Freedom Fighters

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  The President tugged on his vest. “I took a call from the president of Astra Corp late last night. He was upset. Serrano is digging silver out of his mine and using it to fund his war efforts.”

  Nick nodded. “We have proof of it.”

  The car came to a halt. The door opened smartly.

  The President looked out, then back at Nick. “You pointed out that allies help each other. I can see my way to helping you if you help me. Call it an overture of friendship.”

  Olivia caught her breath.

  Even though Nick didn’t move a muscle, she could feel his alertness. “You want your mine back.”

  “I want my mine back. I can’t go in there with my military because the facility is privately owned, but I object to third rate thugs liberating United States assets. You can keep the Black Hawks. They’re a speculative investment I expect to pay off in a large way.”

  “With or without Mexico’s approval?” Nick asked.

  Richard Collins the Third smiled thinly. “I am the President of the United States. I don’t need Mexico to tell me what to do.” He climbed out of the car. The door shut behind him.

  Nick sat back and blew out his breath.

  Adán grinned. “He likes you.”

  “All you have to do is win back the mine, Nick,” Olivia pointed out.

  Nick looked out the window, his fist against the glass. “Yes, that’s all I have to do,” he said softly.

  * * * * *

  Carmen was back to hating Garrett’s guts.

  She leaned over, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Sweat dripped from her chin. It soaked her shirt from neck to hem. Her hair felt disgusting. It flopped damply against the back of her neck. If she’d had two minutes to spare, she would have pulled out her knife and sawed it all off.

  She hadn’t had two minutes to draw breath since sun-up.

  Garrett had called a surprise PT drill not long after dawn. Everyone had scrambled out of their sacks, dropped breakfast bowls and raced to dress and throw on their boots.

  Garrett led them on a three mile run deep into the forest along one of the local trails they had calibrated for distance. That was the first stage. By the time they arrived back at the camp, Carmen’s legs ached.

  Then came a series of drills. Squats, three different kinds of press-ups, jacks and the one she hated the most, burpees.

  At the end of each round, they got thirty seconds to recover, then they went into another round.

  “We’re doing ten rounds, gentlemen!” Garrett yelled at them. “If anyone falls off the beat, or stops, another round will be added. Go! Push-ups! One…two…three….”

  Everyone groaned as they worked through the set of ten standard push-ups. The ground dug into her fingers and stones bit her palms. Carmen groaned as loudly as all of them.

  Garrett zeroed in on her. He walked to where she trembled her way through the last two push-ups. “You’re falling behind, Escobedo!” He grabbed the back of her teeshirt and pulled her up and let her down. “Faster!” He leaned right over her, like the world’s worst drill sergeant.

  She picked herself up and went into jumping jacks.

  “Too slow!” Garrett called. “Eleven rounds!”

  Ledo, who was next to her, glared sullenly. There were a few groans. No one had breath left to vent their frustration.

  They ended up completing thirteen rounds. The additional three were her fault, even though Carmen could see others, like Archie with his huge muscle-bound body, falling behind as well.

  “Sixty seconds!” Garrett called. “Breathe!”

  Carmen bent and parked her hands on her knees. She felt sick. Faint. It was a stinking hot day. The air was still and thick. The heat covered her like a blanket.

  Efraín staggered to a patch of weeds and vomited.

  Garrett clapped his hands and pointed behind him. A sheet of paper was pinned to a tree, about fifteen yards away. “You will each take three shots. For each shot not inside the circle, you will run a mile. When you return, you will get another three shots. First up!”

  Carmen glared at Garrett, hating him all over again. This was beyond ridiculous.

  Angelo was the first up. He got two in the circle. His last shot missed the tree altogether. He swore heavily.

  Carmen was startled. Angelo was normally a good shot.

  “One mile. Go,” Garrett told him.

  Angelo rested his rifle up against the rubble of the refectory wall, then jogged toward the marked trail.

  Carmen was still breathing heavily when it was her turn to step up to the line. She pulled out her Glock and tried to take aim the way she had been taught. She gripped her wrist for greater steadiness, only her arms were lead weights. As she aimed the gun, they shook, making the sights waver.

  “Hurry up!” Garrett yelled. “The Insurrectos won’t stand there while you get your aim right!” He was standing over her again. She gritted her teeth and made her arms straighten up, just for the two seconds she needed to get three shots off.

  All of them missed.

  Sick, she looked at the virgin sheet of paper that Llora had pinned to the abused tree.

  “Get moving!” Garrett said.

  She holstered her gun and unbuckled the belt.

  “Take it with you. You wouldn’t leave it behind for the Insurrectos, would you?”

  Carmen glared at him. “Fuck you.” Even her voice was weak.

  “Four miles!” he shot back.

  For a moment, she wanted to trot over to the weeds and up-chuck just like Efraín, who was now sitting on the hard-packed earth, his head between his knees. Only, Garrett would rail at her even harder if she did.

  She turned and headed for the trail.

  “Run, soldier!” Garrett directed.

  She ran. The best she could do was a tired trot. Her legs felt like cast iron and her arms and shoulders ached.

  The first mile was the worst. Close to the three-quarter mile mark, she stopped and leaned over the grass and foliage at the edge of the trail, wondering if she would vomit. The nausea passed and she jogged back to the camp.

  Just into the second mile, her breathing settled down and the dead weight in her limbs disappeared. She picked up speed, feeling light and full of energy.

  The third and fourth mile were effortless. She arrived back at the camp and jogged over to the lineup. Garrett was still bawling at everyone, sending them running as they failed to hit the mark. The thunderous look on their faces as they passed her, heading for the trail, told its own story. Garrett was not loved, right now.

  Carmen pulled out her Glock as she approached the line. “I should shoot you,” she told Garrett.

  “Get three of them in the circle and you can take a free shot.”

  That told her how much he believed she could do it.

  The free, floating feeling of lightness and energy was still with her. Even her breathing was calm. She stepped up to the line and raised the gun. She barely paused to aim. She didn’t care if she hit the paper or not.

  All three bullets hit the target. One of them was awfully close to the line, yet it was inside it. Carmen lowered the gun, staring at the holes.

  “Llora?” Garrett called.

  Llora stepped over to the tree from her safe point and pulled the sheet off and examined it. She held up two fingers, then pinned another sheet to the tree.

  Dull anger touched her. “No, it’s in.”

  “You only winged your man. Take a hike, Escobedo. One mile.”

  “No.” She shoved her gun in the holster and wiped the sweat out of her eyes with the sleeve of her teeshirt, which was less damp than any other part of it.

  “One mile, or KP,” he said.

  Carmen launched herself at him. She’d had enough and she didn’t have the energy to find the words she needed to explain what she thought of him. A growl erupted from her throat as she threw her arms around his neck. She brought her boot up, intending to kick him in the stomach.

  Her boot neve
r made it. Garrett moved with the speed of a panther, using her momentum to flip her around. His arm hooked over her neck and he dropped her flat on her back.

  The black barrel of his Mauser touched her temple. “You’re dead.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were locked in her chest. She struggled to draw breath and when she did, it was a shallow pant. “I hate your guts, Garrett.” It took three breaths to get it out.

  He straightened up and put the gun away. “Clean yourself up. Then help prepare lunch. Move it, soldier.”

  She couldn’t move. It hurt too much.

  Garrett lifted his foot and swung it back. He was about to kick her. The fury circling through her gave her just enough energy to roll out of the way, onto her hands and knees. She stared at him.

  Garrett was standing with both feet spread, his hands on his hips. The kick had been a feint. “I see you found the wherewithal to move,” he told her. He turned his back on her, to watch Archie take his next three shots.

  Carmen hung her head, exhaustion battling with her fury. After a moment, she got painfully to her feet and headed for the refectory. Angelo was already there, drinking from a water canteen. So were four others, including Efraín. They watched her.

  Judging her.

  She mentally shrugged. Let them sneer at the privileged city girl. She didn’t give a fuck. Not right now.

  The shower was lukewarm, thanks to the heat of the day. It was one of the best showers she had ever had. She toweled off briefly. The day was so warm and still, she would be sweating in another twenty minutes, anyway.

  She dressed in her other clothes, which was another pair of jeans and a teeshirt. She had arrived at the camp wearing Nick’s sailing sweater and someone’s discarded pants, covered in paint. That they had been able to find jeans close to her size at all was a small miracle. Besides, no one here cared what she looked like, only how good she could shoot.

  A big pot of stew cooked on the stove. She dipped a bowl into it and found a cool corner to sit and eat. She was ravenous.

  As she ate, she watched Garrett put the rest through their paces. From her sideline viewpoint, she saw that Garrett was smudging out the line in the dirt and moving it closer and closer to the tree. He was giving them a break. A sneaky break.

  Ledo was the last one to hit his target and one of his bullets was on the line itself. He dropped the gun, letting it swing from his forefinger and looked at Garrett miserably.

  “Hit the showers,” Garrett told him. “You’re to do target practice for an hour every day this week.”

  Ledo didn’t even nod. He was too tired. He trudged back into the monastery, the gun still hanging from his finger.

  Garrett turned and walked around the corner of the building. He was going back to his office, Carmen guessed. She poked her tongue at his back, then saw that Efraín was watching her. He grinned and stuck his thumb up.

  After she had finished eating, Carmen made her way stiffly back to her sleeping bag and eased herself down on to it, then onto her side. Sleep grabbed her almost instantly. She surfaced a few times as the afternoon wore on and the heat of the day blasted the earth beyond the roof of the refectory. Nothing moved under the roof itself and she heard snores from others around her. It let her drift back to sleep.

  When she woke again, it was close to sunset. Llora watched her. As Carmen sat up, she beckoned with her hand.

  Carmen gasped as her muscles protested at the simple act of sitting. She had to get to her hands and knees, then lift one foot after the other. Her back twinged and everything hurt. When she was on her feet, she crept over to where Llora was standing by the makeshift bench holding up the kitchen equipment and gas cookers.

  “Everyone will be hungry tonight,” Llora told her. “You must help me.”

  Carmen nodded. “I’m on KP. I know. What are you cooking and what do you want me to do?”

  Carmen’s cooking skills were basic. Llora had her prepare vegetables and stir soup. The small movements as she shifted up and down the bench, washing dishes and stirring in ingredients, warmed up her muscles and eased the ache. A bit.

  Llora guessed correctly. Everyone was starving by the time Llora called that supper was ready, including Carmen. She fell on the food as hungrily as any of the men, serving herself a huge portion.

  The fire in the middle of the room had been lit again, even though the night wasn’t much cooler than the day had been. Everyone sat around the fire, more for companionship than for warmth. It was only a small fire yet the crackle of the flames was cheering.

  Carmen had nearly finished her meal when Garrett appeared. He had showered and changed not long ago, for his hair was slicked back wetly. He was carrying a bottle of what looked like mescal. How many bottles had Hernandez given him?

  Garrett stepped up to the fire and turned to face them. “You all did well, today,” he told them. He held up the bottle. “A shot each, as a thank you.”

  They all smiled and laughed. Everyone scrambled to collect cups and glasses, anything that could be used to hold a shot, while Garrett cracked the seal on the bottle and passed it on.

  Carmen eased away from the fire, leaving her empty plate there. She moved back down the long room to her sleeping bag. She lowered herself down on to the bag, then put her back against the stone wall. She wasn’t tired yet. She just refused to share the bottle with Garrett.

  She watched the bottle move around the fire and the smiles as they clinked glasses and cups together and drank their shot. The air around the fire was one of contentment. Garrett was back in everyone’s good graces.

  Carmen scowled. She had no intention of forgiving him as they had.

  Garrett snagged two tin cups from Llora and stepped around the fire. He was heading in her direction.

  Her heart sank.

  He poured two shots as he walked, his head down. Carmen watched his approached, her arms around her knees, her fingers digging into them. She wanted to speak first, to say something cutting and send him on his way. That would avoid having to deal with him at all. She couldn’t come up with a single thing to say.

  Instead, she watched the play of his thighs under the denim, remembering how the scar curled over his hip just there, under the belt and above the edge of his pocket.

  She remembered how he liked her stroking the sensitive flesh on either side of the ridge of scar.

  She had spent the last three nights in Garrett’s bed, sneaking out just before dawn and walking around the monastery to come to the camp area from the side, instead of walking out through the interior door next to the kitchen area. It had been three nights of some of the best sex she had ever experienced.

  She had relaxed around Garrett during the day. He still fired zingers and complaints and sarcastic observations, although she could shake them off easier than she used to. Until this morning, that was.

  The PT drill had been brutal and, in her estimation, unnecessary. Everyone was as fit as they could be, given the poor food and accommodations. Everyone did their share and then some. There wasn’t a single lazy bum among them.

  Garrett had singled her out for more punishment than anyone else in the group. He had almost hazed her, using his position as the group leader to humiliate her. Her father had always told her she had too much pride and it would get her into trouble. Garrett knew that, too and had deliberately provoked her. Why? What had been the point?

  By the time he stopped at the edge of her sleeping bag and held out one of the cups, Carmen was angry all over again. She looked at the proffered cup. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You deserve it as much as anyone else,” Garrett told her, the cup held steady at the level of her shoulder. “Probably more so. Drink.”

  “Fuck off, Garrett. I have zero interest in worshipping at your god-like feet just because you offer a dram of mescal. I don’t come that cheap.”

  She didn’t modulate her voice or keep her volume down. Garrett hadn’t spoken softly, so neither would sh
e. Heads were turning. They were listening.

  “You’re still pissed about the training.” He put the nearly empty bottle on the ground, then drank one of the shots and added that cup next to the bottle. “Get over it, Escobedo.”

  “Get over a pointless morning of mortification and pain?”

  “It wasn’t pointless.” He upended the second cup, draining it, then bent to dump it next to the first. “You couldn’t hit the tree the first time. You weren’t even close. Yet despite physical exhaustion and high stress, you grouped three shots inside a four inch circle, a short while later. What does that tell you?”

  She glared at him. She had already said it was pointless.

  “Think!” he railed at her. “Use that fancy education of yours and figure it out.”

  The broken down room was silent. No one pretended they were not listening. They watched Garrett. And her.

  Carmen stared down at the sleeping bag where her toes were pushing the nylon into a small ridge. She scowled, thinking it through.

  “You lay in the dirt, too tired to move,” Garrett added. “Yet when you thought I would kick you, you did move.”

  Carmen lifted her chin to look at him, surprised into it. “It’s mental.”

  “It’s mental,” he repeated, agreeing with her. “If you couldn’t shoot inside the circle on the first round, then after four miles in this heat, you should have been even farther off the mark, only you weren’t. You wanted it to stop badly enough you overcame your fatigue and shot straight. Everyone did. Everyone hit the circle sooner or later. Pain is mostly mental. Tiredness is nearly always mental. Now you know you can overcome it if you have to.”

  The men were stirring and talking among themselves behind him.

  Carmen felt a reluctant admiration. She hadn’t for a moment thought Garrett was trying to teach them something about themselves. Everything he said was true, though. She had been blind with fury. It had over-ridden the tiredness and aches and the heaviness in her limbs. She had found the energy to roll out of the way when she thought he would kick her. A few seconds before that moment she would have sworn nothing short of a nuclear holocaust would move her.