Kill Decision(105)

* * *


In the cool evening air the courtyard of the hacienda was filled with locals dressed in a wide array of inexpensive, but new, clothing—men in modern slacks with bright print shirts, cowboy hats, and boots; the women in cotton dresses and shawls. The courtyard was strung with white lights, and a stage had been set up against a wall near the garden, on which a large band of guitarists, violinists, vocalists—and even a harpist—were playing. The audience had cleared away tables and was dancing joyously.

McKinney limped along with a cane and stood next to a large tree, observing the festivities. It was a type of Mexican music she’d never heard before. No horns—almost like country or bluegrass. With a lively beat.

The aroma of a whole pig roasting over a fire pit came to her, along with that of vegetables and fruit being grilled. Tequila and beer flowed, along with wine. There were smiling faces and laughter all around her. She remembered this from war-torn areas of the world. No one treasured happy moments more than those going through dark times. Mouse was right about that. Community was what sustained people.

At the far end of the courtyard, among armed militiamen, Odin’s team was gathered in a circle, their arms around each other. Some of them looked seriously inebriated. McKinney could see the grief in their expressions. Smokey in particular wept as Odin rubbed his crew-cut head, comforting him. Foxy raised a beer bottle, and they all poured it onto the ground before them. It appeared to be a memorial rite for their fallen comrade.

Doctor Garza put her arm around McKinney. “How are you feeling, Professor?”

McKinney looked up. “Stiff, but I decided to take Mouse’s advice.”

“Good. You need to exercise the leg. No dancing, though.”

McKinney laughed. “Don’t worry.” She gestured to the band. “I’ve never heard a mariachi band like this.”

“That’s because it’s not mariachi. It’s a conjunto huasteco ensemble—probably a little different to your ears. Oh, look. . . .” She pointed to Foxy, who had suddenly appeared onstage. He grabbed a small guitar as the band urged him to join them. “Foxy has a rare gift for the son huasteco. He must have some Mayan blood in him somewhere.” She grinned mischievously.

McKinney noticed that the group of mourning commandos had already broken up, and Foxy was taking the stage as the audience cheered and shouted encouragement.

“Foxy, toca una canción!”

There was laughter and people clapping. McKinney couldn’t help but smile. On the edge of the gathering there were children as well, dancing and playing. Their laughter was infectious, as they shouted for Foxy to play.

Foxy started boldly strumming his borrowed Spanish guitar, and the crowd roared their approval as he fell in with the rest of the band. But soon he began to play around their music, weaving rhythms in and out as people cheered. He began to sing with a rich baritone voice. It was stirring, passionate music, whose lyrics McKinney couldn’t understand. But that wasn’t quite true. She could feel the bittersweet story in the emotion of music. It was just as Foxy had said back in Kansas City. Music transcended language.

McKinney had to admit the man had talent, all the more surprising given his headbanger proclivities. But she could see the truth in his belief that music connected people. All around them was joy, even amid sadness.

Mouse suddenly appeared out of the crowd and took Doctor Garza’s hand. “Señorita . . .”

Garza laughed and turned to McKinney as he led her to the dance floor. “Excuse me, Professor.”

McKinney smiled. “By all means.”

But just then she also felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Odin. He stood silently for a moment as others moved around them.

McKinney motioned to her cane. “Doctor says I shouldn’t—”

“Follow me.” Instead of heading to the dance floor, he motioned for her to follow him as he headed toward the edge of the crowd. “I need you to see something.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Our guests are only here for tonight.” He was already moving ahead, and she limped after him with the cane. In a few moments it was apparent that he was leading her toward a barn not far from the main house. On the way, just beyond the lights and noise of the celebration, she was surprised to see armed militiamen standing guard in the darkness. They all nodded to Odin as he passed. It reminded her about another truth of war—there were no time-outs.

When they reached the barn, Odin brought her through a gap in the open doors into what appeared to be a workshop. Two men were gathered around a well-lit workbench there, one a younger Asian man, the other a distinguished-looking Mexican man in his fifties. Both were clearly dressed for the party but were now busy examining the damaged drone Odin’s team had reassembled from their encounter in Colorado.