by Soren Petrek
Sam flew the Vette back to Patience and was there in half the time. He went directly to the bunker and straight to the back room where he picked up the phone and called his father. He quickly gave his account of what had happened, and he could tell from his father’s tone that he expected the situation to escalate. It was time to get ready.
“We have to celebrate our victory, Virgil!”
“What did we do?” Virgil asked in complete bewilderment.
“We cracked it! We know some of the products. Our data has gotten results,” Doc said.
“I knew it would. Them Ruskies can’t mess with us good ole boys!” Virgil said.
“I know a place; let’s get a drink and wind down.”
“Now you’re talking”
By the time the evening was over, Doc had put enough Rohypnol into Virgil’s drinks that he wouldn’t remember a thing. That, plus the fact that once Virgil was sufficiently oiled up they made their way to a strip bar. By the time Doc had spent a few twenties on lap dances for Virgil, with the generous assistance of a couple of the girls; a few decent lewd acts had been recorded on film.
Carlos decided that he needed to personally follow up on the botched attempt to kill Sheriff Trunce. Jose would be of no use as his new preoccupation was now stockpiling guns. At least the fool had rented an old warehouse and wasn’t handling weapons at the Ramada. Besides, Carlos thought as he drove in the direction of Patience, he could call Manny the Farmer without any prying ears.
Carlos had been around enough law enforcement to know whether he was dealing with a local ticket writer or a professional. So far the home team was winning by leaps and bounds, but Manny knew a few professionals killers too, and it was time to up the ante. The last thing he wanted to do was to continue to lose men. I can explain most mistakes away, but dead associates just didn’t look good, Carlos thought.
Manny the Farmer sat in the sun on his veranda, watching his workers out in the Agave fields nearest to his home. He grew the plants that made the real tequila and provided him with status and as cover for his other operations. He was dressed in comfortable work clothes for traveling around the Hacienda, which he did every day. He treated his men well and they worshiped him. He paid better than most and took care of family problems, sick children, did all of the things that made life a little easier in rural Mexico. A recent convert to the cell phone, he liked knowing that the phone was not tied to him or his legitimate businesses, only his illegal operations that largely had to do with providing substances to stupid gringos who in turn provided him with cash. The fact that the gringo working class was damaged simply made it easier for Mexicans in search of better jobs and homes in America. Manny was fiercely patriotic and felt that it was about time for the migrant Mexican worker to get their own back, after decades of abuse by American companies and exploitation by the border patrol. Years ago as a young man Manny had made those trips. He was a quick learner. Combined with his ruthless and cunning nature, he had pulled himself and his family up from poverty to a position of respect and power. As he gazed out at the Agave, one of the cell phones on the table in front of him rang.
“It is Carlos.”
“Good to hear from you Carlos. What news?”
“I have filed a summary at the usual location. It bears attention.”
“I will give it my utmost attention. I appreciate the information.”
Manny turned off the phone. He would have preferred an oral report but he knew he could access a web posting so remote that it could never be traced back to him. He had sent a few of the brighter sons and daughters of the men he employed off to earn degrees to assist in their work for him. All business was handled as business and this report would be presented to him and then appropriately disposed of.
“Manolo, please print out the report from the Midwest. I would like to review it.”
A slender bookish man quickly left the room. Minutes later he returned with the report, handing it to Manny.
Manny slid on his glasses and began to read the document, with a growing sense of disbelief. Unlike his nephew, he had never been hotheaded. He thought things out. He didn’t always make the right decision, but he did not act rashly. He shook his head as he read the report. He had wondered how long it would be before a community fought back directly. In Mexico, things were handled on a much more immediate and local basis. America was different and that was one of the things that made it easier to do business there.
He took off his glasses and thought of his retreat in Cuba, which was also his escape route if anything ever went wrong. His wife was now deceased and his children were provided for with foreign trust funds. They had no knowledge that he was anything other than a successful merchant farmer. Two of the men who had died in the minivan were from the Hacienda and were assuredly following his nephew’s directives. There would have to be consequences for their deaths, but then he would be done with Jose and tell his sister he was just out of the business, and that her precious son was ready to go out on his own. While he was angry with Jose for forcing his hand, Manny wasn’t disappointed at the prospect of retirement.
Manny picked up his own land phone and placed a call. It was time to make the necessary arrangements. A meeting was called for. He would also arrange for a flight to Cuba. He wanted to visit his friend Fidel and get the house ready. It was time for a permanent vacation. Unfortunately, there was first retribution to consider. He felt he owed his men that. Their families would be provided for, and he intended to leave the Hacienda in the capable hands of his management; they ran it anyway.
Paco Daga turned the old jeep down the dusty road and headed to the Hacienda. Manny had called him for a conference, which was extraordinary. He spoke with the Patron often, but in the field and usually about the crop and farm matters. Once in a while the Patron asked his advice when bloodshed was imminent. In his old life, he had experience with that. Paco was not Mexican. He was Cuban and a hero of the revolution. He wasn’t an idealist; he just knew how bad it had been under Batista. Fidel’s Cuba was better in most ways, but its continued communism hurt the people now that the USSR had fallen. The ongoing US embargo was just wrong, especially in light of the fact that every other western nation had reestablished trade with Cuba. The United States was a huge source of tourism and capital, crucial investment that the country needed.
As he drove, Paco remembered his time fighting in the hills of his beloved Cuba and the heady days of revolution. He had gone on to train soldiers and unofficially fight in other struggles following orders from his superiors. He remembered training the Viet Cong and fighting alongside them in clandestine battles, finally enjoying victory. He had never tasted defeat. He had felt a sense of betrayal when the USSR dissolved and left his country adrift. His former Russian masters had trained him well. He had been as elite as any soldier of his day. He retired and was forgotten, and that was fine with him. He’d never taken a wife, but had family to visit, as he did on his trips to Cuba. He had a position of honor and trust with the Patron, and learned to love the land and farming. After so much destruction and death his life was now about life and the men he now led in a struggle against nature to bring in the crop.
He stopped the car in the circular drive of the Hacienda and stepped out into the front yard, which was really more of a garden. He admired the home and was proud that the Patron was not an ostentatious, wasteful man. The home was beautiful, but not unnecessarily grand. The natural beauty of the area, with its high plateaus and extinct volcano, was just part of the magic of the Agave liquor they distilled there.
Manny stepped out of the front door and walked over to Paco.
“Como Estas, Patron?”
“We are old men Paco. I always ask you to call me Manny.”
“I forget, sir, too many years taking command.”
“That is what I need your advice on my old friend. Let’s have a drink and refresh ourselves.”
Manny led Paco to a table in a cool spot in the front garden and the two
men sat in comfortable chairs around a stone table in the shade. A couple of iguanas languished nearby and eyed them.
Manny poured a couple of glasses of his best reserve 100 proof Agaves. He handed the small Caballito glass to Paco and left him to serve himself some of the Sangrita mixture of tomato and orange juice, salt and chili.
Manny poured himself a glass and explained the situation in Patience to Paco. He spoke directly and provided the report that he had earlier reviewed. Once he had finished he explained his plan.
“Paco, I wish you to select a squad of your choice from among the men, of whatever number you think appropriate. These men and you will travel to this town and retaliate. Call it revenge if you must, but it will be done, the deputies as well, but only combatants, no children. I think that this is the work of a small number, but the weaponry used is troubling. Not only that they possess it, but that they used it and there was no report or action of any kind taken by law enforcement. They are either lucky amateurs or professionals. I do not believe in luck. My nephew will be instructed to follow your lead. Use him and his men as you think it best. You have complete discretion to decide how to proceed. My nephew is at best a loose cannon, but he can be controlled. I will be leaving once you are on the ground in Missouri. I must leave on a strong note, not only for myself, but for the good of the families.”
Paco listened quietly and began to formulate a list of men in his mind. He never questioned the motives or activities of the Patron’s business. He suspected drugs, but as long as it hurt his country’s oppressors, the activity had its merit. That was enough for him. He would do the job and return to quietly live out his life, working in the sun, relaxing in the shade and sipping the fruit of his labors.
“It will be done, Patron.”
“What of your fields, Paco?” Manny asked as the men enjoyed their drinks and drifted onto more pleasant subjects.
Sam starred into the campfire, going over the recent attack in his mind. To his right, his father sat forward to speak.
“We could really use some more intel on this one, boys. I don’t like flying blind,” John said placing another log into the fire pit on Nathan’s deck and poking it into place with a long iron rod sending sparks up into the night sky.
“It could be anything. It’s not that hard to get fully automatic weapons these days. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re dealing with anything more sophisticated than some street gang used to shooting first and asking questions later,” Sam said quietly, the glow of the fire reflecting the concern on his face.
“True, but we can’t really ask them any questions, since they’re in little pieces all over the corn field,” Nathan said patting John Trunce on the back.
“We’ll plan for the worst. In my experience it’s those situations where you make broad assumptions that tend to blow up in your face. I’ve seen the ferocity and expert execution that ‘simple villagers’ are capable of with some well-organized direction,” John continued.
“This is also a Mexican outfit, undoubtedly connected to organized crime in that country. They have been known to send a message by coming after family. We need to be ready for that,” Sam added.
“I’ll contact each person to get schedules and determine if any additional weapons are necessary. I think we should have two headquarters, the bunker and the ridge behind Sam’s house. Each person will be assigned a fallback position nearest to their homes,” John said.
“We can dig in on the ridge. I agree we need to draw any fireworks as far from the town as possible. The last thing I want is a bunch of yahoos from the tavern trying to help us by running around with shotguns and .22s,” Sam said.
“The ridge is fortified,” John said simply.
“So that’s what you do with your spare time Dad. I assume it’s provisioned as well?”
“Not the yummiest food ever, but I’ve got water, ammo, and communications gear.”
Sam smiled at the old warrior; one more time into the breach. It had been a long time since John Trunce had been in combat, but it was what he did best. He still trained as if a call to war was only around the corner. I suppose, Sam thought, that if you’d been called three times to big ones and who knows how many times to other operations, the call is just around the corner. It did not matter to Sam that John was pushing eighty years old. His mind was sharp and he was as deadly as ever, he’d shown that. Sam pitied anyone who went up against him and was glad to have him. They would be ready.
“Nathan, please call and tell your father I need him,” John said.
Nathan smiled and said, “He has been preparing also and waiting for your orders.”
“He is the best soldier I’ve ever known, you know.”
“He says the same thing of you, and that you taught him everything he knows about war.”
John smiled and was transported more than thirty years back in time to a dark jungle, trapped in an ambush by an unknown number of the enemy, alone with his executive officer, fighting for their lives. They should have both been dead and they knew it. They had escaped by diving down a ravine, something that only a crazy person would attempt. Neither man had to talk the other into it, they just went. It was a day for miracles, and every day since, combat or no, had been gravy.
Joseph Harper sat in his kitchen and watched as his wife sharpened a stabbing spear in a methodical and intensely frightening way. He marveled once again that an old farm boy from Mississippi had pursued and won an African princess. She was as dark as night, lean and spare. Her body had no fat. She worked hard with her husband and son, living largely off the land. She took great pride in her life and could never understand why anyone would need to go to a gym. She would smile and say, “Dance more.” Harper had learned to love the life outside, from his years in the Masai camp and raising his son in the Missouri woods. His wife never complained. He had learned to read her, and knew when it was time to hop on a plane and go to Africa. She was the most spontaneous woman he had ever known. He had learned that planning was overrated and that being able to adapt was part of life. More than once he had taken her hand and led her to the car, driven to the airport, and jumped on a plane. Once Nathan had gotten older he just took care of their livestock and farm when his father asked him.
She looked up at her husband, smiled, and continued to sharpen the wicked looking spear. “The dogs who come for us will know we are Masai.”
No shit, Harper thought as he watched her, a princess of an ancient nation of pure warriors. No long distance anything. You looked your enemy in the eye when you killed him and he looked you in the eye when he tried to kill you. The Masai saw a beauty in that brutality. They always seemed anxious to get to it, and that was as scary as hell. Ua, he thought, a lovely name. What most people didn’t know was that in Swahili his wife’s name meant flower. It also meant kill. Joseph, remembering his history, recalled that when the British tried to colonize that area of Africa, now Kenya, they wisely went around the Masai.
Virgil woke up with the worst hangover ever. He was lying in a cornfield next to his house. He didn’t even have the luxury of knowing what he’s done to end up that way. His head felt like an anvil, his stomach like a sewer. He was a nervous shaky wreck and now he had to go in and face his wife.
As he stood he thought, Oh just take me now Lord. He ambled over to the front door and tried the knob, and found it locked. Not good. He saw the wall clock through the kitchen window; it was ten to five in the morning. He never came home that late. Virgil reached into his pocket to see if by some miracle his keys were still in his pocket. He pulled out his keys and some snap shots. Holy shit. And what the damn hell? Strippers? His reaction was mixed; a little upset he couldn’t remember any of it, but mostly abject horror. These we burn, and right now. Virgil walked over to his burn barrel and destroyed the evidence. He began to formulate a plan, the old ‘ran into an old buddy routine.’ This time when he got to the door, Martha his wife was there, waiting for him. To his surprise she hugged and kissed him, put him
in a shower, and put him to bed. No fireworks, no yelling, no questions. If he ever had to answer any questions on this one he would sure as hell hold his water on anything he knew, but as it was, he couldn’t remember a damn thing. Who knew, maybe he was abducted by aliens. There had to be more than one husband or boyfriend out there who had played that card before. At least if he had been abducted it didn’t feel like the aliens had probed him. That would have been just too much. Man, he felt like boiled shit.
“Virgil, you were not abducted by aliens,” Sam said into the phone, glad to hear Virgil’s voice. At least the mysterious abduction had been resolved.
“Well, I have no idea what happened or where I went.”
“Nothing? Even when a guy drinks too much he has a clue where he started out,” Sam said.
“I went up to the sawmill near the house,” Virgil said.
“The meth lab, Virgil.”
“The what?”
“Your abduction was more like someone slipped you a mickey, drugs to make you forget.”
“They did the trick.”
“Let me know if you remember anything else.”
“Sam, can we not say anything to Martha?”
“That would be just too cruel, Virgil. Besides, I don’t want any discussion about drug dealers in Patience. I will take care of those bastards. They are starting to piss me off. If anyone is going to knock somebody out in my county, it’s going to be me!”
The more Sam thought about the Virgil situation the more he worried. Well, at least they’re not butchers, but they were able to pull that off pretty easily, and that means they are at least somewhat sophisticated. They understood that dead bodies complicated things and sent messages instead. Anything was possible. Leaving Virgil alive had been a tactical move. Dead bodies put people on alert, and gave them a chance to prepare. If the enemy had any plans for retaliation, they wouldn’t want anyone prepared. An old, raw feeling started in Sam’s belly. He had seen his share of clandestine combat missions. There always seemed to be some kind of ‘calm before the storm’. He didn’t think it would be long before everything went to hell.
