by David Wood
With that shot, the battle came to an abrupt halt. The Lieutenant stood triumphantly over the fallen Villista, breathing fast, the revolver in his fist trailing a wisp of smoke. Finally, he raised his eyes to his men. “We’re going to search this place from top to bottom. Bring everyone outside. If they’re unarmed, don’t lay a hand on them. But if they have a weapon, shoot them dead.”
As the officer led a contingent into the house, Holmdahl bent over the Villista that both he and the Lieutenant had fired on. It would be impossible to say which man’s bullet had killed him, but Holmdahl was content to let the other man take the credit. He had enough notches in his gun already. Holmdahl was more concerned with who the man had been in life. Was this one of the Dorados? One of Villa’s Golden Men?
A shout came from one of the hacienda’s upper story windows. “There’s one. Making a run for it.”
Holmdahl looked up and saw a soldier pointing out across the field. He breathed a curse as he saw the man the Lieutenant had winged in the first moments of the battle making a break for it. He raised his rifle and put the man in his sights, but just as quickly lowered the weapon. It wasn’t just the thought of shooting a man in the back that stopped him. Two of the men were already dead, and whatever they had known about Villa’s stash of gold had gone to hell with them. Maybe the third man knew where the gold was kept.
He broke into a sprint and caught up to the man in just a few seconds. Already weak from the pain of his injury and loss of blood, the man was half-staggering, but when he heard the pounding of Holmdahl’s boots on the rocky ground behind him, he pushed himself a little harder. The effort proved costly. Before he made it ten steps, he stumbled and went sprawling headlong.
“Give up,” Holmdahl shouted as he closed to within ten yards. “You don’t have to die.”
The wounded Villista rolled over to face him, hands raised in surrender. Holmdahl saw two things in that instant. The wounded man was none other than General Julio Cardenas himself, and hanging from a rawhide cord around his neck was a golden coin.
Holmdahl was so transfixed by the coin, he did not realize Cardenas had drawn his pistol until he heard the report and felt a hot rush of gases and gun oil peppering his face. Stunned, Holmdahl leveled his rifle and fired without even thinking. Cardenas’ bullet, despite being fired at close range, somehow missed its target. Holmdahl’s did not. His shot punched through Cardenas’ forehead, killing the revolutionary leader instantly.
For several seconds, Holmdahl just stood there letting the fog of battle dissipate and wondering if he had just made an enormous mistake. He would have preferred not to kill Cardenas, not before questioning him at any rate, but knowing the man’s reputation, he doubted any other outcome was possible.
His eyes fell to the gold coin at the dead man’s breast. A hard pull snapped the rawhide in two. Holmdahl idly turned the coin over in his hand, letting his fingers caress the images stamped in the gold. On one side, an eagle, wings spread in flight. On the other, the familiar likeness of Lady Liberty. It was an American double-eagle, a twenty dollar gold piece.
“Now where the devil did you get this?” he murmured.
With the coin clenched in his fist, he headed back toward the hacienda. It wouldn’t be long before the Villistas they had spotted in Rubio learned of Cardena’s death and came in force, looking for revenge, but Holmdahl wasn’t thinking about the possibility of another fight.
Pancho Villa was paying his bodyguards with American gold. That was the secret the old gringo had told the Lieutenant about, and that meant the coin in Holmdahl’s hand was just the tip of the iceberg. There was more gold out there, and Holmdahl was going to find it.
CHAPTER 1
Cuidad Juarez, Mexico—Present day
I am going to die.
The thought ricocheted through Juan Garza’s head, like a premonition of the bullet that he knew would soon make it happen. He heard Miranda whimpering beside him and squeezed her hand. “We’re going to be all right,” he promised. “Just don’t look at their faces. Don’t give them a reason to hurt you.”
She nodded, clinging to the false hope. What else could any of them do?
Everything had happened so fast. When the bus had stopped at the police roadblock, Señor Ortiz had assumed that it was just another shakedown, and with a fistful of five hundred peso notes, had stepped out to pay the bribe that would let them continue on their way.
But something had gone terribly wrong. Only a moment after leaving the bus, Ortiz had been shoved roughly aboard, followed by three policemen brandishing assault rifles. Ortiz, bleeding from a gashed forehead courtesy of a rifle butt to the face, had pleaded with the officers and then begged the students to give up their own money to pay the policemen off, but his supplications fell on deaf ears. The head policeman shoved Ortiz down the aisle, then jammed his gun into the driver’s back and told him to turn the bus around.
That was the moment when Juan knew they were all going to be killed.
“Why are they doing this?” Miranda said. “Our parents cannot pay a ransom.”
It was true. While they were better off than many of the campesinos from the rural outskirts of Juarez, none of them would have been able to afford to go to university but for the largess of a wealthy industrialist who saw their education as an investment in the future of the region. Perhaps the corrupt policemen believed their benefactor would come through with the ransom, but this did not feel like a kidnapping.
The bus seesawed back and forth, the driver clearly so rattled by what was happening that the simple task of executing a three-point turn had become an impossibility, but after a few attempts and a few more harsh threats, the bus was heading back down the highway, away from the border and back through the city.
One of the officers waved his gun toward the seating area. “All of you, get down. If I see your face, I will shoot you.”
Juan pulled Miranda down, covering her with his own body, for all the good that would do either of them. She trembled beneath him, sobbing quietly. He felt like crying too, but bit the inside of his cheek to stave off desperation. He had to be strong for her sake, no matter what happened. If they somehow made it through this, she would remember how fearless he was, and would tell the tale to their children and their grandchildren. And if they did not?
Well then, at least he would die as the kind of man that she would be proud of, and her last thoughts would be of his courage.
The ride seemed to go on forever, though Juan’s wristwatch told him that less than half an hour passed before they left the paved road behind and headed slowly along a dirt road with potholes and ruts that jolted the bus and its passengers violently. The dust of their passage filled the interior, becoming a choking haze, the motes illuminated by the late afternoon sun. Finally, after another twenty minutes of this, the officer in charge ordered the driver to stop.
“Everyone stand up,” he continued, shouting down the center aisle. “Go out one at a time.”
Juan gave Miranda what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, then stood up. He kept his gaze downcast, hoping that a show of subservience and a conscious effort to avoid making eye contact—or identifying their captors—might buy them some leniency. Still holding Miranda protectively, he made his way down the steps, off the bus, and joined the queue of his fellow students… His fellow hostages.
The ground underfoot was dry and dusty, but a surreptitious glance showed green fields stretching off in one direction—south, judging by the position of the sun—and a drop off into a ravine or valley to the other. As he was marched away from the bus, he managed to sneak a quick look ahead and saw that they were now being guarded by four men wearing street clothes with ski masks covering their faces.
Narcos, Juan thought. The police are working with one of the cartels.
He heard a loud hiss behind them as the air brakes of the bus let go. Overcome by curiosity, Juan risked a quick backward glance and saw the vehicle pulling away, carrying the three renegade poli
ce officers along with it.
“Juan,” Miranda whispered. “What’s going to happen to us?”
“Shhh.” It was more an attempt to soothe her than a warning to be quiet. “Everything is going to be all right.”
But his every instinct told him otherwise. We are going to die. I am going to die.
Their captors said nothing. They just gestured with the rifles, urging the line of students to keep moving until they were all standing at the precipice Juan had earlier noticed.
That’s the Rio Bravo, he realized, staring over the international border at the green and gold fields of Texas. Why would they bring us here?
They had been on their way to El Paso on a cross-border excursion when the bus was intercepted. Did their captors want them to now attempt to sneak across? Perhaps these men were narcotraficantes who intended to use them as drug mules? But surely there were easier ways to smuggle drugs into America.
When the shots came, a long, loud ripping sound like a string of firecrackers all going off at once, Juan almost didn’t believe what his ears were telling him. He jerked around to see if the masked men were firing into the air, perhaps trying to intimidate them….
Miranda’s hand was torn out of his own, and even as her screams filled the air, Juan felt something white hot pluck at the fabric of his shirt with such force that he was spun around. He collapsed involuntarily, stunned by the realization that he had just been shot.
The burst of gunfire ended as quickly as it had begun. Juan tried to lift himself up, raise his face out of the dirt in order to demand an explanation from the masked men, but when he pushed against the ground with his arms, a lance of pain shot through his ribs and stole his breath away.
A shot—a single staccato report—broke the temporary stillness, and only as its echoes died away did Juan become aware of the voices. Sobbing, pleading, crying out in agony…talking.
“It’s done. Let our friends know that the time for destiny has come at last.” A low voice. Someone talking on a phone. “No, just say it like that. Destiny. Tell them we need—”
Another gunshot obscured the rest of the utterance, and one of the whimpering voices was silenced. Juan heard the man with the phone resume speaking. “Tell them we need the Patton item from Vienna. As soon as possible. I don’t want to have to do this a second time.”
The gun barked again, closer now, and Juan finally realized what was happening. The gunmen were killing the wounded. Killing his friends.
Miranda!
He almost reached out for her, but then stopped. If he moved, they would know he was alive and put a bullet in his head.
But…Miranda!
Tears began to well up in his eyes. I cannot help her now. I can’t even help myself.
Another report thundered in his ears.
The realization that he was going to die, no matter what happened, focused his awareness. Miranda was probably already dead, but even if she was not, he would accomplish nothing for her by simply letting it happen. He had been hit, his right upper chest was on fire with pain, but his lucidity suggested the wound was not immediately life threatening. Yet if he didn’t do something, the next one definitely would be.
Another shot, even closer, broke him out of his inertia. He heaved himself sideways, rolling without attempting to rise, and propelled himself over the precipice.
“Hey! We got a runner!” The shout was followed by another report and Juan felt the tremor of a bullet striking the earth right beside him. The near miss galvanized him to move even faster. He scrambled forward awkwardly, fighting the pain of his wound, and without intending to, started rolling down the sloped embankment. More shots, more misses.
“Let him go.”
The voice silenced the guns, but Juan did not attempt to stop his downhill plunge. After a few seconds, the dizzying roll ended with a splash into the lukewarm river. He thrashed to get his head above the surface, but as soon as he got his feet under him, he dove out into deeper water and started swimming. His side ached with each overhead stroke, but he did not relent until he felt his knees dragging on the far shore.
He tried to rise, to push himself up out of the mud, but a shot of pain made his arm give out and he fell forward, face first into the shallows. The next attempt was more successful. He lurched up onto the bank and started running.
With solid ground once more underfoot, he risked a glance back to see how close the killers were, and was astonished to discover that he was not being pursued.
They have guns. They don’t need to chase me.
The realization that he was still within the range of their assault rifles…that perhaps they were waiting for him to wash up on the other side so they could dispatch him at their leisure, kept him moving.
No shots came.
He kept running anyway. They had killed all the others. There was no reason at all to think he would be spared. But as his panic began to subside, so also did his energy. He stumbled, fell, tried to rise but fell again. He barely felt any pain from his wound or much of anything at all. His arms and legs felt numb. He tried to move them but nothing happened, or if something did happen, he couldn’t sense it. His vision had become a shrinking tunnel of darkness.
At last, he understood why the men had not pursued him. The only thing he had accomplished by running was to deny himself the quick release of a bullet in the brain. Instead of dying with Miranda, he would meet his end here, alone.
A faint rumble filled his ears, and as it grew louder, he heard also the sound of crunching gravel. An automobile.
They’ve come for me after all, he thought. At least I will not die alone.
The noise continued to grow louder, but then inexplicably stopped. A moment later, there was another strange noise and then a sardonic voice. “Don’t move. You’re under arrest.”
The last word dissolved into a guffaw, and then another voice joined in. “Think we’re too late?”
“Nah. He just passed out. Dehydrated probably. Come on, let’s throw him in the back. He can be somebody else’s problem.”
Juan was faintly aware of hands closing around his arms, lifting him off the ground. These men weren’t with narcotraficantes who had killed the others. They were speaking English.
I crossed the river…the border. They’re Americans, probably Border Patrol officers.
“He’s bleeding.”
“Damn, chico. What the hell?”
The men continued talking as they manhandled him into their vehicle, but Juan was no longer paying attention. As the darkness rose up to claim him, his thoughts returned to something he had overheard before making his escape.
The time for destiny has come at last.
He had no idea what that meant. It was not the significance of the comment that had seized his curiosity, but rather the actual words themselves. It had not registered in the chaos of the moment, in fact, it was only when he heard the Border Patrol agents talking that he realized what had been so odd about that overheard statement.
The men who had shot Juan and killed Miranda and the others, had also been speaking English.
CHAPTER 2
Carpathian Mountains, Romania
Billy Sievers waited for the artificial blizzard thrown up by the helicopter’s rotor-blades to dissipate before leaving the relative comfort of the converted shipping container. He let his AR15 hang from the sling draped over one shoulder and kept his hands buried in his pockets for warmth. As happy as he was to see the helicopter, with its cargo of food and sundry items to replenish their stores, he would have preferred it happen on somebody else’s shift.
He tried to be philosophical about it. The sooner the supplies were off-loaded and stowed, the sooner he could get out of the chilly night air, and back into the warmth of the ops shack where he could return to his Top Gear marathon.
As he trekked toward the now idle aircraft, the front door opened, and the passenger got out. Normally, that would have aroused Sievers’ suspicions. The guys from Air Services neve
r got out of their birds, much less offered to help unload. But he had been told to expect a visitor, and this evidently was the guy.
Only it wasn’t a guy.
Although a heavy parka hid the passenger’s upper torso, the skin-tight thermal leggings below the hem left no doubt about the gender of the visitor. Sievers could see just enough to tell that the passenger was female, athletic and toned, but curvy in all the right places. His imagination took care of the rest.
He stood up a little straighter and slowed his pace to his best approximation of a saunter. “About damn time they sent us some entertainment,” he called out, flashing a lascivious grin.
The woman’s head turned in his direction, giving him a glimpse of the face beneath the fur-lined hood. He immediately noticed that the woman’s skin was the color of milk chocolate.
Sievers had zero problem with that.
Her dark eyes studied him for a moment, then she licked her full lips slowly and gave him a broad smile. “Oh, sugar, you have no idea.”
An electric tingle surged through his body. “I like the sound of that.”
She closed the remaining distance, stopping just a couple feet away, hands resting on hips that were cocked seductively to the side. “You got a name?”
“Billy…uh, Bill Sievers.”
“Well, Billy Boy, I’m actually here for a different kind of business, but maybe after I’ve taken care of that, I’ll show you my idea of a good time.”
Sievers definitely liked the sound of that. “So just what kind of business have you got here?”
The woman smiled again. “I’m here to see your ghost.”
Tamara Broderick savored the moment when Sievers realized that he had stepped in it. The look on the man’s face was almost worth the indignity of tolerating his lewd stares and heavy breathing.
Her declaration would probably be enough to cool his ardor, but behind her confident smile, she remained wary. EmergInt, the mercenary outfit—private security contractor, was the preferred euphemism, but Tam had no patience for political double-speak—that ran the site, employed only former spec-ops types, which meant that Sievers was not merely former military, tough and ruthless, but also very intelligent underneath his somewhat loutish exterior. If his hormones got the better of his good sense and he decided to try something, she would have to act quickly and decisively to end the threat.
