Clip, clop!  Clip, clop!  The sound of the horse’s hooves grew louder as the rider bore down on him.  He could feel the rider’s presence somewhere in the shadows; he knew at any moment, the ghoul would gun him down, or worse.  The thickets began to crowd the alley on either side of him once again; he would dive back into the thorny underbrush and hide like a desert cottontail from his pursuers.

Clip, clop!  Clip, clop!  It felt as if the rider was on top of him now, this was his last chance.  As he passed through the second intersection and prepared to dive into the dense stand of huisache, his heart sank as he saw the rider.  Everything was moving so quickly, it was hard for his mind to process; it had to be a second rider, because he was approaching from the other road.  It mattered not how many there was at this point, they had him; he would fight them though, he would not go easy.  He unsheathed his long cuchilla and prepared for the encounter.

The high pitched squeal of the horse was deafening in his ears and terrifying to his senses; he could feel its hot breath on his face as its nostrils passed within inches of him.  He slashed wildly at the beast, but his wrist was denied the motion as it connected painfully with a quick thrust from a steel-toed, flat-tipped, western boot.  He shrieked in agony and gripped the throbbing hand with the other as the cuchilla clattered to the ground.  The horse slung his head in the direction of the man as it flared its nostrils and snorted menacingly at him.

The rider had watched the soldado flee down the alley in shades of dull green, over the tops of the thickets from his high perch.  He had seen the other rider swiftly approaching the amigo from behind. He had cut down the perpendicular alley and timed his approach perfectly so that he would collide with the man in the intersection.

He flipped his rifle around so that he was holding it by the barrel, as he met the terrified soldado in the dusty junction; as he effortlessly deflected the man’s blind slice, he swung the rifle in a downward arc as a templar knight might swing a mace.  The pointed end of the triangular collapsible stock connected with the side of the amigo’s head, snapping it harshly to the side and sending him into a sidelong tumble.  The hombre’s head slammed against the ground with his jaw slack and eyes rolled far back in his head.

“Let’s get him back to camp; Agent Byers will surely want a word with our friend, if he ever wakes up.”

“Wait; do you hear that?”  He motioned with his rifle as he held onto the reins with the other, “Go around the thicket; I’ll meet you on the other side.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

As the riders returned to the plaza with their quarries, several men from the unit were finishing the task of sinking the SUVs in the lake.  They used the two vehicles that were still operable to tow the others into the lake, and then ferried each out into the dark waters with the four aluminum boats, until the depth was sufficient to completely cover the SUVs.  Reese preferred to leave no trace of their assaults; the mysterious disappearances only fueled their legend, but it also served more practical purposes.  If the cartels did not know who their enemy was, they could not adapt.  If they could not adapt, they would not survive.

It has been said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles; Reese had every intention of remaining unknown for as long as possible.  He needed time to wound the cartels enough to convince the locals in the region that they could resist and win.

As the last of the vehicles disappeared beneath the surface of the lake, the men began to gather inside del Iglesia de Nuestra Señora del Refugio, the Church of Our Lady of Refuge, on the edge of the plaza.  The church’s architecture was distinctly that of a Spanish Mission; its origins could be traced back to the early years of the town, sometime in the eighteenth century.

The roof of the church had been restored years ago in an attempt to preserve the historical structure; aided by the arid climate, the timber rafters were still in respectable shape.  The walls and columns of the iglesia, as well as the other ruins in the villa, were constructed without the use of any mortar; the stones were cut and shaped so that they would fit together perfectly; the fact that many of the structures still stood despite the decades of neglect was a testament to the artisans that labored here long ago.  The men found the sanctuary austere but alluring as they stepped through the arched entrance; their usually hard demeanors were reduced to reverence and deference as they entered the anointed templo.

In the center of the open sanctuary, the men of the unit clustered around the small fire that crackled and popped, as it cast tall shadows that danced on the sandstone walls and arched columns.  The confines of the iglesia would hide the glow of the fire that would otherwise be visible for miles on the open plains; poor light discipline in the borderlands was an open invitation for marauders or cartel scouts.  After weeks under the stars, the church was a welcome enclave for the men; the warmth of a fire always seemed to improve morale.

Reese surveyed the group of men as they filtered into the church; they were a mixture of the best that Texas had to offer him.  The men had already fallen into the practice of assuming call signs to protect their identities; nearly all of the men had taken their names from the fallen defenders of the Alamo Mission.

The group was eclectic and diverse; the three branches of the Texas military were represented – the State Guardsmen from South Padre Island, Army National Guard and Air National Guard – the latter two were jokingly referred to as the TANGs.  There were the six SEALs that opted to stay and defend the island with the guardsmen, the two Texas Rangers that had followed Reese from Houston, and Alejandro, their interpreter and the key to gaining local support.

Reese glanced across the fire at Wash and Pagan, the rangers that never left his side in Houston, and who had insisted on following him to the border.  They were aloof and cautious, and preferred to scout ahead of the party when they were on the plains, so that they could enjoy the solitude it offered.  Though the others were still rather uncertain of them, Reese had seen their loyalty in action in the doomed city of Houston; he trusted them as much as any and was glad they had come.  They were tall and sinewy, with long Texas drawls and quick pistol draws.  Reese surmised that they would have fared just fine had they been born two hundred years prior; perhaps, he reasoned, they may have preferred it.

Reese glanced behind him as the men in the room erupted into applause; the two riders dropped the heavy boar in the dirt just outside the church.

“This is how you do Thanksgiving, boys.  We downed several sows as well; they’re back where we flushed this one out.  We need a couple more to give us a hand getting them back and cleaning them; any volunteers?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A small, windowless, stone structure beside the church had been selected as the site of the four fires needed to cook the javelinas.  The entire plaza was filled with the sweet smell of the wild meat; the sentries on the roof of the church struggled to maintain their post as their mouths watered from the aroma that wafted up to them.  A smiling soldier peeked in the church and shouted to the group of men inside, “It’s ready; come and get it.”

Reese replied, “Men, get your share of the feast and let’s meet back in here before we eat; I have a few words I want to say first.”

The aroma of the pig hung heavy in the church as the eager men filtered back in and found their place around the fire.  As the last man took his place, Reese stood and spoke.