by Nathan Jones
It bothered Raul a bit to hear that his own side had started it. Not because he had a problem with them dishing out some punishment to enemies who richly deserved it, of course. But they'd broken discipline, made Americans look bad, and put CCZ soldiers who definitely didn't need sympathy in the position where they might get some. Not to mention it meant they'd be the ones getting in trouble for it.
Besides, he liked to think it was always the blockheads who were in the wrong.
“That wasn't a rhetorical question, soldiers!” Grimes roared. His furious eyes roamed the cell and settled on Raul. “You!” he snapped. “Why am I not surprised? Tell me what happened here.”
“Your pardon, sir,” the corporal Raul had saved protested. “He wasn't with us starting this, he just jumped in later to help break it up.”
The colonel glared at them both. “Is that true?” he asked Raul. “Were you trying to stop the fighting?”
“I was,” Raul admitted, then couldn't stop himself from continuing. “Trying to stop it by bludgeoning every blockhead I saw to the ground so they couldn't keep fighting.”
Grimes looked as if he'd explode in fury. “Then you don't mind facing the same punishment as the others?”
Raul shrugged. “I'm in good company.”
“Hooah!” several soldiers called out in approval. At least until their sergeant screamed them into silence, looking embarrassed at their lack of discipline.
In spite of the situation this wasn't the first time Raul missed being in the Army. Even hard as things could be, and with the disgraceful way he'd left service, the structure and camaraderie had been an undeniable thing. These soldiers could've been his brothers-in-arms if things had turned out differently.
The colonel shook his head irritably. “I still haven't gotten an answer as to what happened here.” He pointed at the corporal. “Since you're so eager to speak up, you tell me.”
The noncom stiffened to even more rigid attention. “Sir,” he began in a monotone. “My squad mates and I were proceeding through the marketplace on personal business. As we passed by a group from the CCZ convoy they raised their voices so we would overhear, and began bragging to each other in great detail about raids they'd been on in New United States territory, innocent civilians they'd butchered, and their treatment of the slaves they'd taken. Particularly female ones.”
The corporal cut off, breathing becoming ragged, and Raul felt a flash of rage. In spite of his current situation he wished he'd gotten in a few more hits during the fight. Preferably serious ones.
After a few seconds to compose himself the noncom continued in a shaky voice. “At that point a number of my squad mates who I was unable to identify in the confusion proceeded to rush the group and commenced hostilities. I willingly joined in the fighting along with the rest of my squad mates to even the odds, as well as out of a personal desire for vengeance.”
Grimes sucked in a weary breath, staring off into the distance for an uncomfortable minute of absolute silence aside from a single muffled cough. Finally he turned his glare back to the prisoners. “Regardless of provocation, you disobeyed orders and attacked enemy soldiers under a flag of truce. I've managed to convince our Mexican hosts that this is our problem to deal with, and have assured them you will be punished appropriately.”
He motioned to the sergeant, who approached to open the cell. “Expect to be pulling back to back sentry and latrine duties for the foreseeable future. Dismissed,” he finished as the sergeant let them out and began screaming them on their way back to the US camp.
Raul was last to emerge, and found the colonel waiting for him. “Mr. Gutierrez,” he said coolly as one of the guards approached to open the handcuffs. “You and your Aspen Hill friends seem to be magnets for trouble. Up until now you could be excused as being at the receiving end of it, but now it looks as if you're seeking it out.”
“I apologize, Colonel Grimes,” Raul said stiffly, rubbing at his wrists where the metal had dug in. “It was a lapse in judgment. There'll be no more trouble from me.”
“I hope so.” Grimes sighed. “The blockheads are going out of their way to provoke us at every opportunity. Part of me feels a bit of satisfaction every time they get a much deserved slapping down for those provocations.” His expression abruptly sharpened. “But only a small part of me, Gutierrez. Keep your word about no more trouble and I'll forget you were involved in this. Understood?”
Raul nodded, waiting, until finally with an impatient gesture the colonel motioned for him to go. He immediately turned and strode away at the fastest walk he could manage, making for the space where Lewis had set up to sell the town's goods.
At the moment his friend was watching as a Canadian downloaded material from his archives onto a laptop, but as soon as Lewis caught sight of Raul he hurriedly straightened and came to meet him. “Carrie told me you were involved in a fight,” he said in a low voice. “You okay?”
“Just fine.” Raul shifted guiltily. “I didn't have a chance to sell the town's guns, though. I'll get to it now.”
His friend gave him a doubtful look. “You sure? If you wait a few minutes I can go with you, in case there's more trouble.”
“There won't be,” Raul replied shortly. He motioned to the makeshift vendor's stall Lewis was working out of. It was almost empty of the goods they'd brought, and a few of the things that remained were tagged as having an offer on them. “Looks as if you're getting good results here, I don't want to interrupt that. I've got this.”
“Okay.” Lewis briefly gripped his shoulder before turning back to his stall. “Be careful.”
Raul turned back towards the section of the market nearest the summit tents, where the appraisers waited. He wondered if he should ask them about his confiscated baton, or if that was his price for jumping into something that didn't concern him.
It was a nice baton, so he should probably at least try. If nothing else maybe they'd sell it back to him.
Chapter Eighteen
Success
By that evening Lewis was confident their business at the summit was done. They'd made the best trades possible, as far as he was concerned, and had managed some decent profits.
All in all it had been an incredible opportunity. Aspen Hill had all the food the truck and trailer could carry, delivered and loaded by the Mexican government for a surprisingly generous fee. His trading had been successful in netting a satisfying amount of medicinal supplies and few other necessities for the town as well.
As far as personal business went, Lewis had managed to find a lot of useful things for his family and even a few luxuries to brighten their lives. On top of that he'd restocked on reloading supplies, double what he'd had before.
Basically everything he'd hoped to accomplish here he'd accomplished, and most of that was thanks to spending the winter on a mind-numbing repetitive task to produce ammunition that was in high demand.
Although to be fair a significant chunk of the proceeds for the essential purchases had also come from other things, like the family's valuables, Trev's guns, Deb's engagement ring, and a surprisingly profitable return on the hard drives with his copied over archives, and all the people who'd downloaded some or all of it from him or bought the drives outright.
And that last was a profit he could repeat any time he could get his hands on another external drive or found someone who had a device they wanted stuff copied over to.
Maybe he should abandon the reloading business and become a digital peddler. Or not.
From what he'd observed just about everyone else in the convoy had also concluded their business. And after a day of negotiating the military seemed to have cemented their trade agreements with Mexico. The same was true of the other convoys, who'd mostly been waiting around for the US to arrive for the negotiations and trading.
So that evening when he joined up with Gutierrez and Carrie at the barbecue their hosts had planned for them, he wasn't surprised to hear the young woman's news that the convoy would be depar
ting in the morning. “I expect Faraday will be coming around to tell us that soon, and also give us instructions on what preparations to make,” she added.
They got in line to grab their plates, and Lewis was stunned to see that the cooks weren't just barbecuing hamburger patties and hot dogs.
“Holy cow they have steaks,” Raul said in slight awe.
“How is that even possible?” Carrie asked. “The cows in the livestock pens cost a fortune.”
That was a good point. Sure, the steaks were fairly small, and their hosts were making up for that by piling the plates high with mashed potatoes, boiled carrots, and other side dishes. Still, these days a steak was a more than generous meal.
Lewis wasn't complaining. His one worry going through the line was that the perfectly seasoned chunks of meat he watched being slapped across the grills would be gone by the time they reached the front.
As they waited their turn Carrie wanted to hear about the fight Gutierrez had been in. When she learned he'd been tagged by a beanbag she demanded to see his back, right there in line. The former soldier looked embarrassed as he turned and let her lift his shirt enough to probe at the area, wincing slightly at a few of the prods.
“Bruised, probably not broken or even fractured,” she said. “Does it hurt to move?”
“Not really,” Gutierrez replied.
A slightly awkward silence settled, as everyone seemed to realize at the same time that at some point Carrie's prodding had become sliding her fingers along the sharply defined muscles of his upper back, almost in a caress. Then the young woman snatched her hand back, looking sheepish, and Gutierrez jumped as if goosed and hastily lowered his shirt.
“Thanks,” he said awkwardly.
Lewis bit back a smile. Yeah, their insulting banter had somehow turned into the start of a relationship. One that seemed to be progressing fairly quickly, which meant that a momentous event like a steak dinner would be more enjoyable for them without him hanging around as a third wheel.
As they were getting their plates dished up Lewis noticed the cooks had thoughtfully prepared dish covers, presumably for people headed back to their convoys for guard duty or some other purpose. He made a point of asking for one as he was handed his plate.
Gutierrez noticed. “In case you want to save some for later?” he guessed.
Lewis shook his head. “I was thinking I'd head back to the trucks and offer to let Paul come out and enjoy this. I'd also like to double check that all the food we had loaded in is the right amount, and do a final tally of our goods for the trip home.”
“Fair enough.”
He left his friends to find a table and headed back towards the US camp, tempted by the mouth-watering aromas escaping from under the cover with every step. Once he reached Aspen Hill's truck he saw that Ned and Paul were both still at their own truck, going over a list of goods from the looks of it.
“Lewis!” Ned called when he caught sight of him, striding over with a broad smile. “Finished your meal and already back to work?”
“Not exactly.” Lewis held up the covered dish. “I figured I'd volunteer to eat here and guard the trucks so Paul could enjoy the party.”
“That's thoughtful of you. I was just about to head there myself so I'll invite him along.” But instead of leaving right away, as Lewis settled in on the back bumper the trader hopped up to sit beside him. “So I hear your friend was involved in today's fight.”
“Yeah. He was in the area when it started and jumped in to even the odds.”
Ned nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Is he okay?”
“Are you kidding?” Lewis snorted. “From the sounds of it he was a one man wrecking ball.”
“I can believe it.” The trader smiled. “I caught a glimpse of you two sparring in Moab. He definitely seemed to hold his own.”
Lewis was struck with the sudden suspicion that this wasn't a casual line of questioning. “Was there some reason you're interested in his part in the fighting?”
“Of course. I pay attention to things like that anyway, since the wrong sort of fight at the wrong time with the wrong people involved can be seriously bad for business. As for your friend?” Ned held up his hands in a “you caught me” gesture. “I'll admit I was thinking that if I ever expanded my operation it would be nice to have someone like him working for me.”
Lewis was about to object to that, insist his friend was needed in Aspen Hill and had a home there. But before he could the trader grinned and nodded in his direction. “Or you, for that matter. What do you think, would Jane forgive you if you decided to head out for a life of adventure and obscene profit on the open road? Or maybe both of you could come work for me, if she's half as competent as you.”
“She's every bit as competent,” Lewis said. “But our place is in Aspen Hill. Same as Raul's.”
“Of course.” Ned lightly hopped down. “Thanks for keeping an eye on things here. Paul will appreciate the chance to take a break and relax.”
Whistling cheerily to himself, the trader wandered back towards his truck.
* * * * *
Being from the Southwest, Raul definitely knew a good steak when he tasted one. And considering the conditions these cooks were working under and the sheer number of mouths they had to feed, this was a seriously good steak.
Of course, after a winter of eating lean venison he probably would've enjoyed properly seasoned and grilled boot leather.
The meal was only improved by once again sharing out the sangria with Carrie, although they both took it easier this time around. Raul had only intended on having a couple mouthfuls at a time every now and then, so it was a bit depressing to see how fast the bottle was emptying.
The company was nice, though. Talking to Carrie was getting easier and easier, and he found she actually had a sharp, if somewhat cutting, sense of humor. Which he'd sort of figured out from the barbs she'd been tossing at him since the beginning. Still, he was definitely feeling like there was something there.
They were so occupied with enjoying their meal and discussion that Raul barely noticed the tables gradually emptying around them as others finished up and left. Plenty stayed behind, since the dining space was an informal gathering area and people used it for socializing, but pretty soon their end of the table was empty except for them.
Which made it pretty easy to notice the man directly approaching them. Raul paused in taking his last mouthful of mashed potatoes to inspect the guy, wary of a threat. But it didn't take more than a glance to determine that it was a threat of a different sort, if he wanted to call it that.
The newcomer was one of the Canadian soldiers, reasonably good looking and obviously aware of it. He had the demeanor of a typical barroom poacher, who had either decided that Carrie wasn't with Raul romantically or just didn't care either way. He was approaching from her right, which meant he saw the unscarred side of her face in profile, and he obviously liked what he saw.
The man stopped at Carrie's shoulder, just in her line of sight, and cleared his throat, wearing an easy smile. “Hey, can I buy you a-” The young woman turned to face him fully, and he visibly blanched and lost his line. To his credit he smoothly recovered, “-drink? To thank you for your sacrifice fighting the CCZ?”
That probably wasn't what he'd intended to say when he came over.
Carrie looked away, quickly masking hurt with a stoic expression. “Thanks, I'm fine.”
The would-be Casanova seemed only too happy to be rejected this time around. “Well enjoy your meal, then, and thanks again.” He actually backed away a step before turning and practically scurrying away.
An awkward silence settled. Raul wasn't quite sure what to say, and felt terrible for his friend. For her part Carrie did her best to lighten the mood as she scooped up some boiled carrots. “Well that sucked.”
“I'm sorry,” he said lamely.
She half-laughed as she swallowed her mouthful, then quickly cut off when she seemed to realize it wasn't coming out as carefree
as she'd hoped for. “I should wear a mask. I guarantee if I was at one of those fancy masquerades in an evening gown I'd have to beat the suitors off with a lace fan. Believe me, I was Prom Queen. I might look like a horror show now, but I've still got a killer body.”
Raul found himself inexplicably angry at how she was putting herself down. Even with her scars it was obvious she was a beautiful woman, and he hated that something she'd suffered while doing a noble thing was causing her this kind of pain. “Come on, you look good.”
Carrie had been in the middle of spearing her last bite of steak, and at that the motion turned savage, although she wouldn't look up at him. In fact she'd kept her face lowered since the other guy left. “Don't BS me, Gung-ho. Everyone looks at me like I'm some sort of disfigured monster, flinching away at the first sight of my face. Everyone. The best anyone can do is pretend not to, and the best I can do in response is pretend that it doesn't cut deep every. Single. Time. You think I haven't caught even you looking away to avoid embarrassing me?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. To buy himself time he hastily finished clearing his plate. “I like the way you look,” he finally said.
It was true. Her scars were less pronounced every time he looked at her, allowing her natural beauty to shine through. And she definitely wasn't lying about her body, either, although a gentleman tried not to be noticeable about noticing.
Carrie looked up, expression so fierce he flinched slightly. She saw it, and smiled in bitter triumph as if his response confirmed some preconceived notion. “Prove it, then. Your tent or mine. Right now.”
Raul nearly dropped his fork. Although she'd done her share of flirting, he hadn't gotten the vibe she'd be up for jumping right to the end step on a whim. Then again, her self-consciousness might've hid all that.
No, he doubted she actually meant it. She didn't seem the type for casual hookups, so this was obviously a bluff. And there was only one thing to do with a bluff.
“Awesome,” he said. Now he did drop his fork, and immediately stood. “Let's go.”
