"Maybe so, señor. But your name is now cieno—muck."
Sunny Joe gave up on the jailer. What the hell was going on? He had crossed the border without a problem, the way he always did. Through the manned border checkpoint. They waved him right through, smiling as always. And he'd run smack into a Mexican Federal Judicial Police patrol loaded for bear and looking for trouble.
They had arrested him on sight. Not much else to do but surrender and see where events led.
As it turned out, they'd led to the local hoosegow.
Something was up. Something big. And he had become a pawn in a larger game.
Lying back down on the hardwood bunk, Sunny Joe decided to wait the morning out. If they hadn't cut him loose by noon, he would take matters in hand.
One thing was certain. No jail on any side of the border had been built that could hold a Sunny Joe when he took a notion to do different.
Remo ran into a column of Mexican army Humvees rolling along a dusty desert highway.
He was surprised to see Humvees. But since the Gulf War, even Arnold Schwarzenegger had one. No reason the Mexican army couldn't have a few, too. These were painted in desert camouflage browns and sands.
The Humvee unit was surprised to see him, too. They slewed to a disorganized stop, almost creating a chain reaction of rear-end collisions.
Remo stepped out into the middle of the road and lifted his bands as a signal that he was unarmed and not looking for trouble.
He might have saved his energy. The sargento primero in the lead Humvee took one look and his dark eyes flashed. He rapped out a sharp command, and armed Mexicans were suddenly pounding in Remo's direction.
"Alto!"
"I'm looking for a big American in a black hat," Remo said.
"Alto!"
"Anybody here speak English?"
"Jou will keep jour hands raised, señor," the sargento primero ordered. "Jou are a prisoner."
"Fine. I'm a prisoner. Just take me to the man I described."
As they patted him down and cuffed him from behind, Remo fought his instincts. Every sense screamed to send the soldiers flying. A Master of Sinanju was trained never to allow hostile hands on his person. But Remo was a man of peace now.
Chiun would kill me if he saw me like this, Remo thought as he was placed in the back of a Humvee.
"What's the problem here?" he asked.
"Jou are a spy."
"I'm an American tourist."
"Jou are an Americano in Mexico. The border has been closed to Americanos."
"By who?"
"Mexico."
"Whatever happened to NAFTA?"
The driver spit into the dust violently.
"Proposition 187 and Operation Gatekeeper happened," the sargento primero grunted.
Uh-oh, Remo thought. Something had ticked off the Mexican government big-time. He decided to sit it out. Once he found Sunny Joe, he'd make his move.
But they didn't take him to Sunny Joe. They took him to a military camp and into an olive drab tent, where he was told to sit on an ammo crate until the major came.
"I'll sit on the sand if you don't mind," Remo said in an even voice.
" Jou will sit on the crate."
"Crates give me a pain in the butt, just like you."
The Mexican sergeant took immediate offense and looked as if he wanted to club Remo down with the hard stock of his rifle. "The crate," he insisted.
"If you say so," said Remo, who then sat down on the crate so violently it splintered into kindling.
Smiling up at the sergeant's reddening face, Remo took a shady spot on the tent's sandy floor.
The major's face wasn't red. It was dark as a storm cloud. His angry eyes fell on Remo and the shattered crate and asked, "Who are you, gringo?"
"The Gringo Kid. I'm looking for my dad, the Gringo Chief."
"Eh?"
"Look, you characters took another prisoner this morning. Just take me to him."
"Ah," said the major, fingering his mustache. "That one. He is in jail in Cuervos."
"Then put me in jail in Cuervos."
"No. You are a military prisoner. The other was seized by our Federal Judicial Police."
"Damn," said Remo. Looking up, he asked a simple question. "Which way to Cuervos?"
"Why do you ask?"
"For future reference."
"You have no future."
"What's got into you people?" Remo complained.