"Since when is preventing another nation's illegals from crossing pur sovereign border an act of war?"
"It's a pretext. Obviously. But they do this kind of thing in Europe all the time."
The President thought hard. Elvis was howling he didn't know why he loved someone. He only knew he did.
As the President reluctantly issued the order to match the Mexicans, unit for unit, in a border stare-down that had no probable upside, he decided he'd give anything to swap this problem for this morning's headache.
Hell, if the First Lady wanted the First Family to celebrate Kwanzaa instead of Christmas, the political fire-storm would be nothing compared to an all-out border war.
Chapter Eleven
Cuervos quaked in the heat when Remo rolled in on the Mexican Humvee. It was a typical honky-tonk bordertown catering to U.S. tourists. There were fast-food joints, cantinas and outdoor stalls where trinkets were peddled. These were empty now. As were the fast-food places. A Mexican love song blared from an outdoor loudspeaker. Otherwise, it was full of an uneasy quiet.
It was also full of Federal Judicial Police.
Their eyes went instinctively to him. And as instinctively veered away. As a soldier, he outranked them.
Remo pulled the bill of his uniform cap lower over his eyes, so the shade of the hot Sonoran sun concealed his face. His deep-set dark eyes, high cheekbones and sun-darkened complexion drew no more than casual glances.
The jail was on the main drag and easy to spot. There were iron bars on the windows like in a TV Western. The building was sun-dried adobe. Cracks like varicose veins faulted its smooth surfaces.
Pulling up, Remo decided on a frontal approach. He got out and marched up the short front steps and into the jail.
"¿Que?" asked a man in a brown FJP uniform.
"I'm looking for my father," Remo said in English.
The Mexican officer went for his gun. Remo went for the gun, too. Remo won.
He showed the officer how fragile his gun really was by yanking back on the slide. It came off in his hand. Then he unscrewed the complaining barrel like a light bulb and, holding it before the man's widening eyes, snapped it between thumb and forefinger. The rest Remo threw away.
"A big gringo, savvy?"
"Savvy, si," said the officer, whose coffee-colored skin began oozing sweat.
"Take me to him."
"Si, si."
The Mexican didn't act as if he understood every word, but he turned and led Remo to the cluster of cells beyond a foyer and office space.
All the cells were empty. Including the one at the end where the man stopped, turned pale and threw out his already raised hands as if to say to Remo, "No comprende."
"Where is he?" Remo demanded.
"No, no, señor. Do not shoot. Do not shoot me, por favor."
"I broke your gun, remember?"
The guard looked at Remo's empty hands and decided to take a chance.
He threw a punch. Remo saw it coming before the guard had made the decision. The fist landed in Remo's waiting hand with a meaty smack. Remo began squeezing. The man grunted. Remo squeezed harder.
The crackle of cartilage gave way to the gritty powdering of finger bones as the magnitude of his mistake dawned on the Mexican guard.
"No, no por favor," he squealed.
"Where's my father?"
"No, no. I do not know. He—he was there."
"Tell the truth and you keep your hand."
"No, I do tell the truth. I do!"
The words lifted into a tortured scream that brought the pounding of feet from the outer rooms. Remo put the guard down with the heel of his hand to the point of the man's jaw and turned to meet the newcomers.
Soldiers. They came in with rifles and side arms, muzzles up and questing. They took all of three seconds to scrutinize the room, and in those three seconds Remo was among them.
His palm connected with one face with a splat that left eggshell fractures behind the skin. Eyes rolling up to see oblivion, the soldier dropped.
Two bayonet-tipped muzzles drove for his stomach. Remo snapped the blades cleanly with chops of his hands and took hold of the muzzles. They came together with an abrupt force that cold-welded them into a long sealed pipe.
Remo stepped back as fingers squeezed triggers.
The bullets met head-on in a sealed tunnel of bored steel. And the results were catastrophic. Blow-back gases shattered the breeches and sent cold steel ripping into soft tissues.
The two trigger-happy soldiers made a drab rag pile on the floor.
With a look of fierce concentration on his face, the last standing soldier was busy trying to fix Remo in his gun sights.
Every time the trigger started back, Remo slithered out of the way with practiced ease. Each maneuver brought Remo closer to his target. The target, thinking his weapon gave him the clear advantage over an unarmed man, never realized that. Not even when it was too late.
Stepping left, then right one last time, Remo froze in place. The trigger finger whitened. The hammer drew back. And fell.
The soldier lost the top of his head when his own bullet came out of the muzzle that was suddenly tucked under his hard jaw. He dropped, still clutching the weapon with which he had committed inadvertent suicide.
Remo spun and went to the cell, smacking the lock with the heel of his hand. The old mechanism shattered, and the barred door came open.
The cell was empty. Just a hard cot and cracked porcelain toilet. But the air held a scent he had come to know. His father's leathery odor.
From the street he heard a familiar engine roar. The Humvee. His Humvee.
Jumping into the street, Remo was just in time to catch a glimpse of someone very tall driving his Humvee, dragging a funnel of arid dust behind.
Through the dust he thought he recognized a thick head of lustrous black hair.