by Dale Brown
“So not only illegal—but criminal?” Zakharov exclaimed. “How perfect! How ironic…the deputy commander of America’s military task force charged with border security to be from a family of illegal aliens? I would like to pay a visit to Dr. Vega’s family.”
“Now who is taking chances here, tovarisch polkovnik?”
“You worry about yourself and forget about me, Veracruz…Fuerza…Díaz, whatever the hell your name is now,” Zakharov warned.
“Very well, Colonel,” Díaz said, smiling casually. “You shall have support from the Internal Affairs Ministry to get you back to the United States together with your men and equipment.”
“Gracias, Díaz,” Zakharov said. “But I warn you: if I even sniff the faintest whiff of a double-cross, you will be the next illegal immigrant casualty–turned buzzard food rotting in the California desert.”
It wasn’t until Zakharov was escorted out by Díaz’s Sombras that Díaz’s deputy, José Elvarez, fastened the holster strap over his pistol at his side and buttoned his suit jacket again. “The quicker we get rid of him, the better I’ll feel, sir,” he said.
“I as well, José,” Díaz said. “But not before we get our hands on that robot he stole. That thing could be more valuable than any mercenary army he could ever raise in a lifetime.”
“Then why do we not simply eliminate him right now and take his prisoner and that machine?” Elvarez asked. “His men are good, and their security is strong, but they cannot withstand an attack by the entire ministry.”
“Because he has one more important function to serve for us, and then we will let the Americans deal with him,” Díaz said. “I need to know precisely when he begins to move against Vega’s family. It might be right away.”
“Do you believe he will risk discovery by going after the family, sir?”
“He is obsessed with revenge so strong that it overrides any common sense or tactical advantage the man possesses—almost to the point where he might forget this suicide plan in Amarillo, Texas,” Díaz said. “We need to be close to him in case he asks us for our help in Texas. But he really wants revenge on the ones who defeated him the first time. He’ll do it, I’m positive—and we need to be ready when he does.”
SUMMERLIN, NEAR LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING
“Did you hear Veracruz’s last message, Bob?” Fand Kent said excitedly.
“Yes, of course I heard it,” Bob O’Rourke said on his cellular phone as he took a sip of coffee in the kitchen of his five-thousand-square-foot luxury home in an exclusive gated community west of Las Vegas. “So what? It’s just another one of his rantings.”
“I don’t think so, Bob. This one was broadcast live all over the world on Mexico’s largest radio network, streamed live on the Internet, and broadcast by shortwave—it wasn’t secretly taped and delivered anonymously to a few news outlets like the other messages. I think the government is somehow supporting Veracruz now. What if folks start to do what he tells them to do?”
“What—leave here and start heading back toward Mexico?” he asked incredulously. “First of all, if they want to leave, fine—it’ll save us the trouble and expense of deporting them. But they won’t leave. As much as they may not like living the life of an illegal alien, that life is a million times better than life in Mexico. Wages are ten times higher here than in Mexico, even for undocumented aliens, and that’s if they can find a job down there. Here there’s work, and if they keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble, they can have a good life. Heck, some states give them every benefit and entitlement citizens receive—they have everything but citizenship. They get all the perks but none of the responsibilities.”
“I’m not talking about all that, Bob. I’m talking about what might happen if the people do listen to Veracruz and start leaving,” Kent argued. “Latest numbers are that there are almost two hundred thousand illegals in Clark County alone. If half of those are of working age, and only ten percent of them do what Veracruz says, that’s ten thousand workers walking off the job! What do you think that would do to Las Vegas?”
“Granted, it would be inconvenient and chaotic right off,” O’Rourke said dismissively, “but eventually the system would adjust. The casinos, restaurants, and hotels would immediately start hiring; wages would go up to attract more workers; things would eventually return to normal—except the prices, of course, which would stay high after folks got accustomed to paying them.”
“Do you really think everything would just go back to normal? I think…”
“Listen, Fand, we can discuss all this at the station, when I can take some notes and we can get our facts and figures carefully researched,” O’Rourke interrupted, finishing his coffee and grabbing his car keys. “I gotta talk to Lana and tell her to do the shopping after she gets done cleaning, and my tux is still at the cleaners; she has to pick it up before the Friday night fund-raiser thing. Talk at you later.”
O’Rourke was taking his cowboy hat, leather jacket, and sunglasses out of the closet when he heard the sound of something metallic hit the front door. He immediately unlocked and whipped the door open…to find his housekeeper, Lana—he didn’t even know her last name—walking quickly down the front sidewalk toward her Dodge Durango SUV. He looked down at his doorstep and saw a bundle of keys lying on his doormat. “Lana?” She didn’t respond. “Lana! Hey, I’m talking to you! ¿Cómo está usted hoy?” That was just about the only Spanish he knew except for Otra cerveza, por favor. “It’s time to go to work.” Lana turned, clutching her purse protectively in front of her, but said nothing, looking down at the ground in front of her. “What’s going on? Why are my house keys lying here?”
“I am leaving you now, Mr. O’Rourke.”
“Leaving? What for?”
“I am no longer welcome in this country. I go back to Mexico.”
“What do you mean, ‘not welcome’? You have a good job, a nice car, a place to live.” Actually he didn’t know where or how she lived, but he figured with all the money he was paying her, she had to live somewhere decent. “You’re not leaving because that Veracruz guy told you to leave, are you?”
“We leave because we are not welcome,” she repeated. O’Rourke looked past Lana and saw that her Durango was filled with women, and the rear cargo area crammed with luggage. “We go back to Mexico until America wants us to return.”
“Now wait a minute…that’s nonsense,” O’Rourke stammered. He trotted down the walkway toward Lana’s SUV. “Don’t believe that militant propaganda crap Veracruz is feeding you people. He wants to stir things up for his own reasons. He doesn’t know you people and doesn’t care about you one bit.”
“No. We go.”
“Wait a minute!” O’Rourke said, raising his voice perhaps a bit louder than he intended. “You can’t just leave! I’ve got a whole list of stuff for you to do today.” Lana ignored him. He lunged at her, grasping her left arm. She twisted her arm free with ease. “Listen, you, if you leave without thirty days’ notice, I’m not paying you for last week.” She kept on walking. He didn’t see one of the other ladies step out of the SUV. “I’m going to have that Durango repossessed. You still owe me four grand on it, after I was nice enough to lend you the money at below-market interest rates!”
“No…!”
“You’d better stay!” O’Rourke shouted. “You’ve still got my garage door opener…wait, you’ve got to tell me where to pick up the damned dry cleaning! I just paid for an entire year’s membership for you and your husband at Costco, you ungrateful bitch…!”
Suddenly he heard a woman shout, “¡Déjela en paz, cagon!” The woman who had gotten out of the Durango hit O’Rourke right in the face with a long, full shot of pepper spray. He went down to his knees, completely blinded and disoriented. The women got into the Durango and sped away.
O’Rourke found himself on his hands and knees on his front lawn trying but failing to blink away the pain and burning. He finally half-crawled, half-s
tumbled back inside his house, found his way back into his kitchen, and directed cold water from his sink sprayer onto his face for several minutes. It took almost fifteen minutes before he could see again. He almost contaminated himself again trying to take off his jacket, but finally he managed to change clothes. He dialed his office as soon as he was ready to go again. “Fand…”
“Bob! Where are you?”
“Still at home. You wouldn’t believe it—that crazy bitch housekeeper of mine left, and one of her friends shot me with pepper spray! I think it was the Lewis’s housekeeper! I just barely…!”
“Bob, whatever you do, stay home,” Fand said. “A couple of the cars in the front lot just got spray-painted, and there’s a large group of people on the street. Looks like they’re going to picket the station! There are cops and TV trucks everywhere! It’s not safe.”
He heard her talking, but only the words “TV trucks” got his attention. “Well, what the hell is going on, Fand? You’re a reporter—tell me what’s happening.”
“I think it’s that Veracruz radio message, Bob.” She didn’t mention the bombastic radio show he gave earlier, in effect telling all of America to start hunting down Mexicans. “I think the Mexicans are leaving, and they’re going to stage protests and demonstrations on the way out.”
“What do you mean, ‘leaving’?” But he knew exactly what she meant—had in fact seen it with his own eyes, in front of his own home. “Never mind. I’ll be there right away. Keep me advised if anything else happens.” Fand started to warn him again, but he hung up before she could finish.
O’Rourke was heading out the door, but thinking about Fand’s last warning made him stop, then head upstairs to the safe built into the nightstand next to the massive oak sleigh bed in his bedroom. There was no combination lock to the safe—instead, he pressed a code into a recessed rubberized keypad on top of the safe, and the heavy steel door popped open with ease, revealing several handguns in ready-to-draw position.
One cool thing about living in the great state of Nevada was how easy it was to get a concealed weapon permit: one day in mildly boring classes watching videotapes, listening to lectures, and seeing a few demonstrations; a half-day in an indoor shooting range; an hour or so getting photographed, fingerprinted, and filling out forms for a background check; and then a couple hours actually shopping for a suitable gun, ammunition, and accessories like holsters, cleaning equipment, and car safes. Three months later, he was proudly carrying a pearl-handled .45 caliber Smith & Wesson automatic in a shoulder rig, very aware of the fact that most everyone could see the bulge in his jacket and knew he was packing heat.
He had learned in his semiprivate concealed-carry classes that you couldn’t carry a gun everywhere in Nevada—most casinos didn’t allow it, although he had written permission from most of the casino managers to do so; most government offices like the DMV didn’t allow guns inside, although he avoided all such offices as much as possible; guns within the Las Vegas city limits had to be unloaded (and even he couldn’t get a permit from the chief of police to get around that one); and concealed weapons in Clark County could be loaded but couldn’t have a round in the chamber. But he pretty much ignored those few restrictions. O’Rourke believed in the old saying: “Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.” If he was going to be the target of a kidnapping or robbery, he was going to fight.
Like one of his TV heroes, Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice, O’Rourke preferred a brown leather shoulder holster for his .45, even though he proved over and over in his concealed firearm permit classes that the big .45 was the clunkiest and most unwieldy weapon to carry concealed, and he barely qualified with it on the range because of its heft and recoil force. But the instructor said it had plenty of “stopping power,” unlike the nine-millimeters, the .380, and the .38 calibers. “Stopping power”—O’Rourke liked that notion. The .45 was heavy, hard to hold, hard to take care of, bulky, and dug into his ribs all the time, but it had “stopping power”—and wasn’t that why one carried a piece in the first place?
O’Rourke climbed into his big Ford Excursion SUV and headed to the radio studio, located about thirty minutes away on the other side of Las Vegas in Henderson. He quickly saw more evidence that something big was underway even before he left the carefully manicured lawns of his exclusive gated subdivision west of The Strip in Las Vegas. Garbage cans once full of leaves and grass clippings were strewn around the sidewalks and streets; service trucks were parked haphazardly in front of driveways and in the middle of intersections; and there were security vehicles racing up and down the streets. At the front gate, a long line of Hispanic men and women were filing out on foot, throwing ID cards and keys at the gatehouse. It was a confusing, scary, surrealistic scene: a woman was pleading with a departing Hispanic nanny, while two crying children wailed in the minivan behind her; not far away another man was shouting at a group of Hispanics about something, and the Hispanics shouted epithets in Spanish in return.
The scene was repeated many times as he drove down Route 215 toward where the highway became the southern bypass freeway around the city—long lines of Hispanics walking down both sides of the street, getting longer and longer by the moment, while either law enforcement or cars followed them with either angry, sad, or confused white citizens in them, words being exchanged through rolled-down windows.
His phone rang. “Bob, it’s nuts down here,” Fand warned once more. “Where are you?”
“Almost on the freeway—where else?”
“You see anything happening out there?”
“Lots of Hispanics on the street heading toward the freeway too, but…”
“You may not want to take North Pecos, Bob,” Fand said. “Traffic is really backed up—there are masses of people everywhere pouring onto the streets. Stay on the freeway to Windsong and try Pebble Road.”
He didn’t usually take anyone’s driving advice, but after the traffic on the freeway began getting heavier and heavier as he approached the Green Valley area, he decided to heed her advice. From the freeway he could see his usual exit, North Pecos Road, was backed up for about a half-mile, with police lights and sirens evident, so he was thankful for Fand’s warning. But the east side of the Green Valley hotel and resort area was no better. This was complete insanity: just what were these people trying to accomplish here?
O’Rourke exited on Windsong Road and then, frustrated by the backed-up northbound traffic, exited at the entrance to a private residential golf club. He was instantly recognized by the gate guard, which he fully expected, and asked for directions. The guard was more than overjoyed to get into an electric golf cart and escort him to the western side of the complex to Pebble Road, just a few blocks from his office complex.
When he reached the wide intersection across from his office building, he saw huge clusters of Hispanics crowding the intersections on all four corners—they didn’t seem violent, just loud—and their numbers, which seemed to grow by the minute, made them seem more intimidating. It took six light cycles to get through the largest group of people near the Green Valley Resort.
Another cell phone call: “Bob…?”
“I’m almost at the studio, Fand,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll have any trouble getting in. Looks like things are clearing out.” But as he approached the studio, located in a new office complex overlooking Green Valley, it was clear that Fand was not exaggerating and that things were not clearing out. A crowd of about two hundred people, mostly Hispanic but with a good number of non-Hispanics mixed in, chanted and shouted in front of the office building’s entrance, carrying picket signs and creating a loud din with a variety of noisemakers. There was a thin circle of police officers surrounding the crowd, and across the street were several TV station satellite trucks—O’Rourke recognized every local news station and a couple from as far away as Los Angeles and Phoenix.
He briefly considered going around back and parking in the fenced-off secure employee parking area, but there were on
ly a dozen VIP parking areas in front, and his was one of them—he was not going to be denied the coveted spot. Besides, if he sneaked in the back way, none of these reporters and cameramen would know he was here—they might assume he was just going to play a prerecorded or repeat broadcast, and that would show he was afraid. Nuts to that. He headed for the entrance, which was obscured by protesters and a few police officers, trusting the sheer size of his big SUV would cause the protesters to let him pass.
He was stopped immediately by a City of Henderson police officer, wearing a motorcycle officer’s hard helmet, leather gloves, and knee-high black leather boots, plus a bulletproof vest under his uniform shirt. “Hello, Mr. O’Rourke. I wouldn’t recommend parking in front today, sir. The crowd’s testy and getting bigger by the minute.”
“I can see that, Sergeant,” O’Rourke said loudly. “If it’s not safe out here, I suggest you do something about that.”
It was obvious that the officer didn’t like being told what to do by a civilian, even a famous one. He leaned forward, putting his face closer to O’Rourke’s. “We’re in the process of clearing this crowd, sir,” he said, spitting out the word “sir” for emphasis, “but in the meantime, so you won’t be delayed in getting inside, I strongly recommend you park somewhere else. Better yet, consider doing your broadcast from somewhere else entirely today. Sir.”
“I’m not leaving just because of these…these nutcases,” O’Rourke said indignantly. “This is private property. Unless these people were invited here by the building owners—which I seriously doubt, because I am one of them—they are trespassing.”
“We’re trying to avoid an impromptu protest turning into a serious incident here, Mr. O’Rourke,” the officer said. “The sooner I can get this situation under control, the faster things will return to normal.”
