One of the Zetas snatched the sack off their prisoner’s head, as they pulled him back toward the Comandante’s SUV. The man was wearing khaki shorts, and a blue t-shirt. He was a slender man, an Anglo with light brown hair, possibly in his forties. His age was hard to guess, because one of his eyes was partially swollen closed, and the rest of his face showed signs of a recent severe beating.
“Well, well, well. Rick Haywood, we meet at last,” said Comandante Ramos. “I guess you might say that I’m a long time listener, but not exactly a fan.”
Ranya heard the name, and in a moment made the connection. Haywood was the radio talk host who had poked fun at the Milicianos, calling them “brown-bereted guest soldiers.” She knew that Ramos hated him.
Haywood stared back at Ramos through his one fully open eye, but said nothing.
Ramos walked up to the prisoner, their faces inches apart, and addressed him in English. “What is the gringo expression, ‘the cat has your tongue?’ You always have so much to say on the radio, but today you are suddenly very quiet. Now, why is that?”
Haywood worked his jaw, glaring back at Ramos with his good eye. Finally, he muttered, “It doesn’t matter. You’re going to do what you’re going to do.”
“That’s all you can say, that’s the best you can come up with? ‘You’re going to do what you’re going to do?’ That’s it? You, a professional radio talker? That’s all you can think of to say? Man, if I was in your place, I’d be doing some very fancy talking! Aren’t you at least going to beg a little?”
“Go fuck yourself.” The talk show host stared evenly at Ramos, making a display of his courage, but at the same time, his skinny body was visibly shaking.
“I’m really disappointed, Haywood. I thought you’d have some unforgettable words for the occasion, something worth remembering. So let me tell you something instead. You always told your audience of one hundred gringo drunks and whores, that we’d never run you out of New Mexico. Oh yes, you used to say that a lot, the little man with the big mouth, hiding in a studio behind a big microphone. We would never run you out of New Mexico, that’s what you always said. Well let me tell you something now, Haywood, let me give you a news flash: today is the day we are going to run your gringo ass out of New Mexico! Today is the day!”
With that, as if by prearrangement, Ramos nodded to the plain-clothed Zeta man holding Haywood’s rope leash. The Zeta tied the free end of the rope to the trailer hitch of the black Suburban parked in front, directly in Ranya’s view. Ramos climbed back in next to her, and closed the door hard.
“Now, just watch this. This should be good.”
Ramos was smiling, she noted with disgust. She forced her own tight smile in return, trying hard to stay in revolutionary character.
***
The Suburban in front slowly pulled away, doing no more than five miles per hour. Rick Haywood was yanked forward by his wrists, and broke into a jog to keep up. They drove along the deserted road like this for a few minutes, circling around the abandoned cement and gravel operation, with Haywood running in the space between the two black SUVs. Finally, Ramos pulled out his cell phone, and spoke two simple words: “Más rápido.”
The Suburban in front gradually picked up its speed until both SUVs were going ten miles an hour according to the speedometer. Haywood now had to run full out to stay on his feet. The other Suburban was about fifty feet ahead, gradually pulling away. Ranya watched in horrified fascination as Haywood lost one of his shoes, a leather moccasin of some kind, and still he managed to hop and run at top speed for another minute before he seemed to trip—and that was it.
He went over.
Pulled by his wrists, dragged along the hot asphalt and gravel, twisting and rolling, Haywood’s body was quickly reduced to raw meat, bloody red, his clothes and his skin peeling off in strips, his flesh scraped away down to the bone. She watched him struggle to keep his head up off the pavement, he managed to roll onto his side, and then his back, struggling for his life, hoping, she could only imagine, that his tormenters would show some human mercy and stop before the damage was irreversible. Ranya looked down, unable to watch, hating herself for her cowardice in permitting this sadism to occur without protest.
But Haywood’s tormenters had no pity within them, and they showed no sign of human mercy for their enemy. In another minute when she glanced up, Haywood had ceased struggling. There was no sign of life, his head was turned to the side and bouncing along the pavement, there was no face left, he was almost unrecognizable as human.
Ramos spoke into his cell phone again. “Drag him into the gravel pit, and make him disappear.” The Suburban in front, pulling its limp cargo of bloody meat and broken bones turned off of the road trailing a plume of dust. Ramos’s Suburban continued northward, reentered a public highway, and quickly picked up speed.
He turned toward Ranya and cheerfully said, “Well, I told you that Saturday would change everything. For one thing, there won’t be any more problems with Anglo talk radio. Haywood’s radio station just had a serious fire, and believe it or not, their transmitting tower fell over at almost exactly the same time. Talk about ‘bad luck!’ The other stations are going to get the message, loud and clear.” Ramos tapped the Zeta in the front passenger seat on the shoulder. “Mario, turn on the radio, on the AM band, and push the middle button.”
Mario did so, but only the crackling sound of static came from the speakers.
“You see,” Ramos joked, “Our new media campaign is already bearing fruit. I think that in the future, we can expect more responsible reporting on the other stations.” His men laughed, Ranya tried to smile with them.
“Listen cariño mio,” he said softly, calling her his sweetheart, “We have some Falcon business at the Academy, maybe an hour. Do you want to swim some laps in the pool while we’re there? Or would you rather go shopping?”
She turned to him, only able to glance at his face, struggling to appear unaffected. “I’d like to swim, thanks. Swimming would be nice.”
***
It took Alex ten minutes to reach the FBI conference room in the Federal Building. The extra time was spent evading angry mobs of demonstrators who were not yet ready to disperse and go home. He exited the Bernalillo County Government Center on the side opposite the Civic Plaza, and walked down 5th Street with a ball cap pulled low over his face. He wore his brown utility vest to cover his Sig-Sauer pistol, and hold his spare ammo mags. His camera equipment, video camera, binoculars and other gear were in a gray daypack, to keep his hands free.
Up close, the roving bands of marchers looked dangerously feral. Black and red shirts predominated, and he was reminded of the colors of the Nazi swastika. He could have spent a productive couple of hours photographing tattoo-faced gangsters and metal pierced anarchists and seditionists, but he was not about to pull out a camera. Most of the gangs of men (and some women) he passed would have killed him on the spot if they knew who he was.
He even wondered if the bullets contained in his pistol and those in his two spare magazines would be enough, if he was cornered by one of these mobs in an alley. He knew that he was not the only person on 5th Street packing a pistol today, and that if he drew his weapon, he could not rely on merely flashing it to make an escape. If he drew his pistol, the odds were high that he would be involved in an immediate gunfight, alone and far outnumbered. It was not a good feeling.
He had to walk several blocks out of his way to approach the Federal Building from the south, because another impromptu protest was taking place in front. The fact that the sidewalks around the Federal Building had been cordoned off with heavy-duty chain link fences did not deter the radicals. The demonstrators, drawn from the Rally for Social Justice, were blocking several lanes of Gold Avenue, screaming and throwing rocks over the security fence, but the missiles merely bounced off the ballistic plastic the building used in place of glass.
This type of demonstration was actually a common occurrence in front of the Federal Build
ing, and the unstated rules were well understood by both sides. As long as they hurled only rocks and profanity at the unbreakable plastic windows, their antics would be tolerated. If they tried to climb the fences, or brandished Molotov Cocktails or other deadly weapons, they would be doused with pepper spray fired from high-pressure hoses and hit with plastic bullets, beanbags and pepper balls.
Garabanda was glad to flash his ID, scan his thumbprint, and get through the gate in the back of the building. With the energy cutbacks, the air-conditioning inside was set at only eighty degrees. Still, it was a relief to get in from the street, fully scan-in at the security desk, and take the elevator up to the Field Office. It was Saturday, so his jeans and brown polo shirt raised no eyebrows in the conference room. He dropped his daypack onto the floor behind the chair he picked to sit in, the camera equipment hidden inside. He did not intend to volunteer the information that he had just come from his own freelance surveillance operation, and had seen the assassination of the governor with his own eyes.
In the absence of the SAC, who was at Headquarters in Washington, Frederica Chupatintas was the acting Special Agent in Charge. While they waited for the other Supervisory Special Agents and the rest of the Critical Incident Response Group to assemble, they watched local television coverage of the rally and the assassination, flipping between English and Spanish stations. The actual shooting of Deleon had been filmed from a half dozen angles, as had the emergence of the vice-governor to calm the crowd.
Garabanda watched with special interest for any film showing the subsequent immolation death of Luis Carvahal, but there was none. Either the camera crews had left before his burning, or the program managers had simply decided not to report it. He supposed that they already had more than their quota of breaking news in the assassination of Gobernador Deleon. Perhaps they didn’t want to confuse their viewers with a discordant report on the other political murder that had happened on the Civic Plaza today—how would they explain it? The studio news anchors were all practically on the verge of tears describing the “martyr’s death” of the “heroic” governor. Alex Garabanda could think only of how swift and merciful a bullet from the blue was, compared to the prolonged and agonizing death his friend had suffered, burning alive while chained by his neck to a tree, fully conscious even as his flesh was consumed.
Chupatintas took several phone calls while they watched the television reports, as the other SSA’s and CIRG members straggled in. Finally, she asked for the television to be muted, and made an announcement. She looked slightly confused and a bit flustered. “Umm, here’s the deal. They don’t want our help. The city and the state have both informed us that they don’t want us to be involved in the investigation. I’m still waiting for instructions from Headquarters on what our next steps should be.” She paused, looking at the dozen men and four women assembled around the conference table in their Saturday casual attire.
“They don’t want us. They don’t want any federal help.” She fumbled with her cell phone, as if hoping a new message might be found there.
20
Ranya was wearing a new strapless black mini-dress, the stretchy fabric fitting tightly against her body. The built-in bra was under-wired and moderately padded, giving her breasts a rounded profile, and pushing them up and together to maximize her visible cleavage.
She was choosing the lipstick she would wear for Basilio’s party, while sitting at the desk in his bedroom. She had set up a portable vanity mirror with a vertical row of lights on either side. He was putting on his uniform behind her, after finishing his shower. The dress, vanity, perfume and makeup had been picked up on another shopping trip, after she had swum 500 meters in the academy’s indoor pool. This was a short distance, but she had resolved to save her energy for tonight. The swim had left her very relaxed, acting as a partial antidote to the dreadful events she had witnessed earlier.
The swim had also left her feeling sleek, toned and sexy, which had put her in the mood to select this rather extreme black mini-dress. She knew that if she had to spend much time sitting in it, it would be a constant battle to keep it pulled down over her hips. This inconvenience would be worth the effort: the dress was a perfect fit both for her body and for her plan. Watching Basilio in the mirror, she decided to playfully taunt him, in order to lead him on and then frustrate him yet again.
“You’re going to wear your uniform tonight? Don’t you ever get tired of it? You have so many nice suits in your closet.” As usual, when in private they spoke English.
“Of course I’m wearing my uniform. This is a meeting tonight, not just a reception. Especially now that Deleon has been killed, and we have a new governor. There will be more than enough politicians in their pretty suits. Or do you think I should wear a flashy guayabera like they all wore today, maybe with a pocketful of Cuban cigars to pass around?”
“I think you just don’t want them to forget who the Comandante of the Batallón Halcón is.” She pointed to his beret, lying on top of a nearby bureau, the silver falcon insignia prominent.
“Well…maybe. Is that so wrong?”
“No, not at all. But why camouflage again? Even pressed and starched, it’s just…boring. Don’t you have any dress uniforms? This might not be a party, but…I mean, you’re not exactly liberating a ranch tonight.”
“Very funny. You are aware that my First Sergeant was shot and killed on that Lomalinda operation, standing two meters from me? Don’t ever take our missions lightly—I don’t! Anyway, the Milicia doesn’t believe in dress uniforms. At least not yet—not while we’re still in the revolutionary phase. Perhaps they will be added later.”
“I think you’d look quite dashing in a fancy dress uniform. With red stripes on the pants, and fancy shoulder boards, and a sword, perhaps? Of course, you’d need to get a proper haircut.”
He flicked his damp hair back with a toss of his head, picked up the green web belt with its holstered pistol from the back of her chair, and cinched it around his waist. “I think you’re deliberately teasing me.”
“Always!” she said, flashing him her sexiest smile.
He stood behind her and ran his fingertips across her bare shoulders, and up to her neck. “You know, it’s only seven thirty. We still have time to…”
“To what? After all the effort I’ve just put in to become beautiful for you, so that you can show me off like a prize mare?” Ranya twisted in her chair and pouted her freshly painted red lips at him.
“Hmmm…” He leaned down to kiss her, but she quickly turned back to the mirror, and he managed only a peck on the top of her head. He asked her, “You are…all better now, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes, I’m not a bit sore. But Basilio…there will be much more time after the party. I don’t want your fastest effort now—I want your best effort later!” She grinned, and poked him in the stomach with her finger. “And by the way, how late do your important guests usually stay at these ‘meetings’?”
“Well, it’s not up to me. It all depends on Vicegobernador Magón.”
“You mean Gobernador Magón.”
“Yes. Gobernador Magón. As long as he wants to stay, the reception… that is… the meeting will continue. But after his entourage leaves, I’ll throw the rest of them out and chase you back upstairs!”
She tilted her head coquettishly. “Promise me?”
“Of course!”
***
Gobernador Magón had been preceded by his own six-man advance security team, their suit jackets bulging with concealed firearms. They all wore discrete earpieces, and spoke quietly into throat mikes concealed under their collars as they swept through the house and surrounding property. Their team leader gave Basilio Ramos regular updates on the expected arrival time of the new governor. When the governor’s motorcade swept up the driveway, Ramos was waiting just inside the massive oaken double doors at the top of the wide flagstone steps. Ranya stood beside him; she was an inch taller than Ramos was while wearing her black stiletto heels.
<
br /> Six more security men surrounded Magón as he exited his black Lincoln Navigator SUV and ascended the steps. He was wearing a dark, almost funereal suit, far different from the cheerfully casual guayabera he had worn at the rally. In mourning for Deleon? Ramos thought Magón looked much like Manual Noriega, the former Presidente of Panama, who had mockingly been called “the pineapple” for his round and pockmarked face. He noted with satisfaction that Magón was staring up at Ranya’s long sexy legs as he mounted the steps, probably trying to peek up her miniskirt. Basilio Ramos accepted that he was not the highest ranking of the state’s new leaders, but they all knew who attracted the most beautiful women!
The new Gobernador and the Comandante of the elite Falcon Battalion met on the villa’s threshold and shook hands. Magón’s rough, stumpy fingers disgusted the well-manicured Ramos. The security men backed away, to allow them to converse privately.
Magón said, “Terrible what happened today, but life must go on.” He held a tight grip, while peering directly into Ramos’s eyes. “As usual, the Falcons came through, and did their duty.”
The Comandante made a slight bow. “Always at your orders, my Governor.” Ramos understood the nonverbal subtext, they both did. The facts surrounding the assassination were not a mystery to either man. “We are all very sorry for the tragic loss of Gobernador Deleon.”
“Indeed. His death was a great blow to us all, but I will do my utmost to carry on his sacred mission in his place.” Magón released his handshake.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 34