Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

Bo was ushered into the second Rover. He slid in next to the driver. A female fashionista and a Japanese businessman were in the back. They were discussing sushi, a subject that Bo had zero interest in since the thought of eating raw seafood was disgusting. That left him free to enjoy the scenery.

The Tierra Dorada ranch was huge. According to the glossy brochure in Bo’s room, the estate included more than four million acres of land, employed some eight hundred people, and was home to half a million cattle. Never mind the four hundred thousand sheep and sixty thousand horses that grazed on the grasslands as well.

But even though Salazar was wealthy, most Mexicans weren’t so fortunate. Prior to America’s Second Civil War, the total value of goods imported to and exported from Mexico totaled more than 530 billion U.S. dollars. But now, as a result of the fighting, cross-border trade had dwindled to 10 percent of what it had once been. And tourism was in the tank for the same reason.

The result was widespread unemployment and increasing levels of civil unrest. So Mexico needed to bring in some cash and get unemployed people off the streets. Especially unemployed males under the age of thirty-five. Because if they rose up, Salazar and his cronies would be in some deep shit. Would those factors be enough to fuel an advantageous deal? Bo believed that they would.

As the convoy rounded the side of a barren hill, the Salazar residence was revealed. Huge blocks of what looked like white adobe had been stacked so as to balance each other out. Except that what appeared to be adobe was actually steel-reinforced concrete.

Having been there for a day, Bo knew the house had twenty-four bedrooms, thirty-two bathrooms, an Olympic-sized pool, a state-of-the-art workout facility, a huge living room, and a very attentive staff. But as the convoy paused at a checkpoint, other features were visible, too.

Bo’s trained eye was drawn to the partially screened SAM (surface-to-air missile) launchers, tennis courts that could accommodate four helicopters, and a maze of landscaped retaining walls that would provide defenders with plenty of cover. It seemed that Salazar had reason to be concerned about his personal safety, even here at the heart of his empire.

After clearing the checkpoint, the convoy followed a curving drive up to the house and the shade provided by a portico. Servants hurried to open the doors, and as Bo got out, a boy was there to offer a glass of well-iced lemonade. He took a sip from it as Carla appeared to welcome him home. She was the hostess assigned to Bo’s suite and made the peasant outfit look good.

After conducting a quick assessment of Bo’s current needs, Carla led him back to his room. It was quite large and included both a king-sized bed and a luxurious bath. “Dinner will be served at six,” Carla said. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you,” Bo replied. Carla bowed and backed out of the room in much the same way that a geisha might have.

It would have been nice to call the office on his sat phone. But Bo felt certain that the room was bugged. So he took a nap followed by a shower. Then it was time to get dressed. A dark suit and tie were mandatory according to the “Guide” on Bo’s dresser, and tuxedos were welcome. No mention was made of uniforms, but Bo decided to wear his on the chance that Salazar would be impressed.

Once he was ready, Bo made his way down to the main level, where his fellow guests were gathered in front of a sleek, modernistic bar. The bartenders were backlit by a spectacular fish tank, and soft music was playing in the background, as Bo ordered a bourbon.

That was when the fashionista sidled up next to him. She had predatory eyes, a sculpted face, and was wearing a simple black dress. A cloud of perfume wafted around Bo as she fingered one of the ribbons on his chest. “Tell me about this one, General… How many people did you kill to earn it?”

“None,” Bo replied. “Some guy with an AK-47 shot me.”

The woman was undeterred. Her finger moved to another ribbon. “And this one?”

And so it went until Jorge rang a silver bell. “Dinner is being served in the dining room. Please follow me.”

The dining room was beautifully furnished, in keeping with the rest of the house. A long slab of black granite rested on chrome legs, and was flanked by high-backed chairs.

The table settings were equally modern and laid out with the sort of precision that any general would approve of. Outside, beyond the glass, hundreds of carefully placed lights turned what would have otherwise been a black hole into a twinkling fantasyland.

Jorge was in charge of seating, and Bo found himself sitting between the drug lord and the Ecuadorian businessman. The crime boss was the more interesting of the two, and Bo was quizzing him about the war’s impact on the drug trade when Salazar arrived.

The president was wearing a beautifully tailored tux and went straight to the head of the table, where a glass of cold champagne was being poured for him. As Salazar raised his glass, he invited his guests to do likewise. “¡Viva México!”

“¡Viva México!” the guests replied in unison. Waiters appeared as Salazar took his seat. Dinner began with a small tossed green salad, followed by lentil soup and blesbok steaks. The antelope meat was a first for Bo, and he liked it.

“Nothing goes to waste here,” Salazar assured them. “The rest of the meat was distributed to my employees and their families.” That produced some polite applause although Bo got the feeling that his fellow guests weren’t concerned about what happened to the rest of the meat so long as they had theirs.

Once the meal was over, Salazar led his guests into the living room. It was a large, carefully decorated space, with all the charm of a hotel lobby.

Bo heard a whirring sound as a screen was lowered from a recess in the ceiling. “I thought you would enjoy watching footage of today’s hunt,” Salazar told them. “Especially those of you who actually hit something!”

The statement was framed as a joke, but Bo knew Salazar took the subject of marksmanship seriously and felt reasonably sure that his own performance had been adequate.

The opening shot consisted of an aerial shot captured by Salazar’s drone as it flew over the undulating herd. That was followed by tighter shots captured from a variety of angles, and cut together with the skill one would expect of a world-class TV production company.

But most amazing, to Bo’s mind, was the way in which Salazar’s people had been able to grab a shot of a person firing their weapon followed by video of the hit. If they had a hit—which was not always the case.

The guests appeared one by one, often accompanied by commentary from their host. “That was a very nice shot,” the president said, admiringly, as the fashionista dropped a buck with a bullet to the head. “Maybe next time,” Salazar said, when the Japanese businessman missed. And so on.

Then Bo saw himself. And, according to what appeared on the screen, he proceeded to shoot a blesbok in the ass. “Oops!” Salazar said, as the slow-motion blood mist floated away. “It looks as though General Macintyre is a bit rusty! But never fear… He drops the next one with a clean shot through the heart.” The guests chuckled.

As Bo watched the second animal fall, he knew that he’d been had. His bullet had killed the first animal even as another shooter put a bullet in its butt. Salazar perhaps? Firing quickly, so as to kill more blesbok than anyone else? Yeah, Bo would have been willing to bet on it.

Had Salazar directed his staff to misrepresent what actually occurred? Or did they routinely cover up for him? Bo would never know. Nor, in all truth, did he give a shit. What Bo wanted to do was cut a deal… And to go home.