Domestic Enemies: The Reconquista (35 page)

She was gliding underwater, twisting and rolling. She surfaced like a dolphin for a quick breath, facing away from him, and then dived again, her shapely
culo
emerging for a moment, followed by her long legs, which ascended to vertical before slipping back underwater with her toes pointed. He sat on one of his wood and canvas deck chairs to enjoy the sight of her, memories of his first night with her flooding his mind, causing him to swell in anticipation of future lovemaking.

Unfortunately, he had been such a stallion during their one night together, and she had been without a man for so long, that he had done some unintended injury to her feminine parts.  It was most regrettable that she was unable to repeat her ardor for the time being, but he knew that like all women, she would heal quickly, and like any woman he desired, she would want much more of what Basilio Ramos had to offer!

He had been attracted to her from the start, even when she was dirty and smelling like a common
vagabundo.
  Even as a prisoner with a dust-streaked face, her features had struck him as remarkable, with her full lush lips, high cheekbones and wide-set hazel eyes, upturned and almond-shaped like her Arab ancestors.  She had captured him at the first sight, locking onto his eyes with her intense gaze, even as the black hood was pulled down over her head before the Revolutionary Council.

Certainly, none of the succession of naive young gringas taken to his bed could compare with this wild Arab girl!  Ranya Bardiwell had not only made love with burning passion and wild abandon, she had a hard and even bitter side, which also resonated with him.  She could shoot rifles like a man, and had indeed taken up arms alongside his Falcons when they were ambushed by the gringo sniper.  She even had the natural courage to go for a mountain trail run, unasked and uninvited, with ten of the roughest
maleantes
in New Mexico! So even if he had not given her permission to leave the grounds, how could he scold her for doing so? And after all, she had returned.

***

While she was choking on dust
in the endless fields of Oklahoma, Ranya had constantly fantasized about swimming, but it was an impossible dream. The wind was another pitiless tormenter, rippling waves across the grain fields and reminding her of past ocean horizons…but wheat and corn were waterless seas which brooked no swimming.  Twice-weekly cold showers (in open view of prisoners and guards alike) were only another spiteful reminder.  Thankfully, that cruel five-year chapter of her life was over, if not forgotten.

She had grown up swimming in Tidewater Virginia, which had led to summer time employment as an ocean lifeguard.  During her three years at the University of Virginia, she swam endless laps at least three times every week. Best of all she swam with Brad Fallon, and later she swam and skin-dived alone in the warm Caribbean, while a fugitive on poor Brad’s sailboat.  She imagined Guajira’s black underwater profile, with its slim fin keel and spade rudder suspended above her in the clear Caribbean water. She remembered that first race with Brad down the chain to touch its anchor…and her first time, ever, with Brad afterwards aboard his magical boat. Now, drifting underwater with her eyes closed, all of her best aquatic memories merged into the same tranquil reverie.

Ranya pushed off the side with her feet, gliding through the water like a human torpedo until she touched the other side with her fingertips.  She slowly arced upward for a breath, opened her eyes…and Basilio was only a few yards away, watching her.  He was sitting on one of the deck chairs, wearing a pale blue oxford shirt and long blue jeans.  She was pleasantly surprised to see him out of his usual camouflage; he looked young, lean and sexy.  He smiled at her, and Ranya smiled back.

She rested her chin on her crossed forearms, on the edge of the pool. “How long have you been there, you sneak?” she asked in English.

“Long enough to see how lovely you are, when you’re wet.”

She swept her arm back and splashed him, laughing.

He didn’t flinch, his eyes remained fixed on hers, ignoring the water on his shirt.  “But I already knew that.  Ranya, you seem very comfortable in the water.  Were you ever a competitive swimmer?”

“On a team, you mean? No.  But I was an ocean lifeguard, a long time ago.  And I used to swim laps in a pool when I was in college.  I love to swim, and it’s been so long…”

“And you love to run as well, that’s what I hear.”

She grinned broadly. “Word travels fast! Sure, I enjoy running, but I’m so out of condition I could only make a couple of miles. I have an excuse though: five years in detention.  Running was…not encouraged.”

“I’d say that’s a good enough excuse.  And I’m glad to see you’re preparing for Milicia training.”  Ramos leaned forward.  “Listen, do you want to swim in a real pool? Fifty meters.  I have to go to the academy— we’re getting the battalion ready for an operation tomorrow.  You can swim as many laps as you want.”

“Really? Oh, I’d love to!  You have no idea how much I’d love to!”

“Well then, let’s go.  We’ll pick up a Speedo suit for you on the way.”

She cut her eyes at him.  “Basilio, you’re spoiling me.”

“Yes, I know.  Are you really sure you want to join the Milicia?”

“I’m sure.”

“You don’t have to, you know.  You could stay here, with me.”    

She brushed aside his offer.  “Be a gentleman—help me up, please?” She coyly tilted her head, threw him a wink, and stretched her arms out toward him, rolling her hands over with a graceful flourish.

He stood above her, blocking the sun, his chestnut hair a glowing corona around his face.  “You won’t pull me in, will you?” he asked.

“I haven’t decided.  Do you trust me, Basilio?”

“I don’t trust anybody—not even myself.”

“Well, you should trust me.”

They locked hands, and he pulled her smoothly from the pool, dripping shiny slickness in the sunlight. Ranya fell against him as she pretended to lose her balance; he ignored her wetness staining his shirt and jeans.  He slid his hands around her narrow waist and down to rest on her bottom, as she slipped her arms around his neck.  He gave her a light kiss, which landed chastely on her cheek as she turned her face.

“You see Basilio, you can trust me,” she whispered in his ear.  Over his shoulder, Ranya observed the closest up-slope guard with his M-16 rifle. He was standing on a ledge 150 yards away, half-concealed in a patch of shade among the junipers and piñon pines.  The guard was observing them both intently, just as she had seen him watching her during her swim.  She knew that the word would be passed from him to the rest of the estate’s security force: this
señorita
with the short dark hair is el Comandante’s special woman.  She comes and goes on her own. That information, shared by the guard force around the compound, was going to buy her ticket to freedom.

But not today.  Not today.

***

Ranya had disappeared
into his bathroom ten minutes before, carrying her fresh change of clothes.  Through the locked door he asked, “Why are you dressing in there?  It’s not as if I haven’t seen every inch of your body.”

“Don’t be a pig, Basilio.  I’m a woman—I can’t dress like I’m in a locker room, with strange men walking around.”

“I’m not a ‘strange man’, and this is not a locker room.”  

“I had five years of living in an open barracks, now let me enjoy my privacy.  It takes time to be pretty, you know.  Especially with no hair!  Do you know what it’s like to be seen with ‘El Che,’ when he has longer hair than I do?”

He laughed as he stood by the door, wearing only his camouflage pants, cinched around his narrow waist.  “Can you at least pass out my toothbrush then? And your hair is just fine the way it is: with a face like yours, too much hair just gets in the way.”

In a moment, the door opened a crack, and his toothbrush was thrust out.

Ramos accepted it, smiling broadly.  She was a delicious enigma to him.  “Listen, on the way to the Falcon Academy, while we’re picking up some swimsuits, let’s get you a dress, all right?  You do wear dresses, don’t you?”

“I’ve been known to, but not lately.  Dresses weren’t issued for field work.”

“You know about Saturday, about the March for Social Justice, don’t you?”

“I heard something about a march.  You mentioned it to your troops.”

“From the university, to downtown.  Anyway, all of the important people from Santa Fe will be in town: the governor, the vice governor, their staffs, lots of dignitaries and guests.  I’m having a reception here at the house afterwards.  A dinner party, actually.  It’s going to be a catered affair—live music, everything.  I thought you might like to pick out some dresses…”  He sat on the edge of his bed, lacing his black jump boots.

“I won’t need dresses for Milicia training.”  He strained to hear her voice over the running water.

“You don’t start training until Monday.  I want you to be with me Saturday night at the reception, and I’d like you to look, well…sexy. Pretty. Just because we’re socialists, it doesn’t mean you have to dress like a soldier all the time!  Okay, we’re
revolucionarios
, but we’re also Latinos. Women are allowed to flaunt their feminine beauty—in fact, it’s encouraged!”  While talking, he stood and finished buttoning up his camouflage BDU blouse, and then he pulled his web belt with its holstered pistol from where it hung on the back of a chair, and buckled it around his waist.

“A dress or two would be very nice, Basilio.  I’d be honored to accompany you at your reception.”

“With your legs and your figure, I think you’d look fantastic in a black mini-dress, but you can choose any style that you’d like.”

“A little black dress sounds fine.  And heels to go along with it, and the right accessories, of course.”

“Of course—whatever you need.”

“Basilio, what I really need is a name I can use!  Yesterday, you said I could get a new identification.  I can’t go around using my real name. Not after Oklahoma.  I mean, if you’re going to be introducing me to people, I need a new name.  And please, something more believable than ‘
Señorita X
.’ My God, I almost broke out laughing when you said that yesterday!”

“I understand.  That’s no problem at all.  How many IDs would you like?  Two, three?  After all, a proper
nom d’guerre
is almost mandatory during a
revolución
. We’ll stop by the DMV and get them made—it will take only a few minutes.  You might say that I have front of the line honors in all government offices.”

“Hmm…I’m sure that you do,
Señor Comandante
.”

“As the gringos say, ‘rank has its privileges.’  Just choose the names that you’d like, and I’ll have your drivers licenses custom made to order.”

***

They left the house through the garage.
Ranya was wearing her green fatigue-style slacks and a tan short-sleeved shirt.  Basilio was in his usual camouflage uniform and brown beret.

“What are we driving today?” she asked him.

“Why don’t you choose?”

“The Jeep? It looks like fun.”

“Why not?  It’s a good idea to be unpredictable.”  

He pushed a button by the inside door to the garage, and the panel to their right rolled up into the ceiling, allowing brilliant daylight to pour onto the black hardtop Jeep.  Under the buttons for the different garage doors was a row of brass hooks, from which dangled car keys for the Mercedes, the Jaguar and the Jeep.  Along the wall by the Jeep was a machine that gave Ranya pause: the green Kawasaki KLR 650 taken from the ill-fated Mr. De Vries. It had been five years since she had twisted the throttle on a bike, but that fact didn’t discourage her in the least.  Her pulse quickened involuntarily.

The vague outline of a plan began to form in her mind.  She was no longer worried about escaping from Basilio’s house and compound, not after going on her mountain run.  If she was able to escape in one of his vehicles, or even on the Kawasaki, and if she was able to find and then snatch her son, they would have a good chance of making it out of Albuquerque together.  If they could somehow make their way across two hundred miles of New Mexico and get back to Caylen Barlow’s ranch in North Texas, they would be safe.  If she was able to accomplish all of that, she might actually be able to carve out some kind of a future, for herself, and for her son.  If…

There were so many ifs!  But at least, there was now a fighting chance.  The Jeep’s passenger door was already unlocked, and she climbed inside.  She stole another glance at the green Kawasaki.

16
 

Friday June 27

Basilio Ramos stood in the open field
between the pair of Blackhawk helicopters.  His troops were sitting on the ground in two squads of a dozen men each. The long sleek helicopters were painted a flat dark green, almost black.  The doors on both sides were rolled all the way open, revealing their Spartan gray metal troop seats.  It was Friday morning, and the Falcon Battalion was poised to attack, waiting on barren sun-beaten pastureland forty miles east of Albuquerque.  The rugged Santa Fe Mountains loomed on the northern horizon.  Even before nine in the morning a breeze was already coursing through the tall grass.  He resisted an urge to bite his fingernails, while waiting for the radio clipped to the left side of his web belt to send a specific message to his earpiece.  

The two squads of
Pelotón Beta
—Beta Platoon—were smoking and talking quietly to one another to pass the time.  Today they were all wearing their complete camouflage uniforms, including Kevlar body armor and helmets, and load bearing gear with pouches for extra magazines.  Comandante Ramos was similarly uniformed and equipped, but he carried no rifle, only his holstered .45 caliber pistol, the symbol of his officer’s rank.