Love at 11 - By Mari Mancusi Page 0,64

Mexico, they come for the money only. They do not care what goes on behind closed doors.”

“So, your friend’s going to give us a tour?” Jamie asked Miguel. “And he’ll let us videotape it all?”

“Si.” Miguel nodded. “Alejandro will let you get all the video you need. To avenge his friend, my brother, God have mercy on his soul.” Miguel crossed himself. “Now, let us go.”

Nice. The murdered-brother story. Just the reminder I needed to get my heart rate skyrocketing again. I reminded myself that the people who did that job were not there. They were in their beds, sleeping soundly with no idea there was an American news crew invading their drug tunnel.

Jamie reached into the backseat and pulled out his camera. He’d brought the smaller, digital DVC-Pro—better quality than the hidden camera but less bulky than the full-sized beta cam. Easier to run with if we we’re chased, he had said, and suddenly stories about killer household products that didn’t really kill didn’t really seem all that bad.

We walked about fifty yards down the rocky dirt road to a large dig site. The moon hung full and large in the desert sky, illuminating the landscape with a burnt yellow glow.

There was no oil refinery pretense on this side of the border. Just a bunch of rusty old digging equipment and a large ramshackle warehouse standing tall in the center. Miguel motioned for us to follow him to the building. Once at the door, he knocked three times.

The door opened and a skinny man with a straggly black mustache, dressed in a guard uniform, greeted Miguel with a big bear hug. Mexican men, unlike their homophobic American counterparts, I’d learned, were not afraid of hugging each other.

“Hola, Miguel. Coma estas?”

“Ah, muy bueno, Alejandro. Habla Englais? Para los Americanos, por favor.” He gestured to Jamie and me.

Alejandro turned to greet us. “How are you doing?” he asked, switching to accented English.

“Not bad,” I said. Yup, seeing as I was still conscious and not passed out from fear, I considered myself doing all right. I shook his hand. “I’m Maddy Madison, the producer. This is my photographer Jamie. Thanks for doing this.”

“You are welcomed. Peter, he was like a brother. When they murdered him, I longed for my revenge,” he explained. “This way I can have it, but keep my own head on my shoulders. Sure, I will lose my job if they shut down the tunnel, but there are other jobs. Jobs that will allow me to work with a clean conscience. Perhaps Miguel here will hire me to run his shop.” He slapped Miguel on the back, then motioned for us to step inside. We entered a dark building with only a few lanterns scattered for light. Luckily the camera had a night-vision option or else we’d be in trouble.

“There is no electricity,” Alejandro explained. “Only a generator, which makes such a noise I dare not turn it on at night.”

He shone a flashlight into the darkness, revealing a large tunnel cut into the ground, angled in such a way that a truck could drive through. I drew in a deep breath. This was it.

“Follow me,” Alejandro said.

Jamie lifted the camera to his shoulder and flicked on the night-vision option. Now, looking through the viewfinder had the same effect as night-vision goggles—which would give the video he shot a crystal clear, though greenish glow.

We descended into the tunnel. It was just tall enough for a van to drive through without the roof scraping the dirt ceiling. Every few feet wooden beams and wire mesh supported the infrastructure, much like a mineshaft. The tunnel descended for about a hundred feet, then flattened out.

“The tunnel is nearly a mile long,” Alejandro told me, stopping and leaning against one of the dirt walls. “There have been other border tunnels built in the past. Very primitive—carved out with hand tools. Only one person could crawl through to the other side and they were so close to the border that they were easy targets for border guards to spot. Many have been busted.” He gestured to the tunnel before us. “No one has ever created a tunnel this big before. Now they can import more, crossing with trucks instead of on foot. They smuggle Ecstasy, pot, and cocaine. You name it, they will smuggle it.”

“The tunnels are also used to smuggle human cargo,” Miguel added. “Those willing to pay a price to go to America.”

It made sense. Every day there were news stories about