Smoke Signals (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 4) (12 page)

After a moment’s hesitation, he inclined his head again.

“Good, because now you know why I love my husband. You also know what kind of man he is. The American man and the lady from Canada are good people, but they haven’t known the desperation Ernesto and I know. So you will believe the message Ernesto gave me for you: Tell me where the bribe money is or you will be next.”

Basilio told her.

Julián decided the time had come to
di-di.
The American soldiers who fought in Vietnam had appropriated the expression from the natives. Julián’s father had told him it meant, “Get out of Dodge pronto.”

Make a necessary retreat fast.

It had only been on his death bed that Julián’s father, Juan, had told his son the truth of who he was, up to a point. “I screwed up my very first semester of college, at a really good school, too, and got my ass booted out the door.”

“What did you do?”

“Well, this was way back before the Internet, but I sort of anticipated crowd-sourcing.”

His father had to explain the term to him. “It means in any community there’s a large body of resources an individual can tap into. These days, the resource is usually money. You tell the group of people ‘my kid is sick or has this really great opportunity. He or she needs some money. Will you please help?’ You got all that?”

Julián had nodded. He was bright from the start. Like his old man.

“Okay, so I get to college, I sign up for my classes, and right away I think: There are plenty of people here, upperclassmen, who took all the same classes I’m taking. They know all the right answers to all of the tests. The ones who got good grades on term papers know just what the professors are looking for. I saw this wealth of knowledge as a potential resource. So I set up shop in a coffee bar just off campus. Put the word out I was looking for copies of tests and papers that would guarantee straight-A’s in the courses four or five hundred other freshmen and I were taking.”

“Isn’t that cheating?” Julián asked.

His father stroked his cheek. “I looked at it as accelerated learning. I set things up so none of the upperclassmen had to use their real names. I gave each of them a code identity. I charged my fellow freshmen a fee for the information and passed ninety percent along to the pool of money the upperclassmen shared.”

That was when Julián asked the question that endeared him to his dying father. “Was your ten percent the most money anyone got?”

“Yeah, it was. There was more money in the pool but it was shared by a lot of people. My cut was mine alone. The problem was, the idea got too popular. People who’d taken classes that would never interest me wanted to get in on the action. People started coming to my dorm room not the coffee bar. It got so popular there was a line out my door anytime I was in my room. People noticed and somebody ratted me out.”

“That’s when you had to leave college?”

“Yeah, and also when I lost my student draft deferment. Next thing I know, I’m in the army, trained as a rifleman and sent to Vietnam. I can’t think of anything but, ‘Shit, I’m going to get killed over here.’”

“But you didn’t,” Julián said.

His father laughed and began to cough. Something he’d done a lot of lately.

“Maybe I did,” he said, “that was where I started smoking and now this goddamn lung cancer is going to do me in. Any fucking minute now, it feels like. The only reason I got out of Nam, though, was because the lieutenant who headed up my unit took care of me.”

“Why did he do that?”

“He liked me. We looked so much alike everybody thought we had to be brothers. He was real close in age to me, too. He’d gotten into West Point at seventeen. Skipped a couple grades on his way to college. So he was only three years older than me. But he had a world of knowledge I lacked about how to survive in Indian country.”

The term puzzled Julián.

“Enemy territory. What the lieutenant knew wasn’t something you could buy from another student. You had to go out and learn it yourself. I was starting to feel better about my chances of surviving, learning directly from my commanding officer, but one day he told me he had only two weeks left in-country. He’d be going home. I was sure again that I would die in that damn war.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Might as well have. Three days before the lieutenant was scheduled to leave, we were out on patrol, looking for an NVA company that was supposed to be moving into our area of operation. The lieutenant didn’t have to be out in the boonies with us, his time was so short, but he wanted to take care of his men, including me.

“Well, we didn’t find the enemy; they found us. The lieutenant was probably the first man killed. He was standing next to me, looking out for me as usual. He took two rounds right in the face. Dead before he knew it, I think. Don’t know why I wasn’t killed, too, but that didn’t happen. I did my damnedest to kill as many of those bastards as I could. Think I might have gotten one, maybe two.

“We called in artillery and air support and the enemy broke off contact. Oh, yeah. All this was happening in the middle of the damn night. Pitch black except for the tracer rounds and grenade explosions lighting things up. It took a while for reinforcements to tend the wounded, recover the dead and get us the hell out of there. I had all the time I needed to do the thing that saved my life, the thing that’s haunted me from that day to this.

“I di-di’ed, maybe in a way nobody else ever did. The lieutenant had been scheduled to leave the country in three days; I had nine months to go. So I switched uniforms with him and gave myself a good bash with the butt of my M-16. With the bruises on my face and the concussion I’d given myself, I was able to pass for the lieutenant, pleading I couldn’t remember anything. The lieutenant’s face, all shot to hell, wasn’t recognizable; he passed muster wearing my uniform and dog tags. My military IDs.

“So my parents buried him, I guess, and I skipped out of the hospital in California where I was sent to recover. I couldn’t let the lieutenant’s family see me; they’d know I wasn’t him. I could’ve run to Canada. That’s where a lot of draft dodgers went. But I figured I’d rather go somewhere warm, where it would be easier to hide. Somewhere I could bribe people to let me stay, if it came to that. I crossed into Tijuana, met your mother and I’ve stayed in Mexico ever since.”

“But you couldn’t hide from yourself,” Julián said.

“No,” his father admitted. “And I’m pretty sure I’ll pay a price real soon. I have a feeling the lieutenant will be waiting for me, and he’s not going to be happy.”

Julián’s father died the next day. Julián never learned his real name.

He was twelve years old at the time.

He made a point of doing his best in school, strictly through his own efforts. When the time came to apply to college, he decided he wanted to see his father’s country. He applied to the best schools in California and was accepted by all of them. He was fluent in English, one of the two languages spoken at home and, better yet, he was able to pay the full tuition cost.

Not personally. Neither he nor his mother had that kind of money. They were quite comfortable by the standards of their community but they didn’t have tens of thousands of dollars a year to pay to a college. Fausto Zara did. To him, such fees were pocket change.

Julián’s father hadn’t worked directly in the drug trade. He was a tutor for Zara’s nieces and nephews, the
jefe
not having any children of his own, by design. He wouldn’t risk having a son or daughter kidnapped and held hostage, used as a wedge against him. He doted on the other young people in his family, and extended his generosity to Julián as well, but if he lost one of them to a rival, well, so be it.

He would avenge them, but not let their fates change his business plans.

Julián felt sure Zara never would suspect one of his beneficiaries would turn on him.

All of the nephews, nieces and their little friends had seen or at least heard of what Zara did to those who betrayed him. Julián certainly had. Even so, he was going to break with his patron, knowing that he would make himself a marked man. His only consolation was that he felt he’d already been targeted.

Mateo Trujillo had called Julián that morning, stirring all his old memories and making him fearful as well. Mateo said that he was in Tesla with his men and would be at the new camp within two hours. He told Julián to have all his workers and guards assembled. The guards were to be disarmed so there would be no accidental gunfire. All of the processed marijuana was to be piled in one place; it would be burned. The final instruction was to pack all the bribe money into travel cases; Mateo would be taking it back to Mexico.

Julián was shocked by the mere fact that Mateo was only a few miles away. As to the rest of the instructions, it was child’s play to read between the lines. The
campesinos
and the disarmed guards would be killed. For that matter, so would he. His plan to grow marijuana under the
yanquis’
noses had failed. He must pay the price. All of the marijuana that had been processed would be burned. That, of course, would set the entire forest ablaze. The inferno, conveniently, would also consume the bodies of the people who had been slaughtered.

Time to di-di, before Mateo and his killers arrived.

Past time, really. That fool Basilio, going to scrounge for the few thousand dollars he’d left at the old camp had actually, if unintentionally, had better timing in his departure. Of course, he might yet return.

Julián decided he would have to make things as difficult as possible for Mateo. That would provide him with the best chance to escape. It would also salve his conscience that he hadn’t simply left scores of hapless peasants to be slaughtered. He summoned Eusebio and Chucho, the captain and second-in-command of the guards.

He told them, “We are all leaving this place.”

Eusebio asked, “Back to the old camp?”

“No, go to Seattle or Vancouver in Canada, if you think you can get across the border.”

Eusebio frowned, not understanding the boss. “What, just Chucho and me?”

Julián shook his head. “Everybody.” He improvised as he went along. “Divide yourselves as evenly as possible, so many
campesinos
with each guard. Set off along different paths. Scatter as much as possible. Go wherever you think best.”

Chucho, a practical thinker, asked, “Wherever we go, what will we do when we get there? We’ll have no place to live, no jobs, no money.”

Julián hadn’t thought of that, but he applied his business education to the problem.

He’d pass out what amounted to golden parachutes to his workers.

“You two will have $25,000 each.”

The guards’ eyes widened with surprise and pleasure.

To them the amount was a king’s fortune.

“The other guards will get $15,000 dollars each; the
campesinos
$10,000 each.” Feeling inspired as well as magnanimous, Julián added. “Anyone who wants to do so may also take two kilos of marijuana. That amount should be worth another $14,000 at the legal market price. You’ll get less on the black market but the amount will still be in the thousands of dollars.”

The two guards were all but overwhelmed by the prospect of freedom and so much money.

Julián warned them. “Trying to sell the marijuana could land you in prison. You and all the others have to decide whether the money is worth the risk.”

He saw the two guards were willing to take that chance.

“Organize the camp,” he told them. “I want everyone on their way within an hour.”

With Eusebio and Chucho talking to the fellow guards first, the thought occurred to Julián that all the men with the assault rifles had to do to make far more money would be to shoot him and take everything. They didn’t. Most likely, the thought had never entered their minds. It was all they could do not to think that the money — and marijuana — they would be receiving was more than a collective dream.

As it was, the cash Julián parceled out brought tears of gratitude to everyone who received it. He told each person, “You’ve earned this. Be careful not to let anyone take it from you.” They all promised no one would take their money.

He knew only the lucky ones would succeed.

Only a quarter of the
campesinos
accepted the offer of the two kilos of grass.

All of the guards did, and Julián allowed them to take a third kilo.

He told the armed men it was their obligation to see their group of peasants safely out of the forest and mountains. They should do their best to avoid any unfamiliar armed men, but if they had no choice they were to defend their
compañeros
.
They all swore to do so.

Julián thought maybe a third would do so.

He was the last one to leave the new camp and the only one to head further uphill. After his exercise in largesse, he had just under $2 million in hundred dollar bills, about forty pounds in weight, to carry in a backpack. He also had an assault rifle, three extra magazines of ammunition and two canteens of water. It was a load to carry uphill.

Not nearly as bad, though, as the 85 pounds his father told him he’d carried in Viet Nam.

He wouldn’t have to carry the weight nearly as far as his father described either. He ascended only until he reached a ridge overlooking the new camp. It was shielded from the view of anyone entering the camp below by a thicket of shrubs. Julián had never killed anyone, but he thought maybe he’d kill Mateo Trujillo. Add a line to his résumé, one that would never make it into print. Something he’d just let the guy on the other side of a negotiating table see in his eyes.

This SOB is a stone-killer.

Something like that could give him a real edge.

Not that he’d use it every time.

Not when he went to ask Freddie Strait Arrow for a job anyway.

Basilio Nuñez walked point, lead position, the first man to take hostile fire, through the rising slope of mountain forest, heading back to the new camp he’d left the night before. He had no choice in the matter. Ernesto Batista followed him five paces back carrying his assault rifle at the ready.

Basilio had pleaded with John Tall Wolf to be turned loose once he gave up the location of the bribe money at the new camp. What more could be asked of him? He promised to leave the
yanqui
mountains and return to his homeland.

Valeria had intervened, explained to John, “This man told all the
campesinos
many times, ‘I have killed more people than I can remember. If you don’t do what you are told, the number will grow larger. Not that I’ll remember your deaths for long.’”

John asked Ernesto, “You believe him?”

“He exaggerates the number, probably, but not the fact that he is a killer.”

That being the case, John wasn’t about to turn Basilio loose on an unsuspecting Washington State public. The confessed killer’s hands were bound at his wrists with nylon cord. Ernesto hadn’t needed to tell Basilio that he would be shot if he tried to run. It was understood.

Valeria followed ten paces behind her husband, holding the handgun that had been taken from Basilio. Ernesto had shown her the proper way to hold it and shoot it. Aim for the center mass of her target’s body.

John and Rebecca walked drag, the rear guard position. The American and Canadian contingent of the international squad paid attention to the Mexican marine up ahead. They both admired the stealth and sure-footedness with which he moved. How he was able to herd Basilio while also keeping watch for other dangers.

Valeria was less skilled, but it was clear she was trying to emulate her husband’s techniques. She made very little noise. Her skill seemed to grow with every step.

John and Rebecca trailed Valeria by ten paces.

At the start of the march, John said both military and police training dictated that he and Rebecca should walk Indian file, one behind the other. What with him being an actual Indian and holding an automatic weapon, he volunteered to take the rear-most position.

The first person to be targeted in an attack from behind.

Rebecca had shaken her head and whispered, “Walk next to me. I want to talk.”

John stepped to her right and replied quietly. “If you want to put in a pitch for our new friends up ahead, don’t worry. I’ll do my best to see they turn out all right.”

“I’m sure you will. But that’s not what’s on my mind.”

“No? So what’s up?”

“I want to get married, right away. As soon as we get back to civilization.”

John took a look around, pirouetted the full 360º. When someone made a statement like Rebecca’s, you wanted to make sure no cruel irony was sneaking up on you. Seeing none, he turned back to his true love.

“Okay,” John said. “We can hit a wedding chapel in Vegas, if you’re in a real hurry. But no faux Elvis officiating, please.”

She gave him a gentle elbow and smiled.

“All right, no Elvis. But how about the RCMP Christmas Cheer Choir singing ‘Here Comes the Bride?’”

“If they have the date open, sure.”

Rebecca gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“We’re going to have a good time together, aren’t we?”

John was tempted to take another look around, but he restrained himself.

“You bet, but
where
are we going to have it? I don’t think we’ve worked that out yet?”

Rebecca exhaled a silent sigh. “If you’ll have me, my hope is Uncle Sam will, too.”

“I can guarantee that,” John said, “but am I hearing you think things will not go well in the matter of Bramley v. Marchand?”

“I think Deputy Commissioner Murphy is going to get the word from on high to hand down a decision that both the force and the general public will consider even handed. Marchand and I are both destined for some post that’s cold and lonely.”

“Not together,” John said.

“Not anywhere close. Canada has a
lot
of backwoods. Thing is,
I
wouldn’t consider that fair. Marchand is the one who should be punished, not me. I don’t think I could accept that; I’d have to resign.”

“And you still don’t want me to put in the fix,” John said.

“No. So that leaves me with only one choice.”

“Marry the Indian and move to Washington?”

“Marry
my
Indian, live wherever we need to.”

“You’re going to miss home. You’ll also get restless until we find something for you to do.”

“I know. I hope you won’t mind regular visits north of the border.”

John smiled. “I remember having some good times up there with you.”

“And you’ll have more.”

For the third time, John felt the two of them were tempting fate, and this time he did take another look around — and saw something. But only when he was facing forward again. Up ahead, he saw Basilio, Ernesto and Valeria had stopped. Ernesto had Basilio proned out on the forest floor to his right and had a foot on the small of his back. He had his rifle shouldered and he was facing forward.

Valeria stood to her husband’s left, but she was looking back at John and Rebecca.

She had her teeth bared and held her free hand out as if it was a claw.

They had found the bear.