As the trout—one end of a stick jammed into its open mouth and the other end screwed into the sand-slowly roasted over a cactus-and-brittle-bush fire, Remo wondered if his father could have a girlfriend. It made him feel funny to think about it. He was just getting used to thinking of Sunny Joe as his father. He had every right to have a girlfriend, especially after all these years. But Remo couldn't help wondering what his mother would say.
Squatting thoughtfully, he picked the hot, flaky meat off the bones with his fingers, cleaned them in cool river water, then got back into the Navajo. He headed south.
Near the border a white border-patrol utility jeep scooted out of the shoulder of the road and, siren screaming, tried to pull him over.
Remo's foot hesitated over the accelerator. He couldn't remember if his rental had expired or not. He wasn't in the mood to be arrested—or create trouble to avoid it.
Then he spotted a roadblock two miles ahead, and the point became moot. He decided to go with the flow.
Remo braked to a stop, and as uniformed border-patrol agents came out of their vehicles, he dug into his wallet for useful identification.
"What's the problem?" Remo asked, holding out a laminated card that identified him as Remo Durock, FBI.
"A Mexican Federal Army unit is camped on the other side of the border."
"So?"
"Mexican army units are taking up defensive positions from San Diego clear to Brownsville like they mean business. It's not safe to cross the border at this time, sir. We're going to have to ask you to turn back and go home."
"I'm looking for a sixtyish guy in a white Stetson. He came this way a few hours ago, driving a black Bronco."
"There's talk of a U.S. car matching that description that crossed the border just before the Mexicans closed down the checkpoint," one of the patrolmen answered.
"Talk. What kind of talk?"
"The individual was arrested by Mexican authorities."
"For what?" Remo asked.
"If we knew that, we'd know why the Mexicans are eyeballing the U.S. border the way they are."
"That's my father. I gotta get through."
"Sorry, sir. It's not advisable. At this time we must ask that you to turn around."
Remo frowned. Ahead two border-patrol vehicles had the road completely blocked. If Remo broke for the desert, they'd have no trouble following. But there was more than one way to get the job done. "Okay, if that's the way it is," he said softly.
Putting the Navajo in gear, he sent it spinning around in a circle and, flooring it, headed north.
The border patrol remained at the roadblock, unreadable, sunglassed eyes tracking him until he was a dusty smear in the distance.
Near a clump of pipe organ cactus, Remo abandoned his vehicle and stepped into the broiling desert.
His deep-set eyes retreated into his face like the hollows of a skull. His moccasins touching the sand made shallow dents the sun and the blowing sands soon filled…
Sunny Joe Roam sat alone in the Cuervos town jail, wondering what had gotten into the Mexicans. It had been hours now, and he was still locked up tight.
Getting up, he called through the bars.
"Hey, compadre. I'm known here in this town."
The Federal Judicial Police jailer ignored him.
"Name's Bill Roam. Maybe you seen my movies. I was Muck Man. Played a botanist who was transformed into a walking plant by environmental pollutors. The Return of Muck Man grossed forty million last summer."
"La mugre siempre flota," the man remarked in Spanish.
"I don't know that one."
" 'Filth always floats.'"
"I'm not joshing. I'm pretty famous. The Sun On Jos are my tribe. We got our own reservation, and Washington isn't going to take kindly to your messing with our affairs. Ask around. I spread my hard-earned money down here a lot. I'm called Sunny Joe Roam."
"Maybe so, señor. But your name is now cieno—muck."
Sunny Joe gave up on the jailer. What the hell was going on? He had crossed the border without a problem, the way he always did. Through the manned border checkpoint. They waved him right through, smiling as always. And he'd run smack into a Mexican Federal Judicial Police patrol loaded for bear and looking for trouble.
They had arrested him on sight. Not much else to do but surrender and see where events led.
As it turned out, they'd led to the local hoosegow.
Something was up. Something big. And he had become a pawn in a larger game.
Lying back down on the hardwood bunk, Sunny Joe decided to wait the morning out. If they hadn't cut him loose by noon, he would take matters in hand.
One thing was certain. No jail on any side of the border had been built that could hold a Sunny Joe when he took a notion to do different.
Remo ran into a column of Mexican army Humvees rolling along a dusty desert highway.
He was surprised to see Humvees. But since the Gulf War, even Arnold Schwarzenegger had one. No reason the Mexican army couldn't have a few, too. These were painted in desert camouflage browns and sands.
The Humvee unit was surprised to see him, too. They slewed to a disorganized stop, almost creating a chain reaction of rear-end collisions.
Remo stepped out into the middle of the road and lifted his bands as a signal that he was unarmed and not looking for trouble.
He might have saved his energy. The sargento primero in the lead Humvee took one look and his dark eyes flashed. He rapped out a sharp command, and armed Mexicans were suddenly pounding in Remo's direction.
"Alto!"
"I'm looking for a big American in a black hat," Remo said.
"Alto!"
"Anybody here speak English?"
"Jou will keep jour hands raised, señor," the sargento primero ordered. "Jou are a prisoner."
"Fine. I'm a prisoner. Just take me to the man I described."
As they patted him down and cuffed him from behind, Remo fought his instincts. Every sense screamed to send the soldiers flying. A Master of Sinanju was trained never to allow hostile hands on his person. But Remo was a man of peace now.
Chiun would kill me if he saw me like this, Remo thought as he was placed in the back of a Humvee.
"What's the problem here?" he asked.
"Jou are a spy."
"I'm an American tourist."
"Jou are an Americano in Mexico. The border has been closed to Americanos."
"By who?"
"Mexico."
"Whatever happened to NAFTA?"
The driver spit into the dust violently.
"Proposition 187 and Operation Gatekeeper happened," the sargento primero grunted.
Uh-oh, Remo thought. Something had ticked off the Mexican government big-time. He decided to sit it out. Once he found Sunny Joe, he'd make his move.
But they didn't take him to Sunny Joe. They took him to a military camp and into an olive drab tent, where he was told to sit on an ammo crate until the major came.
"I'll sit on the sand if you don't mind," Remo said in an even voice.
" Jou will sit on the crate."
"Crates give me a pain in the butt, just like you."
The Mexican sergeant took immediate offense and looked as if he wanted to club Remo down with the hard stock of his rifle. "The crate," he insisted.
"If you say so," said Remo, who then sat down on the crate so violently it splintered into kindling.
Smiling up at the sergeant's reddening face, Remo took a shady spot on the tent's sandy floor.
The major's face wasn't red. It was dark as a storm cloud. His angry eyes fell on Remo and the shattered crate and asked, "Who are you, gringo?"
"The Gringo Kid. I'm looking for my dad, the Gringo Chief."
"Eh?"
"Look, you characters took another prisoner this morning. Just take me to him."