DEATH ON SEVEN MILE ROAD
by Melissa del Bosque
The rush to militarize the U.S.-Mexico border has tragic consequences in Texas.
. . .The truck swerved again but didn’t slow. There was no way to communicate with the driver. The smugglers had been in such a rush that Jose Isabel hadn’t even seen the driver’s face. It had been nearly a month since they’d left the Guatemalan highlands in early October. In Mexico, the nine men had ridden on top of the freight train La Bestia and had their backpacks stolen near the Rio Grande. When they’d arrived in Texas with nothing but empty wallets, they’d felt lucky to have made it.
Just this final drive to a safe house, they thought, and then they’d be on a bus to New Jersey, where they had construction jobs waiting for them.
Now all Jose Isabel wanted was for the driver to stop. Something had happened to his brother. He could barely hear Jose Leonardo over the deafening noise of the speeding tires on the dirt road, and now a strange sound engulfed them. A helicopter blotted out the sun. Through the fabric he saw, above him, the outline of a soldier and the thick barrel of a gun.
Capt. Stacy Holland maneuvered the helicopter closer as the pickup sped east down Sevenmile Road toward the small South Texas town of Peñitas. The shooter, Miguel “Mike” Avila, had already shredded its rear tires with at least 18 shots from a rifle. A plume of dust billowed in its wake. The truck fishtailed, but it didn’t stop.
“Johnny, you think it looks good? We can give it to him again on the front left,” said Holland to the helicopter’s co-pilot, Lt. Johnny Prince.
“Try and hit a tire, Mike,” Prince said. Avila sat in the open door of the helicopter steadying his rifle.
“Game warden, we’re going to go hot. Give us some room. Give us some room. We’re gonna go hot after the front tire,” Holland radioed to the wardens pursuing the truck on the ground.
A shot rang out.
“You got it,” Prince said...
Just this final drive to a safe house, they thought, and then they’d be on a bus to New Jersey, where they had construction jobs waiting for them.
Now all Jose Isabel wanted was for the driver to stop. Something had happened to his brother. He could barely hear Jose Leonardo over the deafening noise of the speeding tires on the dirt road, and now a strange sound engulfed them. A helicopter blotted out the sun. Through the fabric he saw, above him, the outline of a soldier and the thick barrel of a gun.
Capt. Stacy Holland maneuvered the helicopter closer as the pickup sped east down Sevenmile Road toward the small South Texas town of Peñitas. The shooter, Miguel “Mike” Avila, had already shredded its rear tires with at least 18 shots from a rifle. A plume of dust billowed in its wake. The truck fishtailed, but it didn’t stop.
“Johnny, you think it looks good? We can give it to him again on the front left,” said Holland to the helicopter’s co-pilot, Lt. Johnny Prince.
“Try and hit a tire, Mike,” Prince said. Avila sat in the open door of the helicopter steadying his rifle.
“Game warden, we’re going to go hot. Give us some room. Give us some room. We’re gonna go hot after the front tire,” Holland radioed to the wardens pursuing the truck on the ground.
A shot rang out.
“You got it,” Prince said...
Rudy Arredondo suggested I read this story.
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