Remember The Alamo by William W. Johnstone;J.A. Johnstone Page B

that way."
    "The politicians are just scared," Dave said. "And to tell you the truth, too many immigrants still consider themselves Mexicans first and Americans second. That's the real reason Alvarez and his buddies on the City Council are doing this. They
want to lock up those votes for all time. They'll probably get
away with doing it, too "" An odd look came into Dave's eyes.
"Some people don't like what's going on, though. I'm beginning to think they're right to want to do something about it."

    "What can anybody do?" Belko asked. "You know the old
saying. You can't fight City Hall. That goes double or triple for
Washington."
    Dieter took a deep breath and then said on impulse, "We can
make our voices heard. Those of us who were there that day,
those of us who survived, can make it clear we don't appreciate our country caving in to those who want to harm us ""
    "Yeah," Dave said, "you're right. I realize we just met,
Dieter, and I know this is a terrible time to be intruding on
you, but there's a guy I think you ought to meet and talk to. His
name is Phil Cody..."
    Three hundred yards away, behind another line of trees on
another hilltop in the cemetery, a man lowered the tiny but
high-powered pair of binoculars he had been using to watch
the conversation on the other hill. Like most men in his line of
work, he had some lip-reading skills, but he had been able to
pick up only bits and pieces of the discussion.
    Still, what he had made out was worrisome. Trouble was
shaping up, and as the man turned to walk away, he thought
that his boss was definitely going to want to hear about this.

     

    Silvio Cruz was just the driver. He didn't know what happened when the men he was driving around Matamoros got out
and went inside the buildings where he stopped, and he didn't
want to know. He just followed the list he had been given, stopping here and then here and then here, and at each place, the
men went inside and Silvio's hands clenched on the steering
wheel as he heard the noises that soon followed.
    But he didn't know what was going on. He liked it that way.
    He liked being able to sleep at night.
    A small man, closing in on fifty with the gray in his hair
and mustache to prove it, Silvio had spent almost his entire
adult life working for the cartel, although his family didn't
know that. They thought he still had the same mechanic's job
he had held for a short time before one of his bosses at the
garage recruited him to handle the driving on a pickup of
goods from Monterrey. Although cars were sometimes actually repaired at the garage and body shop where Silvio
worked, the place's real business consisted of hiding drugs so
skillfully in old cars that they could be smuggled across the
border that way. The junkers were fixed up just well enough to
run, driven across the bridge, and then dismantled in another garage in Brownsville, where the shipment was recovered and
sent on its way up the distribution chain, where most of it
wound up going up the noses of gringo idiots.

    Silvio's job at first had been to put those old cars in running
order, but when his bosses sent him on that run to Monterrey,
a rival gang had tried to hijack the shipment while Silvio was
on his way back. He had driven like a madman to escape them,
handling the car with a touch of genius, according to the
gunmen who had been sent along to guard the shipment.
When they reported as much, the bosses had decided that
Silvio was squandering his true talents by spending his days
replacing carburetors and hoses and belts.
    From then on, he was a driver. Any time a job possessed an
element of danger and fast, skillful wheel work might be
needed, Silvio was the man to call.
    He tried not to think too much about what he was doing. The
money was much better than he had ever earned as a mechanic,
and as the years passed and his family grew, as did his need for
money, he became accustomed to not thinking.
    Tonight he had made