That was pretty much the story of his life, he mused. He had chosen the path of his own survival. No one could blame him for that.
He had been born in El Paso, the son of an Irish father and a Mexican mother. The father had left his native Ireland because he had been involved with the IRA and could no longer stand the political oppression of the bloody Englishmen. The fact that he was also fleeing several bank robbery charges and was suspected of being involved in a couple of murders had nothing to do with it, or so he claimed. He had slipped off a tramp freighter in Houston and made his way across Texas, picking up phony documents and a new identity along the way. Eventually he had settled in El Paso and gone to work as an enforcer for one of the local crime bosses.
Ryan’s mother was in El Paso illegally, too, but nothing so elaborate as false identification papers was involved. She had simply waded across the Rio Grande one dark night with several of her friends and kept a low profile ever since, working as a domestic servant in several households, one of them belonging to the employer of the man who then called himself Allen Ryan.
The attraction between them had sprung up immediately. Juanita Gallego had surprised Allen Ryan by insisting that they be married before she would give herself to him. The idea had amused Ryan so much, and the desire he felt for her was so strong, that he had surprised himself by going along with it. Ryan had greased the wheels of the bureaucratic machine to get around the obstacle of Juanita’s status as an illegal, and they were married in the church, all proper and fitting. A little more than nine months later, their son Simon was born.
It was a difficult birth, so difficult that Juanita would never be able to have more children. And Simon was a sickly child, given to crying for hours on end for no apparent reason. This infuriated Allen Ryan, who had of course become proficient in Spanish, working as he did for a man with criminal interests on both sides of the border. Angry and frustrated, Ryan often shouted, “Silencio!” at the infant, who didn’t understand and kept crying. When Ryan raised his hand to the child, Juanita always moved in and took the beating herself, letting Ryan inflict his rage on her rather than on the baby.
One of his first words was “Silencio.” He heard it so much he thought it was his name. When he was old enough, he stopped crying, but it was too late by then. His father was already in the habit of beating his mother. Young Simon watched this going on as he grew older and outgrew the sick spells. By the time he was an adolescent he had begun running and lifting weights. He boxed in school, not playground fights but real boxing, as a sport, and was a Golden Gloves champion by sixteen.
By now Allen Ryan was quite an important man in El Paso’s criminal underworld. The family had money and a comfortable life. There was no reason for him to feel rage. But he felt it anyway, and when it built up to a certain point, it sought release in the beating of Juanita, as it always had.
Until one night when Allen Ryan broke her arm in front of her son, and Simon beat his father to death.
There was nothing fancy about it. A punch to the solar plexus to knock the wind out of him and stun him, another to the jaw to knock him to the floor. Then Simon pinned him down with his knees and struck again and again, left, right, left, right, until the blood ran from his father’s eyes and nose and mouth and his body was slack in death. It was not until then that Simon became aware of his mother screaming and trying to pull him off his father. Even with her arm broken and dangling loosely, surely causing her great pain, she had tried to stop him.
That made no sense at all to Simon. She should have been happy about what he had done.
He left El Paso that same night after a sobbing, half-hysterical Juanita told him that his father’s business associates would kill him for what he had done. He had just turned eighteen, so he hitched a ride to San Antonio and enlisted in the army the next day.
It was 1966, and a year later he was in Vietnam, wearing a green beret on his close-cropped red hair. For the first time in his life he was happy.
No official charges were ever filed against him. Allen Ryan’s associates in El Paso covered up his death. To tell the truth, despite what Juanita had said they were never that upset about the whole thing. Ryan had become too unstable to be depended upon. So they let Simon go and forgot the whole thing, although he never knew about that until years later.
His service record was exemplary, including several commendations and medals. He reupped in ’69, stayed through the fall of Saigon, and was one of the last men off the roof of the American embassy. The way it all ended left a bad taste in his mouth. He’d had enough of the military, especially since it was no longer run by soldiers but by politicians instead. There were plenty of places in the world, though, where a man of his skills was still needed. He fought for money in little brushfire wars in a dozen tiny countries that nobody gave a damn about beyond their own borders. At first he tried to see to it that he fought on what he considered the “right” side, but as the years passed he grew to care less and less about that. Bit by bit he became more concerned with the money and the fighting. As long as there was plenty of both, that was all he cared about.
Eventually an urge came over him, an urge to go home. He returned to El Paso. His mother had believed she would never see him again. As soon as he laid eyes on her he knew something was wrong. She was eaten up by cancer and had only months to live, maybe less. She told him then that he wasn’t in trouble because of what he had done to his father. He could stay without having to worry about vengeance coming down on him.
She needed money, and he knew how to do only one kind of work. He made contact with his father’s old associates, or in many cases, the younger men who had taken over for those old ones. The jobs they gave him were easy for a man of his background and talents. Killing had never meant very much to him. No matter where his target might be, he could get in and out with military precision, with stealth and silence.
And so he took to calling himself Silencio. It was a good reminder, he thought, of where he had come from and why he had become what he had become.
His mother had no chance to defeat the illness that was slowly consuming her. One night she sat with him, small and fragile and in wracking pain, huddling against his rangy, powerful form as if he were the parent and she the child. He held her and talked to her in the soft Spanish of his childhood, and then he broke her neck, swiftly, sharply, unexpectedly, before she knew what was happening, ending her agony and letting her pass with at least a semblance of dignity and even happiness.
With her gone there was no reason for him to stay in El Paso. He drifted along the Rio Grande Valley until fate brought him to Ernesto Diego Espinoza Ramirez. The Vulture. A Colombian, a vicious, merciless man, but one who paid well. Silencio Ryan was no longer a boy, no longer a young, wild man. He still enjoyed the heady tang of danger and excitement, but he needed less of it now to satisfy him. He settled down in Cuidad Acuna, working for Ramirez. Alfonso Ruiz was nominally in charge of all the gunners, but Ramirez and Ruiz both knew that Ryan was pretty much his own boss, and they were all right with that. As long as the jobs got done, that was all that mattered.
Tonight Ryan, Ruiz, and the other three men were on their way to the ranch of a man who had defied the Vulture. In the trunk of the Town Car was electronic equipment that would jam the sensors the U.S. Border Patrol used to try to monitor the border for illegal crossings. The trunk also contained automatic weapons and night-vision goggles. Ryan had trained Ramirez’s men in the use of such things. He would get Ruiz and the other men across the border, see to it that they reached their destination undetected, and then they would do the work of wiping out Tomas Carranza and his family. It was a shame that Carranza’s wife and kids had to die, but that was the Colombian way of doing these things.
And as always, Ryan thought, better them than him.
Four
Stark and Tommy loaded the cow and calf into the trailer that was hitched to Tommy’s pickup. As Tommy shut the tailgate, Stark said, “You ever think a
bout going to the law?”
“To tell them about Ramirez, you mean? What good would that do, John Howard? Everybody says Sheriff Hammond is being paid off by him.”
“You could try the Border Patrol,” Stark suggested. “Go see Hodge Purdee.”
Tommy gave a short laugh. “I’m surprised to hear you saying anybody should rely on the government for anything.”
Stark shrugged and said, “Just because the government’s too big and unwieldy to get much of anything done doesn’t mean there aren’t some honest men working for it. Purdee might be able to help.”
“I’ll think about it,” Tommy promised. “In the meantime, I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Let Julie and the kids stay here tonight. Maybe even for a few days.”
The request caught Stark a little off balance, but he didn’t hesitate in responding, “Sure, we’d be glad to have them. Plenty of room in the old place, what with both boys gone.”
“You’re sure Elaine won’t mind?”
A grin creased Stark’s face. “Hell, she’ll be tickled to have some youngsters in the house again. She won’t mind. I can promise you that. Besides, she thinks the world of Julie.”
“Thanks, John Howard.” Tommy squeezed Stark’s arm for a second. “I . . . I just don’t feel safe having them on the ranch right now.”
“Because you’re afraid Ramirez might try to get even with you?”
“They say he’s Colombian. You’ve heard about those guys. They’re crazy.”
Stark nodded. “Maybe you’d better stay here, too.”
“Oh no,” Tommy said immediately. “That could put you and Elaine in danger.”
“What you ought to do,” Stark said with a frown, “is take your family and get the hell outta here for a while, until things cool off. You’ve got family in San Antonio and El Paso both. Head for one of those places and lie low.”
“Run and hide, you mean. I’m surprised to hear talk like that from John Howard Stark.”
“Don’t get your back up,” Stark said. “I’m talkin’ about being reasonable and protecting your family, that’s all.”
Tommy sighed. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. If I run away, though, Ramirez is likely to move in and take over my place. He’ll see it as a sign that he’s won.”
“I’ll talk to Hodge Purdee,” Stark promised. “His boys can increase their patrols, sort of put the lid on things for a while. And me and Newt and Chaco can keep the place up while you’re gone, tend to your stock and such. When it’s been long enough for things to have blown over, you can come back.”
“When will that be? I hear tell those Colombians hold a grudge for a long time.”
“Maybe so, but Ramirez has a big operation. Sooner or later he’ll move on to other things and forget all about you.”
“Yeah . . . all right, John Howard, I’ll do it. I’ll get Julie and the kids tomorrow, and we’ll go to my cousin’s in San Antonio.”
“Hell, let’s put these cows back in the barn, and you stay the night, too.”
Tommy shook his head. “No, I want ’em back on my range where they belong.”
“But you’re coming back here tonight, right?” Stark asked.
“Yeah, I’ll just turn ’em out, unhitch the trailer, and drive right back over here. I don’t much like it, but I guess it would be best all around.”
Stark nodded. “Damn right. Wait just a few minutes, and I’ll ride over to your place and back with you.”
He left Tommy standing beside the pickup and went to the house. Most of the guests were still there, and the music still played. Stark looked around until he spotted Elaine. He caught her eye and she came over to him right away, sensing that there was trouble of some sort.
“What is it, John Howard?” she asked in a low voice.
“Come in the house with me,” he said. “I need to get something.”
Quietly, without wasting any words, he filled her in on what was going on with Tommy Carranza. Her first concern was for Julie and the children, which came as no surprise to Stark.
“We have to let them stay here where they’ll be safe, John Howard.”
He nodded. “That was Tommy’s idea, too. I talked him into spending the night with us, and then tomorrow the whole family will head for San Antonio to stay with Tommy’s cousin.”
“Can’t this man Ramirez track them down there?”
“Well, he could, I reckon,” Stark said, “but he’s less likely to try something in the middle of a big town like that than he would be out on an isolated ranch.”
“I suppose you’re right. Where’s Tommy now?”
“Down by the barn waiting for me. He wants to take those cows of his back over to his place tonight. I figured I’d better go with him.”
They had reached the den by now. Stark went over to the gun cabinet on one wall, unlocked it, and took out a pump shotgun.
“John Howard,” Elaine said, a faint note of alarm in her voice now. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t think it’d be a good idea to go over to Tommy’s place without havin’ a gun along. Chances are, nobody’s there, but just in case there is . . .”
Elaine began to shake her head. “I don’t like it at all. I think you should call the sheriff’s department.”
“You know better than that.”
“I know you think Norval Lee Hammond’s not worth a rat’s ass as sheriff, but surely he’d have to do something . . .”
Stark smiled. Elaine had never been one to pull her punches. She had told him that she admired the way he said what he meant and meant what he said. She admired that quality because she was the exact same way, whether she realized it or not.
“As soon as Tommy and Julie and the kids are safely gone, I’m going to talk to Hodge Purdee, who runs the Border Patrol office in Del Rio. I’m hoping he can convince his bosses in Washington to do something about the situation down here.”
Elaine sniffed. “How likely do you think that is?”
“Maybe not likely, but worth a try, anyway.” Stark opened a drawer in the desk and took out a box of shells for the shotgun. He loaded it and put a handful of extra shells in his pocket.
“I don’t like this, John Howard. I don’t like it at all.”
“Neither do I. But it won’t take long, and chances are, there won’t be any trouble. Now, you go find Julie and the kids and keep an eye on them.”
“All right. But you be careful.”
“I intend to be,” Stark promised.
He slipped out a side door of the house so that the folks who were still enjoying the party wouldn’t see him parading around with a shotgun. Stark headed for the barn.
When he got there, Tommy Carranza was gone.
Stark saw that the pickup and trailer were missing and knew right away what had happened. Tommy hadn’t gotten tired of waiting; he had just taken it into his head that he ought to go back home by himself so that his longtime friend John Howard wouldn’t be in any danger.
That dumb son of a bitch, Stark thought, torn between anger and concern. Chances were, nothing would happen to Tommy, but there was always the possibility trouble could be waiting for him when he got back to his ranch. For a moment Stark stood there debating his own course of action. He could get his own pickup and follow Tommy, or he could round up his friends and take a whole convoy over there. Most of them carried shotguns or rifles in their pickups, and Stark had plenty of extra weapons for those who weren’t armed. That would mean ruining the party, and Elaine wouldn’t be happy about that.
But hell, he decided, sometimes a party just had to be ruined.
Tommy knew he was being foolish. He should have waited for John Howard. But he would have felt even more foolish if he and John Howard had come over here armed to the teeth—he knew Stark had gone to the house to get a gun—and found that the place was deserted and as peaceful as could be. That was exactly the way it looked as he drove up to the barn. The house
, about fifty yards away, was dark. Clearly, no one was around. Tommy began to relax.
He brought the pickup to a stop, killed the engine, opened the door, and got out. Going to the back of the trailer, he lifted the bolt that held the gate closed and shot it to the side. “Come on outta there, you two,” he said to the cow and calf as he swung the gate open.
The animals didn’t move.
Tommy walked around to the other side of the trailer. He reached in through the slatted side and poked the cow in the rump. “Move, you stupid cow,” he said. “Go on, and take your baby with you.” He leaned forward to poke through the slats again.
What felt like a bar of iron suddenly clamped itself across his throat and jerked him backward, cutting off his air. He didn’t have time for even one squawk. Somebody kicked his feet out from under him, and then he was being dragged backward toward the barn. He wanted to fight, but all he could do was gasp for air that wouldn’t come.
He had screwed up, he thought, screwed up beyond belief. And he was so scared he thought he was going to piss his pants. The man whose arm was around his neck was so strong that Tommy, a good-sized, work-toughened man in his own right, felt like no more than a child.
Maybe they wouldn’t kill him. Maybe they just wanted to scare him real good. Maybe.
They were inside the barn now. Tommy slumped to the ground as his captor let go of him. He landed in cow shit. The stink rose around him, but he didn’t care. He tried to get up, but a foot crashed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground.
“Here he is,” a cold voice said in Spanish.
“The woman, the children?” asked another man.
“He was alone in the truck.”
“He will not like that.”
Tommy knew the one referred to in that comment wasn’t him. It had to be Ramirez the man spoke of. El Bruitre. The Vulture.
“You can only do what you can do,” the first man said, the one who had grabbed him. He didn’t sound particularly worried or upset. He didn’t sound like he felt much of anything.
Vengeance Is Mine Page 4