Savage Rule by Don Pendleton

Author:Don Pendleton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Worldwide Library
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

“With the hated Anglos driven back from whence they came,” Tristan Zapata roared at the camera, “we, the proud people of Mexico, will finally achieve the greatness that has been denied us for so many years! Long have we suffered. Long have we waited. Long have we—” He stopped abruptly as the cameraman lowered his device. “What are you doing?”

“The tape is full, sir.” Eduardo Lima shook his head.

“Put in another, then.”

“Respectfully, sir, have we not enough of this footage?”

“We have enough when I say so!” Zapata yelled. He relented nonetheless. “Very well. Put it with the others. Pack up the camera gear. Ready your crew. And bring me the clothing.”

At the rear of the conference room, three dozen men and women sat or knelt with their arms crossed. They had been ordered to remain in that position, and told that to look upon their captors meant death. Zapata had personally executed a shrill, screaming woman to make that point. It had taken only that single death to bring the others in line. Anglos. They were all cowards. It was a wonder their kind had ever managed to hold sway over La Raza, the Race, the people for whom his freedom-fighting organization was named. A pair of guards with M-16 rifles stood over them now.

Lima hastened to obey Zapata’s orders. As much as Zapata berated the man, he was among his more reliable operatives. As much as he hated to admit it, the members of La Raza, while committed to the cause of reclaiming the occupied lands that were rightfully theirs, weren’t a terribly disciplined band.

Tristan Zapata had always believed himself a distant relative of Emiliano Zapata, the famous and tragic revolutionary. The branches on the family tree weren’t there, strictly speaking, but it didn’t matter. He styled himself as the descendent of Mexican revolutionaries, and in revolution, in the fight for freedom, symbol was more important than substance. If he believed it, it didn’t matter if it was true. And if he believed it, others would.

Born to wealthy parents who lived in Mexico City, Tristan had attended college at a prestigious university in California. There, he had learned to hate the Anglo way of life, to hate the lies told by those who believed it superior, to hate the racists he saw in every facet of American culture. The Anglos and their European forebears had dominated the world, always keeping the Mexican people under their heel. Those of Hispanic descent were destined to suffer as long as the Anglos held power. Capitalism, corporatism, mercantilism, imperialism…these were the forces Zapata came to hate more than anything, evils synonymous with the smiling, pale face of the Anglo.

Tristan dropped out of college, much to his parents’ horror, in his junior year. Then he was off to travel Europe, as so many dissipated, disaffected youth did when they had unearned money in their pockets and endless time on their hands. It wasn’t until Zapata was arrested in London for attempting to bomb a subway stop that his parents disowned him.

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