Alverez, the older of the two brothers, had no problem winning his brother over to his scheme. And their two friends, tired of living in the slums of south Texas, needed little convincing. Living in America for two years had taught them all several hard truths. First, despite the fact that they, as Colombians, were ethnically Caucasians, just like the Anglos, in America they would never be considered white. The second truth, however, served to balance the first. Money, according to conventional wisdom, was the great leveler. With enough money, money that seemed readily available to those bold enough to take it, even they could live as well as the whites.
The presence of armed American troops didn't bother the Calles brothers and their partners. After all, armed troops were a permanent fixture in Colombia. Since the Calleses knew that soldiers were the same everywhere, they saw no difference between them and the city police officers who frequented doughnut shops and drove about in big, underpowered American patrol cars. Besides, with two assault rifles, a shotgun, and three automatic pistols, Alverez Calles knew they could discourage the local police from following too closely. Few people, he knew, were willing to lay down their lives to defend the wealth of others.
While the Calles brothers were in the process of psyching themselves up for their great leap into fame and fortune, Captain Stan Wittworth was in the process of making his morning rounds, or at least trying to.
Parked across from a doughnut shop, Wittworth and his driver were waiting in his Humvee for Deputy Sheriff Glenn Briscoe to come out.
Looking at his watch, then across to the shop, then back at his watch, Wittworth became impatient. There were places he needed to go and things he needed to do. Briscoe, liaison from the sheriff's office to Witt worth,
following a routine he had followed for the past fifteen years, was keeping Wittworth performing duties he was neither trained for nor comfortable with.
Despite the fact that Briscoe wore a uniform, Wittworth still considered Briscoe a civilian. The deputy was quite knowledgeable in his duties, but that was not the problem. In the past week, he had been very helpful in showing Wittworth and his officers the area, explaining the lay of the land as well as providing them a feel for local politics and people.
Wittworth was even impressed by the way Briscoe handled himself when dealing with other civilians who had run afoul of the law. Still, Wittworth found Briscoe far too casual in both his dress and conduct when not performing his duties. Even his conversations, when Wittworth allowed himself to be drawn in, were about things that had nothing to do with their mission. In no time at all, Wittworth became convinced that to Briscoe his position as a deputy sheriff was nothing more than a job, a means of earning a living. He lacked, in Wittworth's mind, the singular dedication to duty that separated a professional from a civilian. So Wittworth tolerated Briscoe and used him as necessary, but decided that, if push came to shove, he would use his own judgment and people, people who were dedicated, well-trained, and disciplined.
Seeing that Briscoe was deep in conversation with two of the other patrons of the doughnut shop and in no hurry to leave, Wittworth studied the map board in his lap. On one side of the board was a street map showing a section of southeastern Laredo, where his 1st and 2nd platoons were deployed. On the other side was a topographical map showing the countryside to the south and east of Laredo, where his 3rd Platoon con ducted mounted patrols and manned a roadblock. Both maps were covered in clear acetate on which were marked black triangles with letters in them that represented observation posts, numbers in boxes representing checkpoints, and dotted lines connecting them defining patrol routes used by his company. While necessary, the military symbols, written with wide markers, obscured some of the street names and map symbols under the acetate. Still, enough showed so that even without Briscoe, Wittworth could now find his way about Laredo.
Looking back at the doughnut shop, Wittworth saw Briscoe, one foot up on a chair, still talking to his two friends. Looking at his watch, Wittworth decided to give Briscoe five more minutes before he would leave without him. There was, after all, a limit to how far this civilian military cooperation could be pushed.
Pulling up in front of the bank they had selected, Julio Calles stopped.
From the side door of the white van, decorated with the logo of the pizza shop where they worked, Alverez Calles emerged, holding a large, square pizza warming pouch in his left hand. Leaving the door of the van open, he looked to his left and right before entering the bank. Seeing his two friends, each approaching from opposite directions, Alverez nodded, then proceeded to enter the bank.
Once inside, he looked about for a moment, then turned and headed for the office where the manager of this branch was seated. The guard, a man of about fifty, looked at Alverez quizzically for a moment, then turned to ask one of the tellers standing near him how anyone could stand to eat pizza that early in the morning. In the process of doing so, the guard failed to notice the entrance of either of Alverez's accomplices. One of them, a tall, lanky man with jet black hair and carrying a white plastic shopping bag, stayed at the door. The other, a short stocky man with eyes that darted from side to side, crossed the floor to the far side, turning around once he got there so that he could see Alverez, the guard, and the tall man at the door.
Entering the bank manager's office without pausing, Alverez said nothing when the manager, a man of about forty, looked up. At first, he merely stared, wondering why a pizza deliveryman was standing in front of him. He was about to ask, when Alverez, in one easy motion, reached into the warming pouch and pulled out a black automatic pistol with an oversize magazine protruding from its handle.
Wittworth was looking at his map again when his driver grunted. "Looks like trouble in the doughnut shop, sir."
Not understanding, Wittworth looked up at his driver, who was pointing across the parking lot. Wittworth turned and saw Briscoe, without a hat, come flying out of the shop. There was an anxious look on Briscoe's face as he ran for the Humvee, holding his small handheld radio to his ear all the while. As he watched, — the first thought that came to Wittworth was that this was the fastest he had seen Briscoe move all week. In a single bound, Briscoe was up and in the back seat of the topless Humvee, shouting to the driver to get moving and to take a left once they were out of the parking lot.
Obediently, the driver cranked up the Humvee and prepared to move.
Wittworth, however, signaled him to hold it for a moment by holding up his left hand. Wittworth turned to face Briscoe. "Where we going, Deputy?"
Thrusting his head forward between Wittworth and the driver, Briscoe, sweat beading up on his forehead, turned to Wittworth. "Some Mexicans are hitting a bank two blocks from here. Shots have been fired and an officer's down."
For a moment, Wittworth considered his situation. A bank robbery was definitely a civilian matter. Even if Briscoe, a civilian law enforcement officer, felt obliged to respond, Wittworth, an Army officer, wasn't sure he was required to transport Briscoe to the scene. On the other hand, however, the fact that Mexicans were involved changed the nature of the situation. Why the Mexicans would hit a bank didn't bother him. Wittworth knew that, in the closing days of the Civil War, the Confederacy had staged raids from Canada into Vermont, robbing banks in order to finance their war effort. What worried Wittworth was the fact that they were doing this in broad daylight, in the presence of regular Army units.
That, to him, didn't make sense. It was almost as if they had a death wish.
Watching Wittworth sit like a bump on a log, pondering the situation, was infuriating to Briscoe. "What the hell are you waiting for, Captain?