Chapter 1
West of Genesee, Colo.
Sept. 17
Jason Chiago pulledhis Ford F-450 to the side of the highway, climbed out into the cool September evening, and took in the stunning beauty around him. White-capped peaks stretched as far as he could see, disappearing in an orange-pink haze to the west, the valley below him golden with aspen.
It was enough to put a hitch in his chest.
He’d never been to Colorado. He’d grown up in the Sonoran Desert in Sells, Arizona, the heart of the Tohono O’odham Nation. After high school, he’d gone to college in Phoenix to study criminal justice, working construction jobs in the heat of the summer. Apart from his training at the US Customs and Border Patrol Academy in Artesia, New Mexico, he’d never left Arizona.
He loved the beauty of his desert homeland with its sacred peaks, springs, and giant saguaros. Some people thought the desert was a wasteland. But they didn’t see what he saw—the explosion of life after a spring rain, prickly pear and cholla ripe with fruit, hummingbirds drinking from saguaro blossoms, the first rosy rays of sunlight hitting Baboquivari Peak.
But this…
This blew his mind.
Whose homeland was this? The Cheyenne? The Arapaho? The Ute? He ought to know, but he didn’t.
An SUV with Texas plates pulled up, and a family of tourists climbed out and began snapping selfies with the mountains and sunset in the background. Another vehicle drew to a stop behind them, this one from Arkansas.
Jason didn’t take photos but inhaled the scents of aspen, fir, and pine, doing his best to breathe in the view, to imprint every detail in his mind. Then a teenager from one of the vehicles loosed a drone into the sky, its buzzing an unwelcome disruption. Jason climbed back into his truck, started the engine, and headed down the highway.
He was on his way to the home of a friend, Zach McBride, the chief deputy US marshal for the Colorado Territory. He’d met McBride when the man was assigned to the US-Mexico border about ten years ago. Jason had taught him as much as he could about cutting sign in one short week. When McBride had heard Jason was knee-deep in shit, he’d invited him to come camp with him above a small mountain town called Scarlet Springs and join him and other volunteers in rebuilding a summer camp for Native kids that had burned to the ground this past July.
You’ve got nothing else going on, buddy.
That was the truth.
A year ago, he’d been about to marry Elena and had just gotten a promotion. Now, Elena was in prison, and he was on the brink of losing his job.
It’s the choices we make and the twists and turns on our journey through life’s maze that make us who we are.
Jason could almost hear his grandmother’s voice. But this didn’t feel like a twist in the road. It felt like the loss of everything he’d worked for, as if the past sixteen years of his life were coming to a dead end.
One month’s administrative leave without pay.
He’d gone too far. He knew it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, not when it meant a drug-runner wouldn’t kill again. Hewassorry that the fallout of his actions had left his fellow Shadow Wolves shorthanded.
The Wolves, an all-Native Border Patrol unit, were his brothers. A team of only fifteen, they didn’t have the number of agents they needed to patrol the line—the 76-mile stretch of border that divided sovereign O’odham lands in the States from those in Mexico. With him on leave and Ren still recovering from that round to the belly, their job would be even more difficult and dangerous.
You should have stayed on the US side of the line.
Yeah, he should have. But the bastard who’d shot Ren would have gotten away if he hadn’t crossed over and gone after him. And, hey, land onbothsides of the line belonged to Jason’s people. He had a greater right to be there than either US or Mexican authorities.
Tell that to the brass at your hearing.
A herd of mountain goats grazed beside the highway, one of them stepping toward the road before changing its mind and turning back.
Jason slowed. “Good choice, little brother.”
The GPS told Jason to take the next exit and follow a winding, paved road south for another three miles. He had expected a city neighborhood. Instead, he found himself passing big, luxurious homes that were set back from the road and surrounded by forest with lots of space between. The house ahead on his left had glass walls, while the one on the right had a row of columns along the porch like a Greek temple.
No, that wasn’t ostentatious at all.
McBride had clearly done well for himself if he lived in this neighborhood. Then again, his old man had once been a US senator and was loaded.
As a teenager, Jason would have been bitter, envious. He’d caught glimpses of the world beyond the reservation, and he’d felt ashamed of his family’s circumstances. It was his grandparents who’d taught him O’odham history. After his parents’ deaths, they’d taken him in. They’d shown him the riches to be found in their culture and traditions, straightening him out, putting his feet on a sure path.