"And I think they will," he said.
"This means we can't raid the army base," Lyons told his partners. "If they lose the colonel, they'll be on full alert."
"Ironman, get smart. We've got a helicopter. Are they going to expect us to come out of the sky in one of their own troopships? You're just making noise because this ain't your idea."
"I want to get the number-one Nazi, the Mexican traitor who's working for the goons."
Gadgets laughed. "Well, hey, maybe he's coming to you!"
"All right..." Lyons looked across to the other hilltop. "I'll be over there."
And he jogged after Vato.
"Notice Vato didn't answer your question about the soldiers?" Gadgets asked Blancanales.
"Had to ask. I know the answer."
"Yeah. Me, too. Zipppp. Zipppp."
On the trail, Lyons saw the last of the families leaving the pueblo. The houses stood empty. Nothing moved on the dirt road but swirls of dust.
Vato waited for him in the streambed. Lyons splashed through the shallows, his overweight backpack lurching from side to side.
"Where are they?" he asked.
In response, Vato led him up the embankment to a shack made of interwoven branches and plastered with mud. A Yaqui fighter guarding the door nodded to Vato and Lyons.
"We did nothing to them. But I think they will speak."
Lyons looked at the sleeves of the guard's dust-colored shirt. Clotted blood crusted the cloth as high as his elbows. Blood had splattered his shirt and pants. Then Lyons pushed aside the woven-stick door.
Plastic loops still secured the prisoners' wrists and ankles. Tape covered their mouths. But the tape over their eyes had been replaced with blood-clotted strips of green camouflage cloth. The shack stank of the blood.
And shit. The officers had emptied their bowels and bladders into their tailored fatigues.
As Lyons pushed aside the door, the Fascist and the Mexican traitor convulsed, arching their bodies, kicking with their legs in an attempt to push themselves backward through the wall. Animal groans came from their throats. Stepping back, Lyons spoke to Vato in a whisper, "What did you do? Tell me..."
"We put all of the Mexicans in a line. We put these two at the end. To be last. And as all the others went to the gods, they watched. When there was only the two, we went to them and said they were the prisoners of the North Americans. If the North Americans wanted them to live, they would live. And if not, then they would be offered, like all the other soldiers."
Lyons laughed. Vato spoke to the Yaqui guard and they laughed also. In the shack, the prisoners thrashed and groaned, beating their bodies against the mud-plastered sticks.
"Very effective," Lyons told the Yaquis, then he went to the prisoners. To play on their fears, he slipped out his double-edged boot knife. He squatted in front of the gray-uniformed Nazi and tore off the man's blindfold.
The man shook with fear. Blinking against the light, his eyes rolling in their sockets, the blond European-featured Fascist cringed. Lyons grabbed the Fascist's hair and immobilized his head. With the tip of the knife, he cut the tape over the prisoner's mouth.
"Who are you?" Lyons demanded. "Where do you come from? Who is your commander?"
The Fascist stared at Lyons. His voice trembled with panic. "You're a white man... why are you with them? These animals... why do you betray your country? Your race?"
Lyons repeated. "Who are you? Where do you come from? Who is your commander? Answer or die."
The prisoner summoned up his arrogance. "I am an officer of the International. All the power of the International stands behind me. Free me, and as a white man, you can expect mercy... and a position in the New Reich."
Lyons watched and listened as the Fascist spoke.
"You cannot hope to withstand the onslaught of the Reich. The elite of the hemisphere stand united. Even your government, your leaders stand with us, united!"
The knife blade pressed against his mouth stopped his words. "Just answer the questions, filth." Lyons's anger raged through his words.
"I am Captain Graefe of the International, advisor to the International Group of the army of the Republic of Mexico," the Fascist proudly trumpeted.
"Americano!" the Yaqui guard called to Lyons.
"Que?" Lyonsrushed outside.
The Yaqui pointed to a mirror flashing with the dawn light from the eastern hilltop. Lyons saw Vato already running for his position across the canyon.
"Ellos vienen. Vayase! El Brujo lo necesita."
Lyons dashed back into the shack. He replaced the blindfold on the Fascist. As Lyons unrolled fresh tape to blind and gag Graefe, the Fascist said to him, "Now is your chance to save yourself! You face overwhelming force. Nothing can withstand the armies of the New Reich. Take this chance to..."
Tape stopped his words. Lyons looped the tape over the prisoner's mouth, then put a wrap around the man's head to hold the blindfold in place.
"I'll be back," was all he said, a cold fury in his voice.
Lyons ran.
18
Dawn seared the eastern horizon. Weaving through the dark mountains, the formation of three helicopters searched for a nameless pueblo of indigenasin a canyon without a name. Soldiers stared through the Plexiglas doors of the UH-1 troopships to the shadowed canyons and mountains of the Sierra Madres. Colonel Gonzalez swept the distant ridges with the optics of his binoculars.
Cursing into the intercom, Gonzalez demanded, "Give me the frequency of the plane again!"
"Yes, Colonel," the helicopter copilot answered.
Static hissed in the colonel's headset, then the pilot of the light plane accompanying the troopships answered. "I have not yet seen the village, Colonel."
"Why this problem? You found the filthy place! You have the coordinates!"
"Sir, it was another pilot who flew for that operation. The coordinates recorded in the flight book are approximate. I am rising to a greater altitude now. I am sure I will spot the helicopters of Lieutenant Colomo immediately. Only another moment of patience, please."
"Copilot!" Gonzalez shouted. "Get me the liaison unit."
More static erupted from the speaker as the frequency changed to the UHF band, linking Colonel Gonzalez's troopship with the troopship carrying Colonel Jon Gunther and his squad of elite International commandos.
Colonel Gunther watched the landscape pass below him. Red dawn light illuminated the eastern ridges; the canyons and western slopes remained draped in night. He attempted to match the mountain ridges to his topographic map. The voice of Colonel Gonzalez interrupted him.
"Colonel Gunther, forgive the delay. I ordered the pilot of the plane to rise to an observation altitude. We will have our landing zone in only another moment."
Scanning the dawn sky, Gunther saw red light reflect from the wings of the observation plane. The aluminum napalm canister under the plane flashed like a beacon as the sun glanced off it.
"This confusion wastes fuel," Colonel Gunther spoke into his intercom.
"True," Colonel Gonzalez answered. "I will discipline the pilot who failed to record the correct coordinates. There is a message now. One moment..."
Static ended the transmission. Colonel Gunther thanked Jehovah he had never accepted a Mexican in his liaison unit. His pilots and soldiers all came from the other nations of the International. To serve him, he accepted only elite of the death squads of Argentina and El Salvador, the bravest of the Chilean and expatriate Bolivian soldiers, the strongest Americans, the most technically adept French. He would not trust his security to the paramilitary scum collected by their Mexican allies.