by Glenn Trust
A few minutes later, another van arrived, holding another reluctant visitor. The priest he had seen with Pepe Lopez the day he and Diaz spied on them emerged from the back. He looked even more unhappy to be present at the gathering than Acosta. He too joined the group and was directed to stand beside Acosta.
The wait seemed interminable. The fiery ball blazing in the sky did not discriminate. It beat down on the heads of those inside and outside the wire with equal intensity. Acosta thought he might pass out. A few of those inside the pen did, and others bent over to wave their hands and try to revive them. At one point, the priest standing beside him swayed and bumped against Acosta’s shoulder.
At the moment when it seemed no one could withstand the heat and smell another minute, Diaz, flanked by his sons emerged from the shack. They crossed the bare ground to the circle of men, their shoes kicking up puffs of dust as they walked.
Two men parted as they passed through the circle and then closed up again until their shoulders touched. Diaz turned around, looking into the face of each man standing outside the enclosure. With the exception of Acosta and the priest, their high cheekbones and brown faces marked them as native descendants of some distant tribe. Though Acosta had taken to thinking of Diaz as a Yaqui, he had no proof of his parentage. Still, the dark faces surrounding him made him feel uncomfortable, an outsider not of the tribe.
After a minute, Diaz turned to the wire pen and spoke.
“You are here because you chose poorly. You were lured into doing business with the gringos.” He gave an understanding smile. “Now, I know that they made you many promises. You have heard that they would guarantee your safe arrival across the border. But as you can see …”
A saintly smile on his face, he lifted his arms and spread them wide to indicate the people inside the wire. They hung on every word he spoke, well aware that he held their fate in his hands.
“But as you can see,” he continued, shaking his head. “There are no guarantees. They could not protect you even here in your own land. There is a lesson to be learned from this.” He waited while every eye lifted and every ear turned to hear the lesson. They would gladly accept it if only they could leave this terrible place.
“The lesson is this. You must never do business with them again. If you wish to cross the border, you will come to me and no others. This must be clearly understood by everyone here.” He paused, looking from face to face behind the wire. “Do you understand?”
The heads of every man woman and child inside the enclosure nodded emphatically. Hope shone in their eyes and replaced the dread on their faces.
“Good.” Diaz smiled. “This is very good. There is one more thing. Every lesson requires some reminder, so the lesson is not forgotten.”
The hope faded. The dread returned, and their faces paled under the burning sun.
“One must be sacrificed to teach the lesson.”
The whimpers and sobs that had run as an undercurrent to his words rose in volume until they became a mournful wail. They huddled together, averting their gaze from the man who held their fate in their hands, crossing themselves and praying that some other would be chosen to be the example.
“Why do you weep so?” He asked, clearly enjoying the moment and the power he held over his captives. “This is a natural thing, a lesson we even take from the Holy Church. Did not a loving Father sacrifice a son for His other children, to teach them the lessons He left with them?”
A self-satisfied grin spread across Diaz’s face, pleased with his warped use of the theology these peasants bowed before. “So you see, it is only natural … ordained by God even.” He lifted a finger to point at the sky. “One of you must be sacrificed to teach this lesson. That way, you will spread the word and always remember that you must never again try to do business with the gringos.”
Diaz gave a final nod to emphasize the logic of it and that the decision was made, then turned away from the wire. His eyes met those of Father Alfonso.
“You, Priest. You will pick.”
“Excuse me?” Alfonso’s eyes widened. His head moved slowly from side to side. “No … I can’t be the one.”
“Yes, you can.” Diaz lifted his head up to the sky, an amused smile spreading across his face. “You will do this, Priest, or there will be consequences, unpleasant ones.”
“How can I?” Alfonso turned to those huddling behind the wire. They looked away, fearing that making eye contact would prompt him to select them for the sacrifice. He shook his head. “I can’t. Please don’t insist.”
“Insist! I can do more than insist. This is not some confessional discussion with one of your church widows!” Diaz’s voice thundered. He withdrew the knife he carried tucked in his belt and held it before Alfonso’s eyes. “Choose, or I will.” He looked at the people cringing before him in the enclosure. “Should it be this little one?” He pointed the blade at a weeping girl of thirteen. “Or that woman who is carrying a child inside her to be born in another month?” He looked into Alfonso’s eyes. “Or should you be the sacrifice. That might be more fitting after all, but then I need you, so no, you cannot be the sacrifice.” He tapped the knifepoint on Alfonso’s chest. “Choose now, Priest.”
Mario Acosta, stared at the ground, silently praying that Diaz would not single him out and make him part of the horror playing out. Standing pressed together in the circle with Alfonso at his side, he could feel the priest tremble. He was terrified, and Mario wondered which the priest feared more, his own death, or the eternal damnation that would follow if he selected one of these people to be butchered by Diaz and his men.
Alfonso could do nothing but weep, tears rolling down his cheeks to fall and disappear in the dust. His eyes swept the crowded mass of bodies inside the wire, each terrified to meet his gaze. Close your eyes and point, he thought. Let God determine who would be the sacrifice.
Yes, that was the way. The thought was a revelation. It took the burden from him and placed it squarely on God.
Let God decide, God who knows who the sinners are and who should be the sacrifice. He closed his eyes, lifted an arm to point so that God, or fate, or the devil could choose who was to die under the burning sun.
“Take me.”
Alfonso’s eyes opened in shock. The old man pushed his way through the throng to stand before Diaz on the other side of the wire.
“Take me,” repeated.
“It is not your decision, old man. It is the priest’s. If he chooses you, so be it. Otherwise, it will be another.” Diaz jerked his head, motioning at Alfonso. “What do you say, Priest?”
The old man turned to the priest and nodded. “Pick me. Let these others go.” He smiled in an attempt to set Alfonso’s mind at ease. “It’s alright. My wife died five years ago, and I miss her.”
Alfonso was speechless. He looked into the old man’s eyes, ashamed of his own fear but thankful that God had provided a sacrifice and saved him from choosing. “Yes.” He nodded and looked at Diaz. “This man. Take him for your sacrifice.”
“As you say.” Diaz nodded, and two men pulled the wire gate open for the old man to come out.
He stood calmly before Diaz and his men. There was nothing he could do, even if he had wanted to fight. The men stepped back from him in a show of respect.
“¿Cuál es tu nombre, Abuelo?” What is your name, grandfather? Diaz stepped forward and put his hands on the man’s thin shoulders.
“Manuel,” the old man replied.
Diaz turned to the others still inside the wire. “Remember this man, Manuel, in your prayers tonight. Because of him, you will live.”
Diaz turned, nodding to the man standing to Mario Acosta’s right. The man pulled a long-barreled revolver from his belt and thrust it toward Mario.
“Kill him,” Diaz said.
“What?”
“Take this pistol, put it to Manuel’s head, and pull the trigger.” Diaz shrugged. “It is a simple thing to do.”
“But I can’t be the one.”
Mario’s eyes were now as wide as Alfonso’s had been a moment before.
“Enough! Kill him, or you will take his place.”
Diaz nodded and led Manuel, the old man, to a place in the dust ten yards from the wire enclosure. Diaz’s men stepped away, allowing everyone behind the wire to see the drama being played out.
“Now,” Diaz said, his eyes boring into Mario’s.
There was nothing to be done about it. Mario had no illusions about his own courage. He had none, and the fact did not shame him.
He had watched Father Alfonso’s moral crisis with curious interest. Now that he was drawn into the midst of the drama, he felt nothing beyond the instinct to preserve his own life at all costs.
He took five steps toward Manuel. Their eyes met. Mario dared not look away for fear of missing the shot. The old man smiled, and Mario squeezed the trigger.
The .44 caliber bullet plowed through the old man’s skull and flew off into the desert behind him. When it was done, his body lay on his side. Blood trickled from the hole in his forehead across his face and dripped onto the parched earth.
“Very good!” Benito Diaz came up behind Mario and removed the pistol from his trembling hand. “You are one of us now.” He turned to Father Alfonso. “You too, Priest. You are one of us, part of our army.”
Mario Acosta no longer felt like a spectator among these tribesmen. He had become like them—a murderer. He stared down at the body of Manuel, the old man, and felt his soul tremble inside, already lost and on its way to hell.
Diaz took a step away to face his gang of armed thugs that he called an army. He lifted the revolver in the air. “Guerra con los gringos.” War with the gringos!
“La guerra!” the gang shouted back.
41.
Recon
At six forty-five in the morning, Sole pulled off the two-lane road into the lot at K and Z Trucking. Fifteen trucks bearing the company logo were lined up in the gravel with fifty or so men hovering in groups around them.
He pulled to the side of the lot, wheeling in beside a line of personal vehicles, and stepped out to survey the scene. It reminded him of an early morning muster before an operation during his Marine Corps service.
“How ya doin’? Looks like we’re gonna be partnered up today.” Stu Pearce walked up, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup. “Remember me?”
“I remember.” Sole nodded at the coffee. “Any more of that around.”
“Yep. Over in the garage.” Stu turned and led the way. “I’ll show you.”
Another half-dozen men were inside the garage, gathered around a coffee maker set up on a folding table. Sole nodded at the men standing around as he reached for the pot and filled a cup.
“This normal?”
“Normal?” Stu laughed. “Not sure what normal is around here.”
“I counted fifteen trucks outside,” Sole pressed. “Driver and security man in each truck adds up to thirty men.” He looked out the bay door to the lot. “Must be fifty out there.”
“Yeah, well this isn’t exactly a normal workday.” Stu nodded, a serious look in his eyes.
“Why is that?”
“Don’t really know for sure. There’s a truck missing … shoulda been back last night. Marty Slocum and Chesty Miller. They’re good men. Hope they’re alright. Marty’s got a daughter gettin’ married in a month, and Chesty’s son just gave him his third grandbaby.” Stu jerked his head toward the men outside. “I expect them being here has something to do with that.”
“Looks like all hands on deck.”
“Yep. When the call comes, we come runnin’.” Stu grinned. “That’s how it is at K and Z.”
“Hey, you’re the fella that laid out ole Lucky Martin, ain’t you?” A tall man whose weathered face, lean frame, and dusty clothes made him look like a character out of a Larry McMurtry novel stepped over to the coffee table.
Sole looked him over and sipped his coffee without replying. He figured it wouldn’t do to make too much of putting down one of the K and Z men without knowing who his friends were and how many might be standing around.
“This is the one,” Stu chimed in for him, grinning and clapping Sole on the back like he had known him all his life. “Put that loud-mouthed pecker-head on the ground like there was nothin’ to it.”
“Well, hell.” The tall newcomer put his hand out. “Pleased to meet you then. I’m Sid Culper.” Sid leaned forward and snickered, “Nobody likes that son of a bitch, Martin anyway. You’re among friends.”
“Bill Myers.” Sole introduced himself and shook Sid’s hand. “Good to meet you, Sid.”
“Just call me Shorts.” Sid grinned. “Everybody does.”
Sole eyed him up and down. Measuring people was a lifelong habit, and Sole knew this man stood at least six foot five.
“Shorts? Seems a strange name for a man of your stature.”
“Oh, it ain’t got nothin’ to do with how tall he is,” Stu beamed. “It’s ‘cause he’s always walkin’ around pullin’ his shorts out of the crack of his skinny ass.”
Others in the room had gathered around to hear the exchange and admire the man who had done for the universally disliked Lucky Martin. They nodded and laughed at Stu’s explanation. Sid—Shorts—laughed too.
Across the lot, Tom Krieg and Raul Zabala came out of the warehouse office.
“Time to go to work,” Stu said and led the way to join the other men gathered by the trucks.
It had the feel of a pre-ops briefing without the usual weapons and gear in sight. Tom Krieg did the talking.
“We had some trouble yesterday. Load from Coahuila was hit.”
There were murmurs among the men.
“Listen up,” Krieg continued in his best George S. Patton voice. “We won’t be backing down from this. We will push forward … double up and triple up on security where necessary … meet force with force. You know what that means. That’s why we’ve called in the extra hands.” He paused, hands on his hips surveying his troops. “Any questions?”
“Any word on Slocum and Miller,” Stu Pearce called out.
“No.” Krieg glared at Stu. “Consider them casualties, probably dead.” Krieg eyed the rest of the group. “That means you don’t take chances. Do your jobs.”
“What about the police down in Mexico? Have they been advised?” Sole asked.
Laughter rippled through the group. Even Stu Pearce slapped his thigh and chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s a good one, Bill … damned good one … police down in Mexico … hah.”
Krieg eyed Sole. “Well, Bill Myers. Glad you could make it today, and on time too. I’ll chalk your question up to inexperience. Won’t take long for you to understand why they’re laughing.” He looked around the gathering. “Alright, let’s go to work. Zabala has your assignments.”
The men filed up to Raul Zabala and received their assignments. Each truck had a driver and a security person assigned. Additional security personnel climbed into the rear of some of the vehicles.
“What’s that all about?” Sole asked Pearce as they stood in line waiting to get their assignment.
“Trucks heading out where Slocum and Miller were lost. They get more security today.”
“So what’s the SOP for more security?”
“Yeah, well that’s something they’ll have to clue you in on some time.”
“How about now?”
“Nope.” Stu shook his head and gave a nervous laugh. “Not my place to be talkin’ about it with you.” He nodded at Krieg and Zabala, standing at the front of the line of men receiving their assignments. “They’ll fill you in when the time comes.”
“When will that be?”
“I reckon when they trust you. That shouldn’t be too long though.” Stu smiled, trying to get Sole to lighten up on the questions. “I mean, after all, you are the one that beat the shit out of Lucky Martin.”
It was their turn to receive an assignment from Zabala. He handed Stu a pickup order for tomatoes f
rom a farm south of Monterrey.
“You drive.” He looked at Sole. “You’re security.”
Stu accepted the paperwork and turned to walk away. Sole remained in front of Zabala.
“Okay,” Sole nodded. “So, explain to me what that means. I have no weapons, and I don’t see any around. If someone tries to waylay the load, what do I do? Politely say, please don’t?”
“Pearce will tell you about weapons.” Zabala smiled in his usual affable way that reminded Sole of Wile E. Coyote leering at Road Runner. “Don’t worry. You’ll have what you need if it comes to that.”
Krieg stepped forward. To this point, he had remained to the side, letting Zabala handle the assignments.
“When we get an idea about what you’re made of, you’ll have all the details. For now, your employment is strictly on a trial basis,” Krieg snapped.
“Fair enough.” Sole nodded and turned to follow Stu Pearce.
“Best to keep the questions to a minimum,” Stu said, leading the way to their truck. “Too many questions and they’re apt to think there might be more to you than just a drifter looking for work.”
“I hear you.” Sole nodded. “Now, what about weapons?”
“Follow me.”
Stu led the way to the truck they would be driving and climbed up on the passenger side. “It works like this.” He turned to make sure Sole was paying attention and pulled down the sun visor to reveal a seam in the overhead fabric. “Once we’re across the border, you pull this flap down and … voila.”
A tug on the seam, and the fabric peeled away from its Velcro closure to reveal a shotgun and an automatic rifle secured with clamps screwed into the overhead steel. The additional two-and-a-half inches of fabric and padding in the headliner of the truck cab were unnoticeable. Sole nodded his approval.
“These stay out of sight until we are in Mexico and at least five miles away from the border crossing.” Stu’s tone indicated the seriousness of the instructions he was giving. “We get caught transporting weapons south of the border, and we’ll end up sweating out ten years in a Mexican prison, and Krieg and Zabala will swear they knew nothing about the guns.” He shook his head; his eyes locked on Sole’s “Believe me. You do not want that to happen.”