Invasion: Colorado (16 page)

“My driver stays with me,” Valdez said.

“Sergeant,” Anderson said to the man at the door. “Draw your weapon and point it at Colonel Valdez’s driver. If he twitches a muscle, shoot him, kill him.”

The driver had been busy staring down Paul. His eyebrows lifted now, he turned and his hand dropped toward the weapon on his belt.

Paul didn’t wait for the surprised sergeant to do as he’d been told. He drew his gun before anyone else did. “This isn’t the place for it,” he said in a low voice.

The driver—the obvious hit man—studied Paul. The cold eyes showed nothing. This was a dangerous man, likely one of the Colonel’s most deadly. The driver let his gun hand go limp and hang down by his side.

Finally, belatedly, the sergeant drew his sidearm. He pointed it at the Colonel’s hit man.

“Take him to the waiting room in the lobby,” Anderson said. “I don’t want him anywhere on this floor.”

“Yes sir,” the sergeant said. “Come on,” he told the driver.

“Take his gun first,” Anderson said.

“That will not be necessary,” Valdez said. “He will not draw here.” The Colonel spoke rapidly in Spanish to the driver.

The hit man nodded lazily.

Anderson appeared to think a moment and nodded to the sergeant. “The Colonel is a man of his word. Leave the driver his sidearm, but take him downstairs to the waiting room.”

The driver and sergeant left.

“I’m going to retire down the hall,” Anderson said. “You two gentlemen are free to use my office. If you need me—”

“General Ochoa lied to me,” Valdez said.

“No sir,” Anderson said. “He kept his word. General Ochoa ordered me to disarm the Master Sergeant. I chose to ignore the order.”

“Ochoa will learn of this,” Valdez said.

“We’re all on the same side, Colonel,” Anderson said. “It would be good to remember that. And if I were you, I’d also remember that Master Sergeant Kavanagh is a crack shot. He killed General Cho Deng, one of the enemy’s best hovertank commanders.”

“You’d better remember who
I
am, Captain. It is a poor decision to cross swords with me.”

Anderson saluted. “Oh yes, sir. I will remember.”  He thereupon took his leave, closing the door behind him.

Paul holstered his sidearm and faced the intense Colonel Valdez.

Valdez chomped down on the cigar, and his eyes blazed. With his pitted skin, it made him seem like some Aztec god of the days when they demanded blood-sacrifices from their conquering people. In those times, The Aztecs had marched to war, swinging obsidian-tipped clubs and spears, building an empire. At its core was the glorious city of Tenochtitlan, where present day Mexico City stood. There, on the tallest pyramid, the Aztec priests tore out the hearts of their victims, appeasing the gods with human blood. On some feast days, they had sacrificed as many as twenty thousand men, women and children.

The Aztecs had been fierce warriors. Colonel Valdez could have been one of their chosen sons. Despite a conquering horde of Chinese soldiery numbering in the millions, he had fought against the Mexican occupation. He had waged merciless war, using assassins against President Felipe, killing the supposed victor of the Mexican Civil War. The Chinese had tried to hunt Valdez down as ruthlessly. The Colonel had survived—a hero, a butcher and a relentless foe.

“You were supposed to protect my daughter,” Valdez growled.

Paul didn’t know what to say. He hated the man who had sent assassins after him, but he could understand the rage. He also despised the fact of his leaving Maria Valdez behind. He’d had no choice in the matter, but he knew he couldn’t explain that to the Colonel.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said.

“Does that bring her back to life?”

“No.”

“Then what good is your apology?” Valdez sneered.

“I don’t know.”

“Bah!” Valdez said. He yanked the cigar out of his mouth and spat on Paul’s boots. “I give you
that
for your
sorry
. The Chinese cut her into pieces because you failed to keep your promise. The Marines never leave their own behind? Ha! It is a lie.”

“We’re human, Colonel. Sometimes—”

Valdez’s right hand dropped to his gun.

Paul’s dropped onto the butt of his holstered semi-automatic.

“You will kill me?” Valdez asked.

“I don’t want to.”

“But I want to kill you,” Valdez said.

In the middle of Paul’s stomach, outrage and frustration exploded. It tightened his jaws, and he drew his gun. Belatedly, Valdez drew his. Paul knocked the hand aside, sending the revolver flying to smack against the wall. Then he jammed his semi-automatic against Valdez’s neck, pushing the smaller man until he slammed against the wall.

“You’re the one who sent your daughter into combat,” Paul whispered, his face an inch away from Valdez. “Why didn’t you lead the mission? I fought alongside her. I risked my life as she risked hers. Did I kill her later? No, the Chinese did that. Don’t blame me, Valdez.”

“I do.”

Paul cocked the hammer, and he stared into the eyes of a man determined to kill him. Finally, he twisted to the side and pushed Valdez away. The Colonel staggered, bashing into a chair so it went tumbling and Valdez sprawled onto the floor.

Holstering his gun, Paul wondered about the wisdom of letting a man live who would never stop seeking his life. He didn’t see as he had much choice, though. Anderson would arrest him if he killed Valdez here. What good would being arrested do?

I’d probably survive the war then, tucked away in a prison cell. Cheri would like that
.

“You just made a terrible mistake, gringo,” Valdez said, climbing to his feet. “You should have killed me. When I get the drop on you, I will kill you.”

“Whatever,” Paul said. “As far as I’m concerned…” He stopped himself from speaking further. What did name-calling do? Nothing. It was doubtful either of them was going to survive the Chinese. So this was all moot anyway.

“You are a dead man,” Valdez said. “Tell Romo he is dead, too.”

Paul breathed deeply. Ochoa had ordered Anderson to disarm him. What a crazy world. Valdez hated. The Chinese conquered. And—

“I’m sorry about your daughter, Colonel. I wish I could have saved her. In fact, even though I know you’re going to spit at this—” Paul scowled and the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to speak them. He even opened his mouth to try, but his tongue refused to move and help him curl the words.

Valdez stared at him with hatred.

Paul moved his lips, and this time, he forced out the words. “I’m sorry, and I…I ask you to forgive me.”

“What did you say?” Valdez hissed.

Paul took an even deeper breath. He couldn’t believe he was saying this, but it felt like the right thing to do. “Please forgive me, sir. I failed your daughter and I’m sorry.”

“I
don’t
forgive you,” Valdez said, although he said it with less heat than earlier.

Paul nodded. He’d tried, and it had failed, but he’d tried.

“Get out of my sight!” Valdez shouted. “Leave, you-you—Leave me!”

Paul closed his mouth and strode for the door. He didn’t look back at Valdez. He could hear well enough to know that the Colonel hadn’t darted for his fallen gun. Paul twisted the handle, and he wished Valdez would say, “Yes, I forgive you. Go in peace.”

Instead, Paul Kavanagh felt a burning gaze of hatred pierce his back. If Valdez had been insane with rage before, now it was probably going to be worse. Paul opened the door, walked through and shut it behind him.

In the next room, Captain Anderson stood watching with raised eyebrows.

Paul shook his head.

Anderson nodded, with a sad expression on his face.

Paul took his leave, deciding he’d use the back entrance and bypass the waiting driver and further complications with the Mexico Home Army.

DETENTION CENTER WEST, COLORADO

Private Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB sat in a hard plastic chair in a hall outside the DCW Director’s office. Jake was alone, although he knew a guard waited at the end of the hall around the corner.

The Detention Center West was in Central Colorado, hidden in a bleak, Rocky Mountain valley. It was a hundred acres of electrified fencing with blockhouses, barracks and punishment cells. There must be several thousand detainees with several hundred guards here, but Jake wasn’t sure of the exact numbers.

He wore a Militia uniform and nice new boots. His stomach was full, his body didn’t ache all the time and if he was comfortable like this doing nothing he didn’t instantly fall asleep like he would have done just a few days ago.

Was I stupid leaving Lisa?

She was the woman he’d saved from hanging, the one who had kicked and shot the Chinese soldier to death. After he’d rescued her, she’d wanted Jake to stay and help her fight. They had kissed and done other things that had almost convinced him. Wouldn’t that be a great way to spend his time: fighting the enemy and loving the amazing Lisa?

When he told her he wanted to rejoin the Militia she told him that he was too young and stupid, too idealistic for his own good. He didn’t realize when he had it made. She’d told him the U.S. Army couldn’t stop the Chinese. She said they would be driven out because of millions of Americans like her sniping from behind and burning supplies, making it too miserable for the enemy to stay. That’s what having millions, billions of rifles and shotguns meant. That’s what the Second Amendment had been all about, having an armed nation that no one could subdue, not an invading enemy or even its own overbearing government.

She’d had her good points, two of them way up high. Maybe it just was that she had been too aggressive. Even after only a few days with her, she’d been telling him what to do all the time.

In the end, Jake had decided he owed it to the others who hadn’t made it back to return to the Army and slug it out with the enemy. The lieutenant would have told him to rejoin, to finish the fight. The Louis L’Amour characters of the Old West would have finished it, too. That’s how they’d won the West in the first place. A soldier didn’t hide in a woman’s arms when battle called.

The door to the Director’s office opened. A large man in his fifties looked out. He had iron colored hair in a buzz cut. He was between large and fat, and seemed stern. He wore a uniform and had the kind of red face with broken blood vessels that meant he drank too much. It reminded Jake of his grandfather.

“Jake Higgins of the Seventh CDMB?” the man growled.

“That’s me,” Jake said.

The Director scowled. “You’re in the Militia, son. That means you stand at attention when an officer talks to you. You will also address me as sir.”

Jake stared at the Director. Slowly, he stood to his feet and saluted. He neither stood as straight as he could nor did he move with precision. Maybe it was a mistake, but he’d been the lone survivor who had fought his way free of the Chinese. It seemed to him the Director could give him a little respect.

The Director grunted, and the hard eyes intensified. He opened his mouth, seemed to decide otherwise and beckoned Jake into the office.

As Jake sauntered into the room, he wondered if this was the time to stand on his merits. He recalled the cells, the punishment details. These people thrived on regulations, on their little games. Maybe the smart man remembered that and bent a bit until the goons no longer had him in their control.

The office contained huge photographs of President Sims and Detention Center slogans in block letters: UNITY BRINGS VICTORY. WE ARE ONE, WE ARE STRONG. PATRIOTS FIGHT FOR THEIR COUNTRY! TRAITORS PROTEST THEIR LEADERS.

Jake had read the slogans before and heard them more than he cared to count. He sat down in a chair, noticing he was lower than the Director was in his chair behind the desk. The desk had books on it, photographs and mementoes galore.

The Director picked up an e-reader and scanned the screen. “Hmm, it says here you fought in Amarillo, Texas?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

The Director clicked the e-reader. “That’s a long way from Gunnison where it says the police picked you up. You were in the company of a Ms. Lisa Brewster, a suspected agitator, I might add.”

Jake kept himself from blurting out what he thought about Lisa being suspected of anything. The woman was a true patriot, killing the enemy, risking her life to do it.

“Sir,” Jake said, “does the report add that I had Lisa drive me to Gunnison so I could reach the authorities?”

“It does not? Is that what you’re claiming?”

“Yes sir. That’s exactly how it happened.”

“I would like to know how you went from Amarillo, Texas to Gunnison,
Colorado.”

“Some of us fought our way out of the encircling Chinese near Amarillo, sir.”

“We?” the Director asked.

Jake began to tell him about the lieutenant and some of the grim journey. As he talked, Jake noticed the Director looking more and more incredulous.

“You expect me to believe that tale?” the Director finally blurted.

“Since it’s the truth, yes I do.”

“No! I will tell you the truth. You escaped the Seventh CDMB before it ever reached Amarillo, Texas. Likely, you went AWOL long before that. You fled to the Rockies and have spent your time idling with a suspected subversive. During this absence, you’ve listened to the news and concocted your cock and bull story. You were a troublemaker before, Jake Higgins, and you’ve remained a troublemaker. We know how to handle the likes of you.”

“What are you talking about?” Jake asked. “I fought my way back through Chinese lines. I got the scars to prove it, too. I returned to keep fighting. Lisa wanted me to stay with her, but I told her I couldn’t.”

The Director laughed sharply. He moved his head in short jerks like a wolf gulping its meat. “Nice try, Mr. Higgins.” He leaned across the desk. “Your kind makes me sick. We’re going to teach you about respect. It may kill you, but I swear we’re going to pound some patriotism into that thick and cunning skull of yours.”

The Director pressed a button on his desk.

Jake stared in at the man in disbelief. “Is this a joke?
This
is my reward for fighting my way back?”