Chapter 18: Border Crossing
The bus station in Albuquerque smelled like diesel and resignation.
I arrived two hours before the 7 AM departure, wanting time to observe the crowd and identify any potential problems. NZT sharpened my perception, letting me track multiple conversations and movement patterns simultaneously. Nobody seemed interested in a skinny guy with a backpack waiting for the El Paso connection.
The ticket was forty-seven dollars. I paid cash, gave a name that wasn't mine, and found a seat near the back of the station where I could watch both entrances.
This was the first real test. Everything I'd built in Albuquerque—the network, the contacts, the careful accumulation of resources—was about to be left behind. For the next month, I'd be alone in a foreign country, dependent on a surgeon I'd never met, vulnerable in ways I hadn't been since those first confused days after transmigration.
The fear was rational. I acknowledged it without letting it control me.
At 6:45, they called the El Paso boarding. I joined the line—a mix of workers, students, families, and people who looked like they'd rather not be looked at. The driver checked tickets without really seeing faces. We filed onto the bus and found seats.
I took a window position three rows from the back. Good sight lines to the front. Quick access to the emergency exit. Old habits from a life I was supposed to have left behind.
The bus pulled out at 7:02, rolling through Albuquerque's morning traffic toward the interstate. I watched the city recede through the dusty window—the Sandias catching first light, the sprawl of houses and strip malls, the desert stretching endless beyond.
Seven weeks ago, I'd woken up in this city as someone else. Confused, terrified, trapped in a junkie's body with nothing but a bag of mysterious pills and memories of a television show. Now I was leaving as something different. Not quite Pete, not quite whoever I'd been before. Something in between, something new, something still forming.
The drive to El Paso took four hours. I spent them reviewing everything I knew about the border crossing.
El Paso's bus station was bigger, busier, more chaotic than Albuquerque's. I had a three-hour layover before the connecting shuttle to the border, which I used to scout the area and buy lunch at a nearby taquería.
The food was good—proper Mexican style, not the Tex-Mex approximations I'd grown used to. I ate slowly, savoring the flavors, knowing that soon my jaw would be wired shut and solid food would be a memory for weeks.
At 2 PM, I caught the shuttle to the border crossing. The vehicle was cramped and hot, filled with people heading south for various reasons—visiting family, seeking cheaper medical care, conducting business that worked better without American oversight. I fit right in.
The crossing itself was called the Paso del Norte International Bridge. Pedestrians walked one direction, vehicles crawled in endless lines the other. The Mexican side was Ciudad Juárez—not my final destination, but a necessary waypoint.
I joined the pedestrian queue with my heart beating faster than I wanted to admit.
This was where Presence Reduction mattered. Not invisibility—nothing that dramatic—but the ability to be unremarkable. To become just another face in the crowd, someone border agents would process without really seeing.
I focused on the feeling. Let myself become small. Uninteresting. Forgettable.
The line moved slowly. Ahead of me, a family argued about luggage. Behind, two men discussed soccer scores in rapid Spanish. I stayed quiet, eyes forward, projecting the bland patience of someone with nothing to hide.
The checkpoint approached. Mexican immigration officers sat in booths, checking documents, asking questions, waving people through or pulling them aside. My throat was dry. My hands wanted to shake.
I didn't let them.
"Passport or ID?"
The officer was middle-aged, bored, going through motions he'd repeated ten thousand times. I handed him Pete's driver's license—expired, technically, but sufficient for pedestrian border crossing.
"Purpose of visit?"
"Medical tourism." The truth, simplified.
"How long?"
"Four weeks."
He studied the ID. Studied my face. For one terrible moment, I thought he'd seen something—noticed the way my features didn't quite match the photo, detected some wrongness in my demeanor.
Then he stamped my paperwork and waved me through.
"Next."
I walked forward on legs that felt like rubber. Through the turnstile. Past the last checkpoint. Into Mexico.
The air was different—heavier, spiced with exhaust and street food and something indefinably foreign. The sounds were different too—Spanish everywhere, car horns more aggressive, music bleeding from storefronts. I stood on the Mexican side of the border and let the reality wash over me.
I'd done it. I was through.
Ciudad Juárez was not a place to linger.
The city had a reputation—drug violence, cartel territory, one of the most dangerous places in North America. I'd researched the safest routes to the bus station, the quickest path out of town, the neighborhoods to avoid at all costs.
NZT helped me navigate. I walked quickly but not frantically, projecting the confidence of someone who knew where they were going even when I wasn't entirely sure. Presence Reduction stayed active, keeping me unremarkable among the crowds.
The bus station was forty minutes by foot. I could have taken a taxi, but taxis meant drivers who remembered faces, potential complications I didn't need. Walking was safer, if more exhausting.
The streets were chaotic—vendors selling food and trinkets, children running between cars, police officers whose presence felt more threatening than reassuring. I kept my head down and my pace steady, counting blocks until I reached the station.
The bus to Tijuana was six hours and cost seventy-three dollars. I paid cash, accepted my ticket, and found a seat near the front where I could watch the driver and the road.
Six hours to think about what came next.
The desert scrolled past the windows—different from New Mexico's landscape but equally harsh. Scrubland and distant mountains, occasional towns that appeared and vanished like mirages. The bus stopped twice for passengers, once for fuel. I stayed in my seat both times, unwilling to expose myself to unnecessary interactions.
My thoughts drifted to Jesse.
By now, he'd be cooking again. Walter White wouldn't let trauma slow production, wouldn't acknowledge that watching people die might require time to process. The business came first. The money came first. Jesse's mental health was, at best, a secondary consideration.
I wondered if Jesse had even noticed my absence yet. Probably not—he was too wrapped up in his own crisis, too deep in Walter's orbit to track peripheral movements. The "sick aunt" story would hold until I returned, if it mattered at all.
Badger and Combo would manage. They had clear instructions, limited scope, strong incentives to stay out of trouble. The network would maintain itself, maybe even grow a little, while I was gone.
And in four weeks, I'd return as someone new.
The thought still felt unreal. For almost two months, I'd worn Pete's face, used Pete's connections, lived Pete's life. The identity had become comfortable in ways I hadn't expected. Familiar, like a favorite jacket that fit perfectly even though you hadn't chosen it.
But familiar wasn't the same as optimal. And optimal was what I needed if I wanted to build something lasting.
The bus reached Tijuana at 11 PM.
Tijuana at night was neon and noise and barely controlled chaos.
The bus station sat in a commercial district that had seen better decades—crumbling facades decorated with bright signs, street vendors packing up their wares, people moving with the purposeful urgency of those who knew not to linger after dark.
Dr. Vargas's clinic was in a better neighborhood—Zona Río, the business district, where medical tourism clinics clustered near fancy hotels and international restaurants. I'd memorized the address and the route, but navigating Tijuana's streets at night was different from studying maps in an Albuquerque motel.
I took a taxi. The driver was a woman in her fifties with a rosary hanging from the mirror and a handgun visible under a newspaper on the passenger seat. She didn't ask questions, didn't make conversation, just drove through streets that grew cleaner and better-lit as we moved toward Zona Río.
The clinic was a three-story building with a discreet sign: CLÍNICA MÉDICA ESPECIALIZADA. Medical specialty clinic. Nothing to indicate the nature of that specialty.
I paid the driver and stepped out into cool evening air. The building's front door was locked, but there was an intercom.
"Sí?"
"I have an appointment with Dr. Vargas. I'm the consultation from Albuquerque."
A pause. Then the door buzzed open.
The interior was surprisingly modern—clean lines, comfortable furniture, medical equipment visible through glass partitions. A young woman sat behind a reception desk, typing at a computer. She looked up when I entered.
"Señor... Pete?"
"Yes."
"Dr. Vargas is expecting you. He apologizes for the late hour, but he prefers to meet new clients when the clinic is quiet." She gestured toward a hallway. "Please follow me."
The hallway led to an office that split the difference between medical professional and comfortable den. Leather chairs. Diplomas on the walls. A desk cluttered with papers and photographs.
Dr. Vargas rose to greet me.
He was in his mid-fifties, gray at the temples, with the steady hands and calm demeanor of someone who'd spent decades cutting into human flesh. His handshake was firm but not aggressive. His eyes assessed me with clinical detachment.
"Please, sit." He gestured to one of the leather chairs. "You've had a long journey."
"Long enough."
"Would you like water? Coffee? Something stronger?"
"Water's fine."
He poured two glasses from a pitcher on his desk, handed me one, and settled into the chair across from me. For a long moment, he just studied my face.
"Tell me what you want," he finally said.
"A new face. Different enough that people who knew me before wouldn't recognize me after."
"That's possible. Difficult, but possible." He leaned forward slightly. "May I ask why?"
"You said no questions."
"I said no questions about your past. But understanding your goals helps me design the procedure." He smiled faintly. "If you want to look like a different version of yourself, that's one approach. If you want to look like someone else entirely, that's another."
I considered the question. In my head, I'd always imagined emerging from this process as Marcus Webb—the identity I was building, the businessman who would run legitimate operations while the shadow network operated underneath. But Marcus Webb didn't have a specific face. He was a concept, a possibility, a role I would step into.
"I want to look like someone who could be successful," I said slowly. "Someone people take seriously. Someone who opens doors instead of closing them."
Dr. Vargas nodded. "A professional appearance. Trustworthy. Competent. The kind of face that belongs in boardrooms."
"Exactly."
"That I can do." He stood and retrieved a tablet from his desk. "Let me show you some possibilities."
The next hour was a masterclass in facial architecture. Dr. Vargas walked me through bone structure, skin grafting, the subtle manipulations that could transform a gaunt junkie into a respectable businessman. He showed me before-and-after photos of previous clients—faces I didn't recognize because they'd been designed to be unrecognizable.
"The procedure takes approximately eight hours," he explained. "Recovery is three weeks minimum, four weeks preferable. During that time, you'll stay in our facility. Meals provided, nursing care available, everything you need while your face heals."
"And the cost?"
"Fourteen thousand dollars, as discussed. Seven thousand now as deposit. Seven thousand upon completion."
I pulled the money belt from under my shirt and counted out seven thousand dollars in mixed bills. Dr. Vargas watched without comment, then accepted the stack and locked it in a desk drawer.
"Tomorrow morning, we take photographs and measurements. Tomorrow afternoon, we begin." He stood and extended his hand. "Welcome to Clínica Vargas, señor. In four weeks, you will be someone new."
I shook his hand. The deal was sealed.
The clinic room they gave me was small but clean—hospital bed, private bathroom, a window overlooking a courtyard garden. The assistant who'd greeted me earlier brought dinner: tacos from a street vendor, exactly as promised. Best food I'd eaten in this life.
I sat on the bed and ate slowly, watching the darkness outside the window.
Tomorrow, they would begin reshaping my face. For three or four weeks, I would be vulnerable—unable to run, unable to fight, dependent on strangers in a foreign country. Everything I'd built in Albuquerque would continue without me, and I would have no way to influence it.
The fear was still there. But underneath it was something else. Anticipation. Hope. The sense that I was finally taking control of my own transformation instead of just reacting to circumstances.
Skinny Pete had served his purpose. He'd given me a starting point, a network, a foundation to build on. But his face had limits. His history had limits. His reputation had limits.
Marcus Webb—or whoever I became—would have none of those limits. New face, new name, new possibilities.
I finished the tacos and set the plate aside. In the courtyard below, a small fountain bubbled quietly. Somewhere in the clinic, staff members murmured in Spanish about tomorrow's schedule.
This was Skinny Pete's last night of existence. Tomorrow, the cutting would begin.
I lay back on the hospital bed and closed my eyes. The ceiling was white and featureless, like a blank canvas waiting for paint.
Goodbye, Pete, I thought for the second time. Thanks for everything.
Then I let the exhaustion of the day's travel pull me down into dreamless sleep.
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