Free Shadow Boys by Harry Hunsicker

himself so I could speak in private. He wheeled off to find his nurse.
    Theo answered immediately. In the background, I could hear the zing-zing of a video game. I imagined him in a suburban family room, a large area decorated with pictures of his kids, somewhere in Alexandria or McLean.
    “Everything go okay today?” he asked. “The thing this afternoon. We’re good, right?”
    “The item is on its way back to you.”
    A woman’s voice, his wife I presumed, telling the kids it was time to go to bed.
    I looked at my watch. It was nine thirty on the East Coast.
    “I heard the contractor came by the office this afternoon,” Theo said.
    “Yes. Nothing serious, though.”
    A rubbing noise, fabric on the mouthpiece. Then Theo’s muffled voice: “Isaac! Do not stick that in the wall plug!”
    A crashing sound. Theo swore.
    “Everything okay?” I asked.
    “The nanny, she accidentally doubled his dose of Ritalin.” He sighed. “Don’t have children, Jonathan. The little devils eat your soul.”
    I waited.
    “What did he want?”
    “Who?” I said. “Tommy Joe?”
    “Does everyone in Texas have two names?”
    “Only royalty.”
    Another crashing sound.
    “He was on his way to rehab, and not a minute too soon. He gave me a piece of paper with an address on it,” I said. “Told me something about how he didn’t want that bothering him, too.”
    An intake of air on the other end of the line.
    “Bad news?” I asked.
    “The deputy director was on vacation.”
    “I’m not following.”
    “His administrative assistant placed an order while he was gone. A mistake. Drop-shipped to Tommy Joe Culpepper at that address.”
    “What was in the order?” I said.
    “An equipment package.” He paused. “For a new FOB.”
    I rubbed my eyes.
    The Border Patrol, the department Tommy Joe had been doing business with, fell under the purview of the Department of Immigration and Customs Enforcement and had developed a novel strategy to combat illegal border crossings in remote areas. They set up a series of FOBs, forward operating bases.
    These were self-contained defensive units—forts—designed for the military where Border Patrol agents could live and work for extended periods.
    The FOBs themselves were modular buildings, modern-day Quonset huts. They were heavily fortified with bulletproof yet ultralight materials—tactical-grade carbon fibers and blast-resistant ceramics, polymers developed by NASA. The buildings were dropped in by chopper or transported by eighteen-wheeler. They were supplied by private companies, as were many of the agents who staffed them.
    The standard equipment package, also capable of being airlifted or shipped via traditional ground transportation, was enough to outfit a small company of soldiers: twenty or so M-4 carbines, the standard military rifle. A carton of handguns. Ammunition, medical supplies, food, communication equipment, et cetera.
    “I just found out a few minutes ago,” Theo said. “The client, he’s very upset at his admin. But the civil service rules, you know—he can’t fire her.”
    “And no one thought to question why a package like this was being sent somewhere so far from the border?”
    As soon as I spoke the words, I realized how silly they sounded. This was the US government we were talking about. Inefficiencies oozed from every pore of Uncle Sam.
    “It was supposed to ship to Del Rio.” Theo chuckled. “Besides, if the feds started doing their job right, we’d be out of business.”
    “Okay.” I tried to figure out the closest place to get coffee. “I’m rolling.”
    “Just make sure the shipment is secure. We’ll send a pickup team later this week.”
    “Gotcha.”
    “That type of, uh, equipment in the wrong hands.” He clucked his tongue. “Not good.”
    I ended the call and yawned.

    The piece of paper Tommy Joe Culpepper had given me contained an address on the far north side of town—a small office building on Dallas Parkway, a major