Remember The Alamo (9 page)

Silvio almost drove past the bar where he was supposed
to make his fifth stop. The hour was so late that only a couple
of battered old pickups were parked at the place. As Silvio
brought the car to a stop and the three men got out and
walked inside, he thought that the owners of those pickups
were unlucky bastards. They should have made an earlier
night of it, stopped drinking and gone home to their families.

While Paco, Berto, and Caballo were gone, Silvio thought about what they had said. Berto's mention of the Alamo reminded Silvio that he had a cousin in San Antonio. His
cousin's wife was distantly related to Silvio's wife, Rita. The
two women were friends and talked often on the phone, and
sometimes Silvio's cousin and his wife came to visit.

At breakfast just that morning, in fact, Rita had been telling
Silvio about something Constance had told her, all about how
the gringo politicians were going to give the Alamo back to
Mexico. Only for a few days, of course. It was all just for
show, to make the politicians look better. Silliness, actually.

But from the sound of what he had overheard tonight,
Mexico wasn't going to return the Alamo to Texas. That was
truly crazy. What could anybody do with it, stuck in the
middle of downtown San Antonio like it was?

Paco had said that Texans were going to start dying...

That bothered Silvio. He had nothing against Texans. His
cousin wasn't the only relative he had north of the border.
Sure, some people still hated them, but that seemed like a
wasted effort to Silvio. It was a hell of a long time since 1836,
a long time to hold a grudge.

Hating was the only thing some people were good at,
though. Silvio had worked for the cartel long enough, seen
enough things that he couldn't ignore, to know that was true.

Headlights washed across the bar's parking lot. An expensive American car pulled in and stopped a few yards from
Silvio's car. Four young people got out, two boys and two girls.
American college students, from the sound of their talk and
laughter. They had come across the border to get a taste of
Mexican night life. All the American authorities now warned
against doing such things, because of the high crime rate in
Mexico, but college kids, some of them never listened. They
made it a point of honor to ignore good advice.

Silvio opened the driver's door and got halfway out of the car. "Excuse me," he called to the young Americans in good
English. "I think the bar is closed."

"The lights are still on," one of the young men responded.
He was big, maybe a football player. "And there are still cars
here"

"Yes, but it is after hours," Silvio said.

The boy laughed. "No such thing in Mexico, amigo."

"I just think it would be better if you returned to your own
country."

The football player's face hardened. "Mind your own business, Pancho"

The other boy caught at his arm. "Hey, Shawn, maybe it
would be better if-"

The football player shrugged him off. "I came over here to
have a good time, and so did the girls. We're going in, but if
you want to listen to some old pepperbelly, you can stay in the
car, Kevin."

The other boy thought about it, and obviously not wanting
to diminish himself in the eyes of the young women, he
shrugged and said, "What the hell. The lights are still on"

The four of them went inside the bar.

Silvio sighed, shook his head, and eased his tired body back
into the driver's seat of the car they were using tonight. He had
tried to warn them. What happened was on their heads now.

Berto, Paco, and Caballo were already taking longer than
usual with this errand. After the American students went
inside, time dragged even more. Silvio supposed that the three
pistoleros were getting some enjoyment out of their last chore
of the evening. It was nearly half an hour before Silvio heard
the muffled popping sounds from inside.

Suddenly the door of the bar was thrown open and one of
the American girls lunged out through it. She wore jeans and
a blouse that had been torn open, revealing a lacy white bra.
Long brown hair streamed out behind her head as she ran, her pretty face not so pretty anymore because it was twisted in
terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but before any sound
could come out, Caballo stepped into the open doorway of the
bar, lifted the gun in his hand, and shot her in the right leg. A
noise suppressor had been screwed onto the barrel of the gun,
so the shot wasn't very loud.

The girl tumbled off her feet as the bullet ripped through her
thigh. Momentum rolled her over a couple of times, and by the
time she came to a stop, Caballo was there, dropping on top of
her, planting a knee in the small of her back so that she was
pinned to the rough pavement of the parking lot.

He put away his gun, reached around her head with his left
hand, and cupped it under her chin. He lifted her head, pulling
her body up with it so that he could get his right hand under
her and caress her breasts for a moment. Silvio was only about
fifteen feet away, and through the open windows of the car
where he sat, he heard Caballo ask in English, "Where you
from?"

The girl could barely talk because she was sobbing in pain
from her wounded leg and Caballo had a tight grip on her
chin. But she managed to grate out, "D-Dallas"

"Should've stayed there, Texas bitch."

The muscles in Caballo's massive shoulders bunched as he
jerked up with his left hand. Silvio heard the sharp snap of the
girl's neck breaking.

Caballo dropped her head, letting it fall limply to the pavement, which her forehead hit with a thud. She was beyond
feeling any more pain, though. Caballo stood up, grinning. He
glanced over at Silvio and his grin grew even broader.

Paco and Berto strolled out of the bar, their business in
there finished. They got in the car. Caballo followed with a last
fond glance back at the young woman he had just killed.

Berto said, "Kind of hard to ignore, isn't it, Silvio?"

Silvio knew they looked down on him, considered him less of a man because he was just the driver and tried not to pay attention to what was going on around him. He started the car,
backed out of the lot, and drove away without saying anything.

But after they had gone a mile or so, he said, "That Alamo
business ... the people taking it over aren't giving it back?"

"That's right," Paco said. "You want to go along, Silvio?"

"There'll be killing?"

"Lots of it." Paco laughed. "A lot of those Texans will die.
Isn't that right, Caballo?"

"I like to kill Texans," the big man said. ' Reconquistar!"

So something a lot bigger and more dangerous was going
down than the Americans expected. Something that would probably make the previous incidents look like minor skirmishes.

Silvio had lived this long because he had the ability to turn
his eyes away from trouble.

But he had seen the way Caballo had snapped that girl's
neck, and he knew there was a limit to what a man could look
away from and pretend wasn't there. He had family in San Antonio. He had to find out more about what was going to
happen.

And when he knew, he would have to tell someone. Maybe
his cousin, Dave Rodriguez ...

Yes, Silvio decided. Dave would know what to do.

Mike Belkowicz insisted on coming to the meeting, which
was okay with Dave. He had gotten acquainted with Belko because the Vietnam vet was at many of the funerals that the
members of Freedom's Guard attended. He knew Belko was a
good hombre and could be trusted. The guy was retired from
the post office and now spent most of his time working on veterans' causes.

The four men got together at a pancake house-Dave,
Belko, Phil Cody, and Dieter Schmidt. It was the day after the
funeral of Dieter's wife, Beth. The youngest of the four by
more than a decade, Dieter explained that his parents were still
in town and were looking after his little girl.

He reached across the table in the booth, shook hands with
Phil, and said, "Glad to meet you, Mr. Cody," although Dave
could see the incredible sadness in Dieter's eyes and knew that
he wouldn't be truly glad about anything for a long time.

But the day would come when Dieter's sorrow would fade.
It might never go away completely, probably wouldn't, in fact,
but Dave hoped it would get to the point that Dieter could feel
happiness again and move on with his life.

Dave couldn't imagine ever recovering if he lost Constance,
though. She was his life.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Dieter," Phil said. "It was a terrible thing, the way those bastards attacked that picnic."

Dieter nodded. "Yes. Some people lost more than I did.
Entire families were wiped out"

Belko took a sip of his coffee and said, "I swear, I was never
more scared in my life. Not even during the Tet Offensive.
Bullets flyin' everywhere, people screamin' " He broke off
and grimaced. "Hell, I'm sorry, Dieter. You know how old
guys like me are. Don't know when to keep our damn mouths
shut"

Dieter smiled and shook his head. "No, it's all right. You're
not bringing back any memories that don't already haunt me
twenty-four hours a day." He drew in a deep breath and went
on. "Now, Mr. Cody, maybe you could explain what I'm doing
here"

"It's Phil, and I want to talk to you about the Alamo."

"What about it?"

"You know we're going to give it back to Mexico, to
appease those so-called Reconquistadores."

Belko muttered, "Damn thugs, if you ask me"

"We're not really giving the Alamo back to Mexico,
though," Dieter said. "It's just for a few days. Just for show,
really."

Phil nodded. "Yes, but it's wrong to do even that much.
What message does it send when we cave in like that?"

"Except for a few years after 9/11, this country's been
caving in to terrorists and world opinion for forty years,"
Belko said with a note of disgust in his voice. "Tell you the
truth, I'm a little surprised we've lasted as long as we have.
The media's turned all the politicians into gutless wonders. My
God, if you can't start a war in the morning and wrap it up by
the time the evening news comes on, with no casualties to boot, the American people don't want any part of it anymore!
It's a damn wonder we're not all speaking Arabic and bowing
to Mecca by now!"

Dave said, "Don't you think you're exaggerating just a mite,
Belko?"

"Maybe a little," Belko growled. "But not much!"

"Anyway," Phil said, "we think it's wrong, what they're
doing with the Alamo."

"How can you stop it?" Dieter asked.

"Well ... I don't guess we can. But we can make it clear
that we're opposed to using the Alamo to put on some
politically correct dog and pony show."

"You're talking about protesting?"

Phil nodded. "I guess so. To tell you the truth, just the
thought of holding up a sign and marching around puts a bad
taste in my mouth. That's the sort of thing that liberals do. It
smacks of whining to me ""

"Yeah, me too," Belko said. "To this day, those blasted Vietnam War protesters won't acknowledge the fact that they prolonged the war instead of ending it, even though Uncle Ho's
old buddies have come right out and admitted it. No, they're
still lost in their damn fog of self-righteousness."

"Back to the Alamo... ." Dave suggested, knowing that
Belko could go on for hours about the truth of the Vietnam
War protests. Right or wrong, all that was in the past. The
world faced new, even more dangerous threats today.

"If all we can do is protest, we'll protest," Phil said. "And
we'd like to have the two of you, and maybe some of the other
survivors from the VFW massacre, to join us. Just vets,
though. Dave and I have been talking about it, and we'd like to
have vets from as many wars as possible there"

"You won't get any from World War One," Belko said.
"There's a few of 'em still around, but they're all too feeble to
be out protesting. I know some guys who fought in the Big One, though, and they're still spry enough to take part. Same
goes for fellas who were in Korea and 'Nam. I got a feelin'
they'll be just as pissed off as we are about what's gonna
happen at the Alamo."

Phil smiled. "I was hoping you'd feel that way. Dave and I
were in Desert Storm that's how we know each other and
we can round up some other guys who served then. If we
could get your help with the soldiers who have come back
from Iraq and Afghanistan in the past five years-"

"Yes," Dieter said with an emphatic nod of his head. "I can
do that"

It would be something to keep his mind off his wife's death,
Dave thought.

"That's great," Phil said. "We've got less than two weeks
to set everything up, so we'll have to work pretty fast" A look
of concern appeared on his face. "I know you were wounded,
Dieter. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Don't worry about me," Dieter said. "I'll be fine."

Phil leaned back and smiled. "It's settled, then. And there's
something I haven't even told you about yet, Dave. I have another old friend from Desert Storm. A Marine colonel named
Peter Stark"

Dieter looked surprised. "I've heard of him. He served
during Operation Iraqi Freedom, too"

Phil nodded. "That's right. Can't get that guy out of the hot
spots of the world. Anyway, he's still on active duty somewhere-he won't say where, of course-and I've been trading
e-mails with him."

"What's this got to do with our plan?" Dave asked.

"Pete's father is John Howard Stark," Phil said.

The other three men stared at him. John Howard Stark was
a hero. A rancher in the Rio Grande Valley near Del Rio, he
had found himself at war with a gang of Mexican drug smugglers that wanted to use his ranch as a route for transporting their poison. Stark's wife had died in the resulting violence,
and then the drug smugglers had really found themselves in
trouble. Stark had been a Marine in Vietnam, and he had
gotten his old squad together to take the fight to the animals
on the other side of the border. The battle to take down the
leader of the drug smugglers had been a bloody, epic conflict, but in the end Stark had emerged victorious, although
several of his comrades in arms had sacrificed their lives in
the fighting.