Warlord of Azatlan at-6 Page 6

  "Come and get it."

  "There in a minute."

  Luis had listened to the radio conference. "You will kill the soldiers? With that silent gun?"

  Lyons shook his head. "We don't know that they're Nazis. They look like eighteen-year-old draftees pulling guard duty."

  "You must kill them. It is the only way. Any alarm will bring many trucks of soldiers."

  "No. Why should they die for other people's politics?"

  A few blocks away, Gadgets and Blancanales waited in the rented van, the Nazi colonel tied and gagged on the floor. Within sight of the North Americans, three other cars waited. Squads of men and women from Dr. Orozco's anti-fascist group watched for a signal from Blancanales. They all had good weapons now, snatched from the dead Nazis after the ambush on the bomb factory.

  As the taxi slowed beside the van, Blancanales extended his arm from the window and said to Lyons: "If there's trouble, we're thirty seconds away. Good luck."

  "Won't be any trouble." Lyons took the plastic bottle. As the taxi returned to the avenue of the wealthy, Lyons splashed the alcohol on his shirt and jacket. Then he scribbled an illegible series of numbers and names on a scrap of paper.

  "Let me out at the corner," he said.

  Luis turned to Lyons and spoke with sneering hatred. "Kill them. They would not hesitate to kill you."

  "That makes it exciting," Lyons laughed.

  Stumbling from the taxi, he fell. He wobbled to his feet. He almost fell again as he slammed the door closed. Luis accelerated away, leaving Lyons alone on the avenue.

  Glancing at the scrap of paper, Lyons staggered down the center of the avenue. He stopped from time to time to look for address numbers. Finally, he walked to the soldiers.

  The teenagers watched the drunken North American. Laughing, they motioned him away. Lyons held up the paper.

  "This is where my friends are." He pointed at the paper, then pointed at the house.

  "Lo siento, gringo. No hablo ingles. Vayase, por favor."

  "Really, guys. They invited me to a party. Here's the address."

  The teenage soldiers smelled the alcohol as Lyons approached. Still laughing, one of the soldiers took the paper. While he tried to read the scrawl, Lyons staggered to the gate. Gripping the bars, weaving on his feet, he scanned the grounds. No other soldiers guarded the estate.

  "Senor, no se permiten a..."

  Driving a kick into the nearest boy's stomach, Lyons dropped him instantly. As the other teenager grabbed for the pistol grip of his Galil, Lyons simultaneously kneed him in the groin and smashed an elbow against the underside of his jaw. The youth tumbled. The first boy groaned on the ground. Using his right fist like a hammer, Lyons smashed down on the back of the boy's head, stunning him.

  He took their rifles, then dragged them into the guard booth. Jerking plastic handcuffs around their wrists, he searched their pockets for the gate keys. Lyons buzzed Blancanales and Gadgets.

  "Come on in. But only bring one carload of our friends. Could look very suspicious if..."

  "My thoughts exactly," Gadgets answered. "There in a second."

  Headlights flashed. Lyons pressed himself into the darkness of the shadows. He saw the plastic dome-light of the taxi.

  Luis parked in the entryway, the doors of the taxi only a step from the guard post.

  They loaded the teenage soldiers into the taxi, then opened the gate. Seconds later, the rented van and a late-model Fiat sedan followed the taxi into the estate.

  His silenced Colt in his hand, Lyons ran to the front door. He heard the others rushing from the cars as he sighted on the lock, fired twice, and kicked the door open.

  Standing in a white entryway decorated with European pop art, a slender young woman in a form-hugging gown of red acetate screamed. Behind her, a mustached man in a tuxedo and bow tie dropped to one knee, his hands going for a pistol in an ankle holster.

  Lyons leaped in, straight-armed the woman in the throat, her scream stopping as if switched off, then sprinted three steps to the man and kicked him in the face. The man rolled back, blood spraying from his smashed nose, a small pistol flying from his hand.

  Blancanales held and questioned the two while Luis searched through the desk drawers and file cabinets of the lieutenant's office. Lyons and the squad of anti-fascist fighters swept through the house. In the bedrooms, they found an elderly nanny and two children.

  "They don't know the exact location of the base," Blancanales told Lyons and Gadgets when they reunited. "Lieutenant Garcia never goes into the mountains. The senora only goes as far as a village at the end of the paved road, a place called Azatlan. From there, she says, Unomundo's men or local policemen take the information."

  Lyons squatted in front of the handcuffed couple. Tears streamed down the woman's face, powder and mascara splattering on her breasts. The lieutenant glared hate at the North American who had broken his nose.

  "Why the bombs?" Lyons asked them.

  The woman glanced to her husband. He shook his head. They did not answer.

  "I asked you, why the bombs?"

  Luis rushed from the lieutenant's office, sheets of typed columns in his hands. "Look. These are death lists. Every name a corpse. Or a family butchered. She has murdered hundreds of..."

  "No! I killed no one. I only carry messages. I am a courier."

  The three North Americans checked the typed sheets. A penciled Xmarked most of the names. Lyons smiled to the woman.

  "Tonight you carry another message to Azatlan. Us."

  "No! No! Por el amor de Dios," Senora Garcia cried out. "Unomundo will kill us. Kill my babies."

  "You will take them to the Nazis," Luis told her, "or wewill kill your children."

  Blancanales motioned Lyons and Gadgets to one side. Keeping their voices low, they discussed their options.

  "If we take her with us," Blancanales suggested, "she could lead us directly to her contact. With these people holding her husband and children, she won't give us any problems."

  "I don't want to take the doctor's squads with us," Lyons whispered. "Carloads of people with rifles and pistols get noticed."

  "Yeah, and we don't have the extra radios," Gadgets added. "Mucho problems with communications."

  "That, too," Lyons agreed. "But the fact is, I don't trust them. That Luis, we don't take him in for the hit, okay?"

  "You're paranoid," Gadgets said.

  Blancanales agreed. "He's proved himself. He doesn't work for Unomundo."

  "That's not it. Luis is twisted. Something happened to him. All he wants to do is kill and torture..."

  Gadgets laughed. "The Ironman doesn't like that?"

  "I do what is necessary. I don't enjoy it. You know that."

  Blancanales cut off the talk. "We'll take her to Azatlan to make the contact. We'll take Luis with us so he can bring the woman back immediately. Agreed?"

  They nodded. The anti-fascist fighters took the lieutenant and the children away in a car. Senora Garcia's face was a mask of grief and panic as her family disappeared. Other fighters loaded the lieutenant's files into another car. Luis reported to Able Team.

  "My people will hold the traitor and his children until we return. The death lists and messages from Unomundo will go to the newspapers after we break the fascists. How many fighters do you need for the attack?"

  "None," Lyons told him. "Your fighters can shoot, but they aren't trained soldiers."

  "Three men? Against many soldiers and mercenaries?"

  "We only need to kill one man," Lyons answered. "Unomundo."

  * * *

  In two cars — the rented Volkswagen van and Lieutenant Garcia's unmarked Dodge — Able Team traveled west, following the Pan American Highway through the foothills and ravines surrounding Guatemala City. Traffic was moderate. Luis, wearing tailored and pressed fatigues from the lieutenant's wardrobe, drove for Lyons and Senora Garcia. Blancanales and Gadgets followed in the Volkswagen.

  Switching on an official-band rad
io in the Dodge, they heard military and police units reporting on the massacre in front of the warehouse. Luis translated for Lyons.

  "They call them Communist terrorists… fourteen dead… no weapons, but some of the dead men had holsters for pistols… it is now being investigated by the army…"

  Lyons keyed his hand-radio to brief Blancanales and Gadgets.

  "We're monitoring the police units at the bomb factory. The police have turned it over to the army to investigate. Seems they think it was a Communist terror operation."

  "What about Colonel Morales?" Blancanales asked.

  "Nothing.

  "… they have no witnesses…"

  "Anything about three North Americans?"

  "Nothing yet."

  Luis continued to translate as he followed the winding freeway through the night. "…there is another report… an army colonel murdered by guerillas on the highway… Colonel Crespo."

  "You know this Crespo?" Lyons asked.

  "Did you take his name to Unomundo?" Luis demanded of Senora Garcia, who rode silently in the back seat, her hands cuffed behind her, plastic handcuffs looped around her ankles. "Answer me!"

  But she only cried. Luis cursed her in Spanish. He told Lyons: "The president appointed him to reform the National Police. Colonel Crespo threw out those who kidnapped and tortured and murdered. And now he is dead, machinegunned in Chimaltenango. By hombres desconocidos. Unknown men. It was unknown men who killed my wife and baby. Are you proud of that, puta! Puta fascista!"

  "I killed no one. My husband killed no one."

  Luis flashed a glance of hatred at the woman in the back seat. "You think your lies will save you? I saw the lists! I know..."

  He went quiet to listen to the military-police radio. "Roadblock! They will search cars for the Communists."

  "Where?"

  He pointed ahead.

  "Pol. Wizard. We got problems. We're going into a roadblock."

  "Any way to go around it?" Gadgets asked.

  Luis heard the question from the hand-radio. "Tell your friends I have the fascist's identification. In this uniform and this automobile, perhaps they will allow us to pass without a search."

  "With a foreigner and a woman?" Lyons asked. "And what about my partners?"

  "Well… perhaps we will pass before they close the highway."

  Accelerating, they swerved through the late-night traffic. The powerful Dodge passed the other cars easily, flashing past buses and trucks laboring up the incline. But the Volkswagen lagged. The hand-radio buzzed.

  "Ironman!" Gadgets called. "We can't keep up. This thing's got a small engine..."

  "Forget it. We're there."

  Traffic jammed bumper-to-bumper in the lanes, clouds of exhaust glowing red with brake lights. Luis moved over the center dividing line.

  "Don't try to turn around!" Lyons warned him. "They'll spot us for sure. We've got to chance it."

  "Of course. But any army officer would not wait with the other cars. Radio your partners to follow."

  Lyons keyed his hand-radio. "Stay on our bumper. Luis is going to the head of the line."

  "Loading, locking," Gadgets answered.

  "Don't even think it. Four pistols and rifles against the army?"

  "If it's Unomundo's goons up there," Gadgets asked him, "do you want to be captured?"

  "Loading, locking," Lyons responded, clicking off his hand-radio. He opened the Atchisson's case. He jerked back the actuator to feed the first shell into the chamber. He left the autoshotgun concealed in the unlocked case.

  Luis turned to the woman. "Hear me, puta. You will not betray us. If we do not return to the city, your children die."

  Lyons looked to the hate-filled young man. He shook his head, no. Luis laughed. He leaned on the horn as he sped past the waiting cars, flicking his high beams to warn oncoming traffic.

  Troops watched from olive drab 6x6 trucks. Soldiers with autorifles went into buses and waved flashlights over the passengers. Other soldiers looked into cars, told drivers to open their trunks. As Luis raced to the roadblock, the soldiers in the trucks raised their rifles.

  As he slowed, Luis extended Lieutenant Garcia's identification. A soldier put a flashlight on the wallet, then on Lyons and Senora Garcia. An officer came running to their car.

  Lyons's right hand reached toward the Atchisson's pistolgrip.

  The officer glanced at the stolen identification and saluted Luis. Then he looked into the car. He saw the fair-skinned Lyons. The officer saluted again. "Viva Unomundo."

  Luis spoke to the officer in Spanish. The officer looked at the two North Americans in the Volkswagen behind. Then he waved both cars past.

  As they accelerated away, Luis passed the wallet to Lyons. One plastic divider held Lieutenant Garcia's army identification. A second held an embossed business card. The engraved lettering said only:

  "UNO,'s.a."

  "That means," Luis told him. "UNO, Incorporated."

  "This is bad news. His people are everywhere."

  Luis nodded. "Everywhere."

  8

  Following the Pan American Highway, they drove into the high central plateau of Guatemala. A starlit landscape of shadowy mountains and black stands of forest extended into the distance. Few vehicles traveled the highway. Opening his window, Lyons put his face into the windrush. The night smelled of pines and dust and wood fires. He thought of the High Sierras of California.

  They passed villages bright with lights, electric incandescence creating islands of whitewashed houses, tiled roofs, and dusty rock-paved streets. Other times, as they rounded curves, their headlights revealed fields of tangled dry cornstalks and fire-blackened adobe walls.

  "What happened at these farms?" Lyons asked Luis.

  "The EGP. El Ejercito Guerilla de los Pobres. The Guerilla Army of the Poor. They needed money for the revolution. They demanded taxes. But the farmers are without money. They have only corn and beans. When the farmers would not pay the war taxes, the guerillas took men from every family and killed them.

  "When guerillas came again and demanded taxes, the people paid the few coins they had. I knew one woman, an Indian woman. The EGP killed her father and her husband, so she paid the tax to stop them killing her son.

  "It was not guerillas she paid. They were agents of the desconocidos. The unknown men. A gang of the desconocidoscame, raped her, then hacked her to death with machetes. They carved a hammer and sickle on her face as a warning to the other Communists.

  "It happened everywhere. There are villages of widows and orphans. The new president stopped it. He gave rifles to the men. Now, when the guerillas or the desconocidoscome, they die.

  "But not until all the fascists die," Luis insisted, "will there be peace. We must kill them all. When the new president came, I believed all would be good. But the war continues. The rich still have their armies of desconocidos. The EGP hides in the mountains. Unomundo still lives…"

  Luis's voice drifted away as he stared at the highway, his face lit green from the dashboard lights. Mechanically he steered through the curves, maintaining an even speed. Lyons sat in thought. He had read of the terrorism in the remote villages, but the North American newspapers always described the attacks as "Army atrocities." He had read endless diatribes against the government, but Lyons had never really read the truth.

  After a minute, Luis spoke of his own sorrow.

  "I managed a trucker's cooperative. Many trucks, many drivers. Garages and gasoline stations. But we would not work for Unomundo. So his killers came for me. I was not there. I escaped death. But my wife and baby did not. With machetes…"

  Luis went silent. He drove by reflex, his mind trapped in a numbing nightmare. Miles later, he suddenly said: "Now I fight. Why do you fight?"

  After what Luis had told him, what could Lyons say? Had he suffered like Luis? Or like Dr. Orozco? Lyons had not lost his family to psychopathic monsters. True, years before, Mafia hoods had beaten and whipped him for a week, but within
a few months he had healed. The experience had scarred him, hardened his character, but he had suffered no trauma.

  As the landscape of fields and mountains drifted past, Lyons reconsidered his life. Why did he fight? Memories of his years as a police officer in Los Angeles came in a rush: the scenes of felons' mindless cruelty to their victims; the elderly broken for a snatched dollar; the bank clerks with their lives draining through wounds; the workers crippled or murdered for their paycheck; the children tortured and strangled to satisfy lust; the wide-eyed, slashed corpses of women — teenagers, mothers, grandmothers — raped and then murdered, sometimes murdered then raped, and dumped like trash.

  He thought of the parole boards that considered the families of victims annoying obstacles to the swift release of convicts. He recalled the courts that gave child-rapists five trials to perfect their defense. And the psychiatrists who excused any atrocity as a product of society's errors. And the Utopians who petitioned the government to disarm society, to leave good people defenseless against the predators. And the industries glamorizing the drug gangs and criminals.

  These things explained his rages, his passion for justice. But why did he fight?

  Lyons had many excuses not to fight. As a taxpayer, he paid others to fight — police, teenage army recruits, air force pilots. As a robust male, no one personally threatened him. As a worker with skills and income, he could hire security guards to protect his home and office. As a man of some intelligence, he could easily rationalize noninvolvement. Why did he fight?

  "Because I can. I'm strong, I'm fast, I get stupid when I'm angry, then I do brave things. I don't think about death except in the middle of the night. That's why." His explanation had come after a long pause.

  "You have a wife? Children?" Luis asked.

  "She divorced me. Couldn't take going to other policemen's funerals and waiting for mine. Couldn't take me twitching at night when I couldn't forget what I'd seen. Isn't easy for a woman to be married to a policeman."

  "Why do you fight here?"

  "Unomundo killed Federal agents in the United States. I wish my government had not waited for them to die. If we had come years ago, maybe they'd still be alive. Maybe your family would still be alive. There's a hundred places I wish I'd gone to fight when I had the chance. North America. South America. Here. Some nights I think of what I could have done and didn't and I'm ashamed."