Wei smiled softly. Did the Guardian Inspector not realize she spoke to the premier extractor of truths? He sifted truth and lies many times a week. He would never tell her that he took the blue pills to dull his conscience. No! That wasn’t even true. He took the pills in order to pass the tedium of life. But he would never tell her that, either. It would simply be too dangerous. High-ranking, East Lighting operatives knew nothing about mercy except that it was a word for fools and weaklings.
“You are a snake,” she said, as if pronouncing judgment on him. “Despite your glorious service to China, we must punish you, Captain. We are impartial, the dog and broom of the Socialist-Nationalist Revolution. We sniff out troublemakers and sweep them away.”
Wei’s throat felt gritty. He told himself it was the smoke of his cigarette. Yet if that was so, why hadn’t his throat ever felt this way before?
“I have never performed less than excellently while, ah, ingesting a stimulant,” he said.
“I’m sure that’s a lie,” she said. “Thus, it proves to me how low you’ve fallen from the height of dedicated service. Even in my presence, you dare to act like a snake, a liar and a drug addict.”
“Not an addict,” he protested.
“Spare both of us any breast-beating of innocence. You are charged, found guilty and will now hear your sentence, your punishment.”
Wei hid his surprise. The charge of drug addiction in East Lightning usually brought swift death. He had been waiting for bullets to smash his body.
“You are surprised,” she said, nodding, “as am I. Left up to me, my enforcers would kill you like a pig. Yet it is true that you have performed several notable services for China. Thus, you will have a chance at rehabilitation.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She shook her head. “I doubt you’ll thank me a week from now. You are being reassigned, Captain.”
“May I ask where?”
“To a penal battalion,” she said.
He frowned. “I thought only the military possessed those.”
She smiled like a hungry leopard. “You will join a shock battalion. It is a fancy title for those who clear minefields.”
“I’m untrained in such—”
She held up her hand again.
The three guards grew tense. Wei noticed one smiling in anticipation under his visor. The man was just tall enough for him to spot it. Wei gulped, dreading to know what a bullet entering his body felt like.
“The mine clearing is a simple process,” she said. “The battalion runs across it, exploding the mines with their feet. If you survive that, you will then become shock troops, charging enemy strongholds.”
“But—”
She stared at him, wilting his speech.
“You will still be East Lightning. You will be one of the enforcers, guarding and goading the penal troops to courageous acts of bravery. I’m told these troops often turn their guns and grenades on their enforcers. So you will need to remain vigilant. If you become drug-addled while performing your duties, well, we both know what will happen: Your commanding officer will draw his gun and shoot you in the head.”
Wei sat back. This was disastrous. What had he ever done to deserve this? It was viciously unfair.
“If you survive a year of combat,” the Guardian Inspector said, “I shall review your case. If I find you have purged yourself of this filthy drug habit, I will reinstate you in your regular command.”
“Thank you,” Wei managed to say.
“But we both know that you will not survive,” she said. “Good-bye, Captain Wei. Remember, if you can, to always act like an East Lightning hero, rooting out traitors to the State.”
The Guardian Inspector stood. Wei sat in his chair, staring helplessly at her, wishing he could order her stripped and secured to an informant table. He would spend days on her, days of agony for this mocking bitch.
“Help him,” the Guardian Inspector told her enforcers.
Each man slid his carbine into a large holster. Then, as one, they came around the desk, putting their iron- strong hands on him. With unnecessary brutality, they dragged Wei out of the chair, out of the office and propelled him down the corridor. He stumbled his way toward a penal battalion, one that would no doubt soon see military action.
Colonel Valdez sat in a dark room, smoking a cigar. When the glowing tip brightened as he inhaled, it showed hard, dark eyes and a pitted forehead. As a young man he had contracted chicken pox, and it had ravaged his features. The rage in his heart over his daughter’s death and dismemberment had changed to ice, and like a glacier, he remorselessly ground toward his goal in his mind.
He would have to leave Laredo soon. He seldom stayed in one locale for more than two days. The Chinese wanted him, but not nearly as badly as the new puppet President of Mexico did. The war of assassins between them continued despite the Americans and the Chinese. It was a ruthless contest between warring tribes, and Valdez had the weaker hand. Yet he had survived the SNP due to cunning, ruthlessness and the ability to instill fierce loyalty in his people.
“Maria,” he whispered.
The Chinese had sent him her parts piece by piece. He would make them pay. He would discover who had done this thing and he would do terrible things to them. The Americans had come to him earlier, begging for his best man. Instead, he had given them his daughter, because she had known the countryside better than any of his men did. He had told the CIA man that he wanted his daughter back. Oh, the CIA man had assured him she would be safe because America was sending its best men with her. He had been a fool to believe that or believe they would take care of his daughter. He had learned the man’s name. Yes. Paul Kavanagh the Marine had flown free, leaving his daughter behind to face the torturers.
Now Valdez waited for critical news concerning Kavanagh’s whereabouts.
He took the cigar out of his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. Four years ago, he had renamed his ragtag guerillas the Free Mexico Army. He had fled to America for sanctuary, although he’d continued to send assassins and guerillas into his native land. Surprisingly, his army had grown from Mexican nationals in America and from those escaping the Chinese prison across the Rio Grande. American advisors had trained his men until he had over sixty thousand soldiers on U.S. soil. America desperately needed allies and needed trained fighters. His sixty thousand made him a force, and the Americans hoped that someday he could incite a Mexican uprising and return to his country as its new leader. Because of that, the Americans catered to him on many issues. He had contacts among them and could learn hidden things, such as where they had put Paul Kavanagh.
While inhaling, with the hot smoke tickling the back of his throat and the taste causing saliva to congeal, Valdez’s eyes burned like icy motes of hate. The CIA man had told him Marines never left their own on the battlefield. That was a lie, and people lied to Cesar Valdez at their peril.
There was a knock on the door.
“Yes,” Valdez said.
The door creaked open and one-eyed Torres stared at him. Torres, the Oakland Raiders fan, looked like the football team’s logo, although minus the helmet. “The Marine is in California, Colonel,” Torres told him.
“You are sure of this?” Valdez asked.
“One hundred percent sure.”
Valdez considered this, finally saying, “California is a large state.”
Torres nodded, and his smile was grim. “The Marine is guarding a man from Washington who tours the front.”
Valdez inhaled so the cigar glowed fiery, and he nodded. “The Chinese have snipers, yes?”
“It is true,” Torres said.
“Perhaps as this Washington man tours the front, Chinese snipers will kill him. It has happened before. Yes. I like it. The Marine guarding the Washington man—no one will care what happens to him if Chinese snipers kill the important one.”
“And if the Americans learn we did this?” Torres asked.
