In the distance came the nearly constant roar of big supply trucks heading for the front. Occasionally engines sputtered or there came the loud bang of a backfiring truck. Vehicles came from Mexico City, and they came from the Baja ports. Their destinations were always California, feeding the hungry maw of the Chinese armies grinding through Los Angeles. It was one of the reasons why Chinese arms were able to push and push and push forward yet again. The Chinese artillery never seemed to stop pounding and pulverizing because more shells and supplies always reached them.
In the barn were two Chinese supply trucks and each contained large boxes of unopened Army rations. It was a testimony to the will of Valdez’s guerillas that the boxes were still intact. The partisans on Guadalupe’s Farm were thin with malnourishment. They reminded Paul of Maria Valdez and her soldiers.
The sixteen commandos outnumbered the seven guerillas. More Free Mexico soldiers arrived on foot, twenty-one hard-eyed killers carrying an odd assortment of weapons. That meant there were now twenty-eight Mexicans against the sixteen Americans.
The guerilla leader was a one-armed man with a large .357 holstered at his side and an even larger mustache. He reminded Paul of Pancho Villa, although instead of a sombrero the man wore a red do-rag. Romo had informed Paul that in his youth, the guerilla leader had been a Los Angeles gang member.
The twenty-eight Free Mexico guerillas marched toward the barn, with the one-armed leader in front.
“Show time,” Donovan said, as he peered through a crack of the barn door.
Every commando picked up an assault rifle or grenade launcher.
“Wait,” Paul said. “A gunfight isn’t going to make our case.”
“Sure it is,” Donovan said.
“You know what I mean,” Paul said. “We’re here to get ourselves killed in Marshal Nung’s Headquarters, not to die in a firefight with our allies. Let me speak to them outside.”
Donovan laughed. “Sure, go ahead. They’ll take you into the woods and hang you, or maybe they’ll plant your ass on a sharp stick. How would you like that?”
“Paul is right,” Romo said. “We must talk to them. I’ll go with him.”
Donovan eyed them, and he shrugged. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Nice knowing you, Kavanagh.”
Paul grunted. Then he opened the barn door enough and slipped outside to the approaching mob. Romo stepped out with him and closed the barn door.
The one-armed leader with the .holstered 357 and the red do-rag—his street name was Gaucho—swaggered ahead of the mob. He pointed at Paul.
“Colonel Valdez has given his orders, gringo. You must come with us.”
“Look—” Paul said.
“No!” Gaucho shouted, motioning sharply with his hand. “There is no more talk. You will come with us and America can have our two trucks and our help. Otherwise, we pull out our guns, Americano, and shoot you down where you stand.”
Paul’s chest constricted and he had to tell himself to leave the assault rifle on his shoulder. The idea of a rope around his neck, or worse, a stake up his—
Romo stepped in front of him, and the assassin had a gun in his hand.
“What is this?” Gaucho asked. “Are you a traitor to our people?”
“I am Juan Romo.”
The guerillas began talking among themselves, some of them nodding. Everyone knew about the Colonel’s best killer.
“Quiet!” Gaucho told them. “The Colonel gave us his orders.” He faced Romo. “It won’t help if you shoot me. The rest of my men will still hang the traitorous gringo.”
“You won’t be here to see it happen,” Romo said.
Gaucho shrugged with indifference. “Neither will you.”
Romo smiled. “Good. I am tired of living in a land of fools.”
Striking his chest, Gaucho took a step closer. “You can call me a fool. But you will never say such a thing about Colonel Valdez.”
Romo laughed. “That is exactly what I am saying. He is a fool. We all know it and it is why we follow him to the gates of Hell.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we fight the Chinese even though they have six million soldiers in our country. Well, they did have six million. Now many have gone into America to die.”
“Good,” Gaucho said. “The Americans are no better than the Chinese.”
“Wrong,” Romo said. “They kill the Chinese, who have stepped on our country like a conqueror. I am not a slave. I refuse to bow or scrape to the Chinese.”
“I don’t bow either.”
“Colonel Valdez has the heart of a lion,” Romo said. “He fights and he devours his enemies. He lost his daughter to the Chinese. Instead of wishing a terrible vengeance on them, his grief has unhinged his reason. He wants this American killer to suffer. I have been with him now for weeks. Paul Kavanagh kills the Chinese with unrelenting savagery. Now, his country sends him to destroy one of the great military minds of China. No, now, Colonel Valdez wishes this killer dead instead. But Kavanagh is off to die in the very heart of power of the enemy. I love Colonel Valdez. I will follow him anywhere. But in this, I say, he is wrong.”
Gaucho gathered saliva in his mouth and he spit on the ground. “You are a liar, Juan Romo. You—”
Romo’s gun barked. Gaucho staggered backward, with a look of surprise on his face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak. His knees folded and he toppled face-first onto the ground.
“You killed him,” a guerilla said.
“I saw that I could not reason with Gaucho,” Romo said. “His death makes me sad. Come now. Let me know if there are more of you who refuse to reason with me.”
“You killed Gaucho,” the same guerilla said.
Romo swiveled so his gun pointed at the man. “Do you want to join Gaucho?”
The guerilla glanced at Gaucho and then into Romo’s eyes. The guerilla looked away and shook his head, but there was stubbornness stamped on his face.
“Good,” Romo said. “Then go into the barn.”
The guerilla hesitated, maybe with indecision, or maybe he saw something unyielding in Romo. He took a step toward the barn door.
“Leave your gun belt here,” Romo told him.
The guerilla’s eyes widened angrily. He almost spoke. Perhaps he remembered how quickly Gaucho had just died. With a sharp motion, the guerilla unbuckled his gun belt and let the weapon fall in the dust.
“You may enter the barn,” Romo said.
With an erect bearing, the guerilla walked through the now partly open door. As he disappeared from view, the remaining guerillas glanced at each other.
“You know who I am,” Romo said.
They muttered, “Si” and nodded.
“You know I will kill whoever I must, yes?”
There were more muttered responses and nods.
“If you disagree with me, raise your hand and I will let you leave,” Romo said.
Once more, a few guerillas glanced at each other. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Colonel Valdez will not like this.”
“I do not like this,” Romo said. “Now, I have waited long enough. Everyone will set down his weapon and file into the barn. We must wait, and I do not want to have to kill any more fine Free Mexico fighters. But I will, my friends. This raid, it is the most important of the war. Later, I will visit Colonel Valdez and explain my actions to him. If he wishes, he can kill me then.”
“You swear this?” a guerilla asked.
“I swear it on the Virgin,” Romo said.
“That is good enough for me,” the guerilla told the others. “Juan Romo never lies.”
“He never lies,” another man said.
Soon, guerillas began putting their weapons on the ground and entering the barn.
