Two hours, a long hot shower and many aspirins and glasses of water later, Basilio Ramos was ready to deal with the problem of the dead man in his bed, who he now realized was Professor Robert Johnson from the university. By now he remembered that Johnson had been a guest at his post-rally reception last night. The dead man was single, and had come to his villa alone. Johnson’s keys were gone, and there were no extra cars inside of the fence. Ramos deduced that Ranya Bardiwell, that Arab bitch from hell, had used it to flee his property.
Basilio Ramos burned with rage, thinking of how she had not only betrayed him, but how she had drugged him and then photographed him in ways that could not ever be explained. To add greater insult to his injury, she had somehow gotten inside of his safe, and had robbed him of his most valuable possessions in the world: his painstakingly collected hoard of gold coins and gemstones. Most of his lovely Krugerrands, Maple Leafs and American Eagles, the fruit of dozens of ranch “liberations,” were gone. How had she learned the safe’s combination?
Bardiwell had even stolen his custom-made .45 caliber pistol, which he had personally lifted from the cold dead hand of a wealthy Anglo rancher. The bitch even took his web belt and holster! How would he be able to explain the loss, when he had a staff meeting to attend? One of his loyal Zetas would have to provide a substitute, something to put into a replacement holster. He could not attend the afternoon staff meeting without his customary accouterments of leadership. It was unthinkable!
Ramos wrapped the dead professor in the filthy sheet, dragged him across the bedroom floor and into his bathroom, and finally heaved him up into the bathtub. The man was stiff with rigor mortis, and Ramos had to put his foot onto the corpse’s chest to shove him down into the tub. The man’s dead eyes were still bulging from his purple face, still staring at nothing.
Professor Robert Johnson, the stupid gringo, had to disappear from the planet earth. But first he had to disappear from this bedroom and this property, and for that, Basilio Ramos had a razor-sharp hunting knife. Several inches of the blade near the hilt were serrated into triangular saw teeth. It was going to be a disgusting but necessary job to reduce the corpse to smaller, manageable segments that could be discreetly carried out in plastic bags, one piece at a time.
Ramos knelt by the side of the tub and carefully studied the body, considering which extremity to remove first. The professor was a disgusting specimen, a piece of human shit. He was a traitor to his own people, and a homosexual pervert. Cutting him into pieces was no more than a distasteful job to do. Unpleasant, but necessary. No different than butchering a deer or a pig, he told himself.
On the other hand, he thought (while working the knife’s blade through the tendons of the professor’s right knee joint) that under the right circumstances this could actually be extremely pleasurable. Oh, yes, indeed it could. That is, if it was Ranya Bardiwell under his blade, and if she was securely tied up and very much awake and alive, while he was doing the cutting.
He remembered with satisfaction how the Jewish traitor and spy named Luis Carvahal had screamed and struggled while burning to death, tied to that tree by his neck. The gringo radio man Rick Haywood had also met a fitting end, skinned alive while being dragged to death, deserving every bit of his pain for the trouble and embarrassment he had caused with his big fat gringo mouth.
As Ramos severed the last gristly knee sinew and the professor’s lower leg dropped free and thumped into the bottom of the tub, he wondered how much more gratifying it would be, when it was that Arab bitch Ranya Bardiwell struggling and screaming under his knife blade!
But those pictures! Those pictures could not ever—ever—get out, to be seen by his men! He had to face the ugly truth: as long as she had copies of the pictures, she not only had his gold and his guns—she also had him by his cojones.
24
She gazed up the street for a half an hour, munching donuts and sipping water, wondering if Garabanda was going to leave his house before the two men in the blue four-door sedan. She considered more means of creating a diversion that might cause them to leave their position. In the end, she decided to just wait and see what happened.
Finally, at quarter till twelve, the blue sedan pulled away. It headed up the hill and made the right turn at the stop sign, retracing her recent walking route. She gave them ten more minutes, in case they were just circling the block, or they were going to be replaced by another surveillance team. Departing around noon made some sense, if they were on a schedule and acting under orders. She optimistically hoped that their shift was now over for the day, and they were not going to be replaced.
Garabanda’s garage door was still open. She knew that there might never be a better opportunity. Another Milicia surveillance team could be on the way. What was she waiting for, an invitation? She decided to go for it. She put the black and red Lobos ball cap back on, mentally slipping back into wolf mode. She smiled at the thought. She was already wearing her wraparound sport sunglasses. The .45 pistol went under her belt, Mexican carry, covered by her untucked black t-shirt. There were no reloads. Eight bullets would have to do whatever needed to be done.
It was time to move. She slipped out and quietly closed the Solaris’s locked door, and crossed the street to walk up the sidewalk toward 4875. She passed a nicely dressed family getting out of a mini-van, who were obviously returning from church. The husband stole an appraising look at her, while the wife quickly shepherded their small children into their house. The absence of people out and about, of kids playing or parents gardening seemed strange to her on such a beautiful day. In half a minute she was approaching the Garabanda’s short driveway, which led at a right angle from the sidewalk to the open garage. Until this moment she was a lawful pedestrian like any other—until she made that turn toward their house.
The key to success was not breaking stride, was not looking around or acting unsure or furtive in any way. She smoothly turned ninety degrees to the left and walked directly into the open garage, and disappeared into its cool darkness.
She’d done it. Step one, a huge step, was accomplished. She had penetrated the perimeter. There was no reaction from the street, no neighbor coming around to check. Now she could just wait right here, until Garabanda eventually came out through the interior door to get into his Crown Vic. When he came to get into his car, she’d be ready to ambush him. He wouldn’t have a chance to defend himself—which was just the way it should be.
Ranya quietly moved between his car and the wall, sliding up to the interior door leading into the house. Her senses were amped up to a state of hyper-awareness. She could hear some sound coming from within the house, perhaps talking, or perhaps a TV or a radio. She put her right hand on the grip of her pistol, and extended her left toward the doorknob, driven forward by curiosity to know if it was even locked. Her fingers encircled the gray metal knob, applied light pressure, and rotated. Her heart was pounding, her pulse whooshing in her ears. She was expecting the doorknob to come to a firm stop after turning only a few degrees.
But the knob didn’t stop, it continued turning clockwise a full ninety degrees against the internal spring pressure. A single thought now flowed into her mind: why wait? She drew her pistol, and gently snicked down the safety with her thumb. Then she slowly, slowly pushed open the door, the way a soft but persistent breeze might blow it open if it had been left ajar.
No reaction came from within. The odds were slim that the FBI man would be in the room directly on the other side, to notice the door opening. When it was opened wide enough, she stepped back against the wall of the garage. Still there was no reaction. The same noise continued in the house, but at a slightly higher volume with the door open.
Again the same thought returned: why wait? She inhaled deeply, took a two-handed grip on the pistol, and slid inside, into a small laundry room with a washer and dryer. There was no door to the next room, just a door-sized opening. She could hear the television now, the program sounded somehow familiar to her. News? It was the rally on the C
ivic Plaza, yesterday. She remembered the speech. She stepped through the opening into the kitchen. A tall pile of mail was heaped on one counter. A quick look at the address on the top envelope was her first positive confirmation that this was the Garabanda residence. An empty liquor bottle stood near the mail.
Ten more feet into the kitchen, and there was an open portal on the left side, leading into a carpeted room. She could hear the television clearly now, coming from the next room, the living room or den. Still there was no reaction from inside, as the sound drew her forward.
Pistol held slightly down and in front in both hands, she peeked around the corner, and ducked back. The man from the playground, Special Agent Garabanda, was sitting in a big chair watching television, facing obliquely away from her. His back and right side was presented to her, he was completely unaware of her existence. She shrank back against the wall, her heart hammering. He wasn’t reacting to her, he wasn’t looking her way, he had no idea she was in his house! She had taken only a half-second glimpse, the picture of him frozen like a snapshot in her mind. Again the same inner voice asked, why wait?
There was no remembered training, no tactical consideration of cover or movement when she stepped into the portal opening, both arms extended, holding out the .45 caliber pistol with her finger on the trigger. Garabanda was facing away from her, his gaze directed at the television to her right, which for a moment also captured her attention. It was the Civic Plaza rally, seen from above, from the side. The view was centered on the podium, while Governor Deleon was still speaking. She was amazed that she could actually see herself in the picture, sitting on the near side of the stage next to Basilio Ramos. Both of them were identifiable by their brown berets among the civilian guests, politicos and VIPs. She stared transfixed at the images, and heard Deleon’s lunatic speech for the second time.
“Why? Because for hundreds of years, the Anglos have always been thieves and pirates and despoilers, ever since the first Pilgrims stole the land from the native peoples of so-called New England. Even at America’s birth, God Almighty Himself put the mark of Cain on that wicked country, by cracking its so-called Liberty Bell the first time it was rung!
***
The video had run almost to the point where Deleon was going to be shot. The jug of OJ and vodka lay empty on the floor, as empty as the plastic tumbler on the left armrest. He was drunk enough, that was for sure. Random thoughts and memories were sliding around his mind. He could easily fall asleep right here in his favorite old easy chair, as he had done so many times before in a happier life. Or he could stumble to the kitchen to make something else to drink, and forget the images on the television entirely. He felt he could not watch much more of the video. Certainly not the part after the rally, after Deleon’s body was taken away, when Luis…
Alex Garabanda didn’t need to watch the television to see the fiery end of Luis Carvahal. For the past 24 hours he had seen it over and over, with his eyes open, and with his eyes closed.
With his head resting against the soft back of the seat, staring at the wall above the television, his fingertips could trace the contours of the pistol lying on the armrest. It would be so easy. He could pick up the Sig-Sauer, and finish off the wreckage of his life.
Tally it up. FBI career—banished from New York to New Mexico. Karin—left him for a woman. Brian—taken away by Karin and the Beast. Luis Carvahal—burned alive. He could not possibly stand to watch that terrible scene at the tree again. What in the world had he been thinking, to watch this video today? It was beyond mere masochism. A form of penance? Punishment?
Or was he giving himself an intentional nudge, a little push to finally do it, to take the next irrevocable step? For the twentieth time in the last hour, his right hand fell gently across the Sig-Sauer pistol on the chair’s right armrest.
“But now, our long period of humiliation has ended! Finally, the Treaty of Shame, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which was broken by the Anglos from the very first days, will at last be thrown onto the trash heap of history where it had always belonged!
***
It was preposterous, it was purely insane, but standing in the open portal to the living room, ten feet from her quarry, Ranya could not take her eyes off the television. She was unconsciously counting down the words until Agustín Deleon would spout a gusher of blood from his back, and fall.
The Anglos have never honored their part of the treaty, and now it is only justice that we, the rightful inhabitants of Aztlan, will put it aside. As promised in the Treaty of Shame, the Spanish Land Grant territories will be returned to the rightful communal ownership of the entire people of Nuevo Mexico.
***
For the twentieth time he pondered the mechanics of finality. The means—a pound of cold blue steel—was once again in his right hand. Mouth, head or heart, those were his three choices. The mouth was most certain, he knew that from unwelcome professional observation, but the very idea was distasteful, somehow unmanly.
The well-delivered head shot would be quick, but it left a God-awful mess for whoever had to come behind to clean up. Worse, he knew that a muzzle against the temple could slip at the ultimate moment, a final hesitation flinch deflecting the shot. When this happened, the shooter was sometimes left to writhe and thrash in agony on the floor. Usually they died, but occasionally they lived. He had seen the bloody aftermaths, personally and in photographs. Could he do a better job of it, and make a steady-handed shot straight through his temple, in his current drunken state? Returning to brain-damaged semi-consciousness in a state hospital, a failure even at suicide… No.
That left the heart. Cleaner by far, and very, very final…but less than instantaneous in effect. On the plus side, the easy chair would make an excellent blood sponge, simplifying the cleanup for the unlucky soul left with that miserable duty. Just turn the gun around 180 degrees for a contact shot, as he had already practiced a half-dozen times. On the last dry run, he had put several pounds of pressure on the trigger with his right thumb. His fingers had been laced around the back of the grip, pushing the muzzle against his sternum bone. He had put enough pressure on the trigger with his thumb to watch the hammer begin to ease back from the slide, but he had not been quite ready. Part of him still wanted to see the final moments of Agustín Deleon and Luis Carvahal on his videotape, before he joined them. Another part of him said, why wait?
Alex’s entire life added up to a catalog of failure. Unable to produce a child with Karin, they had finally been able to adopt an infant son, who became a truly wonderful boy. Then he had lost his wife, and not even to another man, but to another woman. Now he would not see his son grow up, he would not play any part in little Brian’s life, while his two lesbian mommies set out to turn him into a gay maricón. But what could he do about it? Nothing. The entire power of the government was on their side, and it was hopeless and useless to attempt to fight that infinite force. “Resistance is futile,” the saying went... He could do nothing, absolutely nothing. He was boxed in from every conceivable angle, buried alive, even while he was technically still above ground and breathing the air.
His video recording played on, and he decided that he could not stand to watch Luis burn again. That was beyond the limit of his ability to bear pain. Would he meet Luis on the other side? What would his friend say to the newly arriving former FBI Special Agent, who had as much as led him by the hand straight to his fiery death? He imagined meeting Luis on the other side, and seeing him burnt, charred and twisted. Bile rose in his throat at the image.
But was there even “another side” waiting for him, after he pulled the trigger? Or was there just a black unknowing nothingness beyond this life? He hoped for black nothingness, because he knew that if another reality lay waiting beyond this world, his well-deserved perpetual punishment would be severe.
It always came back to the eternal question: what comes next?
There was only one way to find out.
Was he ready now, finally?
He pushed the Sig’s muzzle tip against the center of his chest, holding the gun with the fingers of both hands wrapped around the back of the grip. His right thumb was across the trigger, while watching the final moments of the life of Governor Agustín Deleon play out on the stage. A few pounds of pressure on the trigger, and…
But this time, our sacred land will not be carved up as so-called private property, to be raped and plundered for corporate profit. This time, the land will be held communally, for all the legitimate, rightful members of La Raza, the new bronze race, the Indohispano peoples born of…”
***
Ranya was waiting for Deleon’s final recorded words and the fatal rifle shot, when Garabanda’s sudden hand movement caught her eye. She swung her pistol back toward him, but by the time her mind fully snapped into the present, the situation had completely changed—the FBI man was holding a pistol! How had she missed the pistol? She saw him holding it now, but he was holding it all wrong.
It made no sense! He was not turning it toward her, but toward himself, backward toward his own chest. Nothing in this house made sense, nothing! Deleon continued to speak, but she no longer heard the television, as her entire universe funneled down to that hand holding that black pistol.
Without thinking she shouted, “Stop it! Stop it! Don’t move!”
***
Alex heard a female voice, and turned his head toward the kitchen. He found himself looking into the muzzle of a pistol, aimed directly at his face. There was a period of mental turmoil while he oriented himself, and then he burst out laughing. It was the damnedest sight: a woman wearing a baseball cap was staring at him over the top of a pistol, which she held in a two-handed grip. He leaned forward in his chair, still holding his own pistol against his heart, his head rolling from side to side and he laughed.
An odd memory popped into his head, and in Spanish he asked, “Who the hell gave you a candle in this funeral?” His parents had often used this Cuban saying, meant as a put-down to unbidden interlopers. It had somehow leapt into his mind and from his lips without conscious thought.
Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista Page 42