Elements of the Undead: Fire (Book One) Read Online Free Page B

preparations for his return. He had worked three jobs to raise enough cash to pay his coyotero and yet, he had fallen short. A five-hundred-dollar loan from his uncle had carried him over the top.
    But the others? He knew little about whether they would survive the heat, the blistering pace, and the abject brutality of the Sonoran desert in the middle of the summer. He hoped so. He felt responsible for them, as if his previous experience north of the border had bestowed some sort of divine responsibility, an unseen burden he dared not abandon.
    He took a sip of water and hitched up his jeans. At five-foot-four, with shoulder-length black hair tied in a loose ponytail, Cesar looked like a million other brown men toiling in the American service economy. His most distinguishing feature was his easy grin, an infectious, toothy smile that instantly put people at ease.
    He started to spit, and then thought better of it, swallowing his saliva instead. Need to conserve water out here , he chastised himself. Every drop counts…
    He took another step and kicked a rock to the side. His thoughts shifted to his family in Mexico. His mother, always overprotective of her youngest son, had gotten hysterical when he told her he was going north again. She had begged and pleaded with him, trying to convince him the Americans would put him in jail this time, lock him away for the rest of his life if he was caught.
    His father, an unemployed mechanic, had taken a different approach. He understood the economic realities of Mexico; he saw firsthand the desperation of young men with nowhere to go, with nothing to do. He feared the lure of the drug cartels and realized it was only a matter of time before they swept his son into a life from which he would never return.
    “The gringos love us when times are good,” his father had said. “But if things are bad, like now, they will turn on you and make your life miserable. Don’t ever forget that.”
    There was a rustling off to Cesar’s right, on the other side of a patch of barrel cactus. Conejo . “Rabbit,” Cesar whispered to himself, practicing his English.
             He thought of his cousin Efrain. Is he here ? Is he lying feet from me, only bones, or did he make it? Maybe he was caught and is sitting in jail? Efrain had left for Idaho three months earlier, but had never reached his destination. His disappearance, another sad example of the risks involved in going north, had been the talk of the town.
    Cesar banished the thought from his mind and continued walking. A short, rock-covered hill rose in front of him. He started climbing. From the other side, below his line of sight, he heard shouting. Cocking his head, he tried to catch the words. It took him a moment to realize they were speaking English. What?
    A crippling spike of fear tore through his gut as he crested the rise and got his first glimpse of the scene below. Two white men stood at the front of the line talking to Miguel, the coyotero . They carried menacing assault rifles and were dressed in desert camouflage from head to toe.
    Cesar’s first impression was border patrol , but upon closer inspection, he realized he was wrong. Neither man wore insignia on their uniform, nor did they have the close-shaved, professional look he associated with the patrol. Also, one was grossly obese, his belly tumbling over his belt like a sack of flour.
    The fat man pointed at him. “You! Up there! Get down here!”
    Cesar complied, picking his way carefully down the hill until he joined the rest of the group. As Cesar watched, the fat man barked at Miguel in staccato English, gesturing wildly with the barrel of his gun. His jowls shook like fresh jalea every time he moved his head.
    Even more than the sun and the heat, Cesar feared bandits. But these men were something else—something new.
    “What do you think is happening?” whispered the woman behind him. Cesar shrugged, trying to remain calm despite the ball of nausea