While the boots and knees held him to the cool ground, other hands reached in and stripped him of his gear.
"Look, anybody savvy English?"
Someone spit in his face.
That was a mistake. No one spits in the Extinguisher's game face.
Twisting, he angled one knee between the legs of his tormentor. He moved it a short distance, hard and swift.
"Hijo de la chingada!" a man screamed, clutching himself.
In any language the meaning was plain.
The rifle stocks began raining down on his head after that, and for the Extinguisher the night and the jungle and, most merciful of all, the thudding, pounding, relentless pain all went away.
Chapter 18
The first startling word reached Comandante Efrain Zaragoza in Chiapas Barracks by field telephone.
"Sir! We have captured Subcomandante Verapaz."
"Alive or dead?"
"Alive."
"How do you know he is Verapaz? Has he confessed?"
"No, he is unconscious. But it is him. He has blue eyes."
"Verapaz has green eyes."
"So they say. But his Juarezistas are all indios. They possess brown eyes. Therefore, it stands to reason that this blue-eyed masked one is Verapaz himself, and not one of his insurgentistas. "
It was typical Mexican logic. A triumph of desire over evidence. But it sounded logical to the zone commander, so he ordered the prisoner brought to Chiapas Barracks while he called the excellent tidings up the line until he reached the Interior Ministry General Jeronimo Alacran in the beleaguered Federal District.
It was a miracle that the connection went through. It was a miracle whenever the connection went through on a good day, never mind on this night of turmoil when aftershocks could be felt all the way to Chiapas and the brownish haze in the evening air spoke of troubled winds from the north, carrying the cooling ash of Smoking Mountain.
"You are certain of your facts?" General Alacran demanded.
"He wears a ski mask and possesses blue eyes."
"Verapaz's eyes are green," the general said stubbornly.
"Do we know this for a fact?"
"Our intelligence indicates this. And there are photos in magazines."
"Photos in magazines show colors imperfectly," the zone commander pointed out in a reasonable voice. "Perhaps he wears colored contact lenses when he poses for the press. After all, what manner of man possesses eyes the exact hue of the quetzal bird's plumage?"
"This is an excellent point. And you are very clever to offer this theory. My congratulations. Keep your prisoner safe, for I have already dispatched Colonel Primitivo to Chiapas to deal with this Verapaz."
"This is unnecessary. I have Verapaz in my custody."
"No, you do not," returned General Alacran. "You never had Verapaz."
"But I have him now. He sleeps off the blow that brought him to heel."
"I will repeat myself. You do not have Verapaz. You never had Verapaz. And when Colonel Primitivo arrives, you will surrender this prisoner you do not have and never had."
"But," Comandante Zaragoza sputtered, "what about my credit?"
"You may have the credit if you wish to accept the blame for what follows," the general said coolly.
"What blame?" asked Zaragoza.
"If you would know the blame, you must accept the consequences that attend this knowledge."
"I prefer no blame and no credit, if that is okay with the general," the zone commander said hastily.
"The general finds you a wise man. One who understands that we never had this conversation."
"What conversation?" said the zone commander, realizing even as he terminated the connection to Mexico City that there were worse things in life than losing credit for a duty fulfilled.
Among them, losing one's life, which was shortly to be the fate of Subcomandante Verapaz, the mysterious one of the chilling blue eyes.
COLONEL PRIMITIVO HEARD the excellent news over his field telephone.
He drove the lead LAV. He always took point. He prided himself on taking point. He would not lead men where he would not go himself first.
And in the pursuit of his duty, Colonel Primitivo would enter Hell itself. Not just any hell. Not the hell of his Spanish forebears, but the awful Aztec hell called Mictlan, where the dead had their bones sucked of their sweet marrow by demons.
Colonel Primitivo was unafraid to enter that hell.
So he did not shrink from tearing along the highway that wound through the Lacandon forest that was, although considered Mexican soil, nevertheless enemy territory.
THE PRISONER WAS LOADED into a wooden coffin.
This made perfect sense. He was soon to die, and since the prisoner in Chiapas Barracks was destined to become henceforth a state secret, what better way to conceal the still-living but certainly short-lived body than to load it into a coffin?
Colonel Primitivo blew into the barracks at the head of an armored column. He trailed a choking cloud that this night was more ash than road dust.
The air was becoming difficult to inhale comfortably. Much like the air of Mexico City on a humid summer's night.
Colonel Primitivo snapped a salute. "You have something for me?"
His mouth tight, Comandante Zaragoza motioned to the waiting coffin lying on the ground.