Savage Rule. Don Pendleton
to be seen. Better to be feared than loved when one of the two must be lacking, as the old saying went….
He swept past the guards as if he barely saw them, and in truth, he didn’t. It had been a very long, very frustrating night, and he hadn’t yet even begun to catalog the damage dealt to their operation on the Guatemalan border. He snarled in reply as one of the guards greeted him respectfully and managed to get the door open before Del Valle rammed it, for the tall, hatchet-faced man didn’t break his stride as he made his way into the anteroom of General Orieza’s private lair.
Orieza’s secretary glanced up, her face as pretty but as stupid as ever. She pursed her lips and greeted him quietly. Her eyes were full of fear, and that pleased him, for she was only too aware of what he could do to her if he chose. Orieza wouldn’t object, at least not too loudly, if Del Valle decided to use the woman and throw her away. Another just like her, even prettier, would be sitting in her chair come the next dawn.
It wasn’t that Del Valle didn’t have his own needs, where women were concerned. He had them on occasion, and when he did, the union was brief and brutal. He had little use for a woman clinging to his arm and making demands of his time; what man would put up with such impositions, truly? And he had no respect for the empty-headed trollops who invariably did serve his purposes. How any man chose to saddle himself with a woman’s constant whining and complaining, he didn’t know. Orieza himself had been married, not so very long ago, and the woman had grated on Del Valle’s nerves. She was forever bitching to Orieza about whatever whims came to her head, demanding his time and diminishing his focus. It had been a relief when Orieza had finally confided to his chief adviser that the general found his wife somewhat of a nuisance. Del Valle had jumped at the chance to arrange an “accident” for the miserable harpy. And Orieza, while he suspected that Mrs. Orieza’s car didn’t perhaps roll over of its own accord that fateful morning, hadn’t asked many questions. The old man was content to spend his time with the slatterns Del Valle’s lieutenants dug up for him. He tired of them quickly, and more than once Del Valle had made use of these castoffs before leaving their broken bodies on the floor for his men to clean up…. But such were the privileges of power.
He paused to survey himself in the full-length mirror that dominated one wall of the opulently appointed anteroom, while the woman fidgeted nervously. He ignored her. His angular, lined face looked back at him as he tried to smooth the creases in his uniform. He wore the same fatigues as did his shock troops, with no insignia of rank whatever. This was an affectation, but a deliberate one. No strutting peacock to dress himself in worthless ribbons and medals, or gold braids and colorful cloth, Del Valle preferred instead to let what he could do speak for itself. His shock troops were loyal to him, and him first, for he had proved time and again that he would deal violently with any challenge to his authority. When the time came, even General Orieza would learn that the blue epaulets on the shoulders of those armed guards surrounding him bespoke devotion to Roderigo del Valle, and not to their “general,” but by then… Well, by then, it would be too late for poor Ramon.
Del Valle frowned at the widow’s peak of stubble prominent on his forehead; it was time to shave his head once more. This was, however, the least of his concerns. His eyes were bloodshot, his uniform stained and torn. He hadn’t paused to change or truly to right himself after making the trip here, using the SUV he had hidden near the advance camp for just that purpose. There had been no time. By now, Castillo’s spies within the ranks of Orieza’s people—and Del Valle knew the Mexican president had them, for he permitted them to remain—would know that the general’s troops had suffered a serious setback on the Guatemalan border. Orieza would have to speak with Castillo, and that meant El Presidente himself would be phoning. Orieza couldn’t be permitted to take the call alone. He would need Del Valle on hand, lest the simpering old fool lose his nerve and back out of the plan.
Del Valle would give his general the courage he needed in dealing with the Mexican. That would be simple enough. Explaining to the general what had happened in the simplest, most casual terms would require a more delicate balancing act. Orieza had to know; it couldn’t be kept from him, lest the fact of Del Valle’s power behind the old man’s throne become too apparent to those with whom the General dealt regularly. There was no benefit to pulling a puppet’s strings if your audience focused on the puppeteer.
Del Valle knew that others considered him paranoid; he had been told as much, by many fools who this day didn’t draw breath. He dismissed them. To hold power, true power, required that one not be the constant target of assassins. Doing what was necessary carried with it many dangers and made many enemies. His shock troops were now camped about the general’s residence, a standing army devoted simply to keeping the old man safe. Let Orieza be a prisoner in his own home, content to play with his women and believing he was commanding legions. Del Valle would be there to reap the true benefits, forever in control, never far from the shadows.
Roderigo had risen through the ranks of the Honduran military, always unofficial, always an “adviser” or a consultant to men of power. Attaching himself to Orieza’s coattails had been simple enough, becoming known and respected as his adviser easy. The old man was handsome and well liked, a silver fox who, in his younger days, had shown much brilliance and inspired much loyalty. But Orieza was no saint. He knew and valued the services a ruthless agent could provide, and Del Valle shrewdly and masterfully played to the old man’s ego while bolstering his failing courage. Creating the shock troops, training them and assigning them their missions had been Del Valle’s brilliant move, and it had served them both well. Orieza liked believing he was protected by a private army within the Honduran military. The shock troops, meanwhile, were fiercely loyal to the man who had elevated them to elite status, to wealth, to almost unlimited license within the world permitted to them. Special privileges, women, weapons, money…the shock troops knew that they benefited greatly from the arrangement. They also knew that these things were conferred on them not by Orieza, but by Roderigo Del Valle.
After orchestrating Orieza’s coup, his rise to true power in Honduras, and after seeing to it that the old man’s claim to governing was shored up by blood and terror through his shock troops and his command of the Honduran military at large, Del Valle wasn’t satisfied. It was he, therefore, who had seen the potential of the oil pipeline. Nationalizing the country’s remaining private concerns had simply been a matter of course, but knowing what to do with those resources…well, that had been Del Valle’s brilliance at work, as well. It was Roderigo del Valle who had concocted the daring scheme to build the pipeline to Mexico, and it was Roderigo del Valle who recognized that a man like President Castillo would be receptive to the power play that Del Valle offered. Of course, Castillo thought all this was Orieza’s doing, and that was as it should be. If it went wrong, Orieza would take the blame. If somehow Del Valle’s hold on power was broken and the regime crumbled, it would be General Orieza’s back against the wall before a revolutionary firing squad.
When you were the power behind the throne, you could hide behind it, too.
But he was drifting. Back to the problem at hand. Castillo would call, would want assurances that the plan was to continue. Del Valle, through Orieza, would provide those assurances. President Castillo would be easily enough placated; he was many miles away, and understood the military might that General Orieza could yet bring to bear. Castillo also had a weakness that Del Valle was happy to exploit: the new Mexican president was a believer. His faith in this La Raza business, this Chicano nationalism, burned deeply in him. His hatred for the United States and his desire to take what he could from the Yankees north of his border would be the carrot that continued to lead him down Del Valle’s garden path. Only Roderigo del Valle would know that it was he who held the stick….
In offering these assurances to Castillo, of course, it was critical that Del Valle shield his general from the shock of the attacks near the Guatemalan border. Above all, Orieza couldn’t be allowed to know the true extent of the damage done.
Del Valle had seen the man. He had seen the big soldier and known him instantly for what he was, this Caucasian with dark hair. There was no way to be sure, but something about him—the way he moved, the equipment he carried, just something indefinable about his bearing—had made Del Valle place him as a an American. Certainly his willingness to invade, to kill, to cut a bloody swath across