by David Wood
DESTINY
An Adventure from the Myrmidon Files
By David Wood and Sean Ellis
On the Texas border, a brutal massacre threatens to ignite a firestorm of violence that will destabilize an already fragile Mexican government and trigger an international crisis that knows no boundaries. The only clue, a cryptic message: The time for Destiny has arrived! Tam Broderick, leader of an elite CIA task force, code-name: Myrmidon, knows that the Dominion—a quasi-religious extremist group—is behind the attacks; now it’s up to her and her team to find out what the Dominion’s true goals are, and stop them dead in their tracks.
From the authors of the bestselling Dane Maddock Adventures and Dane and Bones Origins comes a new series set in the Maddock Universe. Join CIA agent Tamara “Tam” Broderick and her team as they continue their struggle to foil the power of the Dominion. Action, adventure, and thrills abound in The Myrmidon Files!
Copyright
Destiny- An Adventure from the Myrmidon Files
Copyright 2015 by David Wood
Published by Gryphonwood Press
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
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PROLOGUE—AMBITION
Chihuahua, Mexico—May 14, 1916
The Lieutenant was awake before dawn and ready for the day’s activities, which came as no surprise to cavalry scout Emil Holmdahl. The officer was like a wild mustang, champing at the bit, eager for action and hungry for glory, and today was the day that he intended to find plenty of both.
The Lieutenant was an ambitious man, driven and competitive, despite the fact that the glory he so clearly craved always seemed just out of reach. A graduate of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, where he had been an outstanding swordsman, he had struggled academically, finishing in the middle of his class. He had competed in the 1912 Olympic Games but failed to earn a medal. Now, two months into his first military expedition, he had yet to prove his mettle in combat, and that was an itch he was desperate to scratch. At any cost.
After a month of serving as General Pershing’s aide de camp and courier, the young officer had gotten one step closer to his desire when the General had given him command of a cavalry troop tasked with rooting out Villistas in the area, but thus far the search had been fruitless.
“I’m tired of waiting for those greasers to show up,” the Lieutenant had said just a few days earlier. “I want to take the fight to them.”
Holmdahl, a veteran soldier who had first seen combat in the Spanish-American War at the age of fifteen, knew that brave talk was just that: talk. Pancho Villa and his army of bandits had learned their lesson at the battle of San Geronimo Ranch, where the Seventh Cavalry killed seventy-five Villistas and nearly captured Villa himself. Instead of fighting in the open, the revolutionaries contented themselves with guerilla warfare, conducting hit and run attacks well away from the American troops, and blending back into the local population where they were treated as heroes. ‘Taking the fight to them’ sounded impressive, but in practical terms, it meant very little.
But something unusual had happened which promised to end the stalemate.
Shortly after sunset the previous day, a local woman had come to the camp, asking the Lieutenant to meet her outside the perimeter. Wary of a trap, or perhaps hopeful that the encounter would lead to the battle he longed for, the Lieutenant had marched out, one hand on the butt of his ivory handled Colt revolver, which he favored over the standard issue M1911A semi-automatic pistol and which gave him the appearance of a dime-novel gunslinger. Holmdahl, an expert marksman and cavalry scout had followed him to the edge of the camp, taking a position twenty yards away, ready to lay down, covering fire if the anticipated ambush occurred.
The woman had spoken briefly with the Lieutenant, then called out to someone in the darkness behind her. Fearing that this was the beginning of an attack, Holmdahl trained his rifle on something moving in the shadows, but instead of a raiding party there was just one old man, shuffling forward with the aid of a walking stick.
As the man got closer, Holmdahl saw in the faint moonlight that he was a gringo but that by itself was no reason to relax his vigilance. There were plenty of foreigners fighting with the Villistas; Holmdahl himself had fought with Villa’s forces a few years earlier. However, Holmdahl’s instincts told him that the old fellow was probably more interested in trading information for a few pesos than he was in deceiving the American officer and leading him into a trap. While keeping one eye on the shadows, Holmdahl managed to catch a few snippets of the conversation.
The newcomer gave the woman an avuncular pat on the arm, dismissing her, then faced the Lieutenant. When he spoke, it was with an asthmatic wheeze. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately.”
“Then I must be doing something right,” replied the Lieutenant in a tone that somehow managed to be both cocksure and suspicious at the same time.
The old man laughed. “You don’t recognize me, do you? Well, why should you? I had lunch with your father years ago, when you were just a pup.” He leaned closer and whispered something too softly for Holmdahl to make out.
The effect on the Lieutenant was startling. He leaned closer, squinting at the old man’s face. “You’re dead.”
“Very nearly,” agreed the old gringo. “And I’m content to allow that misconception to persist until the situation remedies itself. I would, of course, appreciate your discretion in that regard.”
The Lieutenant cocked his head sideways. “Then why are you here? Is there something I can do for you?”
“There may be something I can do for you. You’re ambitious. That’s plain as day. You’ve come down here expecting to wrap yourself in glory.” He paused and made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Villa’s men are animals. Outlaws pretending to be heroes. Killing them will bring you about as much glory as shooting a wild dog in the street.”
“It may be that you don’t understand me as well as you think you do.”
The old man shrugged. “I’m told that I am a singular judge of character, but we shall see.” He held something out in one frail-looking hand. Holmdahl thought it looked like a leather tobacco pouch.
“What’s this?” asked the Lieutenant.
“Glory.” As if aware that Holmdahl was nearby and eavesdropping, the old man leaned in close again and spoke in a soft murmur.
The Lieutenant’s eyes widened as he listened, and when the old man was done, the Lieutenant regarded the pouch in his hand as if it were a lit stick of dynamite. “Why are you giving it to me? This could end the revolution in a day.”
“I used to believe that.” The old man laughed derisively. “Men will always find a reason to go to war. If you take one reason away, they’ll just find another. You’ll see.” He began to turn away, but then stopped. “You should pay a visit to Las Cienegas, tomorrow. It may prove… instructive.”
As the old man shuffled back into the night, the Lieutenant opened the pouch and shook its contents into his palm. Holmdahl caught the glint of gold before the Lieutenant shoved the object back into the pouch.
Holmdahl hurried to join the other man, his curiosity now stronger than his good sense. “Who was that?”
The Lieutenant gripped the pouch tightly in his hand and
gazed after the departing figure. He gave a short, harsh laugh. “I do believe it was the Devil himself.”
“What was that he gave you?”
“Pancho Villa’s greatest secret.” The answer was murmured so softly, Holmdahl wondered if it had been meant for his ears.
After a night tossing and turning in his bedroll, haunted by the promise in those words, Holmdahl discovered that the Lieutenant’s eagerness was contagious, but unlike the officer, Holmdahl’s thirst was for something other than glory. The more he thought about what he had seen and heard, the more convinced he was that the secret the Lieutenant now possessed could only be one thing, and Holmdahl wanted it.
They set out at first light, heading for a nearby town, ostensibly to buy feed for the troop’s horses. Today, they would be riding mechanical mounts: a pair of 1915 Dodge Touring Cars, painted a dull green of a sun-bleached prickly pear. Holmdahl rode in the lead car with the Lieutenant at the wheel, along with their civilian interpreter and two of the seven enlisted soldiers that made up their foraging expedition. As they rumbled across the roadless landscape, trailing an enormous column of dust, the Lieutenant asked Holmdahl for his opinion on the use of motor cars in military operations.
“I like ‘em just fine for gettin’ around the countryside,” Holmdahl replied, having to shout to be heard above the chug of the engine and the creaking of the suspension as the tires bounced over one rut after another. “I ain’t so sure about using ‘em in combat, though. They make quite a ruckus. You can see ‘em and hear ‘em from miles away.”
The Lieutenant pondered this. “I’m an old horse soldier myself,” he began. “It’s in my blood.”
Holmdahl resisted the urge to laugh. At just thirty years of age, with no combat experience whatsoever, the Lieutenant hardly struck the image of a grizzled veteran cavalryman. Holmdahl, only two years older than the other man, had been a soldier in one form or another for more than half his entire life. Yet, he had watched the Lieutenant ride and practice with his saber, and had a pretty good idea what the man actually meant.
“Mechanized warfare is the future,” the Lieutenant went on. “Armored cars and infantry tanks will replace the horse, mark my words. Mobile artillery platforms that can go roll up on an enemy position and let ‘em have it.” He took his hands off the steering wheel and smacked them together emphatically. As he did, the front wheel hit a stone, and the car veered off course.
Holmdahl just nodded. He knew the Lieutenant was right about the future. That was the thing about war; it was great for innovation.
But Holmdahl had been right, too. When they arrived in Rubio near midday, the plaza was so crowded they were unable to enter. There were at least fifty men, and while none of them were armed, Holmdahl could feel their anger smoldering, like a buried coal in a fire pit, just waiting for a stiff breeze to come along and fan it into violence.
He sank low in his seat and tipped the brim of his campaign hat down to conceal his face, careful not to make eye contact with any of the men. He had been hoping for a more subdued arrival in the town and a chance to ask a few discreet questions. “I do see a number of old friends here.”
“That’s why I brought you along.” The Lieutenant pulled the car around in a wide circle so that they were facing away from the crowd. “Who are they?”
“Villistas.” Holmdahl said it like a curse. Although he had once fought on the same side as Villa, Holmdahl’s true loyalty had always lain with Villa’s fellow revolutionary, Venustiano Carranza, currently the president of Mexico. Villa and Carranza had never seen eye to eye, but when tensions between the men reached the breaking point, Holmdahl had chosen to support Carranza. “Cardenas’ men. I didn’t see Cardenas, but I’ll bet my last nickel he’s nearby.”
Holmdahl knew that name would get the Lieutenant’s blood pumping. General Julio Cardenas was Pancho Villa’s most trusted commander and the chief of his bodyguard. Cardenas was also a vicious killer, and the mastermind of the raid on Columbus, New Mexico, in which eighteen American citizens had been murdered. Outcry over the infamous “Battle” of Columbus had been the catalyst for the American Army’s Punitive Expedition to hunt down Villa.
Holmdahl also knew that Cardenas and the other men of Villa’s elite bodyguard went by the nickname “Los Dorados”—the Golden Ones—because, it was said, Villa paid them in gold, while all his other fighters received only silver pesos. Holmdahl thought again about the glint of gold he had spied the night before and recalled the Lieutenant’s words. Pancho Villa’s greatest secret. That could mean only one thing:
Treasure!
They headed north on a wagon road and soon arrived at a hacienda known as Las Cienegas, the place the Lieutenant’s mysterious visitor had recommended they visit. This time, there was no reception committee waiting for them, just an old man whom Holmdahl recognized immediately.
“That’s his uncle,” he told the Lieutenant. “Cardenas’ uncle.”
“Let’s go rattle his cage and see what flies out.”
They approached the old man nonchalantly as if merely interested in socializing. Through their interpreter, the Lieutenant inquired if the old man knew where they might purchase a large quantity of corn. The old man dissembled and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. Holmdahl understood every word the man said, but feigned ignorance, waiting for the translation before asking, “What about San Miguelito Ranch? That’s close by, isn’t it?”
He saw a flash of wariness in the man’s eyes at the mention. Rancho San Miguelito was indeed close, just six miles away. Less than two weeks earlier, the Lieutenant had ridden near there with “H” troop and marked it as a possible location where Villistas might take refuge. If Cardenas was in the area, San Miguelito was the sort of place where he might lay low.
Evidently aware that his omission had aroused the suspicions of his visitors, the old man just shrugged again. “Yes. You could ask there.”
The Lieutenant turned to Holmdahl, a fierce grin on his face. “I believe we will.”
The cars tore down the road to Rancho San Miguelito, once more trailing a telltale plume of dust. Holmdahl knew that the cars would easily outpace any informants that might have been dispatched to warn their quarry. As they rolled toward the open main gate on the east side of the walled compound, Holmdahl spotted a group of men skinning a cow in the front yard. One of them broke away and ran into the house.
The Lieutenant slowed the car to a crawl, watching the other men for any sign of trouble. After just a few seconds, the man who had gone into the house rejoined his compatriots and went back to work as if nothing had happened.
“He’s here,” the Lieutenant said. “I can feel it.”
He steered off the road and drove along the outer perimeter of the compound to the northwest corner, and then waved the second car forward. “Pull around to the south wall,” he told the driver. “We’re going to smoke that son of a bitch out and drive him toward you.”
As the other car pulled away, the Lieutenant grabbed a rifle and jumped out. He sent two of the soldiers south, along the western wall, and then motioned for Holmdahl to follow him on foot in the other direction.
They had just rounded the northeast corner, less than fifteen yards from the grand arch of the main gate, when all hell broke loose.
The Lieutenant almost collided with three horsemen who were trying to leave the compound. Perhaps realizing that they were too close to engage with his rifle, he drew his revolver and took aim. There was a flurry of activity as the riders wheeled their mounts around and took off, racing back across the courtyard toward the hacienda. Holmdahl reached the Lieutenant’s side a moment later, just in time to see the horsemen halted again, this time by the soldiers sent to cover the back gate.
A pistol shot rang out, and then the air was filled with the noise of battle. The three riders came about and charged once more across the courtyard, making for the main gate, where only two men stood between them and freedom. Holmdahl shrank back behind the wall as
bullets from the riders’ pistols kicked up gravel at his feet, but the Lieutenant stood his ground like some invincible demi-god.
One of the horses let out a tortured squeal and reared up as a bullet pierced its belly. The rider of a second horse cried out as a round from the Lieutenant’s ivory-handled revolver shattered his arm.
Suddenly, a storm of lead sizzled through the compound. The soldiers stationed at the back gate were shooting at the riders, unaware that the Lieutenant was also in their line of fire. Most of their rounds struck the wall, throwing up a cloud of adobe dust that further compromised visibility, leaving the stalwart Lieutenant little choice but to retreat to Holmdahl’s side, where he crouched down and began reloading the chambers of his revolver. Holmdahl did not fail to notice the look of pure ecstasy on the other man’s face.
As soon as there was a lull in the incoming fusillade, the Lieutenant darted forward again, rushing headlong into the smoke and dust, and was nearly run down by the third horse. Once more, he stood his ground, firing point blank, hitting the horse’s flank. As the animal collapsed, the rider tried to leap free, but his foot tangled in a stirrup.
The Lieutenant charged forward, brandishing his pistol. “Come on, you sorry son of a bitch,” he roared. “Get up. Die like a man.”
Holmdahl breathed a curse at the senseless display of bravado and charged through the gate, his rifle leveled. The Villista pretended to be having difficulty getting his foot free, and then quick as lightning, drew his revolver and took aim. Holmdahl and the Lieutenant fired at almost exactly the same instant, killing the man before he could loose a shot.
Neither man saw the last rider until it was too late. The horse erupted from the choking dust cloud and slipped through the gate behind them, running like the hounds of hell were nipping at its heels. Holmdahl wheeled around, put the man in his sights, took a breath, and then calmly pulled the trigger. A hundred yards away, a puff of red mist bore testimony to his marksmanship. The rider slumped forward and slid out of the saddle, falling in a heap on the ground.
