Remember The Alamo (10 page)

Of course, in the eyes of the current lily-livered American
government, Stark's efforts had all been highly illegal. The
politicians and their toadies had done their best to discourage
Stark from fighting back against the monsters, and then they
had tried to punish his success.

But for once the usually brainwashed populace had stood up
for the good guys, and public opinion had decreed that Stark
was a hero and ought to be left alone. Reluctantly, the government had abandoned its efforts to make him a sacrificial lamb
on the alter of political correctness and multilateralism.

Dave had seen the guy being interviewed on TV several
times, and he had always gotten the feeling that Stark was extremely uncomfortable being regarded as any sort of hero. He
was just a man who had lost his wife and been pushed into a
corner where he had no choice but to fight back. And when it
was all over, what he really wanted to do was go back to his
ranch and live as normal a life as he could. Dave supposed that
in the end, that was what Stark had done, because he hadn't
heard anything about him for more than a year.

"You think you could get John Howard Stark to take part in
our plan?" Dave asked Phil.

"Hell, everybody's heard of Stark," Belko muttered.

Phil nodded. "That would give us instant credibility, to have
a man like Stark on our side. And the news media would have
to pay attention to us, too. Stark's been holed up on his ranch for a long time, but like Belko says, he's still got plenty of
name recognition."

"Sounds good to me," Dave said. "Do you have a way of
getting in touch with him?"

"His son Pete gave me his e-mail address"

"I'd say go for it, then" Dieter and Belko nodded in agreement with Dave's statement.

The four men chatted together for a few minutes longer,
their excitement growing. Before they were through, the world
would know exactly how they felt about the idea of turning
over a sacred shrine of liberty to a bunch of corrupt, powermad politicians in the hopes of bribing a gang of vicious terrorists to leave the country alone. You couldn't fight terror and
lawlessness with appeasement. It just didn't work. It hadn't
worked with Hitler, or with the Communist empire, or with
the Islamic fanatics. The only way to combat evil in the long
run was with the necessary force. People ought to know that.

But learning that lesson would have required actually studying history, and that just didn't interest a citizenry where too
many people had attention spans of five minutes or less.

The watcher across the street from the pancake house
looked through the window at the four men seated in the
booth. One of them had mentioned John Howard Stark. More
trouble shaping up, most definitely.

It was time to make his report. Let the higher-ups decide
what to do about this problem.

In Silvio Cruz's line of work, not being noticed very often
was a good thing. A very good thing indeed. For the next few
days after the night he had driven Paco, Berto, and Caballo
around Matamoros on their killing errands, Silvio listened
carefully as he worked around the garage, and he began to
piece together the puzzle of what was going to happen in San
Antonio on March 6th.

It was common knowledge that the ties between the massive cartel run by Hector Garcia-Lopez and the Mexican military were so close as to be almost incestuous. There were
some honest officers, of course, but they were few and far between. Most commanders were tucked away securely in
Garcia-Lopez's pocket, kept there by bribes, blackmail, intimidation, or some combination of the three. That was why any
time the government tried to use the army against the drug
dealers and smugglers, the effort was doomed to fail. Of
course, the state and local law enforcement agencies were
equally riddled with corruption. Little wonder that the most
important power in Mexico these days was the cartel, which
functioned as a sort of shadow government with Hector Garcia-Lopez wielding more of the power of a president than
the elected president himself.

General Augusto Salgado, the officer mentioned by Paco,
was one of the cartel's loyal allies, as far as Silvio knew. Yet it
was also clear from the conversation that Garcia-Lopez did not
fully trust Salgado. The general had political ambitions of his
own, and with a few careful questions, Silvio determined that
most of his backing came from the Reconquistar movement.
Silvio found himself wondering if the men who had crossed
the border into Texas, killed those Border Patrolmen, and committed the atrocity at the VFW picnic might have been actual
soldiers from Salgado's command. It was all too possible,
Silvio decided.

There was also some sort of shadowy figure connected with
both Garcia-Lopez and General Salgado, but Silvio was
unable to discover his identity and was afraid to pry too
openly. He was more concerned with finding out the details of
what would happen at the ceremony where sovereignty over
the Alamo would be handed back to Mexico.

Paco or Berto-Silvio couldn't remember which-had said
that the Texans would be surprised when they found out they
weren't getting the Alamo back. That could only mean one
thing: The Mexicans who took it over planned to keep it. They
could only do that by force. That meant they would have to
smuggle in weapons.

Silvio couldn't see a bunch of politicians, even crooked
ones, pulling off something this daring and dangerous. The
only conclusion that made any sense was that some of the Reconquistadores would be in the crowd, heavily armed, ready
to step forward at the proper moment and take control of the
Alamo, probably killing a lot of Texans-and no doubt some
Mexicans-in the process.

Before it was all over ... death, death, and more death.

And, surprising even himself, Silvio found that he had had
his fill of death.

He was not involved in this. He could stand aside, turn his
back on what he knew and what he suspected, and let things
play out however fate decided that they should.

Or he could try to warn the Texans, some of whom were his
own friends and family. Silvio pondered the choice long and
hard. He knew which conclusion he wanted to arrive at.

Unfortunately, he arrived at the other one. He had to try to
stop this madness before it happened. Otherwise, he would
never be able to live with himself.

He told Rita he was going over to Brownsville the next day
to see about picking up some automotive parts. Once he was
across the border, he would head straight for San Antonio and
find Dave Rodriguez. Dave was a nobody, a mechanic like
Silvio, but he knew people. He would be able to find the right
person and explain what the Reconquistadores were planning.
Then the American authorities could take steps to prevent the
bloodshed from happening.

Unfortunately, if word of Silvio's role in tipping off the
Americans ever became known, his life would be worth nothing in Mexico. Neither would Rita's.

So he said to her, "Come with me tomorrow."

She was a small woman, still neatly attractive at forty-five.
She worked as the secretary for a local lawyer who, like all
lawyers, was only as honest as he had to be, and in Matamoros, Mexico, that wasn't very honest at all. Being around
criminals all the time had made Rita naturally suspicious, so
she frowned at Silvio and said, "Go with you? Why would you
ask me to go with you to pick up parts to fix those old cars?"

"I just thought it would be good for us to spend more time
together"

"You have another woman," Rita declared, "and you are
trying to relieve your guilt over being lying, cheating scum"

Silvio threw up his hands. "Never have I cheated on you!
Never!"

"What about the lying, eh?"

"Everybody lies, especially husbands and wives."

Rita's chin jutted in defiance. "I have never lied to you," she
declared.

"Oh, no? What about-"

She pointed at him and said darkly, "I told you never to
bring that up again."

"All right, all right. Just come with me tomorrow."

"Take a day off? What will I tell my boss?"

"Tell him it's a family emergency," Silvio said. That would
not be a lie. Rita was a family, and protecting her was an emergency as far as he was concerned.

"Okay, but you had better not be up to anything, Silvio
Cruz. If you are, you will regret it, I can promise you that"

Silvio already regretted a great many things, chief among
them the decision to listen to his conscience. But it was too
late to back out now, if he wanted to live with himself in the
future.

Rita would be furious when she found out she could not
return to her home and everything else she would be leaving
behind in Matamoros, Silvio knew, but at least she would be
alive. She looked over at him, frowning in confusion as he
drove past Brownsville's downtown area on International
Boulevard and then turned onto Highway 77. That would take
them north to Corpus Christi, where they could pick up Interstate 37 on to San Antonio.

"Where is this parts house you're going to?" she asked.

Might as well get it over with, Silvio told himself. "There is no
parts house," he said. "Well, there is, but we're not going to it."

"We're not? Then where are we going?" A smile suddenly appeared on her face. "Silvio, are you making some grand romantic gesture? You're taking me to see my family and friends
in San Antonio?"

If she wanted to give him that opening, it was fine with him.
"That is exactly what I am doing," he told her.

"But Silvio! I didn't pack anything! We have no extra
clothes, nothing! I came for a few hours, not days"

"Whatever you need, we will buy it when we get there"

She slid closer to him on the seat. "Such extravagance!
Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?"

He managed to smile. "I just wanted to do something nice
for ... for the most beautiful woman in the world."

Rita laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder. Most of
the time she was a suspicious, sharp-tongued woman-which
didn't keep him from loving her, of course-but when she was
touched by what she thought was a moment of romance, he melted.

Enjoy it while you can, viejo, Silvio told himself.

The drive actually was pleasant, although the long route
through South Texas was not what anyone would consider
scenic. Miles and miles of flat, coastal plain dotted by scrub
brush rolled past. They had lunch in Corpus Christi, and then
headed north to San Antonio.

They were about halfway there when Silvio noticed the car
behind them. It was an old, dark blue Cadillac with heavily
tinted windows. Something was familiar about it, and now that
he thought about it, Silvio remembered seeing it behind them
several times earlier in the day.

He remembered something else about the car, too. He remembered working on it a few weeks earlier. It hadn't been loaded
with drugs and taken across the border, though. It belonged to
someone in the cartel, although Silvio didn't know who.

They were being followed.

That knowledge was like ice in Silvio's veins. He shuddered, and Rita, still sitting close beside him, felt it. "Silvio?" she
said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he told her, but as usual, she didn't believe him.
Her natural suspicions cropped up.

"You are lying!" she accused. "Was this whole trip a lie?
Are we not going to visit friends?"

"We ... we are going to see Dave and Constance" That was
true, anyway. Dave was a good man, a smart man, and he
would know what to do. Silvio trusted him.

Of course, if Dave knew the sort of things that Silvio had
on his conscience, he wouldn't want anything to do with his
cousin.

Silvio shoved that thought out of his mind and shoved down
on the car's accelerator as the Cadillac loomed closer in the
rearview mirror. He had more important things to worry about
now than his own guilt.

Like keeping his wife and himself alive as doom was closing in on them rapidly from behind.