TEN
MILES OF stopped automobiles stretched south into Tijuana, Mexico, all of them halted by the border crossing station. A long-haired American, on foot, Rick Jenkins, stepped along the narrow walkway toward the border checkpoint. He carried only a faded olive-colored rucksack. His clothes were wrinkled and dirty, as was he.
Jenkins paused before the dark, reflective glass. He pushed his hair to one side, and he yanked open the door. The air-conditioned building felt nearly deserted despite the influx of automobiles waiting outside.
He charged in toward the metal detectors. He knew that the TSA and ICE agents always distrusted him and his appearance. They invariably assumed he was a smuggler, and they gave him the business when he tried to return home from abroad.
Jenkins retrieved a
