by Peter Nealen
Just as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.
Fernandez and Moffit were there. So were Coffee and Vega. But they just sort of hovered in the background, watching as Arturo had the life snatched out of him in a welter of blood and pulverized flesh and bone, over and over again.
He was just a kid.
He sat up with a curse, swinging his feet off the side of the cot and leaning on his knees, digging the heels of his palms into his aching eyes. None of the rest moved. Snores continued uninterrupted. Somehow, that just made it worse.
Finding his boots, he shoved his feet into them and threaded his way out into the night.
The GP tent’s door had been velcroed shut, and it took some doing to get it open and slip through without making a ripping noise that would have at least awakened LaForce and Taylor, who were sleeping closest.
The cold slapped him in the face as he left the warmth of the tent, packed with bodies in addition to the little stove. He looked up at the sky; the stars were out, the clear desert night shedding heat quickly.
He ignored the chill, though he was only wearing his trousers and t-shirt. He almost welcomed it, but after a moment, it still hadn’t calmed his mind.
I need a drink.
Even as he thought it, he knew it was a bad idea. To make matters worse, the accusatory voices in the back of his head started right in.
Sure, you go do that. Try to drown your responsibility. Try to forget how that kid looked up to you. Deaden your mind so you don’t have to remember him.
He drove a fist into his palm and tried to walk away. But he couldn’t escape the accusing thoughts. And even with his eyes open, the image of that kid’s broken, blood-splashed corpse still floated in his mind.
There was a light in one of the tents, down at the end of the row. The Triarii had erected two rows of ten of the GP tents, and it looked like somebody was up in one of them. He really didn’t want company, but maybe whoever was awake might know where to find some booze.
Just so I can sleep. Just enough to take the edge off.
Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Coward.
He stuck his head in the tent. The man who’d escorted them off the birds was sitting at a table, a flask and a small tablet in front of him. A generator chugged outside, charging the tablet and running the single electric light hanging from the ceiling.
The man looked up. He was medium height and kind of gawky-looking, with a prominent nose, receding chin, and large Adam’s apple. His tans kind of hung off his bones.
“Hey, man. You’re one of the guys came in out of Mexico, ain’t you?” He put the tablet down and turned to face Hank. “I gotta say, man, that took some balls.” He held out the flask. “You guys see some action down there?”
“You could say that.” Hank didn’t want to talk. He wanted the flask. “Long few days.” He took the flask, tipped it in salute, and took a snort. It was tequila, and he almost gagged as it burned its way down his throat. He hated tequila. He took another sip, then started to hand it back.
But to his slightly guilty relief, the other man waved it back to him. “Nah, man. You keep it. You look like you need it more than I do.” He sobered. “I’ve seen some shit, man. I was a cop in LA for twenty-two years. I have seen some shit. But what’s going on down there? Especially with these Sholotel guys?” He shivered. “Just thinking about what I’ve heard gives me the willies. Cutting hearts out and eating people and shit.”
Hank took a deep gulp of the tequila and coughed. “Make Mexico Tenochtitlan Again.” He waved the flask at the gawky-looking man as he ducked out into the dark. “Thanks, brother.”
“Have a good one, man.” The other just waved in response.
Hank shuffled out into the dark, taking another swig. The dehydration and exhaustion of the last week or two meant that the alcohol was going straight to his head.
And it wasn’t making anything any better.
He found himself over by the trucks parked at the end of the rows of tents. He took another swig, but it only made it harder to cope with the images that just wouldn’t go away. He sank down until he was sitting on the ground, his back against a truck tire, the fog of the liquor erasing the last vestiges of his self-control.
Drunk and haunted, he broke down, alone, in the dark and the cold.
***
“Oh, damn it.” He tried to pry his eyes open at the words. He immediately started to shiver as he came back to some level of semi-consciousness, swimming up out of the blackness of alcohol- and grief-driven oblivion to finally notice how cold it had gotten. An iron-hard hand gripped him under the arm.
“I’ll take care of him, sir. He’ll be okay once he gets a few hours of sleep.” Spencer sounded apologetic, and Hank forced his eyes the rest of the way.
It was too dark to tell for sure, but he thought that the tall, dark figure standing in front of him, his hands on his hips, might have been Wallace. A moment later, the sound of that raspy voice left no doubt, once it worked its way through the fog in his brain.
“Get him squared away, Cole. I’ll deal with this in the morning.”
“I’ll take care of it, Tom.” Hank hadn’t known that his assistant section leader and the Area Commander were on a first-name basis.
Wallace might have sighed angrily, then turned on his heel and left.
Spencer dragged Hank toward their tent, picking up the flask and taking a whiff of it. He choked. “Damn, Hank where did you get this stuff? It’d peel paint.”
Hank waved vaguely toward the end of the tents. “Guy who met us on the chopper.” He knew he was slurring his words, but he was too far gone to care right then. “Good dude.”
Spencer didn’t take him to their tent right away, though. He got to the last truck before the tents and steered Hank between the vehicles, leaning him up against a truck before turning to face him, tossing the flask away.
“What’s going on, brother? This isn’t like you.”
That was Cole Spencer. No recriminations, no yelling, no accusations. At least, not at first. The man wasn’t soft; there was steel inside that velvet glove. But he was Hank’s assistant section lead, and he was going to do his job, even if it meant steering Hank back onto the straight and narrow. And if that meant he had to get rough, then he would.
But the question penetrated the fog to bring the reason for the drinking crashing back, its fury no more blunted by the alcohol than before. Hank’s eyes stung and he felt his knees start to give way. “Oh, hell, Cole. Why didn’t I send him away when I had the chance? I could have sent him to my folks; Mom would have taken him in in a heartbeat.” He sagged against the truck. “He was a kid. I shouldn’t have tried to turn him into a soldier.”
“You weren’t his dad, Hank. You couldn’t have sent him anywhere.”
“He sure as hell acted like I was. And I should have done the job better. Should have protected him.”
Spencer crouched to look up into Hank’s face. “He wouldn’t have gone. He’d have snuck back as soon as he could have. Hell, he died because he disobeyed you and me, and snuck into the fight. He was a warrior, Hank. Young as he was, he had nothing else but the fight. He didn’t look up to you because he thought of you as his dad. He looked up to you because you were one of us. Because you were the Triarii leader on the ground. And because you treated him like a grown man, not like a little kid.”
“And what did it get him?” Hank’s voice was thick with grief and bitterness.
“The same thing we all have coming, in the end.” Spencer shook his head. “Ain’t none of us getting out of this world alive.” He stepped in and pulled Hank’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on. You need to sleep this off. You’ll think clearer in the morning, even with the headache that I already don’t envy you.”
Hank didn’t resist as Spencer got him back to the tent and lowered him onto his cot. He was still drunk enough that oblivion came again quickly, aided this time by the heat inside the tent and his own poncho liner.
; It still was not a restful night.
Chapter 33
Hank’s head was splitting when he finally got up. Most of the rest of the section was up, sitting on cots or out of the tent entirely.
He swung his legs out of his poncho liner and sat on the edge of the cot, digging his fingers into his eyes.
I need to go see Wallace. Wasn’t he out there last night? Oh, hell. Memory started to penetrate through the fog of his hangover. That’s awesome. Made an ass out of myself in front of the area commander, after he just pulled us from a deep penetration mission in Mexico, apparently for something else every bit as important. Crap.
Spencer appeared in the doorway. “Hey, you’re alive.”
“Barely.” Hank grimaced as he shoved his feet into his boots and heaved himself to his feet with a groan. “Time to go face the music, I guess.”
Spencer glanced away. He’d done what he could to shield Hank the night before, but there was nothing he could do now. And he was as uncomfortable as most men were, when they’d just seen a friend and superior at his lowest.
Hank pulled his shirt—still stiff with sweat and dust from Mexico—over his head and tucked it in, then picked up his rifle—still loaded—and slung it. He met Spencer’s eyes.
“Relax, Cole. I’ve had to stand tall and get my ass chewed before. Worst case, I’ll be working for you in a few minutes.”
Spencer didn’t look either amused or relieved, as Hank stepped out of the tent past him and headed for Wallace’s truck.
Wallace had arrived in a three-vehicle motorcade, all older Yukons with aftermarket, low-profile armor kits. The only identifier on Wallace’s vehicle was a subdued Triarii insignia decal just beneath the side mirrors.
Hank walked past Wallace’s PSD, most of whom were leaning against their vehicles, drinking coffee, and tapped on the window of Wallace’s truck.
The door opened, and Wallace eyed Hank impassively from the back seat. “You look like hell. You had any breakfast or coffee yet?”
Hank shook his head. “No.”
“Neither have I.” Wallace jerked his head toward the door on the other side. “Get in. I don’t feel like walking down to the Oasis.”
Hank walked around and slid into the vehicle next to Wallace, who had apparently already briefed the driver, since he didn’t say a word as he shut the door, but they pulled out of the impromptu Triarii FOB and onto the highway before turning in to the Three Palms Inn parking lot and stopping just outside the Oasis restaurant.
The Triarii and the Texas State Guard had apparently taken the place over. It was crowded, mostly with a weird combination of desert digital and OCP cammies, bearing the unique Texas State Guard insignia—the Guard mostly bought their own uniforms and equipment; they had no general issue—and Triarii tans.
Wallace led the way toward a back booth, where his second, Emil Saje, was already digging into a plate of huevos rancheros. He waved Hank to the bench across from Saje, who slid over to give Wallace some space.
The area commander hadn’t said a word so far, but he poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the table to Hank, who accepted it gratefully and took a long sip. It was scalding hot, but he hadn’t had coffee in weeks. It tasted fantastic.
“I’m not going to get too deep into last night.” Wallace’s voice was still hard. “Except to ask just what the hell was going on, and whether it’s going to affect your ability to lead the section.”
Hank stared at the table. “It won’t affect the mission. I can promise you that. Last night…” He sighed. “I couldn’t sleep and tried to self-medicate against my better judgement. It won’t happen again.”
Saje glanced up at him, but then returned his concentration to his plate. He’d leave this to Wallace.
Wallace leaned back in his seat and eyed Hank critically. “That looked like a bit more than just trying to sleep.”
Hank put his coffee down, took a deep breath, and met Wallace’s eyes. “You’re right. It was.” He proceeded to tell his commander about Arturo and what had happened in Lajitas.
Wallace took it all in, his face expressionless. When Hank was finished, there was a long silence. Saje was mopping up the last of the salsa on his plate; he hadn’t even slowed down.
“So, that was it.” Wallace nodded slowly, thinking. “I had something similar happen in Kosovo. There was a family, a young widow and her son, who we sort of took under our wing. The kid tagged along with us every chance he got—we wouldn’t let him come on patrols, but he’d follow us around when things weren’t so dangerous. He wanted to be a soldier so bad he could taste it. Couldn’t have been more than eight. We gave him little things, even one of our patrol caps.
“Then one day, when we’d been pulled off to another trouble spot, the local militia came through and made an example of the kid and his mother, because he’d been wearing that cap. We had to bury what was left. The other locals wouldn’t go near the bodies.”
His eyes weren’t on Hank at that point. They were staring at something far away. Something every bit as vivid and awful as the vision of Arturo’s brutalized corpse.
“So, I’ve been there. I understand.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “But don’t let yourself think that that means I won’t bust you down hard if you do something that stupid again. You were a Gunny, Foss. You know the damage alcohol can do when it’s combined with grief and exhaustion. You know better. And we’re in no position right now to have a man out of action because he got falling-down drunk.”
He pointed to the west. “The border’s right there, and the Mexican Army is stacking up on the bridge. The bad guys are on both sides of the line at this point. We are not in a secure rear area.” He straightened, staring at Hank with hard, cold eyes. “You find yourself circling the black hole, you wake your assistant section leader up, you wake up one of the other section leaders—hell, if I’m here, come wake me up. You talk to a battle buddy, or a preacher, or a priest, or whoever you need to, and you get through it, instead of taking yourself out of action. Do I make myself completely, crystal clear?”
Hank nodded shamefacedly. “Clear, sir.”
But Wallace seemed satisfied. “Good.” He waved the waitress over. “Now, let’s get some chow. Then, since we’re spread so thin that you’re the last of five section leaders I have to brief, I’ve got an info-dump for you.”
The waitress arrived, a short, pretty Texican girl. Hank had been smelling Saje’s huevos rancheros for the entire conversation so far, and realized his stomach was rumbling, hangover or no. He ordered the same, and Wallace ordered a plate full of bacon and eggs.
“There were a couple of reasons why I pulled you out.” Wallace’s voice was low as the waitress left. “One was the political situation. Things have gotten interesting.
“The National Guard moving to the border in force triggered a hell of a response from the Mexicans. They’ve moved several infantry and mech regiments to the border in the last week. And they’re taking up defensive positions facing us. They’re not ignoring the cartels; firefights between narcos and the Army are up in Juarez, right across the way in Ojinaga, Cuidad Acuña, Piedras Negras, Nuevo Laredo, and Reynosa. But their positions are all oriented to defend against an incursion from the Texan side of the border.
“Meanwhile, the Mexican diplomats have been screaming bloody murder about American threats to Mexican sovereignty. True to form our own politicians, those who can agree on one thing for more than five minutes, are kissing ass and apologizing profusely, promising to bring the unruly Texans to heel. Not that they can. But not one of them has so much as mentioned the incursions or the millions of dollars of petroleum stolen, never mind the hundreds of American dead. At least, not publicly.”
“So, we’re the bad guys in this narrative, regardless of what’s actually going on.” Hank leaned back as the waitress refilled his coffee. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He thought back to Graves trying to appease the Phoenix Police Department after Hank and his section
had cleared out a terrorist supply cache and its minders in a school. It hadn’t mattered that Hank had been right. He’d ruffled feathers.
“We’re the Triarii. We’re the bad guys by default to a certain political demographic.” Wallace cracked what might have been a grin. “But in this case, yes.” He sighed. “To about fifty percent of the US government, the Triarii and the Texas authorities have exaggerated a couple of incidents in order to propel the US toward war with Mexico, because of racism, or something.” His half-smile turned caustic. Wallace was as black as the ace of spades.
“Anyway, there are all sorts of political mutterings, and various agencies—who couldn’t be bothered to deal with the real threat—have turned their baleful eye toward Texas. Furthermore, the word’s gotten out. Texas isn’t quite what it used to be. There are already rifts forming. There are calls to send the State Police down to demobilize the State Guard, and demonstrations in Austin and Dallas. And while you might have put Muñoz in the dirt, the SdA isn’t dead. Their activist wing on the northern side of the border is getting sporty.
“So, I had to pull you out before what looked a great deal like unsanctioned American special operators in Mexico got compromised and splashed all over Telemundo. Things are already tense enough on our side of the border without adding to it.”
“I get that.” Hank leaned his elbows on the table. “But we were getting awfully close to ending that Chinese cell.”
“Maybe you were, but they weren’t calling the shots.” Wallace leaned back in his seat as Hank frowned. “They were just the receiving facilitators. Which is why, once you disrupted their alliance with the SdA and the Vengadores, they changed things.
“There were six different incursions over the last week, coming from Juarez, Piedras Negras, and Reynosa. We tracked at least one of them on the way back, and it looked like they were heading south, toward Veracruz.” When Hank’s eyebrows climbed, Wallace nodded. “Oh, yes. You didn’t think the Chinese were doing this solely for the benefit of the cartels, did you? The port only makes sense. So, Camargo wasn’t the hub, it was a hub. But Colonel Santiago thinks that he’s figured out how to stop it from our side of the border.”