The Polaris Protocol: A Pike Logan Thriller by Brad Taylor

Author:Brad Taylor [Taylor, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction, War, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Military, Thrillers
ISBN: 0525953973
Amazon: B00FFFT04C
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2014-01-14T06:00:00+00:00

42

Booth walked through customs, shocked at the lack of English-speaking people. It was a boiling mass of humanity, but everyone he attempted to engage simply smiled and shrugged. It was disconcerting, to say the least. He’d been to Europe and the Far East, and in both those locations, while he definitely felt like an outsider, most everyone spoke at least some English. Here, nobody did.

And they live just across our damn border.

He exited with a throng of people, then stood, looking around in a daze. A man came up and said, “Taxi?”

He said, “You speak English?”

The man repeated, “Taxi?”

Booth said, “Yes, yes. I need a taxi.” And began following him out the door. He walked five feet before a policeman intervened, shouting at the man. Bewildered, Booth simply stood, watching the exchange. The unlicensed cabby took off at a fast walk, and the policeman handed Booth an envelope.

He opened it, seeing instructions from Carlos to take the metro to a stop called Insurgentes. Taken aback, he said, “Where’s Carlos? Why did he pass me this?”

The policeman simply stared at him. Seeing he was getting nowhere, Booth said, “I don’t know where the metro is.”

The policeman scowled and walked away. Booth saw a line at the end of the hall, ending at a glass window with a woman behind it. Most of the people were Hispanic, but a few were foreign. He joined them, and when he reached the front, he found to his relief the woman behind the glass spoke English. She asked where he was going, and he said he wanted the metro.

She said, “This is the taxi line. The metro is at the other end of the hall.” She gave him instructions, then turned to the next person in line before he could assimilate them. Brushed aside, he left the counter.

He fumbled about, following the directions to the best of his ability while dragging his little carry-on suitcase, and eventually found the stairs leading to the Terminal Aérea metro stop.

Reaching the bottom, he was once again confused as to what to do. The place was a dirty, swirling mass of humanity. He watched people go to a counter behind glass, not noticing that several men were now studying him as well. A plump, lost gringo wading into a school of piranhas.

As instructed, he bought a ticket to the Insurgentes metro stop, then moved to the train platform. When it arrived, he was swept on board with everyone else, all Mexican and all rattling in Spanish. He took a seat at the end of the car, crammed in by the people continuing to board. Three men were hovering over him, two looking out and one staring at Booth.

The Mexican above him said, “Gringo. Where you go?”

Booth stared at the floor. The man poked him with a shoe. “Gringo. I talking to you.”

Booth said, “I’m meeting a friend. Please, leave me alone.”

The man pulled out a knife and said, “Pay tax. Gringo tax.”

At the sight of the knife, Booth recoiled, blubbering.

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