Damage Control

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Jonathan said in Spanish. “Thank you for your help, but everybody’s okay.” As he heard his words, he wondered if he’d ever in his life said anything more ridiculous.

“Son Americanos,” the man said. You’re Americans. Then he turned to the rest of the gathering crowd-maybe fifteen people now-and yelled in Spanish, “They are American soldiers!”

Jonathan didn’t know if that would be interpreted as good news or bad, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. They needed to get moving.

Jonathan climbed out the door into the night and assumed the kind of softly threatening stance that soldiers and cops used to great benefit around the world: feet planted at shoulder width, his rifle slung across his chest with both hands in place, but with the muzzle pointed at nothing, and his finger out of the trigger guard.

“We’re not here to cause you any trouble,” he said.

“American soldiers!” someone yelled.

He still couldn’t read the crowd.

Tristan emerged from the door, his own rifle clipped to his sling, but the muzzle was pointed toward the crowd.

“Get your hands off your weapon,” Jonathan snapped. “Just let it hang.”

From behind them both, Boxers growled, “And keep the damn safety on.”

While Jonathan scanned the crowd for threats that didn’t seem to be materializing, Boxers reached back into the ruined plane and recovered the rucks. He donned one of them, and then took his boss’s place on guard while Jonathan shrugged into his.

“We’re sorry for waking you,” Jonathan said as he’d started moving away from the wreckage and down the street. To Tristan, he said softly, “You stay between us.”

Boxers said, “And keep-”

“Really?” Tristan snapped.

The Big Guy rumbled out a chuckle.

Jonathan led the way east, moving cautiously but with purpose toward the thickening crowd. He kept his weapon in that same noncommittal posture, taking care to make eye contact with every person he saw. The trick was to let them know you were watching but not linger long enough to pose a threat. He knew without looking that Boxers was with him, step for step, though moving backward instead of forward.

The crowd fell quiet as the team advanced, its curiosity about the crash no doubt trumped by their sense of impending danger. Just loudly enough to be heard, Jonathan said, “Tristan, I want your hand on my rucksack. I want physical contact, and don’t let go unless I tell you.”

He felt a pull on his shoulder straps. “I’m there,” Tristan said. “This is a lot of people.”

“They’re not threatening us, so we don’t threaten them,” Jonathan replied. “Just keep moving and avoid eye contact.”

You could see the confusion and the unasked questions even in the wash of the yellow streetlights. Every person wanted to know what was going on, yet the presence of the team’s body armor and weapons rendered them all silent. In the distance, Jonathan heard the first siren.

“This is about to get interesting, Boss,” Boxers said. “Any chance we can pick up the pace a little?”

It was a difficult balance. They could walk a little faster, but if they started to run, they could ignite a panic. The people ahead of them would fear that they were running toward them, and the people behind would assume that they were running away from the authorities. Even in a shithole like Ciudad Juarez, people were jingoistic enough to resent lawbreaking by foreigners.

On the other hand, the sirens were drawing nearer, and their arrival would be sure to ignite a shit storm.

Ahead of them, the crowd that had formed a wall of curiosity separated as Jonathan approached, and allowed them to pass through unmolested. They kept their distance, but not by the margins that Jonathan would have thought. It was almost as if they wanted to see the faces of these foreign invaders.

“Thank you,” Jonathan said to one of the gawkers as he stepped out of the way. He made sure to smile, and the gawker smiled back.

In a few more steps, ninety percent of the crowd was behind them.

“Okay,” Jonathan said. “Tristan, let go of my ruck. It’s time to run.”

Ernesto Palma hadn’t anticipated so many people awaiting his arrival at the small military airfield on the outskirts of Ciudad Juarez. There must have been thirty soldiers there, all in uniform, and all from La Justicia. Palma had long suspected that his commanders were likewise on Hernandez’s payroll, but the fact that this many soldiers had been mobilized removed all doubt. He wondered if the president himself had been informed, if only to begin preparing his denials if things went badly.

Hernandez’s Learjet had made tremendously good time, covering the distance in just under two hours. Palma had no idea how much a jet like that cost, but it was a lot of money. The fact that Hernandez even had one gave context to what all he was trying to protect.

As he climbed down the stairway from the jet, the lack of military bearing among the gathered soldiers bothered him. He waited at the bottom of the stairs for Sergeants Nazario and Sanchez. He pulled them aside.

“I want you to relieve the soldiers’ current unit non-commissioned officers of their commands, and assemble the troops for formation in twenty minutes,” Palma said. “Any questions on that?”

Nazario said, “No, sir. No questions at all.” He snapped a regulation salute, spun on his heel, and headed off to do his job.

Of all the tasks faced by soldiers every day, none was as demoralizing or soul-stealing as idle time. Vigorous firefights raised morale, while awaiting orders merely built a sense of dread.

Palma believed that the solution lay in vigorous training in military things, even if the training was nothing more than standing formation and marching. Such basic military drills also gave Palma some idea of the mettle and competence of these troops who were newly under his command. The task that lay ahead for them fell outside the normal bounds of military activity, so he needed to know that these men could be flexible under fire, and that they would perform their duties without question.

That was a tall order, given the fact that Palma had no idea when his prey would come into range. He was utterly shocked, then, when his phone rang so soon.

“Palma,” he said, bringing the phone to his ear.

“It’s that bitch Maria Elizondo,” Hernandez growled.

Palma recognized the name, but it took a few seconds to process the significance.

“She betrayed me, Ernesto. I gave her everything, and she betrayed me.”

Palma waited for more. When it didn’t come, he said, “What would you like me to do?”

Hernandez gave him the address.

Palma wrote it into the notebook he pulled from his shirt pocket. “I presume you want me to kill her?”

“Absolutely not,” Hernandez said. “You are not to hurt her, merely take her into custody. Bring her to me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Palma closed his eyes against an image of the last traitor on whom Hernandez had taken his revenge. He remembered his disgust as the man’s flayed skin hung from his waist like bloody drapes, the muscle and nerves of his upper body fully exposed and relentlessly tormented. By Hernandez’s account at the time, that traitor was on his third day in the hacienda’s torture chamber.

“And what about the Yankees?” Palma asked.

“What about them?”

“If your intelligence is right, they will be coming to join her. I believe we should surround the house and wait until-”

“No,” Hernandez said. “Get her and bring her to me now.”

The line went dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT