Betrayed Page 6

  Near Carranza, Mexico

  If there was one thing Pietro Sanchez knew how to do, it was grow corn. His crop yields stayed high even when farmers in surrounding regions had trouble with drought or corn blight. Pietro's harvest was always bountiful. Agriculturists always attributed his good fortune to his proximity to the Carranza River and the loamy soil it helped produce over thousands of years.

  Pietro knew the real reason. God had blessed this land. The proof of that lay just meters away in the caves.

  He examined his stalks carefully. The rows alternated in height, one row four feet tall, the other three, and so on throughout his field. In addition to good soil, good sun, and good water, Pietro knew the real secret in growing corn lay in how well the stalks pollinated each other. To help the bees and other insects, he planted every other row two weeks after his first planting. That way when the wind blew the pollen grains from the taller plants, they landed on the shorter plants. Though God blessed his land, a little agricultural know-how also helped, Pietro thought.

  Today he hummed a soft melody as he examined the pastel green underside of a corn leaf. A bead of sweat trickled down his sideburn and cheek, snaking a small rivulet through the dust from the field that powdered him and his clothes. He heard the swish of legs making their way through his crop of young stalks, but thought nothing of it. People making their way to the caves often wandered off course. Others deliberately veered off the path believing they might find a shortcut through the fields. Pietro did not even turn around when the approaching footsteps stopped.

  "You are Señor Pietro Sanchez?"

  Pietro, still bent over his young stalk of corn, pivoted toward the voice and looked over his shoulder. He saw not one man but three, all in uniform, one with the insignia of an army general. The two junior men held rifles. The general had his hand propped on the leather holster that covered his sidearm. "Si. To what do I owe the honor, Generalissimo?"

  General Omaga spat into the dirt beside his dust covered boots. "I am afraid the tax rolls reveal you have avoided paying the full amount due to the government on this land for the past several years."

  Pietro stood erect. "And how is it that matters of taxes warrant the attention of the military?"

  "I would watch your words carefully, old man," the general said. The two other men nodded approvingly.

  Pietro gave a slight bow of his head. "My apologies, general, but as you should know, in our country it is seldom that we get to the point of a matter so suddenly." As he spoke, he gestured back and forth between himself and the general and then turned slightly as if to return to tending to his crop.

  "I have no time for your old fashioned pleasantries," the general said, his eyes narrowing. "As you should know, Señor Sanchez, these are unpleasant times."

  "Times are indeed bad when we discard our civility in the name of security," Pietro said. He noticed the general's face redden. It appeared as if the man were ready to explode in anger, so Pietro put up his hand to halt the man's response, "But you are here about my taxes, you said. In truth, general, your information is mistaken. This land has been in my family for generations. It is paid for, and all I pay are taxes, which I keep current."

  "The records in Saltillo say otherwise."

  "Sadly then, those records," Pietro said spreading his arms and sighing deeply, "are mistaken."

  Then general squinted, his face becoming angry. He took slow deliberate steps toward Pietro until he was just inches from the man's nose. His two armed guards marched in lock step behind him, so they, too, were close and intimidating. "Sanchez. I did not come here to enter into a debate with a stupid farmer. I came to tell you that you are in default on your land, and that within thirty days, I will claim it in the name of the military for border defense." Omaga held the man in his glare and continued, "You have four weeks to vacate these premises."

  Pietro remained eerily calm. "And if I do not?"

  Omaga reached down and grasped one of the young stalks, its stem and tender leaves waxy in his grip. He ripped it from the soil, grains of sand falling from its fibrous roots back to the earth as he lifted it chest high. "Then you and your family will make nice fertilizer for this patch of garden."

  Chapter 15

  Columbia, South Carolina

  Three weeks had passed. Twenty-one long, dreary days. The phone calls between Steve Curtis and William Pierce, which at first had taken place sometimes several times an hour, had dwindled to one every other day or so. Every favor Austin's father tried to call in met with either stonewalling or vague promises to "do what we can." Despite all the emails and the few phone calls he and Rico had exchanged, there were only so many times you could tell somebody to hang in there, before even the phrase itself sounded phony and tired.

  Austin sat at his computer, his stare blank, as he surfed the Internet for something, anything, interesting. He heard the familiar ping of an incoming instant message. His face brightened. It was Rico!

  Rico413: 'Sup?

  AP316: Nothn much. Just surfing. U?

  Rico413: Trying to stay cool. It's HOT down here. Decided I'd come in to the internet café and see if you were online. How's your mom and dad?

  AP316: OK, I guess. I'm pretty much keeping to myself lately. We all just sort of pass each other without talking about "IT."

  Rico413: IT?

  AP316: Yeah, you know…U guys and what's going on.

  Rico413: Don't sweat it.

  AP316: k.

  AP316: you ever decide on school?

  Rico413: Yep. Mom and Dad decided I'd enroll next year if we're still here. too late to try to get in now.

  AP316: Sweeeet! So no school for you. Wish I could swing that deal.

  Rico413: Not too sweet. Dad's able to keep up with his clients by email. Some of them don't even know we're gone. So he works from home and even if he didn't wake me up every day by 7 (which he does!) all that bangin' around he does would wake me up anyways.

  AP316: So what do you do all day?

  Rico413: U mean u don't know?

  Rico didn't respond for at least a minute-and-a-half. Austin wondered how he could drop this little nugget of a question and then disappear.

  AP316: There?

  AP316: Rico??

  AP316: HEY!!!!

  Rico413: Sorry. Somebody wanted directions…like I know my way around this place still. Ha!

  AP316: Whatever…so what is it I don't know?? Spill it, man…

  Rico413: Your mom still sends me the lesson plans. She told my mom even though I couldn't get certified or tested or whatever, I should still keep up with the stuff so I don't fall behind. My mom agreed…lucky me!

  AP316: Yep. Moms…gotta love 'em.

  Rico413: So I do the lessons

  Rico413: And then usually hang out with my cuzn Veronica when she gets home from school.

  AP316: I didn't know you had a girl cousin

  Rico413: Yes you did.

  AP316: Nope…didn't.

  Rico413: I talked about her that time at youth group. Remember when Tommy's kid brother got his head stuck in the slats at the communion table and we were talking about people doing stupid stuff. And I talked about the time Veronica's dad took his shirt off at the dinner table 'cause it was so hot and she went to school the next day and told the teacher they ate dinner naked at her house?

  Austin thought for a minute. He drew a complete blank and had to mentally go over almost the entire memory of the event in his head. Then like a switch turning on in his brain, he remembered.

  AP316: Oooooooooh…that cousin. But I thought you said his name was Ronny?

  Rico413: It was…RONI…is a SHE.

  AP316: But now she's Veronica?

  Rico413: She's older now. (She's our age, but she acts like she's 20 sumpn')

  AP316: Women!

  Rico413: Right?

  Rico413: Speaking of the chica, she ought to be home soon, so guess I better cut out in a minute.

  AP316: Aw, man…

  Ric
o413: Got to, dude. Once she's out of school, she's out in the street havin fun. If I miss her, she won't wait. That means I miss the fun.

  AP316: Gotcha…ah'ight. Later. B4N.

  Rico413: L8R

  Chapter 16

  Katie Glaser had taken Rico's place as the number two person on the Buskro in the mail room. In the last three weeks Austin noticed that one of the great things about the machine was that it made so much noise that talking to your co-workers was next to impossible and, therefore, not required. He and Katie were coming to the end of a mail run for a county council candidate from somewhere in Indiana when Austin noticed a strange face in the room. A tall, muscular man with dark, graying hair walked around the warehouse drawing on a legal pad. As the last piece of mail cleared the conveyor belt, Austin shut the machine down and walked over to the man.

  "May I help you with something?"

  "No. Not at this time, but thank you." The man answered in a heavy Russian accent thick as borscht. He kept drawing on his pad.

  "Um…my name is Austin Pierce. My dad owns the place." Austin stuck out his right hand and the man immediately smiled and shook his hand with so much strength and enthusiasm, Austin thought he might tear it off his arm.

  "Ah…young Austin Pierce. Yes. I have heard a lot about you from your father. He said you basically run this side of the operation for him. I must consult with you on my project." He pointed to himself with the hand that held his pen and then produced his business card. "I am Konstantine Pavlovich." Austin took the card and without looking at it, he put it in his back pocket. "I am mechanical and structural engineer. Your father wishes to purchase a larger machine to print his mail. I am here to see whether your floor needs, how would you say…reinforcement…for weight of new machine and whether building will handle increased vibration without rattling down on top of you." Konstantine smiled and rapped his knuckles on the walls of the steel Hoover building they were in. "Would be bad to have building fall in on you, no?" He smiled again and gave a deep, hearty baritone laugh.

  Austin smiled for the first time in days. He couldn't help it. This guy seemed like quite a character. And he talked to Austin like an adult, which most of his father's clients did only when they were actually in front of his father. Otherwise he got treated like just another grunt. Like just another fruit picker. "Nice to meet you Mr. Pavlovich," he said. "Whatever I can do, I'll be glad to." He caught himself saying his sentence with the same rhythm as his new acquaintance, and smiled again.

  "First thing you do, call me Konstantine. Second, may we sit at your table and you tell me a little about this machine you have now?"

  "Sure." Austin told everyone else to take a break and let the Buskro cool. Then he and the man made their way to the break table to talk. "So, Konstantine, your accent. Are you Russian?"

  "Pah!" The man almost coughed out the expression. "Please do not insult me." He smiled another wide grin. "I am from Ukraine. A rich country. Very beautiful. Russians believe they are so much better, but all you have to do is cross border and you see how much nicer Ukraine is compared to old Soviet Union."

  "Cool." Before he asked his next question, Austin looked down at his hands that fiddled with a discarded straw wrapper. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you wind up here in the States?"

  "I immigrated almost eight years ago. My whole family did–my mama, my papa, my brother, my wife, and our son."

  "But if Ukraine is so beautiful, why did you come here?" Austin asked.

  Konstantine seemed to consider the question, then pursed his lips and answered matter-of-factly, "Well, there is not a lot of opportunity there. Only so much money you can make. Gangs and drugs and crime are in the streets. I want my son to have good chance at making something of himself."

  Austin tore the straw paper in half and tossed it to the floor. "There's crime and gangs here. And I'm not sure we're the 'land of opportunity' we used to be." Austin made quote marks in the air with his fingers and sighed heavily.

  The Ukrainian leaned in and almost whispered. "Something is weighing on your mind for you to say things like this, young Mr. Pierce."

  "Austin, please." The guest nodded slightly as Austin got up from the table and headed to the small refrigerator. "Would you like something to drink? I would like to ask you something."

  "Yes. A Coke would be nice."

  Austin handed the man an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola dripping with condensation, got one for himself, and told him Rico's story. Austin had just met the man and barely knew him, but all the same, he felt a deep resonance about him–something he could trust without hesitation. When he finished, he took a long slow draw on his Coke and rolled his shoulders as if he had released a great load of stress.

  "Austin," Konstantine began in a slow deliberate voice. "I certainly understand your friend's desire to stay here in United States. If someone were to tell me I had to leave, I cannot say what I would do. I would not go willingly. This truly is greatest country in the world and I am proud of my citizenship." He shifted in his seat. "In the 1980s, I was drafted in Soviet Army to invade Afghanistan. I stayed in the freezing cold mountains of that God-forsaken country for two years doing electronic surveillance. I hated every moment of it. But if United States needed me to go today, right now, I would go no questions asked. This is how much I love this country.

  "Yes, you have gangs and crime. I know more than most with my accent how this part of country especially looks suspiciously at foreigners. People hear me talk and do not know if I am Boris Karloff or Ivan the Terrible." Konstantine laughed again.

  Austin crinkled his brow and looked at him with a squint-eyed stare. "Who's Boris Karloff?"

  "He is old actor. You're missing point of joke, but never mind. Point is, this is wonderful country. You must tell your friends to do whatever it takes to get citizenship and get back."

  Austin was about to speak when the door of the building burst open. It banged hard against the steel wall and a man walked in wearing a dark blue vinyl jacket emblazoned with large reflective yellow lettering that read "I.C.E."

  "I'm Agent Boling with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I'd like everyone to come take a seat at the table."

  Chapter 17

  The big Ukrainian began to stand up, when the federal agent yelled, "I said sit!"

  "First, let me see badge," Konstantine said. The agent flipped open a black wallet, held his hand at shoulder height, and displayed a gold oval badge and a photo I.D. Upon seeing it, Konstantine took his seat.

  "Now," the agent said. "I want everyone to slowly reach in their pockets and produce a driver's license or some other picture identification."

  Each of the males leaned up and felt for their wallets. Katie stood and took a step toward the desk nearest the break table. "Sit! Sit down young lady. Where do you think you're going?" The agent was screaming like some rabid dog, spittle spraying from his mouth.

  Katie's lip began quivering. "All I have is my student ID and it's in my purse over there," she said pointing to the desk.

  Austin saw a look in Konstantine's eyes. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but it gave him an uneasy feeling. "This is exactly what I meant by the 'land of opportunity' comment, Konstantine."

  The man nodded his understanding. Austin then turned to the law man. "Are you happy now Agent Boling? You've made a girl cry. And you've made the rest of us about crap in our pants. I doubt my dad knows you're here, but I'll be glad to go get him next door."

  "Why you just go and do that. He and I need to have a little chat anyway."

  Austin stood up and walked past the man. As he approached the Buskro machine, he mumbled, "I'll be right back, jackass."

  "What did you say, son?" The agent screamed after him.

  But Austin let the door swing shut.

  Less than a minute passed before the door banged open again, this time the sound twice as loud as when Boling had burst in. William Pierce stormed the building, his face eight shades of red, his chest bowed, and his fi
sts balled. "What the hell is going on in here?"

  "Well, Mr. Pierce," the agent said. "We've received a complaint that you are employing illegal aliens in your business here and we'd like to see your documentation."

  "And who might have filed that complaint agent?" William's eyes looked like they might burst from their sockets.

  "I'm afraid that's classified."

  "Then let me see a warrant entitling you to be here."

  "Now, Mr. Pierce, given your vast experience in politics, you of all people should know that I'm not required to reveal the existence of any such warrant."

  Though William was still seething, Austin could see he had calmed down some, and that his dad was beginning to think. His chest was still heaving and his thumbnail hadn't quite gone between his teeth, but he could see the wheels turning. "And you thought you might find my employment records here in the mailing warehouse? Do I understand that right?"