Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista

by Matthew Bracken

  “Like what? How much time are you talking about?”

  “A few days.”

  “A few days? No way—forget it. As soon as we can, I want to be on the way to San Diego.”

  He replied with his own challenge. “You think airplanes are just sitting around, waiting to go on unauthorized flights? You think it’s that easy?”

  She tried to read his face, wondering if he was scamming her, or if she was being set up. Would ‘his friend the pilot’ turn out to be the point man of an FBI arrest team, or the U.S. Marshals? The fear of betrayal never left her mind. If Garabanda was playing her for a fool, he was going to die—no ifs, ands, or buts. If he was setting her up for arrest, she was going to shoot him right in his ruggedly handsome face, first thing. “I’m listening,” she finally said, in a noncommittal way. She realized that she had no choice but to hear him out.

  “Good. You remember my friend, who was…burned yesterday?”

  His mention of that horrific event was completely unexpected. “I’ll never forget it. Never.”

  “Well…that’s why I have to stay for a few days. I have to do something for him. I can’t leave New Mexico before I do it. Otherwise his life, his death…it would have been wasted. He would have died for nothing. All that suffering, all that pain…and for nothing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Garabanda had turned morose again. He had removed the top two cartridges from the Dragunov’s magazine and was rolling them in his fingers like worry beads. His mood seemed to be swinging back toward the state of melancholy she had discovered him in just a few hours ago.

  “Luis Carvahal was my informant. I was running him, but without the FBI’s blessing or knowledge. It was kind of on my own.”

  “What’s the point of doing it then? I don’t understand how…”

  “Politics, it was all politics. Ranya, I can get into that later, we’ll have plenty of time. The point is, he was ghostwriting Agustín Deleon’s memoirs. Those two went way back together, more than thirty years. Deleon trusted him completely, and he told Luis everything about what was really going on in New Mexican politics, everything he knew. For his memoirs. So last week, Luis found out about a meeting that’s going to happen on Wednesday, this Wednesday. Up north on a private ranch. Wayne Parker’s ranch.”

  “Wayne Parker? Holy crap, you know what? He was at Ramos’s house last night! He was a jerk, he was a loudmouthed drunk. What an obnoxious creep.”

  “Parker was at Ramos’s house? You actually saw him there?”

  “Of course I did, I was with Comandante Ramos. He had a reception after the rally—you wouldn’t believe his house. It’s a mansion, actually.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Garabanda said. “But I was never invited inside, that’s for sure. It’s at the top of Sandia Heights. It’s stone, with a serious iron fence around it.”

  “That’s the place. Félix Magón was there, plus some Hollywood types, and a CBA news crew. Ricardo Mentiroso, among others.”

  Garabanda seemed amazed by this latest information. “Did Wayne Parker and Félix Magón speak to each other? Did you hear what they said?”

  “Yes, and yes. They had some words together. Parker was drunk, he was hard to understand, but he mentioned ‘La República del Norte’ a couple of times. It sounded like he had some kind of a deal going with Magón.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he does—how else is he going to keep his million acres off the land reform list? And now he’s using his ranch to host a secret meeting this Wednesday. There’s got to be something in it for Félix Magón.”

  “I’m still not seeing the point of all this.”

  Garabanda paused, quietly drawing a breath, looking directly at her. “Ranya, do you know about the Constitutional Convention?”

  “I heard something about it on TV. It’s going to be in Philadelphia this fall.”

  “Right. Only it’s just going to be a rubber stamp. The real deal is going to go down at Parker’s ranch this Wednesday—at least, that’s what I think is going to happen.”

  “You ‘think’? What’s that mean?”

  “Ranya, it’s complicated, it’ll take a little while to explain. Magón and Parker were organizing the Vedado conference behind Governor Deleon’s back, but Deleon found out about it.”

  “And now Deleon is dead, and Magón is the new governor. Good timing.”

  “Exactly. You’re picking this up fast.” He continued. “A couple of U.S. senators and some VIP billionaires are flying in for this meeting. Luis Carvahal heard all of this straight from Governor Deleon. Vice-governor Magón was organizing it behind his back, and Deleon was left completely out of the loop. But then Senator Kelly called him from Boston, that’s how he found out about it. That old drunkard must have assumed that Governor Deleon already knew about the conference, but he didn’t. Kelly told him everything. After that, Deleon’s days were numbered, I can see that now. He was just standing in Magón’s way, more of a risk than a benefit. A thug like Félix Magón could never have been elected—for one thing, he’s lived his entire life outside of New Mexico, mostly in Mexico. He just used Deleon. Magón rode his coattails into Santa Fe, and then he had him shot. Had him shot, and blamed it on an Anglo rancher—everybody’s favorite whipping boy.”

  “So Magón killed two birds with one stone—he got rid of Deleon, and he whipped up the anti-Anglo hatred.” Ranya considered mentioning the 7mm rifle she had sighted-in for the Falcons, but she held her tongue, unable to think of a reason why Garabanda would need that information. The FBI man was on a roll, and it was better to let him carry on talking and gain as much information as possible from him, while giving up as little as possible in return.

  Garabanda said, “This meeting at Parker’s ranch is where the new Constitution is going to be ginned up, I’m convinced of it. That’s what Carvahal found out from Deleon…”

  “And now they’re both dead.”

  “That’s right—and now they’re both dead. Luis Carvahal was killed for that information. He was burned to death for it! Now you and I are the only ones alive who know about the meeting, and that’s why I can’t just leave the state, not right now. If I do, then my friend was burned to death for nothing—nothing at all.”

  It took a minute for Ranya to digest all of this new information, and determine that Alex Garabanda was dead serious. “So why does any of that matter to me? I’m sorry about your friend, I really am. That was a horrible way to die…just terrible. But aren’t you just guessing what the meeting’s going to be about?”

  “I’m not just guessing, Senator Kelly said…”

  “Senator Kelly’s a drunk!” she snapped. “This meeting could be about land reform, or ‘La República Del Norte,’ or anything else.”

  “Not with those two senators coming. They’re not from New Mexico. They’ve got nothing to do with New Mexico, and neither do the billionaires.”

  “Well, even if it is about the new Constitution, it’s not my problem. Am I supposed to care if there’s a plan to write a new Constitution before the convention in Philadelphia? I mean, they’ve ignored most of the old one for years and years, so who cares if they write a new one? Old or new, what’s the difference?”

  “Don’t you see? A new Constitution will mean the end of the United States! It’ll turn America into a socialist country, that’s—”

  “Oh please,” she scoffed, “like it’s not already!”

  “But not like it’s going to be after they pass the ‘Economic Democracy Amendment!’ The convention delegates are all handpicked stooges, it’s a complete joke. The whole thing is a sham—most of the delegates aren’t even recognized by their own states! It’s all a setup— anybody can see what’s going to happen! Have you read any of the proposed amendments? The Bill of Rights is going to be chopped back to nothing—there’ll be no Second Amendment, for one thing. Instead, we’re going to get the ‘Freedom From Gun Violence’ amendment, it’s already been written!

  “And just
forget about American national sovereignty—that’ll be a thing of the past. Both of the senators who are coming are big open-borders globalists like Wayne Parker, and there’s one from each party so it’ll be a bipartisan sellout. They both want to fast-track the ‘North American Community,’ and just erase the borders. As bad as America’s gotten, at least we still have a country, at least we still have fifty states and national borders! I mean, it can be fixed, if the economy recovers. But after the convention, who knows what we’ll end up with? I’m sure Félix Magón is getting something out of the deal for holding the meeting here in New Mexico. What did Wayne Parker call it, ‘La República del Norte?’ So kiss the Southwest goodbye for starters.”

  “If you care about the United States so much, then how can you quit the FBI?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I’m in the FBI or not. In or out, I’m an American first.”

  “Look, Alex, I’m sorry, but I still don’t care. I haven’t cared about that patriotic crap for five years. The last time I cared that much about America, somebody I loved got killed.”

  “Brian’s biological father?”

  “Brian’s real father.”

  Garabanda reacted as if he’d been slapped, and the sting showed on his face as he dropped his eyes to the table.

  Ranya kept on, unmoved by his hurt feelings. “Listen, I don’t care who writes the new Constitution, or what it says. It has nothing to do with me. It’s just words, words on a piece of paper. The government will use half of it to screw people, and ignore the other half—just like they do now.”

  “Well Ranya,” he said softly, “I’m sorry you feel that way, but it still matters to me. This might sound like nothing but a joke to you, but I took an oath to defend the Constitution. I put my right hand up in the air, and I swore to God that I’d defend it. And that doesn’t mean just standing around and watching, not while a couple of billionaires and crooked senators gin up a new one, and get it rubberstamped in a phony convention.”

  “Your patriotism moves me,” she replied coldly, “But come on, even if that’s all true—and I’m not saying it is—what could you possibly do about it anyway? Wayne Parker is one of the richest men in the world. Can you imagine the security he’s got up there? Besides his own private guards, the entire Falcon Battalion is going up to cover the conference—I heard that from Comandante Ramos himself. What are you going to do, charge in like Rambo and shoot them all? Arrest the senators and make them confess to treason? You won’t be able to get within ten miles of Wayne Parker’s ranch! Seriously, what can you do that’ll make any difference?”

  “Oh, I have some ideas. The meeting’s on Wednesday, in the afternoon and evening, so I have three days to plan and get ready. It’s completely secret. I’ve been checking, and I haven’t seen a single hint of it. Not in the media, or in FBI message traffic. Secrecy is obviously their top concern—they can’t be caught in the act of rigging the new Constitution. So if I can just find out who came, prove who was there…it’ll be something. I’m not saying it’ll derail this bullshit Constitutional Convention…but it’ll be something. I think it’s important that people find out that the new Constitution is a con job, that it was pre-cooked at Wayne Parker’s ranch by a bunch of billionaire globalists.”

  “Do you honestly think that Americans will care?” she responded. “As long as they can watch the ball game and find a beer to pour down their throats, they could give a crap less about the Constitution—old or new. They care about finding gas to put in their cars and food to put in the fridge, not what happens in Philadelphia.”

  “Well, maybe you’re right, but it doesn’t matter. I still have to do it.”

  There was no denying his stubbornness, his dogged determination to press on. She said, “I know, I know…you swore an oath to defend the Constitution.”

  “That’s right, I did! Against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And you know what? I meant it then…and I still mean it now.”

  “I can hear that you mean it. I believe you. But I heard that same speech once, and afterwards, some good men died—and not one thing changed. The country just got worse.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I still believe it. Go ahead and mock me if you want to, but I still believe it. I took an oath, and I meant it. I’m not going to just hang around doing nothing, not while the Constitution is ripped to shreds and put back together in a lab like Frankenstein! Anyway, this is going to be safe, there won’t be any shooting. This’ll just be an intelligence-gathering mission. Photographic surveillance. If I can find out exactly who attended the conference, that’ll be enough. After that, we’ll fly straight to San Diego and find Brian.”

  “But I’m paying for the airplane ride with my gold, and I’m not interested in making a side trip to northern New Mexico! You can tilt at windmills on your own time.”

  “Okay, fine, if that’s the way you want it! Then maybe I won’t help you get to California at all! Hey lady, maybe you can just walk there, or drive your little solar car! And what happens when you get there, if you get there? I don’t exactly think Brian is going to run to the arms of the strange woman who just shot his mother. You’ll need me out there if you want to get Brian.”

  She knew that he had a point, and she wasn’t sure if he was bluffing. And at least he was showing some backbone, some spine—some life. He seemed to have climbed out of the pit of misery she had found him in when she had first entered his house. He was angry and determined, qualities they’d need in San Diego. “All right, I’ll think about it. What did you have in mind?”

  “Just aerial surveillance. Some kind of quick aerial surveillance. I’ll know more after I talk to my friend. He used to be a Border Patrol pilot, he just retired.”

  “Who is he? You can trust him?”

  “Oh yeah, totally. Plus, he really needs the money—well, the gold. I think he’ll fly us anywhere we pay him to go.”

  ***

  Just after dark, the pilot pulled into the driveway and rang the doorbell like any other visitor. Ranya remained in the kitchen while Garabanda went to the front door to let him in. She slid into a pantry corner, her hand on the grip of the .45 against the small of her back, in case this was the moment of betrayal. If it was, she decided that she would make the best possible use of the eight bullets in her pistol. She would not meekly surrender. She would not be thrown to the ground on her face and handcuffed.

  She harbored no illusions. She knew that after drowning Warden Linssen and escaping from the federal detention camp, she would rate gold star prisoner status as both a cop killer and an escape risk. The best that she could hope for after arrest would be a silent and solitary life spent in a windowless underground supermax cell. She would never leave the cell unshackled, ever. She would get only an hour of “exercise” in another solitary pen, virtually a dog run, once a week. She’d been there. She knew. She wasn’t going back.

  The only alternative to this living death would be a one-way trip to death row itself, to await execution. Neither choice was an option. If Alex Garabanda was going to be her Judas, she would try to take him out first. If he was even now letting in an assault team, they would be in full body armor and helmets, and she would aim directly at the first face she saw. She turned out the kitchen light and hid herself in shadow behind the half-open pantry door. She wondered if she should have already run out the back door, instead of waiting here in his kitchen like a cornered animal, but she figured that if an arrest team was coming, they’d already have the back yard covered.

  But after a few minutes alone with her dark thoughts, there was still no FBI SWAT Team, no squad of Federal Marshals. There was just Alex Garabanda and a paunchy middle-aged man with dark black hair combed straight back, chatting casually while they strolled into the kitchen. She stepped out from her concealment. Garabanda flipped the kitchen light back on, and gave her a look of mild puzzlement. She shrugged at him in return, while shoving her pistol inside of her pants in the small of her back.

  The pilot was
no taller that Ranya, no more than five feet nine. He was clean-shaven, with a weak chin and down-turned eyes that gave him a mournful hound-dog look. He was wearing jeans and a royal blue alligator shirt, Joe Average, nobody you’d look at twice. The FBI man looked like a television star next to him. Garabanda introduced him simply as his friend Logan, who used to fly for Customs and the Border Patrol. No other name or personal background information was offered, and Ranya didn’t ask. His appearance didn’t inspire much confidence.

  She introduced herself in return as Robin, her previous nom d’guerre from another undeclared dirty war. If the pilot wondered whether she was another Special Agent or Garabanda’s girlfriend or something else, he didn’t indicate any overt curiosity. Whatever Garabanda had told him to explain her presence in his house must have satisfied him. Best of all, Logan brought a twelve pack of beer, and a paper sack full of takeout burritos with him. He put them on the kitchen counter and invited them both to dig in, while pulling the first bottle of cold beer from the colorful cardboard box.

  Ranya extracted her own brew and twisted it open, then unwrapped the foil from a beef burrito and bit into it, closing her eyes with pleasure. Alex Garabanda turned the radio back up, to block their conversation from possible eavesdropping. The curtains were already closed. The three sat down around the Formica-topped kitchen table to eat, drink, and see where their conversation might lead them. The Dragunov rifle had already been put away, stashed in the pantry. In its place a road map of New Mexico was spread across the center of the table, with beer bottles and plates of burritos on top of the map.

  The pilot spoke with a folksy Texas twang. “Al, I’m real sorry to hear that Karin bolted on you. Well, I mean, I’m not so sorry about her…I guess I’m just sorry that she took Brian. It must be tough for you, losin’ the little guy.”

  “Yeah Logan, it’s tough, it’s damn tough.”

  “At least you’re back in your own house, that’s something anyway.”

  “I suppose.” Garabanda shrugged as he looked around the nearly bare kitchen. “So, how’s retired life treating you?”