“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.
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.”