Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista

by Matthew Bracken

  “Where is it, damn you!” Ramos stepped to within a yard of Bullard, with Chino and Salazar on either side of him, moving in to point blank range. “Enough games! Tell us now, or you’ll die in five seconds. One…two…three…”

  A pair of submachine guns and a pistol were now aimed at Bullard’s head from less than a yard away, making his hostage irrelevant. He allowed Brian to slide down to the floor. As soon as Brian’s feet touched the deck, he darted to his father, and clung to him, burying his small face in his chest.

  Bullard slowly raised both hands. “It’s on this boat. It’s in the aft cabin, under the bed. It’s there. Now, can I go? I’ve told you the truth, there’s a fortune in gold! Many fortunes!”

  ***

  “Who are you anyway?” asked Comandante Ramos in English.

  “I’m Robert Bullard. I’m the Director of Homeland Security for the Southwest.”

  “Hold on—are you on television?”

  “I am.”

  “I thought I recognized you. This is really quite a nice boat you have, Robert. Not too bad for a government job. Now, show us the gold, and you can keep on being the director.”

  Bullard led them at gunpoint to the master stateroom, one level down and behind the main saloon. The room was paneled in light colored wood and rich blue fabric. They stood at the foot of a king-sized bed, which dominated the center of space with its head against the aft bulkhead of the compartment.

  Bullard, subdued, said, “It’s under here.”

  “Well, open it up,” demanded the Comandante.

  Bullard turned back the bedspread, then reached beneath the end of the mattress and lifted up a flat panel, hinged like the hood of a car. A metal rod on each side lifted with the panel to hold it up. Beneath the painted plywood panel was a horizontal steel vault door. Its four foot width fit easily beneath the foot of the bed, and extended back under it for two feet. Bullard entered a combination on an electronic keypad on the door, and then leaned over and strained to hoist it up by a handle on the edge closest to him. Metal legs on both sides followed the heavy door, and locked in place to hold it up at a 45-degree angle.

  Inside of the safe were two neatly packed rows of dark green ammunition boxes, each a foot long by four inches wide, with a steel carrying handle folded flat on top. There were fourteen boxes in all. Ramos reached down to pull one out, and it barely moved. “Damn!” he exclaimed, “What’s one of these hijos de putas weigh?”

  Bullard answered, “About ninety pounds, depending on what’s inside.”

  Ramos took a two handed grip on the handle, and extracted the ammo box with visible effort, and set it on the deck at the foot of the bed. As a professional soldier he recognized the dark green box, it was the type the American factories packed with linked 7.62mm machine gun ammunition, and he had opened many of them. He pulled up the locking lever that held the top of the box down, and swung the lid up and out of the way.

  Rather than the usual machine gun ammunition, inside there was a mass of small gold coins. They were not packed in plastic tubes or cases, but instead they were loose, a gleaming jumble filled to within an inch of the top of the rectangular steel box. He reached in and pulled up a handful of the small coins, the size of American dimes.

  “They’re all like this?” he asked Bullard. “All one-tenth ounce coins?”

  “No. Some have bullion bars, and some have one-ounce coins.”

  Ramos and Chino stared into the vault, comprehending the enormity of the wealth before them. Twelve troy ounces to a pound, ninety pounds in each ammunition box, fourteen boxes, all at $7,000 an ounce... What ever that came to, it was a huge number—he could do the math later.

  Director Bullard had not lied: it was indeed several fortunes.

  “You said you’d let me go. Well, I kept my part of the deal…”

  “We will Bob, we will. But not here. We have a plane to catch, and you’re going to drive us. We’re going to Chavez Airport—we’ll let you go once we’re there.”

  “Chavez Airport? Where the hell is that, Mexico?” asked Bullard.

  “What? Oh, it used to be called Montgomery Field,” Ramos clarified. “You’re going to make sure we get there, if you want to live.”

  Chino and Genizaro could only carry one heavy ammo can full of gold up to Bob Bullard’s Lincoln Navigator at a time, seven trips each, under the still-exploding fireworks. A quick search of the black Dodge Durango SUV that their two captives had been driving resulted in the discovery of two laptop computers in their luggage. These were also transferred to Bullard’s Navigator.

  When they were finished loading the white SUV, Genizaro and Chino returned to the yacht’s main saloon. Comandante Ramos was making a brief radio call to Lieutenant Almeria, instructing him to drive ahead to the airfield and make sure the plane was ready to take off. Bob Bullard sat on the same settee as the other two prisoners, but apart from them. His spirit was destroyed and he stared forward, away from Ranya and Alex. Still bound with their hands behind their backs, their morale had only been marginally lifted upon seeing Bullard’s defeat. They had only changed their captors and their destination; they had not been freed. Brian still clung to his father, who whispered encouragement that he did not feel or believe.

  Genizaro was the only Falcon still wearing street clothes; Ramos and Chino were dressed in black DHS uniforms. Salazar’s body was not in the cockpit; Chino reported seeing him go over the side into the water after he had been shot.

  The Comandante said, “Okay, that’s everything, we’re ready.”

  “What about the boy?” asked Chino. “Leave him?”

  Ramos hesitated, and then said, “No, we’ll bring him along—for insurance.”

  “I don’t want a kid running around loose, no way,” muttered Genizaro. He saw the .45 caliber pistol that Bob Bullard had been holding. It was still lying on the floor where it had been dropped, and he scooped it up and jammed it into the front of his jeans.

  The Comandante turned to Ranya and Alex and said, “This is the reality. If you want the boy to be safe, you’ll obey us, every step. If you don’t….” Ramos saw the empty green canvas kit bag lying beside the dinette table. He crouched down, opened it up on the floor and said, “Okay Brian, we’re going to play a game, just like hide and seek. You’re going to hide in here first. I want you to sit down inside of this big bag for a little while. Okay? You do that for me, and we’ll all go back to Albuquerque together on an airplane, I promise. Can you do that for me?” Ramos held the bag open, smiled as genuinely as he could, and pointed inside of it. Brian reluctantly let go of his father, who gave him a last kiss. He stepped into the opening, and then sat down. “That’s it, nice and cozy,” said Ramos. “That’s fine.” Then he zipped the bag closed over Brian’s head.

  “Okay,” he said to Alex and Ranya next, “We’re all going up. Yell, scream, try to run away or give us any kind of a problem, and Brian won’t be happy—that’s all I’m going to say. Chino, cut their feet loose.” Ramos stood back with his pistol, while the half-oriental Zeta used a folding knife to cut the flex-cuff that held them together at the ankles. One rip of his serrated blade against the plastic, and the ankle restraints were severed.

  Ramos held his Glock in his right hand, and the bag containing Brian in his left. “All right, let’s go—nice and slow.” Alex went first, with Chino in his Department of Homeland Security uniform behind him with his MAC-10. They were followed by Bob Bullard, with Genizaro behind him. Comandante Ramos gave them a short head start, then pulled Ranya to her feet, and pushed her out of the yacht with the muzzle of his Glock in her back. They walked across the cockpit, off the boat and up the ramp to the white SUV.

  He noted Ranya’s silence with some satisfaction. The Arab bitch was not usually at a loss for words, but now she said nothing. This didn’t surprise Basilio Ramos. He had led other bound prisoners to their executions, and unlike in movies or cheap novels, they were never talkative. The doomed kept their counsel until their final mom
ents, when they sometimes begged, cried, or prayed. But the walks to the execution spots were always made in utter silence…like tonight.

  Bullard climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands at ten and two o’clock on the wheel. Genizaro opened the right rear door and pulled the middle seat forward, and Alex and Ranya were pushed into the rear bench seat, their hands still flex-cuffed securely behind their backs. Ramos placed the green bag containing Brian in the back cargo area, on top of the fourteen boxes of gold, and closed the rear doors. The Comandante slid into the front passenger seat, and Genizaro sat behind him.

  Bob Bullard was going to drive, that was the plan. With the high-ranking director behind the wheel, accompanied by two apparent agents of the Department of Homeland Security, Ramos guessed that no one would challenge their passage. Chino sat behind Bullard. He leaned forward between the two front seats, and held a long carving knife in front of the director’s face, rolling its silver blade inches in front of his wide eyes. In English Ramos said, “He took this knife from your kitchen, I hope you don’t mind.” Then in Spanish he said, “Go ahead, give him a little tickle.” Chino took the knife and pushed it straight through the back of the driver’s seat, down low at the kidney level.

  “Can you feel that now, Robert?” asked the Comandante.

  Bullard squirmed and flinched, and replied, “I can feel it.”

  Ramos looked across and told him, “If you do anything stupid, if the police pull us over, anything…no matter what happens, he’s going to kick that knife right through your guts. No matter what, you’ll die, whether it’s by bullets or a knife in your back, do you understand?” Ramos held his Glock across his lap, covered by his DHS ball cap.

  “You said you were going to let me go…”

  “And I will. I’ll keep my word—after we get to the airport. Now let’s go. Just drive us out of here nice and easy. Remember: if anybody stops us, you’re going to see that knife come out of your stomach.”

  The fireworks were still popping, shrieking, whistling and exploding over the bay, and nobody paid any attention to the white SUV that was leaving the government pier. Even the distracted gate guard’s attention was aimed skyward, until he belatedly noticed the regional DHS director’s Lincoln Navigator. He hurried into his post to push the button and open the automatic gate.

  They crossed Harbor Drive, heading straight up Broadway past the Pacific Majesty and all of the other office and condominium towers and government buildings, and then past the next section of older and lower office buildings and second and third tier hotels. The grand finale of the fireworks display was exploding in a solid torrent of noise and light behind them when they made the left turn onto 10th Avenue. This street fed directly into the 163, a divided highway that began there and went straight past Aeropuerto Chavez. In the few blocks before the one-way avenue became a highway, the white SUV passed close by a solitary man trudging along in the darkness on the left side of the street. He was wearing a dark backpack over his light-colored clothing, and he had no right arm.

  The last fireworks boomed and the echoes died as the final colored lights faded. They were less than ten minutes from the airfield, and the waiting Twin Otter.

  45

  Chino, sitting in the middle seat behind Bullard, said “Comandante, we have everything: the woman, the FBI agent, and the computers. I think this will be very good for you, when we return to Búrque. Perhaps you will be given command of the Falcons again, or perhaps a new command.”

  Ramos had suspected that his men understood the seriousness of his professional situation, after the disasters at the Vedado Ranch. Chino was doing him a favor by confirming it. Ramos supposed it was a tribute to him that they had accompanied him on this mission, knowing that his remaining authority hung by a thread.

  He wondered what other things Chino and Genizaro were thinking about (and especially about the depth of their loyalty to the regime in Nuevo Mexico), now that the Falcon Battalion was being disbanded and reformed. Comandante Guzman of the 5th Battalion would never keep the Zetas intact. The Zetas were too closely identified with his rival, Comandante Basilio Ramos. The Zetas would probably be dispersed among the entire Milicia, and have their special status obliterated.

  This would be a bitter pill for men used to being considered the elite of the elite. To be reassigned to an ordinary Milicia company, and ordered to stand checkpoint or guard duty in Nuevo Mexico was not something the Zetas would accept, especially not these men who had just successfully completed a sophisticated and difficult covert mission in San Diego. They had captured the two traitors and recovered the laptop computers, and this meant complete success as Comrade Inez had defined his mission. But prisoners and computers were not the only things of value in the back of the SUV…

  The Comandante said, “I’m not sure what will happen, back in Albuquerque. I’m just not sure. Politics are involved.” He pronounced politics as if the word was poison. Then he paused, measuring his words, before plunging ahead. “Actually, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking perhaps of taking a small…vacation…” He hesitated, unable to see the faces of his men sitting behind him, imagining their thoughts, guessing their level of ideological commitment to La Causa, the cause of liberation. “You know, our mission was to catch those two traitors, and we have fulfilled that mission. But our mission said nothing about the…other things. About the fourteen strongboxes…”

  He let that thought ride in silence for a minute as the Navigator hummed up the highway in light traffic. Then Genizaro replied softly, “You know, Comandante…I’ve been fighting for the cause for many years, with very few opportunities for vacations.”

  “I agree with my comrade,” Chino immediately offered.

  “Comandante, the range of the Twin Otter is almost a thousand miles…” The thought lingered in the quiet interior of the luxury SUV.

  “Perhaps…” suggested Comandante Ramos, “Perhaps…we could first fly south, instead of east…”

  After a moment Chino said, “I know a place, Comandante, where you can hear the sound of the waves, and where the señoritas are as soft and warm as the tropical breeze…”

  “But what about these pocho traitors?” asked Genizaro. “What about our duty?”

  “¡Chingalo! I’ve had it up to here with our duty,” sneered Chino. “I’ve had nothing but duty for too many years! We all have. It’s our turn now!”

  “But what about the traitors?” Genizaro asked again.

  Ramos said, “I know of a casa de putas in Juarez, where they would pay well for the pretty Arab whore. But even if they didn’t pay, I would give her to them! They’ll inject her with heroína and cristal, and then they’ll teach her to be an obedient puta with their fists. She’ll serve twenty men every night, on her knees and on her back. And she’ll do it forever, until she’s a toothless old bruja witch that even the poorest blind drunk borrachos won’t want.”

  Basilio Ramos said this, and he meant it. But he didn’t mention that he intended to have the first go at Ranya Bardiwell. He would begin with a large dose of Libidinol, and progress to more painful measures. One way or the other, he would find out what Ranya had done with her filthy and vile blackmail photographs. Only after that task was taken care of, only then would he hand her over to the professional whoremongers, who would turn every single day of the rest of her life into a living hell of pain and degradation.

  ***

  Brian Garabanda lay curled up inside of the cloth bag. It was very hot and stuffy, and he knew it wasn’t really a game, and he felt like crying, but he didn’t except a little. He could tell he was in the back of a car or a truck, he had heard all of the doors opening and closing. Three men were talking. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they didn’t sound nice. His Daddy and the other lady were probably in the car too. He had been put in the bag when they were on the big boat, but one of the men that aimed their guns at Bob Buller said they were all going for an airplane ride, back to Albakirky. So now he had to
stay in this bag, until they went for the airplane ride.

  And then he heard his Daddy! In a loud voice, his Daddy said, “Look Ramos, why don’t you just let her go? Her and the boy both. She was only looking for her son—you can’t blame her for that. Let her go, and I’ll tell everything that I know. I’ll cooperate…”

  One of the other men shouted at his Daddy in Spanish, and Brian didn’t know what he said, but it didn’t matter. He knew that his Daddy was sitting right in front of him!

  ***

  Ramos snarled in Spanish, “Why don’t you just shut your pinche mouth, FBI man! There’s been a change in plans, or didn’t you hear? Is your pocho Spanish that bad, gabacho? We’re not going back to Búrque, and we don’t really care what you have to say, either of you. So don’t piss me off, or I’ll send you to hell the same way I sent the Jew traitor Carvahal, and I don’t think you’ll like it any better than he did!”

  ***

  Brian knew that Daddy had come to Sandy Eggo to find him. And he did find him, but something had gone very wrong. Now Daddy was in a lot of trouble. Big Trouble. When they were on the big boat, he saw that his Daddy’s hands were tied behind his back. The new lady’s hands were tied too. He didn’t believe it was an FBI game like Gretchen said it was. The grown ups were too angry.

  Now they were going to go on an airplane ride back to Albakirky, but Brian thought it was for a bad reason, not a good one. Something very bad was going to happen there. But what could he do to help Daddy? Brian had no FBI agent gun. In the front pocket of his overalls, he felt something, and he pulled it out. By feel, he could tell that it was his little Spiderman. The new lady from the boat gave it to him on the street, when she had blond hair. But where did she find it? There was too much to think about, it was all too hard to understand. The toy made him feel a little better, even though it was very small, because it reminded him that Spiderman would never give up, never! No matter how much trouble Spiderman got into, he never, ever gave up trying!