The young man spoke to the elder in the Yaqui language. The old man nodded and smiled to the foreigners as he listened. Finally, the old man grasped the youth's shoulder and spoke quietly to him. Then the old man spoke to the foreigners. "He tells me you are friends of Senor Ochoa. Come to my room, tell us of the war in Culiacan. And I will tell you of the war in our mountains."
"Leave your weapons," the young man ordered.
The old man dismissed the order with a wave of his gnarled hand. "If you want, leave your packs here. The children will not touch them."
"Achai!" the young man protested. "Ellos no son de aqui. No son de confiar."
"Yes," the old man said, smiling. "Speak Spanish. Your Spanish is much better than your Yaqui. Come, boy. Come, my guests."
In the cave the old man found a lamp by touch. He flicked a disposable lighter and lit the gas lamp. A pale-yellow light illuminated the interior. He turned to his guests.
"You please call me, achai. It means grandfather. I apologize for the boy. El Brujo is mucho macho, but very clever."
"Why do you call him El Brujo?" Blancanales asked.
"A joke, my friend."
The young man entered and answered, "Because I am educated in the ways of my people and in technology. I can do what no one else can do."
The achaipointed to the light. "He made that lantern. We shit and a machine makes gas for the lanterns."
"Biogas," the proud young man declared. "I read about it in a book from China and then I made the machine. Now the children and the women do not search for wood. They are safe when the helicopters and planes look for us. And no one coughs from smoke in their lungs."
Gadgets nodded. "Anaerobic decomposition of waste to liberate methane which can then be used as heating or lighting gas. Odorless, smokeless. That's natural."
"He is a very smart boy," the achaisaid, nodding. "And he kills many of the Blancos. But call him 'Vato.' He is too young to have earned the title of El Brujo the Sorcerer. Maybe in a few more years. Sit, my guests. I do not have chairs for my cave. But there are no scorpions. I think I killed them all. Sit."
Davis, exhausted from the all-day hike, took a place where he could doze against the cool stone of the cave wall. Gadgets studied the stone floor with a penlight before he sat down.
Lyons sat near the cave mouth. While he watched the faces of the old man and Vato, he listened to the people outside, their shouts, their laughter and the singsong of the children's voices. The scraping of a bore-rod continued as a Yaqui cleaned the captured rifles. Then he noticed Miguel Coral intently studying Vato. Blancanales resumed questioning the old man.
"Why is there fighting?" the Politician asked.
"We fight for the rights of the Yaqui people," Vato declared. "To free..."
The achaiheld up a hand to stop the young man's speech. "We fight because the army and the White Warriors gang terrorize our people. They burn our farms. They will not let us live in peace."
"Does the army work with the White Warriors?" Blancanales asked.
"These soldiers are not of the army of Mexico. We knew the soldiers before. But they are gone. And these men in uniforms come. We think the soldiers and the White Warriors are the same."
"Just who are the White Warriors?" Gadgets interrupted.
"You ask us?" the achaiexclaimed, amazed. "But you fought them in Culiacan, why..."
Vato interrupted. "He said that he worked for Senor Ochoa." The young man pointed to Coral. "But you others, who are you?"
Coral answered. "Ellos solo buscan a Los Guerreros Blancos, no les importan ni sus propiedades, ni su dinero."
"Who are you?" Vato repeated.
"He is a pilot for the American DEA," Coral said, pointing to Davis. The Mexican's arm motioned to Able Team. "They are different than the DEA. I think they are secret agents."
"Spies?" the achaiasked, confused, incredulous. "Why do you come to spy on us? What do you want to know, Americans? How to be hungry? How to suffer injustice? How to be with sorrow? How to be without hope? Spies!" The old man laughed. "If you are lucky, you will never know what we know."
"Grandfather," Coral explained. "They will not interfere with you. They want Los Guerreros Blancos the White Warriors. Only the White Warriors. And I am here to help them. I trust them." Coral turned to the young man. "You, you know who I am. I stood at the side of Don Ochoa. I know you saw..."
Vato sneered back an answer. "But now you are with the Americans. Did they offer you a deal? Turn informer, send others to prison, so you do not go?"
Coral laughed, his eyes narrowing to slits, his hands closing. In the soft yellow light and shadows of the cave, the men of Able Team saw the face of Miguel Coral the hardcore killer, no longer the family man negotiating for the safety and future of his family and his freedom. Now they saw the cold, calculating assassin who had survived twenty years of gang wars, ten years as the personal protector of the most hated, feared and respected gang patriarch on the Pacific coast of Mexico.
"Boy," Coral said, smiling like death. "Be quiet." Then he turned to the achai. "They do not care about your farms. If you help us, we will attack Los Guerreros Blancos. These men are a law unto themselves. And behind them, they have all the money and the weapons of America. If you want your enemies, who are also my enemies, destroyed, then we will fight together. It is agreed?"
Coral turned to Able Team.
"You see, these people... the soil of their mountains is very poor. There is no water. The corn does not grow. They could never feed their children. So on their farms, they grow opium."
11
In the red light of sunset, vultures feasted on the bodies of the soldiers who had died on the high ridge. The squat black creatures, their heads and necks glistening red with gore, paused in their feeding to look up at the helicopter. One vulture pulled its head out of the chest cavity of a naked corpse, a torn mass of lung tissue flopping in its beak. The vultures flapped their blood-splashed wings to drive off the huge mechanical insect descending onto the ridge.
Dust gusted. The rotor storm swirled red in the sunset as the chopper settled on its skids. Inside, Colonel Gonzalez, Lieutenant Colomo and a squad of soldiers looked through the Plexiglas of the sliding doors as the mountain wind carried away the dust. Without speaking, they watched as the dust-grayed vultures returned to the dead men.
The lieutenant threw open the door. Jerking out his autopistol, he fired at the vultures, the rapid-fire popping of the 9mm cartridges insignificant in the vast expanse of shadowy mountains and red sky.
Awkward, their gullets heavy with Mexican flesh, the vultures flapped away, squawking into the canyon.
Except one. The lieutenant's wild shooting had broken the wing of one vulture. Flailing the disjointed wing, the crippled carrion bird screeched and waddled away, its good wing fanning swirls of dust. The lieutenant rushed the vulture and executed it with three point-blank shots to the head, then launched a vicious kick at the gore-splashed headless creature.
Cursing, muttering prayers to their Catholic saints and God, the soldiers jumped out of the helicopter. They moved through the dead, groaning at the sight of vulture-mutilated faces with empty eyesockets and torn-away noses and lips. Soldiers shouted out to one another as they found dead friends.
Men forgot their machismo, their curses and obscenities becoming sobs.
Snapping his riding crop against his jackboot, the colonel finally took command. "Search the area! Perhaps someone survived and is hiding. Look for the bodies of the ones who did this. Look for weapons. Anything. We cannot take revenge until we know who committed this massacre and find them. Now! Soon it will be dark."