I had brought the squad 4x4 to a halt on a rise, overlooking a valley that stretched before us with nothing but sand, rocks, and the occasional tufts of hardy, determined vegetation.

In the distant, I could make out the outline of a residential building and some smaller outhouses which could be a garage, workshop, or prison cell.

Jane began to rummish through her black tog-bag. The same I had seen special ops use during my tour in Afghanistan. Dense, black nylon with many external pockets to store accessories. The kind that in-case-of-emergency, could be used to carry a wounded man by attaching two poles. That’s how thick and strong the stitching and webbings are.

She removed a pair or Zeiss binoculars. A big beast, with orange yellow tinted lenses. She scanned the area for several minutes before handing me the field glasses and pointing into the direction of the lonely homestead.

The view with these lenses was phenomenal. Auto adjusting focus, I could hear tiny gears buzzing as I glanced about and the focus changed to adjust for distance, which was displayed in small numbers in the top right corner, and the elevation, which was shown by an incremented line on the left. It may also have adjusted lighting to match the surroundings, since everything I looked at came into clear focus. Without glare, or other distractions.

My initial observations were confirmed when an old, wooden house, came into focus. Its sun scorched; yellowing paint was peeling everywhere. Especially on the exposed sides, window frames and porch columns, which were holding up the simple, corrugated roof sheets, which also had been sun backed and speckled with brown patches of corrosion. I saw no external aircon units from this angle and thought back to our, airconditioned hell back at the compound. Metal roof sheets. I felt several streams of perspiration run down my back at the mere thought of how hot it must be in that house. Considering that out here I could already feel the sun burn my knuckles and heat up the binoculars housing. All around me the horizon shimmered in the relentless, semi desert sky. Its sweltering heat, draining, turning my throat into sandpaper and my own, tanned skin, Lobster red.

It all seemed innocuous. Almost abandoned, with its obligatory old three-ton pickup chassis. Overgrown with yellow weeds. No wheels. Abandoned after becoming uneconomical to repair.

The only sign of any habitants was in the form of an old pickup. It was as run down like everything else but appeared parked and operational.

I looked at Jane and shrugged. ‘It’s rural but I don’t see excessive tyre marks or signs of heavy traffic I would expect if this were a stash house.’

She gave me a wry smile as if you say, “Good boy, not so stupid after all”.

‘Ok, let’s go,’ she said and jumped into the car.

Site number two was equally as uninteresting. There the house was literally falling apart with broken windows and a caved in roof. Nobody was using it.

Number three peaked both of our attention. Lots of activity. Mainly burly, Latino looking men walking about in jeans and cowboy boots. Some were openly armed. Carrying ubiquitous AK 47 rifles over their shoulders. Two older trucks stood parked by the side of the house. Their rear covered in dirty, ripped tarpaulin. Shielding their cargo from the sun and prying eyes. Near the house stood a wooden outbuilding. The size of a large barn, but with a lower roof apex. By the front door stood two, near new, black 4x4’s. Their wheel arches and rear caked in burnt chilly, orange coloured sand.

I checked the map. Our location was only about five kilometres from the site Jane had camped that night. Had Vanessa escaped from here, and by someone’s grace, run into Jane? Was Lucile here? If so, we could assume that the men who killed the two Coyotes would be down there too. Which meant we were dealing with cold blooded murders and it was high time to call the cavalry.

I turned my head and my eyes locked with Janes. Her eyebrows were raised, lips sneering and eyes sparkling with anticipation.

‘Let’s go,’ she commanded and got back into the car.

Go? Oh, go and call the Sheriff’s department, State Troopers, my boss, your, whatever or whomever you report to or give orders to. Oh, yeah. I’m up for that. I got into the car smiling.

Inside, I gave Jane a questioning look. NO cell phone in her hand. OK. We’ll probably go back and call it in with the boss. Very sensible. We’ll within procedure. Good call.

‘Ok then. What are you waiting for? Let’s go talk to them.’

Moments of stunned silence sneaked past as my brain tried to comprehend what I had just heard. Go and chat with them? Was she serious? My, WTF? expression must have given away my thoughts.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be nice.’

Worried? Hell yeah. I’m not even wearing body armour.

As if telepathic, Jane turned in her seat and pulled out two, band new, desert camo-coloured ones, of a type I’d never seen before. They were vests, with a zip in the front. No steel. No ceramic plates. And the one that Jane handed me was light. At least compared to all the body armour that I had ever used. It felt like nylon, but none that I’d ever seen before. This was way past next gen. Not for the likes of me and the great unwashed. But if I’m going to be walking into a lion’s den, I might as well take with me some protection. Right? Wrong! Who am I trying to kid? I’m shitting myself.

The hubbub in the little complex had already died down. When you’re trailing a ten-foot-high dust cloud behind you, it’s difficult to arrive unannounced.

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Six men stood by the two 4x4’s as a welcoming committee. From a distance they looked like siblings. All wearing dirty, flapping jeans, long sleeve shirts, rolled up past the elbow, cowboy boots and straw hats. All dirty. Faces rugged, unshaven, scarred, and all round ugly as sin. Soulless monsters.

The Butterflies in my stomach started to the do the Macarena. I killed the engine and took in the scene. Not welcoming. The usual reaction of most Latino men, when a USBP vehicle stopes is to run fast and hard. Not this lot. Only expressions of mute disgust, and leering gazes that left little to the imagination as to what they thought of our visit. A lone chicken came toddling around the corner. It stopped. Eyeballed the scene, turned, and scuttled away. “Take me with you”, the voice in my head screamed. Too late. Jane opened the door and stepped into the brooding heat. Fuck. Double and triple fuck.

I opened the door. I felt naked. This vest was feeling like nothing more than an ugly accessory. Besides the heat, a sour, rotting, decomposing body type stench hit me, hard.

Jane didn’t seem to notice. She looked cooler than an ice queen in her frozen castle. Calm. Neither threatening nor pensive. Just plain old Jane. Neutral. Me? My legs were shaking, and I needed to fart.

Since I was the one in semi standard uniform, I thought it best to take the lead.

‘Hola caballeros. Estamos buscando una cabra joven,’ I said in my best chicken high school Spanish. I was taking evening classes but I all I ever remember is Sombrero, Fajitas and Tequila, and I was hoping to have said: “Hello gents. We are looking for a young girl”.

The collective burst into tumultuous, belly shaking, laughter. Even Jane smiled. What? What had I said?

Jane turned to me.

‘No agent. We’re not looking for a young goat, we are looking for a young lady.’

Oh. That we are. Oops. Still wondering what to say next, Jane exploded into fluent Spanish. I was lost. But the locals seemed to understand her. They stopped laughing and their expressions turned sour.

One of the men stepped forward. He seemed to think of himself as a spokesperson. He replied with a thick, heavy, Spanish accent.

‘Hey snowflake. You speak Spanish good for a Gringo. But we don’t have any young or old women here. Its only us, ugly Vaquero’s.’ His laugh did not reach his eyes.

‘Oh, so you do speak English. How fortuitous. May I ask what it is you do around here?’

The Mexicans’ smile vanished. Replaced by a sneer that exposed, yellow, rotten teeth.

‘You better mind your own business snowflake. It’s not good ask questions here in the desert.’

Jane gestured around. ‘One could say that this is exactly the type of place a bunch of Coyote’s would use as a stash house. You know, a central place to bring merchandise before shipping it onto its final destination. Its remote. Quiet. Close to the border but does smell. I would use some of those extra hands to do a little cleaning around here or you will never have any women visiting. At least not willingly.’

The Mexican snarled something in Spanish. His eyes narrowed. His lips pulled into a grotesque snarl as he pulled out a huge, sword like, combat knife from behind his back. One side a gleaming sharp edge, the other, saw-like, serrated teeth. Ready to cut through thick animal hide and bone, or tear at human flesh.

My hand reached instinctively for my gun as the man charged at Jane. The others slung their AK’s off their shoulders. He roared as he ran. Jane stood unmoving and mute. My thumb had just undone the holsters clip and my fingers were closing around the grip when the Mexican reached Jane and attacked.

It wasn’t an elegant move. More brutal. Savage in its execution. Even I could see it coming. The way his arm lifted, and his right shoulder dropped a little, retracting. His arm shot forward. The glistening blade thrusting toward Jane. High. Neck height, to avoid the vest. At least he had that going for him. But why wasn’t she moving. I was frantic, pulling to free my Glock but instinctive knew there was no way I could take any saving action before the blade found its mark and he gutted Jane’s neck like a kebab.

Jane Dropped. Not bent but dropped down to her haunches only to spring back up, toward the Mexican, under his knife wielding arm, and land an open handed, jab, using her extended fingers, into his arm pit. Ouch. I Knew there were pressure points and loads of tenons in there.

The Mexican howled. His knife arm shot into the air, fingers reaching skyward. The knife tumbled through the air. It reached its peak and began to drop back down, twisting, and turning dangerously. Jane caught it effortlessly on the handle. She spun about and wrapped her left arm around the Mexicans forehead, forcing his head back to expose his neck, where she held the sharp side of the blade. Her eyes locked with the other men who were all pointing their AK’s at her with expressions of deep-set revenge and respect.

With unblinking, cold staring eyes she drew the blade slowly along the Mexican’s neck. Skin parted at the touch of the blade and a large drop, of crimson blood, trickled down the Mexican’s neck.

Jane continued to stare at the other men with a questioning expression. I had in the meantime gotten my gun out but was not pointing it at anybody, yet. There were too many and I would have looked silly penduling from side to side, trying to cover them all. Somewhere inside some Spanish music was playing but out here the silence was as stifling as the heat.

To my surprise, the front door opened and there stood another Latino Smartly dressed in a suit. A three piece. Tailored. All in silver grey. He spoke well, only lightly accented.

‘Gentlemen, this is no way to greet guests.’ Instantly the sharp edge of the mood disappeared but remained tense. Hostile.

‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Jane, removing the knife from the sweaty Mexican’s neck.

She stood up straight and let both arms fall to her sides. The Mexican stumbled away, toward the house. Rubbing his neck as he stared back at Jane, with seething hatred. The others lowered their AK’s. What had just happened? I lowered my gun slowly. My eyes darting. Jane’s laser focused on the new man. With her head tilted a little to the right, her gaze bore into him. A curious expression on her face. Half smiling. Still not phased. Ice running through her veins. My body had enough. Too much strain. I farted. Not loud. I just couldn’t keep it in any longer. It felt like my stomach deflated. This was worse than anything I had ever experienced in Afghanistan and there I had come under fire several times. Now it felt like a Sunday excursion with a picnic compared to this. Note to self: Check underwear if we get out of this alive.

The man in the suit stepped back. ‘Come in, please. We have air-conditioning inside. We will talk. Yes? I must apologise for my men. They are good guard dogs but need a little domesticating.’ He flashed us a million-dollar smile and bowed. Gesturing for us to come inside, like a Spider lures a fly. Fuck no.

Jane glanced at the knife in her hand. She threw it up and caught the blade. With the speed of a striking Cobra, she threw the knife toward the Mexican who had sought sanctuary behind one of the porch pillars. The blade struck the sun weathered wood, embedding itself by near half an inch. The hilt jittered, fuelled by unspent momentum. Two inches to the left, and the blade would now be protruding out of the Mexican’s head. Right between the eyes. Which were now the size of saucers. Staring in disbelief. I chuckled internally; sure, that he too will need to double check his underwear. But seriously. That was beyond Steven Segal, real life, cool. Frightening, but damn cool. I holstered my gun and followed Jane up the three porch steps and into the house. I could feel every pair of unwashed eyes drilling into my back as I stepped over the threshold and into the cool, filtered, non-smelly air inside.