, he won’t be joining us down south.”

      Michael and Jen disembarked from the MTVR. The sergeant shouted at the two investigators to approach the first security checkpoint. They took their place in line behind the ten soldiers. Over a dozen police officers and FBI personnel examined their I.D.s, looked through their equipment and gave them each a pat-down. After passing through the first checkpoint, an Army ranger passed radios with headsets to both Michael and Blaylock.

      “I’ll be on the radio from this side,” Jen told Michael.

      “What’s with the other one?”

      “That’s for the sergeants.”

      “I prefer one line of comms.”

      “Excuse me, det,” The staff sergeant bellowed as he approached Michael. His voice overwhelmed the commotion inside the tents. “Sergeant Blaylock must be in constant contact with his C.O. I am his C.O. If you have any questions, please address them to me.”

      “Got it. I’m Detective Barrish by the-”

      “I should remind you that we are one unit. That’s what the word ‘unit’ means. One. Two commanders will not interfere with that unit. We have one mind and one goal.”

      “Got it, thank you.” Michael bowed his head as he inserted the earpiece into his right ear and proceeded to the next tent. Jen remained behind with a radio in hand.

      The unit assembled in a large white panel truck with plastic sheeting and decontaminants inside. Starr was led into another van with a sign stating “Women’s Changing” over the door. Michael took off his sweat-stained shirt and khaki pants while the guardsmen folded their fatigues. They handed their clothes to the clean room techs. They put on hair nets and shoe covers, then walked across a tacky mat and into another truck. They selected white latex gloves out of boxes, then moved on the shelf that contained the rest of the cleanroom suit. Michael selected a large. He threw on a white hood that caused the earpiece and microphone to dig into his cheek. Another officer helped him don the coverall. After stepping across another tacky mat, he put on second pair of gloves and a pair of clear plastic goggles. The officer inspected the suit before granting him permission to proceed. He stepped out of the truck with the unit in tow. Every guardsmen brandished M4 rifles at sling ready.

      As he exited the truck, he noticed Starr rejoining the group. Another woman adorned in a clean suit walked alongside her.

      “Is that you, Drea?” Michael asked.

      “Yeah.”

      “How are you?”

      “Fine. Better if I didn’t have to get in and out of this thing ten fucking times.”

      “Can you watch your language around the site, please?”

      The group gathered at the last security checkpoint underneath a green canvas tent. Michael and Blaylock tested the radios. They heard Jen and the staff sergeant on the other side of the outpost.

      Standing before a dark green curtain, Drea told them to step left of the rubble and under the thinnest portion of the canopy. A portion of the overhang had collapsed following the blast, but engineers deemed it structurally stable. She warned that they should remain under the concrete beams in the event of a collapse. Michael nodded. Drea yanked the curtain open.

      The commotion behind them quieted. The unit stood under the shade of the concrete canopy. Michael’s breath rushed against the surgical mask over his nose and mouth. To his left, a mass of vehicles stopped just short of eight police cruisers and five fire engines on the northbound side of the highway. Their windows were shattered. The rubber seals around the doors had melted. The paint on their hoods and rear quarter panels was peeling away. The detective walked past the line of accordioned cars on his right. A steppe of nearly a thousand abandoned vehicles pointed north on the Via Oriente. Michael’s eyes locked onto the large gap surrounded by four burnt-out vehicles. He stepped toward the gap in the road. The guardsmen followed closely behind.

      The unit formed two rows behind the detective. A layer of gray ash crunched under their corrugated boot heels. They stepped out from under the canopy. Michael shielded his eyes from the midday sun.

      The dust started to float in the wind. Michael and the guardsmen hunched over and shielded their faces as the cinders blew up under their googles. A machine gun-like patter filled the air. A high-pitched ring in Michael’s hearing aid erupted. He attempted to turn it off under his hood, but he could not reach the dial. He peeled one eye open to see a black-and-white helicopter circling roughly a hundred feet overhead. Michael lowered his hand to his waist and pressed the call button on his walkie talkie.

      “Can we get rid of the helo?” The radio returned nothing but static.

      “Negative.”

      “Well can we get it higher off the deck?”

      “That height’s for aerial surveillance.” He moved his hand away from the radio. He continued his march toward the gap in the roadway.

      Cracked layers of asphalt appeared at the edge of the still-smoldering crater. Dozens of white markers numbered 1 through 467 littered the area surrounding ground zero. The van’s cab rested on its front bumper ten feet away from the crater. The tires were melted. The rubber poured off the wheels. The two passenger windows were shattered. A white sheet covered the roof, windshield and doors. The frame, floorpan and metal surrounding the front seats remained intact.

      Michael faced Drea and pointed to the white sheet covering the cab. She took a few steps forward, grabbed the sheet and pulled it away. The charred remains of the driver appeared behind the steering wheel. Its head bent back against the headrest. Its mouth was open wide. The bright white teeth shined against its black, charred skin. The smell wafted under Michael’s mask. He turned back toward Drea.

      “Can I get shots of the cab here and the ground around it?” Her shoulders sank. She dropped the sheet, unzipped the top of her coverall and removed a thin black camera. She snapped several pictures of the corpse inside the cab and the surrounding crater. Michael stepped around the cab and peered at the passenger door. It was open wide. The latch looked undamaged. He put his hand on the radio again.

      “Was the passenger door open on detonation?”

      “One more time.”

      “Was the passenger door open on detonation?”

      “Yes.”

      “Can we confirm if anyone or anything came out then?”

      “We’re still looking for that footage.”

      Michael twisted around and faced Drea again.

      “Did you get samples of the door?”

      “Yeah, at least a hundred of ‘em.”

      “Can you get them again please? Before any more tar contaminates them?”

      Drea stomped around a few guardsmen on the way to the passenger door. A gust of wind caused her to stumble. The helicopter lowered and turned south. The whipping sound of its rotors grew louder. A few of the numbered markers blew away in the gust. The shrill ringing in Michael’s hearing aid continued. More static came over the radio.

      “Repeat that, over.”

      “Unknown, unknown,” the staff sergeant screamed on the other end of the line. “We have an unknown on the road about fifty yards out.”

      Michael spun around and surveyed the site. Blaylock yelled at the other guardsmen. The unit raised their rifles to high ready and formed a circle around the detective. Drea screamed, dropped the camera and ducked beside the crater. The floating ash obscured Michael’s view.

      “I don’t see anything. Do you have visual?” He pressed the headset deeper into his right ear.

      “Fifty yards out.”

      Michael looked south. Around the slight bend in the road, a figure in black walked north on the Via Oriente. Michael shielded his eyes to get a better look at the figure. Blaylock and Dowd broke out of the circle and sprinted south with their rifles trained at the figure. The rest of the guardsmen followed.

      Michael ran after the unit. The unknown figure was now twenty feet away. He was a middle-aged man wearing large reflective sunglasses and a black jacket over a maroon-colored t-shirt. He sported wavy, medium-length brown hair combed to the right. The sunlight reflected off of the greasy, sunburnt skin on his face. He maintained a casual gait as he made his way up the road.

      The two sergeants stopped just a few feet in front of him. They trained their rifles at his head. The man slowly raised his hands to shoulder height.

      “Don’t move! Down on the ground!” Dowd shouted.

      “Do not move in.” Jen’s voice came over the radio again. “Can you hear me? Do not-”

      Barrish twisted his head away from the unit to make sense of the noise in his right ear.

      “I’m looking for Mike Barrish,” the man shouted over the helicopter’s patter. “You here, Mike?”

      “Down on the ground!” Dowd yelled again.

      “That’s him,” Michael heard on the radio. “That’s our man in Mexico. Do not apprehend him.”

      “I’m looking for Mike,” the man repeated. Michael turned back toward the unknown male.

      “Down, asshole!” Dowd flicked the safety off his rifle. Michael quickly stepped up behind the two sergeants and motioned at them lower their firearms.

      “Wait a minute! Wait a minute! I’m Detective Michael Barrish. Who are you?”

      “Joe told me I’d be working with you over here.”

      “What’s your name?” The man gradually put one hand down and reached for his back pocket. Both Dowd and Blaylock took another step closer and retrained their rifles at his head.

      “Don’t move! Hands where I can see them.”

      The man pulled out a few folded pieces of yellow paper and extended them to Michael.

      “The first thing I need is to get across the border.”

      Michael took a few cautious steps forward and snatched the papers out of the man’s hand. He unfolded them and read over the Spanish text on each page. Government seals appeared in the upper left corner of each page. The man’s name did not appear anywhere on the documents.

      “I’m need some I.D. U.S.-issued I.D. And I need-”

      “You’re looking for Julio.”

      “What?” The noise from the helicopter drowned out their shouting.

      “You’re looking for Julio de la Cruz.”

      “I can’t give you that...I can’t give you any information.”

      “Please get him what he needs,” Jen radioed again. “If he needs to get across the border-”

      “Push him back,” the staff sergeant yelled in Michael’s ear.

      “I need you to step back and identify your-”

      “I talked to Julio. Had a good chat with him this morning. He told me you got a van in holding. I need to get to that van. There’s something in it I need. Once I get it, it’ll lead us to the people who actually did this. I get you Julio, you get me to the van. Deal?”

      “I’m not making deals.”

      “Then you’re not getting the guys who did this.”

      The unit stared blankly ahead. Peters and Garcia looked at one another for a second, then trained their sights back on the unknown man.

      “Listen to what he says.” Jen’s voice buzzed in Barrish’s ear again, followed by a distorted transmission of the staff sergeant’s invectives. Michael reached down to his waist and turned the radio off. The ringing in his hearing aid persisted.

      “All right. You’re going to have to pass security and you’re going to have to walk around the site. You hear me?”

      “Uh huh.” The man nodded. He lowered his hands and took a few steps forward.

      “Hands up!” Dowd aimed his rifle back at the man. He immediately threw his hands back up.

      “All right, all right, all right. Chill.” Michael took a step behind Dowd and directed the man around the site.

      “You need to walk toward the far left lane and that curtain there. The green one.” Michael headed back toward the security tents. The unknown man and the guardsmen trailed behind him. Dowd and Blaylock continued to aim their rifles at the man. Michael stopped and turned around. “What’s your name?”

      “Guy.”

      “Guy. Guy what?” The man was silent for a moment. He looked down and scratched his upper lip.

      “Sool.”

      “Soul?”

      “Yeah. Sool.”

      Michael looked at him puzzled. He continued his walk back toward the border crossing. He passed a brown Kia Soul on his right. Drea got out of her cowered position and followed the unit back toward the canopy.

      The helicopter stopped circling overhead. The ringing in Michael’s hearing aid abetted. Forty minutes elapsed since they handed Sool’s papers to security. A bead of sweat rolled off Michael’s forehead and dribbled down his eye protection. The rest of the unit stood in the shade of the canopy a few yards away green curtain. Dowd and Garcia stood with their heads cricked to the side. Their rifles hung from their necks. The private muttered that it was worse than the airport.

      A citrusy smell hit Michael’s noise. A heavy stench of smoke irritated his nostrils. He turned around and noticed Sool standing a few feet away smoking a cigarillo. He walked around two abandoned vehicles and up to the smoking man.

      “Hey, you’re going to contaminate the scene. Go over there if you’re going to smoke.” Sool sauntered away from the curtain and continued to huff on the small brown cigarette.

      The green canvas finally opened, and Jen stepped out.

      “You can remove your suits,” she said. Michael, Dowd and Garcia immediately reached for their hoods and threw them off. They each inhaled in deep breaths as they removed their masks, hair nets and googles. Jen turned toward Sool. The man in the black jacket threw the cigarillo on the ground.

      “Okay, lead the way,” Jen instructed.

      The holding area lay just beyond the collection of emergency vehicles. Sool removed his sunglasses and wiped away the sweat that had formed on this brow. He traipsed around the first responder vehicles. His eyes were trained on the ground.

      They rounded a white panel truck. The holding area just a few dozen feet away. Sool maintained his leisurely gait toward a brown conversion van with no license plates. Its rear doors were open wide. Five blue, plastic oil drums appeared in the shadows of the van’s rear. Three drums stood upright. Two were on their sides. The lids of the overturned drums were removed. Some liquid pooled on the van’s carpeted floor.

      “We’ve cleared this with bomb techs, right?” Michael asked.

      “Yes,” Jen replied.

      “Okay, I want another sweep of this van. Drea, can we get-”

      “Hey,” Drea screamed in Sool’s direction. He climbed into the back of the van, reached down and dripped his fingers into the puddle at the base of the barrel. He raised his fingers to his nose and took a whiff.

      “Still kind of warm.” Sool jumped out of the van and peered in Jen’s direction. “Border patrol didn’t nab anyone covered in gas last night, did they?”

      Drea stormed over to him. Michael jumped after her.

      “Forensics hasn’t touched that yet,” she screamed. “You’re gonna ruin the fucking scene.” Sool craned his head over the diminutive Drea.

      “Jen?”

      “I don’t know. All I know is they lost the driver.”

      “Right,” Sool brushed his way passed Drea and toward the guardsmen.

      “You guys got a tracking dog or something?”

      “Yeah,” Blaylock replied. “Bronco can track.”

      “Good. Let’s get it here and see if it can find a trail somewhere.”

      Sool strode back toward the green curtain. The guardsmen followed his lead. Drea stepped in front of Sool’s path and put a finger in his chest.

      “Hey, asshole, did you hear me? You just fucked up our forensics. Now I have to take your samples. You take one more step, I’m gonna rip your fucking-”

      Michael quickly jumped in, grabbed Drea by the shoulders and yanked her away.

      “Hey!” Barrish stood face-to-face with her. “Take a walk if you’re going to talk like that. You got another job to do. Find out who was in the driver’s seat, okay?” He pointed toward the curtain. Drea stormed back toward the encampment on the U.S. side of the border. Jen and the guardsmen continued their slow march toward the curtain. Michael drew a long breath through his nose and ran his right hand through his short gray hair.

      “Chris Harris,” Sool muttered. He inserted another cigarillo in his mouth. “It’s Chris Harris. That’s the guy in the van.”

      He lit the cigarillo and sauntered back toward the curtain.

      “She’s right, you know. You can’t mess up forensics like that.”

      “Okay. I’m gonna keep plowing ahead at my pace if that’s all right with you.”

      “I know you and Joe are under a lot of pressure to get guys fast, but-”

      “Don’t worry. I already got them.”

      “Got what?

      “Suspects.”

      “You can’t have suspects already.”

      “I can when I do my job right.”

      “You got any witnesses? Reports? Anything to back that-”

      “I told you, I spoke with Julio this morning. I’d say he was a pretty good witness.”

      “That’s it? That’s what you’re going off of?”

      “Partly, yeah.”

      “Hey.” Michael stepped in front of him. “If you have suspects, you need to tell me.”

      “When you need to know, I will.”

      “Who are they?”

      “You need to know now?”

      “Yes.” Sool took another drag on the cigarillo.

      “Dos hermanos. Two brothers. Those are our guys. You wanna know more, just ask.” He stepped around of Michael and continued his stroll toward the encampment.

      Now dressed in tan fatigues, the guardsmen formed a semi-circle around the rear of the conversion van. Michael, Jen and Sool waited a dozen feet behind them. Blaylock clutched Bronco’s leash. The dog sat on its haunches.

      Dowd approached the van with five fabric swatches in his hand. He dipped each swatch into the puddle of gasoline and passed them over the dog’s nose. Bronco immediately yanked on the leash and barked at the northeast exit of the port. Through the glass doors of the bus depot appeared a deserted plaza, parking lot and sheltered benches for the trolley line. Bronco dragged the sergeant through the depot and into the plaza.

      “We should get the truck,” Jen said. “This could take a while.”

      With the MTVR and two police cruisers idling on Otay Mesa Road, Bronco skulked around the barren hills just north of the border crossing. The unit lined up behind Blaylock and the dog on a sandy path surrounded by decaying, waist-high grass. Each member scanned the area around the path.

      A dozen yards down the path, Sool faced the border fence. His back was turned to the unit. The decaying grass at his knees rustled in the wind. A neighborhood of ramshackle homes sat perched on a steep hill visible over the fence. He wore his large reflective sunglasses. Two black earphones were stuffed in his ears.

      Michael and Jen stood in the shade provided by the MTVR. Jen looked down at her phone. She clutched a pen and notepad in her other hand. Michael leaned against the vehicle with his arms folded. He glared up at Sool.

      “What’s his name? Really?”

      “He’s been ‘Guy’ as long as I’ve known him.”

      “You see how he spells it?”

      “I don’t know, detective. After years of service, I feel like you earn the right to call yourself whatever you want.”

      “I feel like he got it off a-”

      “You check hospitals?” Michael twisted his head and saw Sool looking down at him and Jen from the hill. He held one of his earphones aloft in his right hand.

      “Sorry?” Michael shouted back.

      “Check hospitals. See if they’re treating anybody who didn’t burn to death last night.” He inserted the earphone back into his ear and turned toward the border fence.

      “I’d like to see where this guy gets his information.”

      “Joe and I would like that too.”

      “You got a lot of faith in him if that’s the case.”

      “He’s right about a hundred percent of the time.”

      “About?”

      “He...” Jen stopped cycling through her phone and looked north up Otay Mesa Road. “He’s had a few dropped balls here and there, but he’s effective. His performance is exemplary.”

      “He’s already contaminated the scene and withheld information from us. I don’t think we’re off to a great start.”

      “He’s not C.S.I. He’s good with witnesses. That’s what we need.” She resumed looking at her phone. Michael stepped out of the van’s shadow and turned to face Jen.

      “I’d like to speak to de la Cruz now if that’s possible.”

      “It’s not. We have to limit radio comms.”

      “I want to see what he told him.”

      “We’ll be at the consulate later this afternoon. We can talk to him then.”

      “I thought I was in charge this investigation.” She looked up from her phone.

      “You are heading this investigation.”

      “Then I’d like to talk to him now.”

      “With all due respect, detective, I’ve been investigations like this one. And once we finish with this lead, we can-”

      “Do you argue with Joe this much too? You know me and him go way back.”

      Jen unleashed an exasperated sigh. She tucked her phone under her arm and jotted down a few numbers on her notepad with the pen. She tore out the page and handed it to Michael.

      “That’s the security code. Don’t use your phone. It’s an insecure line.” She handed him her phone.

      “Thank you.”

      “Joe and Melanie divorced nine months ago by the way.”

      Michael’s eyes fell to the note. He cleared his throat.

      “Okay. Sorry if, uh-”

      “I get it. We’re all angry. But we have to stay together on this.”

      Michael took a few steps down the sloped road and dialed the number on the small piece of paper. He recited the code and his full name. The other line droned in his right ear for a full minute.

      “U.S. Consulate General Tijuana. How may I help you?”

      “Yes, this is Detective Michael Barrish with the San Diego Police Department.”

      “Yes, sir. How are you?”

      “I’m, um...fine, thank you. How are you?”

      “I’m good, thanks. Are you asking about your dispatch here?”

      “No, I was hoping to speak to somebody in your custody.”

      “Oh...we don’t have anyone in custody at the moment.” Michael peered back up the hill at Sool. He was still standing in the long grass with his gaze locked southward. A fly buzzed around his head and landed on his chest. He did not seem to notice it.

      “I’m sorry. I’m looking for a Julio de la Cruz. He was in your custody this morning.”

      “Oh no, he wasn’t in our custody.”

      “I was told he’d be at the consulate?”

      “I’m not sure.” Michael heard her rifle through papers on the other end of the line. “I think I heard his name before. I don’t know much about it. They told me they were taking him to the hospital before turning him over to us.”

      “Did anyone else come between the bombing and now?”

      “Oh yeah. Tourists. Lot of tourists. Some local law enforcement. A few ex-pats. And a special agent with the, uh...you know, I don’t know what agency he’s with.”

      “Do you know his name?”

      “You know, I can’t remember. I’ve seen him around before. He’s been in and out a few times. He’s real nice.” The fly flew off of Sool’s chest.

      Michael heard the words “‘atta boy” exclaimed behind him. He spun around and saw Bronco yanking at his leash, dragging Blaylock over the crest of the hill and toward a planned community at the end of the street.

      “Okay. Thank you for your help, Ms., uh...”

      “Oh my name’s Tonya Agee. I’m the administrative assistant here.”

      “Okay. Thank you, Ms. Agee. Have, uh...have a nice day.” Michael hung up and walked back up the hill. He handed the phone back to Jen. The MTVR’s engine bellowed as it began to crawl up the road.

      The ten guardsmen crested over a small ridge and made their way down a loosely packed trail and onto pavement. Bronco led them across the vacant thoroughfare and onto Eagle Drive. They marched passed a stone sign with the words “Obsidian Hills” carved into it. The MTVR trailed the unit nearly one hundred yards back.

      The unit stalked up a block of identical, mauve-colored homes. Each house featured a two-car garage and a tiled, hipped roof. The sidewalks and streets were devoid of people and vehicles.

      Bronco lifted his nose from the pavement. He turned toward the house numbered 1575 and began barking wildly. Blaylock pulled the dog back and patted his side, abating his yelping. The guardsmen lifted their rifles to low ready as they fixed their attention on the house.

      The driveway was empty. No cars sat on the curb outside. The mailbox by the front door was overflowing with envelopes and catalogs. The curtains were drawn over every window.

      Sool removed the earphones from his ears and approached Michael.

      “They on vacation or what?”

      “Huh?”

      “They on vacation? I thought this was your beat.”

      “We don’t keep track of everyone’s vacation time.”

      “If that’s your excuse. Let’s see what’s going on.”

      Both Peters and Garcia sprinted down a gravel path behind 1575 Eagle Drive. The path traversed a ridge overlooking the backyard. They fell to their stomachs and trained their rifles at the rear windows and doors. Peters removed an infrared sensor from his fatigues and directed it at the house. The heat of the late afternoon sun scrambled any clear signatures. He radioed that there was a fair amount of heat coming from a plastic toolshed sitting in the corner of the backyard.

      Starr took position atop the MTVR’s cab. Her vision inside the house was limited. The residents in the surrounding homes gathered by their windows and gawked at the operation outside. A few hundred yards down the road, a smattering of news vans started to gather near the stone sign.

      Michael was standing beside the MTVR when the ringing in his left ear returned. He looked skyward. A black police helicopter moved in from the southwest. Three more media helicopters hovered above it. The detective deactivated his hearing aid. He opened the passenger door of the truck, removed his sidearm from the compartment under the dashboard and clipped it onto his belt. He approached Jen with his hand firmly placed again his firearm.

      “Okay,” the detective stated. “If we have everyone in position, let’s move.”

      “You’ll wanna hang back for this one, chief,” Sool said. I’ll take a look.”

      “I need to see what’s going on in there.”

      “Just let me take a crack at it, then I’ll call you.”

      “He’s right, detective,” Jen interjected. “Let Guy go in alone on this one, then we’ll reassess.” Michael drew another breath through his nose. He loosened his stance and removed his hand from the sidearm.

      “Go ahead then.”

      Blaylock and Dowd raised their rifles to high ready. With some slack on his leash, Bronco led Blaylock up the driveway on his hind legs toward the gate to the backyard. It was ajar. Sool trailed behind the two sergeants with his hands at his side.

      Blaylock took hold of the wooden gate and drew it open. From the MTVR, Michael saw the bright green, well-manicured lawn in the backyard. An overturned playhouse, plastic baseball bat and bicycle were strewn across the grass. A green garden hose was off its reel with water dribbling out. A patch of brown, trampled grass appeared at the end of the running hose.

      Michael stepped to his right to get a better look at the toolshed in the back corner of the yard. He regarded Blaylock, Dowd and Sool making their way toward the shed. Bronco was still tugging at the leash.

      The shed door was closed. Blaylock pushed it open with the barrel of his rifle. Bronco began barking again, baring his teeth and spitting saliva. Blaylock jerked the dog back and patted his side again. Bronco calmed.

      Shadows enveloped the shed’s interior. The two guardsmen backpedaled from it, and Sool walked inside. He shut the door behind him. Michael’s eyes narrowed. Sool was now out of sight. The detective took a few small steps toward the open gate.

      “What’s going on in there?” he asked.

      “Just wait until we see what he has,” Jen assured him. Michael craned his neck forward. A hallow sound rushed through his non-functioning hearing aid.

      “What the hell’s going on in there?”

      “Just wait.”

      Michael stormed up the driveway.

      “Detective, please just wait. Let him do his work.”

      He marched through the open gate, into the backyard and up to the shed. He reached for the door handle and tried to yank it open. It was locked. He threw his shoulder into the door. It would not budge.

            Blaylock, Dowd and Jen witnessed Michael impotently try to get inside. He threw his shoulder into the door again. It would not move. He slammed on the door with open palm and shouted in frustration. He reactivated his hearing aid, but heard only a high-pitched ring and the buzzing from the chopper overhead. He could hear nothing inside.