America Libre (23 page)

After walking two blocks, Emily turned east, out of sight of the checkpoint guards, and entered a black Audi sedan parked
along the street.

“The pass worked perfectly, Mano!” Jo said, climbing into the Audi’s passenger seat. “The guards never raised an eyebrow.
Ramon’s document team did an exceptional job.”

Mano started the Audi and pulled away from the curb. “Ramon’s people are already working day and night. How much longer do
we wait?” he asked, rubbing the new growth of beard on his chin.

“I’m glad you’re eager to start our operations, Mano. But we shouldn’t make any moves until we’re ready. Once the government
opens the Relocation Communities, all Hispanics will be moved into quarantine. That means Ramon and I are going to lose our
homes outside the zone—and that’s going to make it much harder for us to travel. We all need identities that will hold up.
Otherwise our plans will be worthless.”

“Maybe we should take on one of these guard posts along the wall while we’re waiting. We’ll need to test their defenses eventually.”

“No. An attack might draw a military crackdown in the zones before we’re ready. We need to be patient.”

I’ve been patient. Very patient
, Mano said to himself. But as the launch of their operations grew closer, he ached for the chance to lash back at the soldiers.
Still, he knew Jo was right about striking too early. “I see your point,” he said aloud.

They traveled several blocks in silence before Jo spoke again, almost in a whisper this time. “Mano, there’s something else…
something personal,” she said, nervously stroking her hair.

Her intimate tone made Mano’s pulse quicken. His love for Rosa was unshaken, but his infatuation with Jo was becoming a live
wire, something sparking wildly inside him. The idea Jo might share his attraction filled him with delight—and dread.

“I think your wife and children will be safer in one of the Relocation Communities the government’s building in the Dakotas.
Once we start our operations, it’s going to get pretty dangerous for us here.”

Mano was thunderstruck. The thought of separating from his family had never crossed his mind. “What makes you think Rosa and
the children will be safer in a camp?” he said, bringing the Audi to a stop along the curb.

“The U.S. government can be repressive, Mano, but it’s rarely cruel. As Marcha pointed out, most Americans are decent people.
Living in a camp won’t be pleasant, but your family won’t be mistreated. On the other hand, the leadership of the DDP will
need to go underground once the relocations begin. We’re going to be in extreme danger… at all times.”

“How long will we be apart? How do I know I’ll ever see them again?”

“I can’t answer that, Mano. If we win—
when
we win—there will be negotiations to return those who were relocated. But that could take years. It’s your decision, of course.
But I think your wife and children run a greater risk staying here.”

Jo’s words rekindled a hurt never far from Mano’s heart. Julio’s death had been like the loss of a limb. Although the most
intense pain had faded, Mano knew the feeling of being incomplete would stay with him forever. Looking back, he now realized
his wounded pride had driven him to keep the news from Jo.

“You may be right, Jo,” he said softly. “My youngest son was killed by the soldiers.”

Jo gasped, startled by the news. “Dios mio, Mano!” she said. “When?”

“Just before we were quarantined.”

“That was two months ago.”

“I know. I should have told you,” he said, lowering his eyes.

She touched his shoulder tenderly, her eyes welling with tears. “I understand, Mano. People think it helps to talk about a
tragedy. Sometimes, though, it only makes the pain worse. I found that out when I lost my mother.”

The warmth of Jo’s hand melted his last resolve of silence. In a voice hoarse with emotion, he told her about Julio’s death
at the hands of the convoy. “They left my son to die,” he said, almost whispering. “I didn’t want to believe it. American
troops weren’t like that in my day.”

Jo withdrew her hand to wipe away her tears. “That’s the reason you came back, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mano said without looking up.

“Now I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Not many people knew. The funeral was very small.”

Jo stared at the floor for a moment. “Look, Mano,” she said uneasily. “You’ve become more than an employee to me. What we’re
doing together… well, it’s not just a business relationship anymore.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“God, this is getting complicated,” Jo said, chewing her lip. “What I’m trying to say is that I care for you—and your family.
You’ve already lost a child, Mano. I couldn’t live with myself if anyone else in your family was hurt by our work with La
Defensa. That’s why I think you should move your wife and children away once the quarantines begin.”

Mano looked into her eyes. “Are there any other reasons you want me to do this?”

Jo turned away, tugging at a strand of hair. “Even if there are, those reasons shouldn’t matter,” she answered softly. “Any
feelings we may have are not important, Mano. We have a duty to our people. But if your family stays here after the quarantine,
they’ll be in more danger than ever,” she said, facing him again. “Please promise me you’ll think about sending them away.”

Mano started the engine and pulled away from the curb. “When the time comes, I’ll consider it,” he said, staring straight
ahead.

The CIA’s regional secretary had just bitten into his third donut of the morning when the phone rang.

“Humph Evunhs,” he said into the phone, chewing furiously.

“Hello?” said the voice in his earpiece.

“Hank Evans,” he said after swallowing.

“Good morning, Hank. Bill Perkins,” Evans’s deputy said hurriedly. “Have you gone through your e-mail yet?”

“No. What’s up?”

“Washington issued a new directive this morning. All Hispanics in the intelligence community are being reassigned to non-critical
areas. They’re no longer cleared for any information rated ‘secret’ or higher. They’re saying it’s—you know—security issues.”

Evans’s face reddened. “That’s absurd. Everything we touch is rated ‘secret.’ A Hispanic won’t be able to walk into any of
our offices—or even file a field report.”

“I know, Hank.”

“Well, the politicians who hatched up this half-baked scheme are in for a rude surprise,” Evans said, the rolls of flesh under
his chin quivering. “We’re going to have some very serious ‘security issues’ if we turn every Hispanic in the intelligence
community into a cook or a janitor.”

Since the passing of the Quarantine and Relocation Act, Evans had done an about-face on the threat from radical Hispanics.
Thanks to the chaos caused by the Bates resolution, he had come to believe the Hispanic issue was now the most serious security
challenge the nation faced.

“What do you want us to do, Hank?”

Evans’s mind began to work again after venting his wrath. “Maria Prado has been working on getting a mole into La Defensa
del Pueblo. You need to pick up the ball on that.”

“Right, Hank. I’ll get started on it as soon as I can,” Perkins replied and hung up quickly.

Evans picked up the rest of his donut and started to hurl it into the trash can, then changed his mind. He may have lost his
temper, but he hadn’t lost his appetite.

As Phil Saunders eased his rig into the parking lot of the SmartStop near Culver City, California, the sun was setting into
the smog-banked horizon. He’d made over five hundred miles today and was going to reward himself with a good dinner and a
solid night’s sleep.

After killing the diesel, Phil climbed down from the cab and made a quick scan of his rig. The bags of fertilizer on his stake
bed were still tightly stacked. Satisfied with the condition of his load, he headed for the restaurant.

As he walked past the long line of rigs, a svelte redhead leaning seductively against a GMC pickup flashed a big smile and
crooked her finger enticingly.
Well, now. Maybe there’s an extra treat in store for ol’ Phil tonight
, he thought, turning toward her.

Finding a hooker at a truck stop was not unusual. But this one stood out from the mostly overweight and cheerless women who
worked the eighteen-wheel circuit. Not much older than thirty, she wore a tight halter top and cut-off shorts, her crimson
hair a curly mass towering above large hoop earrings. She was every trucker’s dream.

“Hello, darlin’. My name’s Phil,” he said in his best Burt Reynolds voice.

“Hi, there,” she said with a sultry smile. “You look like a fella who could use some company.”

“I guess that depends on how much it costs, honey.”

“It’ll cost you a hundred,” she said sweetly, then looked at her watch. “But I haven’t got much time.”

Phil winked, a gleam in his eye. “Why don’t we go back to my rig? Ol’ Phil’s got him a sleeper.”

“Why, that sounds real cozy,” the redhead said, slinging her small purse over her shoulder and taking Phil’s arm.

After reaching the truck, Phil unlocked the cab. “Here we are, darlin’,” he said, gesturing toward the open door, admiring
the redhead’s slim figure as she climbed into the cab.
This is one lively little hottie.

Following her inside, Phil was stunned to find the redhead pointing a silver revolver at his face. The steadiness of her hand
left little doubt she knew how to use it. “There’s been a little change in plans, darlin’,” the woman said calmly. “Put your
keys on the console—nice and slow—and step back into the sleeper.”

Seconds later, Phil saw a man’s face appear at the window of his cab. Keeping her gun trained on Phil, the redhead let the
man in. Phil tried to memorize the man’s appearance, hoping he’d survive the ordeal. The man was black, below average in height,
with a slight build, his hair done up in a once again fashionable Afro. A brightly patterned shirt open at the collar revealed
a heavy gold necklace that glistened against his dark skin.

Without a word, the man took the keys from the console and deftly guided the eighteen-wheeler out of the truck stop and onto
I-405 South.
This pimp must have made an honest living at one time
, Phil noted silently.

An hour later, Phil found himself bound to a chair in an abandoned gas station outside Compton, a swath of duct tape covering
his mouth. In the dim streetlight entering through the windows, he spotted a broken pneumatic pipe fixture protruding from
the wall. After hearing his rig pull away, he began rocking the chair toward the wall. If he could get the tape binding his
hands against the sharp edge of the plug, he might be able to free himself.

Inside Phil’s semi, Jo removed the red wig and said, “That should hold ol’ Phil for a while,” as Jesús Lopez pulled the truck
away from the gas station. After a ten-minute drive, Jesús stopped the rig in an alley along the L.A. River and killed the
lights. Moments later, a group of men emerged from a storm sewer along the riverbank and began unloading the truck, feverishly
passing the bags of fertilizer hand-to-hand in a line leading into the drain. In less than two hours, the ammonium nitrate
was stockpiled in a vacant textile warehouse inside Quarantine Zone B.

Drenched in sweat, Mano approached Jo and Ramon. “We’re done,” he said, breathing heavily.

“It’s a good thing that stuff only explodes when you mix it with oil,” Ramon said, smirking. “With the heat your team worked
up, we could have all gone up in a bang.”

Mano rolled his eyes. “That might possibly be funny if you’d actually done any work, old man.”

“Any idea how much am-nite we have?” Jo asked.

“Not as much as we’d like,” Mano answered. “I’d guess around ten tons.”

Jo nodded. “That’s cutting it close, but it should do.”

“You see,” Ramon said defensively, “I still think it would have been better to buy this stuff through one of our dummy companies.”

“Let it go, Ray. You were outvoted,” Jo shot back. “You agreed any big purchase of ammonium nitrate would have sent up a red
flag with the government. Mano and I felt this way was less risky. Besides, Mano came up with a great plan to ditch the truck.”