Patience County War (Madeleine Toche Series) (23 page)

Nathan spoke up, “How does that translate into what we can expect?”

“It will be a military attack,” Madeleine said from her table at the back of the room.

Everyone turned to Madeleine as she spoke, having broken her silence. “It will now be about honor for this Manny the Farmer, an eye for an eye. He comes, as it sounds, from humble beginnings. It seems that few men born to wealth ever have the kind of social conscience that is obvious here. People born to wealth and privilege may commiserate with ‘ordinary people,’ and genuinely try to help as they see fit, but they do not understand the people, their lives, concerns, or politics for that matter. The connection to Castro, another man from the rank and file, although far from ordinary, is much the same as this Manny the Farmer. I will venture a guess that they are friends.” As she said this she looked meaningfully at Tracy. He spoke no words, but gave her a slow nod of agreement.

“Tell us about Cuban soldiers, Colonel,” Sam said, voicing without saying what everyone was thinking.

“The ones we ran into were vicious,” John said as he glanced at the men who had fought with him in Vietnam. “There was a program called the Cuban Project, torturers. Joseph and I ran across the bastards, although that wasn’t our primary goal. We couldn’t take action then, but these guys slowly murdered many a good man fighting for his country. I got a good look at a couple and them at me. Joseph and I lost every one else on that recon mission. They do not want to run into Colonel Trunce or Major Harper, either in this life or the next.”

Joseph nodded, “No politics involved now. I see them, they die.”

“For we are Masai,” Ua said.

“We are Masai, princess,” Joseph answered.

The meeting broke up, and each participant knew that there wouldn’t be any others until there was a conclusion to the matter.

As everyone dispersed and Tracy rose to leave, Madeleine put her hand on his wrist and he hung back. Sam and the others moved out the front door and went about their business.

“Have you given any thought as to cutting off the snake’s head, Filleul?” Tracy was Madeleine’s godson. Madeleine and Tracy shared a kinship born of trust. Some people are capable of action without compunction or hesitation. In combat commanders identify these people as killers. Madeleine identified Tracy as such and insisted that she complete the training the espionage services of the United States had subjected Tracy to.

From the beginning, Tracy knew gender was irrelevant; he’d trained and fought alongside women in the Mossad, the respected and feared Israeli secret police. Madeleine and his family had rescued him after his capture and near death in Israel, when the PLO murdered his girlfriend and took him hostage. Seeing Madeleine in action had given him his first look at a hardened killer. He came to understand why Madeleine Toche was a legend in the small dark world of professional death.

“He’s in the wind, or I would have done it myself,” Tracy said.

“I sense that regardless of how this turns out, Manny the Farmer had better either stay in the wind, or retire and concede this war from his end,” Madeleine said.

“Once he knows the score, I believe he will.”

“I hope so for his sake,” Madeleine said.

Crockett ambled out of the meeting at the restaurant looking as little like a deadly sniper as you can, fat and dumpy. He had promised himself while sick and starving in a bamboo cage as a captive of the North Vietnamese, that if he ever got home, he would never be hungry again. The thing that saved him, and helped him in his line of work as a car salesman, was his gift of gab. The Viet Cong didn’t know he was a sniper, and just thought he was a jar head grunt doing what he was told.

If they’d have known all the officers and officials he’d killed, he never would have gotten a chance to get fat. He was another of John Trunce’s saves. For a few years after the war he’d been a puddle. John was there to pick him up more than once, and had helped him to deal with his demons. On his way out the door, John placed a hand on his ample shoulder.

“Crockett, you are our sleeper. Just stand by and wait for contact from me in case we get into a fix.”

“My rifle and I will be on alert. Okay if I stay at the car lot, Colonel?”

“Best place for you, Crockett”

John watched Crockett amble away, amazed that anyone could maintain sanity after having been starved in a cage for so long. Crockett still had his share of problems, but overall worked through them and made a life. Now, after all of that, nothing was that daunting, nothing was that stressful, after wondering day in and day out whether he would live through the day. Crockett remembered the miracle day that he was released, sick beyond measure, mostly because there were peace talks on and the North Vietnamese didn’t want him, a P.O.W, to die on their hands. That was madness, this was gravy.

John walked into the spotless old hanger, where Cecil had the wing cartridge magazines open, loading a belt of large caliber bullets.

“I installed the missiles and we’ve got plenty of ammo for the guns. Think we’ll need them?” Cecil said looking over his shoulder as John walked up.

“Depends what they come at us with and how. I want to send these guys packing. I’m not the one looking for revenge here. You’ve got to know that a surface to air could take you out,” John said.

“He better have damn good aim when I come in. I see any kind of hand held rocket launcher and they get everything all at once,” Cecil said.

“Just so you know, Moon upgraded the punch on those rockets,” John said.

“How much?”

“Just don’t be too close when you fire them,” John said grinning.

“Singe my ass a little?”

“More like Hindenburg time. You know Moon, he likes his ordinance and he’s definitely one of those ‘bigger is better’ guys.”

“Understood. If I have to fire rockets on anyone, I might as well blast the hell out of them.” Cecil said.

P
aco sat comfortably in the shade of Manny’s veranda sipping a little of the wonderful Agave Tequila his Patron had pressed into his hand.

“We will be ready to leave tonight, Patron. We’ll move at night in the desert and make the connection on the other side two days later.”

“Transportation has been arranged,” Paco said. “Each man has currency and a safe location if you have to go to ground. Use your best judgment. This Sam Trunce has now not only killed several of my men, but stands as an embarrassment that a man in my position can ill afford at this stage. Tell no one else, but when you leave, I do too. I go to Cuba. When the mission is complete, come to Cuba and find me in Havana. There is a cigar maker there in the main square next to a cantina where you can leave me a message. I have purchased a modest home for you, and you will have income for life, on one condition.”

“Anything Patron.”

“You teach me to fish in the ocean,” he said wistfully.

Paco left his employer with a new sense of resolve. This would be his last mission, the one he knew he’d have. It never was your last mission until you knew for certain that it was. It had been a long time and he was heading into the complete unknown. The intelligence seemed complete, but as an old soldier, he knew intelligence was only valuable when it was confirmed on the ground. He sensed that he had better be cautious. Smith had failed, and that was a bad sign. People can blunder into one victory, but taking out a highly trained killer was something else altogether. There was no press on it at all: he had vanished, presumably dead. They knew that the sheriff had a military background, Special Forces no less, and was a decorated Detroit detective, but he was only one man. His family and friends were around, but they were locals, older mostly, and certainly no threat to the trained men in his unit. He felt like the intelligence missed something crucial. The man had to have support, but where was it coming from? Maybe one of the deputies accidentally stumbled on the Man killed him, and the report was buried like the destruction of the van. He didn’t like maybes and not knowing. They would be cautious.

Twenty men and Paco’s subordinates Manolo and Philippe were seated in several plain SUV’s that took them and their equipment to their crossing point, one rarely used by illegals going to the United States. The crossing here was harsh and long, and had no water. His men had been trained in the hot desert sun and had become accustomed to operating with less water as part of their preparation. They would travel light.

After leaving their SUVs, Paco and his troops made silent progress through the dessert night. It wasn’t a slow amble: they moved at an easy loping pace that the Apache had called a dog trot. The men carried some gear. They would get the rest when they reached their staging area.

They had gone about ten miles into the crossing when their point man stopped abruptly and held up his hand to stop. There were voices in the distance. Paco and Manolo advanced closer, silently under cover of the scrub and sparse vegetation. Three men with weapons held a small group of men together at gunpoint. It was clear that those held were pleading for their lives. “Coyotes,” Paco whispered to Manolo. These were the unpredictable and often murderous men who moved illegals across the border. Some immigrants made it, others were robbed and killed. Paco reached for his side arm, as did Manolo. They attached silencers to the pistols, stood, and
shot the armed men. They then walked up and spoke to the men who had been spared.

“Thank you Patron, thank you,” was about all they could manage. Paco whistled, and the remainder of his men came forward. They shared their canteens and a supply of water was given to the men. One of Paco’s soldiers produced a map and gave it to one of the men.

“You follow the indications on the map, do not stray. We are on a mission and cannot help you cross. You must send word back about these Coyotes. People must not trust them. You have been spared, and I expect you to earn honest livings in the United States.”

The men shook their heads in unison, shocked that they were alive, much less being helped by men who seemed to drop out of the clear night sky.

Paco gathered the men and they were gone as quickly as they had arrived. As he jogged, Paco thought of his own Patron and his various businesses. Paco thought that some of them were less than honorable, but Manny was no Coyote and his activities had a purpose. Over all, Paco agreed, the United States wouldn’t control the Americas forever, especially as the Hispanic population grew. Those governments and the people who ran them that embraced that change and what it meant for this part of the world would prepare the peoples of South, Central and North America for worldwide competition in the immediate future. Europe had already established itself as a trading block and China was fast on it’s heels doing the same. The rest of the world seemed to be up for grabs, and it was a game of who would get there first as the resources, natural and otherwise, would be controlled. One day Americans wouldn’t only be identified by the region or country they came from, but from the super continent that would be comprised of all of the Americas. Survival demanded it. Not only for the smaller, developing countries but for the United States as well. He felt a little older, and found contemplating geopolitical issues tiring. The real work in those areas would come from the men and women of the coming generations. He was an old soldier. His crusade was coming to an end.

One day later, Paco and his men met a large Winnebago motor home a good ten miles on the US side of the border. Paco greeted Carlos as the men boarded the vehicle and took seats throughout. Paco sat in the comfortable front passenger seat, grateful for the cushions after a night spent on his feet.
The rest of the vehicle had been altered to accommodate more bunks. The weapons were stowed in a compartment in the floor of the vehicle, and the men stretched out comfortably in the bunks after their grueling crossing. There was plenty of water and beer to give the men a reward, but also to replenish some carbohydrates. Two of the men busied themselves in the kitchenette, and the chatter was light hearted.

“Well, Carlos, what do you think of the mission?” Paco said.

“I would leave this one alone, but I do not make the decisions,” he said with a meaningful glance to Paco.

“Luckily, neither does Manny’s nephew, who you and I know to be an imbecile,” Paco said.

“I’m glad you said it. No disrespect to the Patron, but if the Patron retires as he has said he will, so will I. I don’t need much, and have some money put away in cash deposits here and in the Caribbean. I could easily go fishing for the rest of my life, read, take long siestas and ponder the mysteries of the universe and how they are revealed in a Brazilian cut bikini,” Carlos said.