America Libre (42 page)

“Wait… please… wait,” Nesto pleaded, his pupils dancing wildly, desperately searching for the words to save his life. “You
said it was good people that were killed today. Well, I know something about Jo—something she did that wasn’t so good.”

Mano kept Nesto in the sights of his Glock, but without knowing why, did not pull the trigger. “You think smearing Jo’s memory
is going to save your worthless life?”

“There’s a lot about Jo you don’t know, Mano,” Nesto said, starting to regain his composure.

Mano’s hand holding the gun relaxed slightly. “What are you trying to say, Nesto?”

“You remember the first L.A. cops who were killed in the riots around three years ago?”

“I do. So what?”

“After they were killed, the riots got a lot worse… and the vigilantes started raiding the barrios. You remember all that,
right?”

“If you’ve got a point, Nesto, you better get to it quickly.”

“That was the start of the real trouble, man. A lot of people have died since then because those cops were killed,” said the
gang leader, propping himself up on one elbow.

Mano said nothing. But he knew Nesto was right. Julio and Elena, his niece, and countless other innocents would be alive today
if this whole mess had never started.

“Why are you telling me this, Nesto?”

“Because Jo was the one who ordered those cops killed.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, Mano. I
know
Jo ordered those cops to be killed because she paid me to do it. Ramon arranged the whole deal.”

Mano was stunned. Could it be true? He recalled his first weapons deal with Nesto years earlier. It had seemed clear then
that Ramon had dealt with Nesto before. Mano stood speechless, his mind racing for an explanation.

“She played you for a chump all along, man,” Nesto added with a touch of sympathy.

The words struck Mano like a blow.

Had he misjudged Jo? Was she capable of murder? Did she deliberately incite the violence that led to the deaths of his children?
Engulfed in a churning eddy of doubts, his gaze turning distant, Mano slowly lowered the pistol to his side.

It was the opening Nesto had been hoping for. He reached for the Colt Pony under his shirt.

Nesto’s sudden movement snapped Mano out of his trance. The mero’s hand was arcing toward him holding a stubby silver pistol.
Instinctively, Mano kicked at Nesto’s hand.

As Nesto’s gun discharged, the .380 caliber bullet intended for Mano’s torso tore through the flesh of his right forearm,
knocking the Glock out of his hand.

Ignoring the searing pain in his arm, Mano launched himself at Nesto before he could fire again. With his uninjured arm, he
grabbed Nesto’s gun hand and squeezed as the mero screeched in agony. When he released the pressure, the gun fell from Nesto’s
bleeding hand.

Mano then trapped Nesto’s head in his good arm and gave a violent twist. A sickening, low-pitched crack of shattering bone
and cartilage marked the death of Ernesto Alvarez.

Mano staggered to his feet, staring at the gang leader’s body. His death brought no satisfaction. Worse, his lofty image of
Jo had been turned on its head. He no longer knew what to believe. Was Jo a fraud—and their cause as well?

The death of Nesto released the flood of emotions Mano had been trying to hold in check. A wave of despair washed over him
as the blunt reality of their defeat sank in. Jo was dead. Their most trusted men had been slaughtered. The nerve center of
their operations was lost.

A succession of painful memories surfaced in Mano’s mind. The death of the Jimenez twins… the loss of his niece… the killing
of his son… his separation from his family… the loss of his daughter… Jo’s brutal death… It had all been for nothing.

They had chased the pipe dream of a loser.

The supreme challenge of any revolutionary is not the struggle against a larger, better-equipped adversary. It is the struggle
against hopelessness.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1989
Translated by J. M. Herrera

T
hrough the windows of his house, Mano could see a glint of pale light. There was a chance the soldiers had somehow uncovered
the location of his home during the raid on the command center. A squad of troopers might be waiting for him inside.

Beyond caring, he opened the door.

In the living room were Guillermo and Juana. Although it was well after midnight, the old couple were still at work by the
dim light of a gas lantern, Juana mending a shirt and Guillermo folding laundry.

Juana smiled with relief when Mano entered. “Mano! Gracias a Dios, you’re alive. There were many explosions and gunfire all
day.”

“And helicopters, too,” Guillermo added. “People are saying a lot of our fighters were killed.”

“It did not go well today,” Mano said flatly. He could not bring himself to say more. After intercepting Nesto, he’d returned
to the command center and buried Jo and the young Verdugos. With only one good arm, it had been slow and painful work.

He was drained of all strength… and all feelings.

Mano walked toward the bathroom to clean the wound on his arm. As he crossed the living room, Juana noticed his injury. “Mano,
did you hurt your arm?”

“It’s nothing, Juana. I can take care of it.”

Juana folded her arms and frowned. “Manolo Suarez, don’t you disrespect me. Come here and let me see your arm.”

Mano complied, and within minutes Juana and Guillermo were eagerly attending to his wound. As Juana finished tightening a
fresh bandage around his bulky forearm, she could no longer contain her excitement.

“Mano, we have a surprise that should cheer you up,” Juana said, grinning widely.

Guillermo scowled at his wife. “Don’t give it away, old woman.”

“Be silent, old fool. I know what I’m doing,” Juana said to her husband. She then turned to Mano. “Josefina stopped by this
morning and left a surprise in your room,” she said, gesturing toward his bedroom door.

Despite the bleakness in his soul, Mano had no desire to offend Juana and Guillermo. They were trying to cheer him.

He rose and walked wearily down the hall toward his room. The anticipation of a gift from Jo only deepened his despair, another
painful reminder of her death. Still, out of respect for the old couple, he opened the door and looked inside.

There were two sleeping figures in the room. One was on his bed, the other curled in a pallet on the floor. Even in the faint
light, Mano recognized his wife and son.

A sliver of light penetrated Rosa’s eyelids. After four nights of hard travel and little sleep, she unconsciously fought the
urge to open her eyes and returned to her dream.

She was in a grassy field bathed in afternoon sunlight, looking up at Mano and Jo, who stood on a slope high above her. Mano
waved in greeting and began descending the hill. After he reached her, he looked back up the slope toward Jo, now a silhouette
in the glare of the setting sun.

Rosa squinted as Jo’s shape began to vanish in the blinding glow. Rosa raised her hand to shield her eyes from the piercing
brightness, and the setting suddenly changed.

She was in a dark room, looking toward the light that entered from the doorway. The outline of a muscular figure stood at
the door.

“Mano?” she called out softly, unsure if she was awake or dreaming.

Mano entered the room wordlessly, tears welling in his eyes, and lifted Pedro and his blankets from the floor. As Mano carried
the boy into the living room, Juana and Guillermo beamed smiles of approval and quietly retired to their room. Mano tucked
the sleeping child into the sofa and returned to the bedroom.

At last alone with Rosa, Mano kissed her. The kiss began tenderly, then quickly rose in passion. In that moment, Rosa forgot
the pain and the grief she had endured in the camp. In Mano’s arms again after more than a year, she felt only the longing
of a woman too long separated from her man.

Rosa was surprised when Mano suddenly broke off their kiss. He sat up in the bed and stared at the floor. “Querida… so much
has happened…”

Rosa lifted his face with her hand. “Whatever happened before doesn’t matter anymore, mi amor. All that matters now is that
we’re together.”

“You don’t understand, Rosa. We launched an attack today. Many of us across the country took part—and it failed. A lot of
people were killed, including Jo.”

Rosa suddenly felt the hollow ache of grief. “May God have mercy on her soul,” she said, making the sign of the cross. “I
hated Josefina before she came to the camp. But I came to know she never meant us any harm. She was a good woman, Mano. She
was just very mixed up inside. In fact, she’s the reason Pedro and I were able to leave the camp. She bribed a lot of people
to get us here.”

“Juana and Guillermo told me. But there’s more about Jo you don’t know, Rosa.” Mano hesitated, uncertain if he should continue.
“Jo may have been a murderer,” he finally said.

“I don’t believe it,” Rosa said gently. “Where did you hear that, Mano?”

“From a gang leader. He said Jo paid him to kill some policemen three years ago. He said Jo did it to provoke more trouble,
and it worked.” Mano lowered his gaze. “Julio and Elena might still be alive today if those policemen hadn’t been murdered.”

Rosa placed her palms softly on her husband’s cheeks and looked into his eyes. “Mano, God knows Josefina was not a saint.
But she was not a murderer. She did not do this thing.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because Josefina told me herself. She admitted she paid that gang leader to start the trouble. But she said she had no idea
he would kill those policemen in cold blood. Their deaths were one of her greatest regrets.”

“Why did Jo tell you this?”

“Mi amor, women share things men will never understand.”

Mano awoke to the sound of birds in morning song, the gray light of dawn glowing in the window.

Half awake, he lapsed into a strange memory, recalling a book from Ramon’s library about the making of a Samurai sword. The
steel of the blade was heated, folded, and beaten down over and over—until it was finally quenched in cool water to harden
its strength.

The image of the steaming sword was accompanied by the delicious realization that Rosa was nestled next to him. After their
long separation, her nearness was strangely familiar, a half déjà vu.

Mano recalled with tenderness their passionate lovemaking of a few hours earlier. His energy had surprised him. The previous
day had been the longest of his life.

He had seen good people die. He believed their rebellion had been crushed. He’d even doubted the honor of Jo and their cause.
But on this placid morning, yesterday’s events seemed part of another era, a distant past remembered without pain. His vision
was turned forward. He was burning with a sense of certainty.

Mano was determined to carry on the fight.

The fortunes of war do not govern the success of a revolution. It is not what happens on the battlefield that changes history.
A military victory is worthless if it fails to win the battle of public opinion.

—José Antonio Marcha, 1988
Translated by J. M. Herrera

F
ew Americans alive on May 20 would ever forget what they were doing on that fateful Sunday.

Like December 7, November 22, and September 11, the date of the Marcha Offensive was a day that would be permanently etched
into the American psyche.

Reports of the attacks surfaced shortly after noon Eastern Time. Within the hour, the news was spreading across the nation
with the momentum of a nuclear reaction.

For some, the first stunning report came during church services. For others, the initial reports rocked the calm of a quiet
Sunday at home. Many heard the news from a friend or relative. The flurry of vu-phone calls ignited by the attacks overloaded
circuits across much of the nation.

The early reports came from local TV and radio stations. As the scope of the violence became apparent, the national networks
picked up the story, rushing their anchors into the studios. In their most sonorous, serious-news voices, the anchors described
the widespread scale and coordination of the attacks, creating an atmosphere drenched in alarm and uncertainty.