Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  Stopping on the banks of the Colorado, Remo bathed and caught his breakfast. The river was full of rainbow trout this time of year, and he snared one as long as his forearm with bare hands, killed it with a finger tap and made a fire by rubbing dry brittle-bush together at high speed.

  As the trout—one end of a stick jammed into its open mouth and the other end screwed into the sand-slowly roasted over a cactus-and-brittle-bush fire, Remo wondered if his father could have a girlfriend. It made him feel funny to think about it. He was just getting used to thinking of Sunny Joe as his father. He had every right to have a girlfriend, especially after all these years. But Remo couldn't help wondering what his mother would say.

  Squatting thoughtfully, he picked the hot, flaky meat off the bones with his fingers, cleaned them in cool river water, then got back into the Navajo. He headed south.

  Near the border a white border-patrol utility jeep scooted out of the shoulder of the road and, siren screaming, tried to pull him over.

  Remo's foot hesitated over the accelerator. He couldn't remember if his rental had expired or not. He wasn't in the mood to be arrested—or create trouble to avoid it.

  Then he spotted a roadblock two miles ahead, and the point became moot. He decided to go with the flow.

  Remo braked to a stop, and as uniformed border-patrol agents came out of their vehicles, he dug into his wallet for useful identification.

  "What's the problem?" Remo asked, holding out a laminated card that identified him as Remo Durock, FBI.

  "A Mexican Federal Army unit is camped on the other side of the border."

  "So?"

  "Mexican army units are taking up defensive positions from San Diego clear to Brownsville like they mean business. It's not safe to cross the border at this time, sir. We're going to have to ask you to turn back and go home."

  "I'm looking for a sixtyish guy in a white Stetson. He came this way a few hours ago, driving a black Bronco."

  "There's talk of a U.S. car matching that description that crossed the border just before the Mexicans closed down the checkpoint," one of the patrolmen answered.

  "Talk. What kind of talk?"

  "The individual was arrested by Mexican authorities."

  "For what?" Remo asked.

  "If we knew that, we'd know why the Mexicans are eyeballing the U.S. border the way they are."

  "That's my father. I gotta get through."

  "Sorry, sir. It's not advisable. At this time we must ask that you to turn around."

  Remo frowned. Ahead two border-patrol vehicles had the road completely blocked. If Remo broke for the desert, they'd have no trouble following. But there was more than one way to get the job done. "Okay, if that's the way it is," he said softly.

  Putting the Navajo in gear, he sent it spinning around in a circle and, flooring it, headed north.

  The border patrol remained at the roadblock, unreadable, sunglassed eyes tracking him until he was a dusty smear in the distance.

  Near a clump of pipe organ cactus, Remo abandoned his vehicle and stepped into the broiling desert.

  His deep-set eyes retreated into his face like the hollows of a skull. His moccasins touching the sand made shallow dents the sun and the blowing sands soon filled…

  Sunny Joe Roam sat alone in the Cuervos town jail, wondering what had gotten into the Mexicans. It had been hours now, and he was still locked up tight.

  Getting up, he called through the bars.

  "Hey, compadre. I'm known here in this town."

  The Federal Judicial Police jailer ignored him.

  "Name's Bill Roam. Maybe you seen my movies. I was Muck Man. Played a botanist who was transformed into a walking plant by environmental pollutors. The Return of Muck Man grossed forty million last summer."

  "La mugre siempre flota," the man remarked in Spanish.

  "I don't know that one."

  " 'Filth always floats.'"

  "I'm not joshing. I'm pretty famous. The Sun On Jos are my tribe. We got our own reservation, and Washington isn't going to take kindly to your messing with our affairs. Ask around. I spread my hard-earned money down here a lot. I'm called Sunny Joe Roam."

  "Maybe so, señor. But your name is now cieno—muck."

  Sunny Joe gave up on the jailer. What the hell was going on? He had crossed the border without a problem, the way he always did. Through the manned border checkpoint. They waved him right through, smiling as always. And he'd run smack into a Mexican Federal Judicial Police patrol loaded for bear and looking for trouble.

  They had arrested him on sight. Not much else to do but surrender and see where events led.

  As it turned out, they'd led to the local hoosegow.

  Something was up. Something big. And he had become a pawn in a larger game.

  Lying back down on the hardwood bunk, Sunny Joe decided to wait the morning out. If they hadn't cut him loose by noon, he would take matters in hand.

  One thing was certain. No jail on any side of the border had been built that could hold a Sunny Joe when he took a notion to do different.

  Remo ran into a column of Mexican army Humvees rolling along a dusty desert highway.

  He was surprised to see Humvees. But since the Gulf War, even Arnold Schwarzenegger had one. No reason the Mexican army couldn't have a few, too. These were painted in desert camouflage browns and sands.

  The Humvee unit was surprised to see him, too. They slewed to a disorganized stop, almost creating a chain reaction of rear-end collisions.

  Remo stepped out into the middle of the road and lifted his bands as a signal that he was unarmed and not looking for trouble.

  He might have saved his energy. The sargento primero in the lead Humvee took one look and his dark eyes flashed. He rapped out a sharp command, and armed Mexicans were suddenly pounding in Remo's direction.

  "Alto!"

  "I'm looking for a big American in a black hat," Remo said.

  "Alto!"

  "Anybody here speak English?"

  "Jou will keep jour hands raised, señor," the sargento primero ordered. "Jou are a prisoner."

  "Fine. I'm a prisoner. Just take me to the man I described."

  As they patted him down and cuffed him from behind, Remo fought his instincts. Every sense screamed to send the soldiers flying. A Master of Sinanju was trained never to allow hostile hands on his person. But Remo was a man of peace now.

  Chiun would kill me if he saw me like this, Remo thought as he was placed in the back of a Humvee.

  "What's the problem here?" he asked.

  "Jou are a spy."

  "I'm an American tourist."

  "Jou are an Americano in Mexico. The border has been closed to Americanos."

  "By who?"

  "Mexico."

  "Whatever happened to NAFTA?"

  The driver spit into the dust violently.

  "Proposition 187 and Operation Gatekeeper happened," the sargento primero grunted.

  Uh-oh, Remo thought. Something had ticked off the Mexican government big-time. He decided to sit it out. Once he found Sunny Joe, he'd make his move.

  But they didn't take him to Sunny Joe. They took him to a military camp and into an olive drab tent, where he was told to sit on an ammo crate until the major came.

  "I'll sit on the sand if you don't mind," Remo said in an even voice.

  " Jou will sit on the crate."

  "Crates give me a pain in the butt, just like you."

  The Mexican sergeant took immediate offense and looked as if he wanted to club Remo down with the hard stock of his rifle. "The crate," he insisted.

  "If you say so," said Remo, who then sat down on the crate so violently it splintered into kindling.

  Smiling up at the sergeant's reddening face, Remo took a shady spot on the tent's sandy floor.

  The major's face wasn't red. It was dark as a storm cloud. His angry eyes fell on Remo and the shattered crate and asked, "Who are you, gringo?"

  "The Gringo Kid. I'm looking for my d
ad, the Gringo Chief."

  "Eh?"

  "Look, you characters took another prisoner this morning. Just take me to him."

  "Ah," said the major, fingering his mustache. "That one. He is in jail in Cuervos."

  "Then put me in jail in Cuervos."

  "No. You are a military prisoner. The other was seized by our Federal Judicial Police."

  "Damn," said Remo. Looking up, he asked a simple question. "Which way to Cuervos?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "For future reference."

  "You have no future."

  "What's got into you people?" Remo complained.

  "We will no longer suffer at the uncaring hands of the Norteamericanos, for soon we will control a weapon more mighty than any in jour arsenal."

  "You people have nukes?"

  "More terrible than nukes."

  Remo blinked. What the hell were they talking about?

  "Now, if you do not tell us your mission, you will be shot."

  "You shoot an American tourist," Remo warned, "and a weapon more terrible than yours will land on your heads."

  And the major laughed so heartily Remo wondered if he had gotten into the loco weed.

  While he was laughing, Remo decided to make his move.

  He came up from the floor like a spring.

  The Mexican major sensed the gringo jumping up but wasn't concerned. The man's hands were, after all, handcuffed at his back.

  So when a length of stainless-steel chain—stretched between two wrists like small I-beam girders—wrapped around his throat, he was one surprised officer.

  "Cuervos. North, south, east or west?" hissed the gringo.

  "We-est," he choked out.

  "Much obliged," said the gringo, who brought such terrible pressure on his throat that the major blacked out.

  Remo eased the unconscious officer to the ground, snapped the handcuff links with a careless tug and got out of the bracelets by scrunching his hands up so they slipped out as if his finger bones were paper.

  He stepped out into the hot sun wearing the major's uniform and peaked cap, which got him past the stiff-faced tent guard and to a desert camo Humvee.

  As soon as he dropped behind the wheel, Remo was recognized and another Humvee raced to block his way. Remo stomped the gas pedal into the floorboards. When he lifted his foot, it stayed jammed down.

  The two Humvees came together with a sound like a trash compactor, throwing Mexican soldiers in every direction.

  Remo landed lightly on the road just in time to greet a third Humvee. Its driver came out with a side arm, which Remo obligingly confiscated, crushed to junk and returned to the soldier by way of his steel helmet.

  Stepping over the man, Remo took the Humvee's wheel. Tires kicking up grit and sand, he headed north.

  A desert camouflage tank tried to block the way. Steering around it, Remo shot out a foot that struck the right track so hard it broke clean. When the tank tried to follow, the track clanked loose and the exposed wheellike gears ground it to junk.

  A soldier scrambled out of the turret and got his thumbs on the trips of a swivel gun. He fired his first burst into the air, his second into the heat-softened asphalt behind Remo and, in the middle of walking rounds toward the Humvee, the belt ran empty.

  He pounded it with a dark fist as his quarry sped out of range.

  That put Remo in the clear. He just hoped no one in Cuervos would give him any trouble.

  After all, it wasn't as if the U.S. was at war with Mexico. And his killing days were behind him.

  Chapter Ten

  The President of the U.S. received the first reports of trouble on the border with Mexico from his national-security adviser.

  "I'd better have a talk with their ambassador," he said, reaching for the telephone.

  "The Mexican ambassador was recalled to Mexico City for consultations, Mr. President," his national-security adviser reminded.

  "That's right. We ever get to the bottom of that melee at the UN?"

  "That's State's affair."

  "What's gotten into those people?" he blurted.

  "Unknown, Mr. President."

  He glanced at the report again. It was unbelievable. Mexican army units, just a day ago busier than a one-handed chicken-plucker dealing with internal problems, had been redeployed to the U.S. border. Without explanation.

  "Don't they have enough problems down there?" he complained.

  "We have to mount a response."

  "Get the president of Mexico on the line."

  "No, I meant a military response."

  "They're on their side of the border, aren't they?"

  "Yes. But they're poised to jump across."

  "Mexico invading the U.S. is as likely as the U.S. invading Canada."

  "Actually we did that once."

  The President looked intrigued. "When?"

  "Oh, around 1812 or so."

  The President of the United States frowned with all of his fleshy face. In the background an obscure Elvis tune played. But his ears hardly heard it.

  Only this morning his biggest problem had loomed as large as an asteroid hurtling toward his political future. As usual it had taken the form of his wife, who had marched into the Oval Office to announce that this year the White House would not celebrate a traditional Thanksgiving because it might offend Native Americans, not to mention animal-rights activists and as for Christmas—

  The national-security adviser broke into the President's troubled thoughts. "If we deploy troops on our side, it will act as a clear deterrent."

  "Our goddamn friendship with Mexico should be all the deterrent we need."

  "As you know, the Mexicans are pretty touchy about that anti-immigration thing in California. What is it called?"

  "Prop 187."

  "Right, and since we've tightened our borders against illegal immigration through Operation Gatekeeper, it's hurt their economy some."

  "Since when is preventing another nation's illegals from crossing pur sovereign border an act of war?"

  "It's a pretext. Obviously. But they do this kind of thing in Europe all the time."

  The President thought hard. Elvis was howling he didn't know why he loved someone. He only knew he did.

  As the President reluctantly issued the order to match the Mexicans, unit for unit, in a border stare-down that had no probable upside, he decided he'd give anything to swap this problem for this morning's headache.

  Hell, if the First Lady wanted the First Family to celebrate Kwanzaa instead of Christmas, the political fire-storm would be nothing compared to an all-out border war.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cuervos quaked in the heat when Remo rolled in on the Mexican Humvee. It was a typical honky-tonk bordertown catering to U.S. tourists. There were fast-food joints, cantinas and outdoor stalls where trinkets were peddled. These were empty now. As were the fast-food places. A Mexican love song blared from an outdoor loudspeaker. Otherwise, it was full of an uneasy quiet.

  It was also full of Federal Judicial Police.

  Their eyes went instinctively to him. And as instinctively veered away. As a soldier, he outranked them.

  Remo pulled the bill of his uniform cap lower over his eyes, so the shade of the hot Sonoran sun concealed his face. His deep-set dark eyes, high cheekbones and sun-darkened complexion drew no more than casual glances.

  The jail was on the main drag and easy to spot. There were iron bars on the windows like in a TV Western. The building was sun-dried adobe. Cracks like varicose veins faulted its smooth surfaces.

  Pulling up, Remo decided on a frontal approach. He got out and marched up the short front steps and into the jail.

  "¿Que?" asked a man in a brown FJP uniform.

  "I'm looking for my father," Remo said in English.

  The Mexican officer went for his gun. Remo went for the gun, too. Remo won.

  He showed the officer how fragile his gun really was by yanking back on the slide. It came off in his hand. Th
en he unscrewed the complaining barrel like a light bulb and, holding it before the man's widening eyes, snapped it between thumb and forefinger. The rest Remo threw away.

  "A big gringo, savvy?"

  "Savvy, si," said the officer, whose coffee-colored skin began oozing sweat.

  "Take me to him."

  "Si, si."

  The Mexican didn't act as if he understood every word, but he turned and led Remo to the cluster of cells beyond a foyer and office space.

  All the cells were empty. Including the one at the end where the man stopped, turned pale and threw out his already raised hands as if to say to Remo, "No comprende."

  "Where is he?" Remo demanded.

  "No, no, señor. Do not shoot. Do not shoot me, por favor."

  "I broke your gun, remember?"

  The guard looked at Remo's empty hands and decided to take a chance.

  He threw a punch. Remo saw it coming before the guard had made the decision. The fist landed in Remo's waiting hand with a meaty smack. Remo began squeezing. The man grunted. Remo squeezed harder.

  The crackle of cartilage gave way to the gritty powdering of finger bones as the magnitude of his mistake dawned on the Mexican guard.

  "No, no por favor," he squealed.

  "Where's my father?"

  "No, no. I do not know. He—he was there."

  "Tell the truth and you keep your hand."

  "No, I do tell the truth. I do!"

  The words lifted into a tortured scream that brought the pounding of feet from the outer rooms. Remo put the guard down with the heel of his hand to the point of the man's jaw and turned to meet the newcomers.

  Soldiers. They came in with rifles and side arms, muzzles up and questing. They took all of three seconds to scrutinize the room, and in those three seconds Remo was among them.

  His palm connected with one face with a splat that left eggshell fractures behind the skin. Eyes rolling up to see oblivion, the soldier dropped.

  Two bayonet-tipped muzzles drove for his stomach. Remo snapped the blades cleanly with chops of his hands and took hold of the muzzles. They came together with an abrupt force that cold-welded them into a long sealed pipe.

  Remo stepped back as fingers squeezed triggers.