America Libre (40 page)

At 9:21, the fax machine dedicated to Texas operations beeped into life, churning out a message. Jo started reading the sheet
before it had completely emerged from the machine:

Garrison on high alert. Attack failed. Nine dead.

—TX-4

The message was from El Paso. Scrawled in an urgent hand, the fax was the latest sign in a disturbing pattern. Although most
of the sabotage missions were being carried out successfully, all the insurgents’ assaults against military installations
were being decisively repulsed. The rebels were taking heavy casualties. Jo was now certain their attacks had been expected.

She thought again of Mano. He had not been in touch with her since his coded radio call confirmed he was launching the attack
twenty minutes ago. If her suspicions were correct, there was a good chance he and his men had walked into a trap. The thought
filled her with dread.

There was only one way the military could have been alerted—Nesto. She glanced toward the mero sitting in the corner between
the two guards, looking very bored. What at this point could she do about his betrayal? The damage was done.

Before Jo could decide her next step, her walkie-talkie began to squawk. It was one of the Verdugos stationed several blocks
south, reporting the approach of two helicopters. As he spoke, Jo heard the low throbbing of the chopper blades in the distance.

Now Jo faced a more immediate decision. Were the helicopters headed toward her location or merely flying over in response
to the attacks Mano had launched against the outpost north of them? As a precaution, she sent Rafael outside to keep an eye
on the approaching helicopters. If it looked like the choppers were about to land, he would return and alert them.

From the corner of her eye, Jo observed Nesto’s reaction. The mero was still feigning indifference to the events around him.
That seemed ominous.

As the door closed behind Rafael, Jo’s RF radio screeched into life.

“Oso calling Rubia…”

Mano was calling.

Mano watched the three Verdugos scramble up the barren slope along different routes. There was little cover at the crest of
the hill. Mano knew the Comanches would make short work of the young men if they were caught in the open. He needed to buy
them some time. If he could disable one of the helos, it might give them a chance to make it over the treeless summit and
into the dense woods on the other side.

Taking cover in an overgrown arbor, Mano saw the first Comanche appear above the tree line. It hovered for a moment, then
charged up the slope, apparently spotting the men running near the crest. Mano could see the pulsing flashes of the chain
guns mounted on the Comanche’s stubby fins.

Mano knew he would have only one shot—and that shot would be at a fast-moving target. He brought the RPG to his shoulder,
aimed at a spot about twenty meters in front of the Comanche, and squeezed the trigger.

Watching his rocket’s smoky trail, Mano knew immediately he’d miscalculated. The Comanche was moving too fast. The rocket’s
trajectory was lagging too far behind the helicopter. His heart sank as he realized the rocket would miss. But as the missile
continued its arcing flight, it grazed the back of the Comanche, shattering its tail rotor.

It was not a clean hit. But without the stability of its tail rotor, the Comanche went into a slow spin, and was forced to
break off its attack. Mano felt momentary elation as the damaged Comanche was forced to land in a clearing about two hundred
meters west. His men might make it to safety after all.

Then the other Comanche appeared.

The second helicopter picked up the pursuit its damaged partner had aborted, speeding up the hillside, its chain guns blazing.

Over the next several minutes, Mano watched helplessly as the second Comanche hunted his men down and slaughtered them with
methodical precision. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat. He had failed to protect his men.

After destroying its targets at the crest of the hill, the second helo returned to the damaged Comanche, hovering above its
wounded teammate, protecting it from further attack.

Mano was sure the outpost had tracked the position of his last RPG shot. But his proximity to the downed Comanche would spare
him from another deadly volley of mortar fire. He now had a chance to escape.

In that moment of relative calm, Mano began assessing the disastrous events of the last twenty minutes. The rockets from their
RPGs had evidently been detected by Firefinder radar. Mano was stunned that a domestic garrison would have this type of sophisticated
hardware. And the Comanches were the most advanced attack helicopters in the U.S. arsenal, having been resurrected from congressional
oblivion by the Brenner administration. Even more startling, both weapons systems had been on operational alert.

Clearly, his assault had been expected.

It could only mean one thing: Nesto had alerted the CIA to the planned offensive.

He thought instantly of Jo and felt a sharp pang of guilt. Bringing Nesto into the nerve center of this operation had been
his idea. Although the rebel leaders now knew where to find Nesto, his presence could also endanger Jo—and he needed to warn
her.

Mano turned on his RF radio, knowing the transmission might alert the outpost to his presence. As the only one left of his
command, he would accept the risk.

“Oso calling Rubia. Oso calling Rubia. Over,” he said into the radio.

After a few seconds of static, he heard Jo’s voice. “Go ahead, Oso,” she said.

“You have a snake in the kitchen. Over,” he said, sure Jo would understand the message.

“Understood, Oso. We’ve also got some hawks overhead here. They’re getting closer. I think—” Jo’s words ended abruptly, replaced
by a stream of static.

A chill traveled down Mano’s spine. “Jo, get out of there. Get out of there, NOW!” he shouted, dispensing with any semblance
of a code.

He listened for several seconds for her reply. The radio only belched static.

“Jo… Jo… can you hear me?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.

The radio continued its meaningless squawking.

After almost a minute without a reply, Mano turned off the radio and tried to calm his mind. There was nothing more he could
do to help Jo from here. Crouching inside the weedy arbor, he vowed to himself that Nesto would pay for his betrayal. But
to do that—and to have any chance of helping Jo—he would have to get back to the QZ alive.

Moving east, he backtracked to his original position, offering a silent prayer as he sprinted past the eviscerated bodies
of his men killed by the mortar shells. He planned to circle the hill through the thick, protective woods on the lower sections
of the slope. That indirect route would put him back inside the walls of Quarantine Zone B by dark—if he could manage to evade
the foot patrols the garrison would be deploying soon.

Nesto tried hard to control his excitement. Jo had just ordered one of his guards outside to watch for the helicopter. He
was now being guarded by a single Verdugo.
This chica is making my next move a whole lot easier
, he told himself.

The wiry mero had been nonchalantly eyeing the kitchen for the last twenty minutes, looking for a weapon. At first, his visual
search had been fruitless. The Verdugos must have combed the area beforehand. But they had overlooked one thing.

Along the ceiling, almost directly above Nesto, was a disconnected length of pipe that had once carried water into the kitchen’s
overhead sprinkler system. The pipe was dangling at an angle just above the head of the Verdugo beside him. If Nesto could
distract the young guard for a few seconds, he could leap up, grab the end of the pipe, and bring it crashing down on the
Verdugo’s head. After disabling the guard, he’d have access to the gun he could see bulging in the pocket of the vato’s baggy
pants.

His plan of action set, Nesto now needed the right moment to act. He did not have long to wait. Seconds after the first guard
left the kitchen, he heard Jo’s radio squawk.

“… Oso calling Rubia. Over,” the garbled voice on the radio said.

Jo walked away from Nesto toward the far corner of the kitchen. It was the break Nesto had been waiting for. If he attacked
the guard now, Jo would not be close enough to help.

As he had been doing all along, Nesto stood and stretched. The guard was now used to his restless behavior and ignored it.
With his hands in the air, Nesto unclasped his Rolex and let it drop to the floor.

The sound of the watch hitting the floor drew the guard’s eyes downward. It was a fatal mistake.

“… Oso calling Rubia. Over,” Mano’s voice said from Jo’s radio.

Jo carried the radio into the far corner of the kitchen, out of earshot of Nesto, before answering. “Go ahead—” she said,
relieved to know Mano was still alive, but she was stopped in midsentence by a loud crash. She spun toward the sound and saw
Enrique on his hands and knees with Nesto standing over him, a folding chair raised above his head. Nesto viciously slammed
the chair against Enrique’s skull, sending the young guard crashing to the floor.

For a heartbeat, Jo stood frozen in disbelief. Then she dropped the radio and charged toward Nesto.

As she closed on him, she saw the mero turn the lifeless guard over and retrieve the gun from his pocket. From nearly ten
feet away, she dove.

She crashed into Nesto, managing to grab his gun hand as she landed. The two grappled for control of the weapon, Jo’s advantage
in agility an even match for Nesto’s superior strength.

Locked in fierce combat, both Jo and Nesto were oblivious to the sound of a helicopter landing nearby, followed by a flurry
of gunfire.

Jo succeeded in pinning the gang leader to the ground, only to have Nesto pull her down by the hair. She countered with a
knee to the testicles that doubled him over, leaving the mero gasping for breath. While he writhed in pain, she slammed his
hand against the floor, sending the gun spinning into the corner. Before he could react, she leapt to her feet and retrieved
the gun.

Seconds later, she stood over the prone mero, the sights of the Glock-32 trained steadily on his forehead.