May 23, 2001
3:04 P.m.
The Thirsty Horse, The lonely Road, Arkansas
A tap on the window woke him up.
Jack opened his dreary blue eye, his mouth wide in yawn as he threw his arms out to stretch, his short sleeved beige shirt bought on clearance thick with perspiration. During the long trip from South Carolina to California, he had fallen asleep in Alabama. These road trips were just what he needed to catch up from long nights, assuming he wasn’t interrupted.
It was Fred at the window, one hand against the glass while the other held the leash tied to Max. Groaning, the old soldier opened the door and stepped out, stretching again as he looked the Spaniard and asked “What’s up?”
“Master Daines says that he wants to get into California by tonight, meaning this will be our last rest stop until we’re empty. He suggested you go to the wash now, unless you don’t intend on drinking anything.”
“He did… alright. I’ll grab something to eat as well… how are you doing on blood?”
“Ate before we left, sir. I won’t need nourishment for a few days.” Fred answered, his eyes glinting at the reference to his true nature. With the matter settled, he yelled at Max and made him back away from sniffing the butt of a particularly large and heavy man, one that looked as if he hadn’t changed in several days. Strange sights for a strange trip, one that the butler in his usual dress pants and waist coat tried to distance himself from as he began to walk away, looping around the station as to make the dog work out all the pent up energy before they made the next part of their long trek.
Fine by Jack. He needed to work out his legs as well; strutting around the V8 interceptor, he answered another question as he found the FBI agent refilling the car, performing what was normally Trevor’s duty as he impatiently waited for the huge tank to refill, pushed towards near empty.
“Aren’t you hot in that suit?”
“Not really. I’m from Salta, one of the hottest parts of Argentina. Love the heat.”
“Good for you… I lived in the Middle East for a few decades and never got used to it… must be in the blood.”
Taking a position next to the middle aged man, Jack finally took the time to pay attention to his face and finer details of his physique; taller than Jack, but not enough to be considered extraordinary. Weaker, muscle mass about even with fat. His hair was longer than what the military allowed, but still shorter than most men his age. Early thirties, perhaps the twilight years of his twenties… the wrinkles that came from constant focused thought made Jack think the latter. That Lopez’s face was still unblemished from scars but had the small presence of acne around his ears seemed to help that hypothesis.
So much he could take away from that, though it still equaled almost nothing. Leaning against the stall of the do it yourself gas distributor, the one eyed man asked “You know… never caught how you knew me.”
“Until a few days ago, I didn’t. When I noticed the racial killing in LA, I contacted Major Jayden; this is her type of good work she likes to do. She couldn’t because of the little job Moore has her on, but she told me all about you. Believe me, I thought I heard of everything when I learned about the FTMs… I’ve started saying my prayers again the second she told me who you’re trying to be.”
So he knew pretty much everything. “Not a lot of people get let in… Especially those I don’t hear about. What’s your story, Agent Lopez? What makes you special…”
The man reached up to his collar, pulling it down to reveal a bar code, as if he was a product purchased from that very super market that Trevor was in. “I mentioned how I immigrated after the death of my parents in the dirty war… I wasn’t adopted. I was bought.
“As Latin populations continue to grow in the United States, the government needs special agents and employees they can trust with the absolute faith without worry of sympathy or corruption, no matter the plight of our people. They’ve been buying children ever since they found themselves unable to deal with the Zoot Suit riots back in World War II… to this day, we don’t even get a cool name like the English do with their BOND program. We’re just the Latins, the help they bought with guns and dirty bills.”
“Hm… I was aware of the Americans doing something like this, but I haven’t met any agents until now. I’m sorry… though you seem more sarcastic than bitter.”
“Because I stopped caring about being a tool rather than a person long ago.” The FBI agent replied, pulling his collar back up as he became the prime example of a good serviceman. “If I remained in Argentina, I would have died within a few years. If I hadn’t, if I did get adopted by a good family, I still would have a very astronomically low chance of having a better life than what I’m living right now. Have I abandoned my heritage? Yeah…
“But what’s better? The ideal of being a true Latino, or living like the gringos in the greatest nation on Earth? Even those in poverty here are thousands of times better off than about two thirds of humanity, thanks to government aid and just the quality of these lands. Hell, average agent makes sixty thousand dollars a year; I make one ten. I have nothing to complain about except that I’m only Hispanic in name and blood.”
“So you’re not Joaquin?”
The Hispanic man laughed, a hearty laugh that did betray he had been absorbed into the lands he worked for. “Rodolfo is a good man, but an idealist; the country now is far more accepting of Hispanics, but they view their culture the same way civilians view war museums. Cool to visit and analyze as long as it’s far away from home. You can be Esponala now with pride, but only at a cost; I wouldn’t have made it this far if I hadn’t decided to be a Gringo in disguise.”
“Do you regret that?”
“When I go to parties, communicate with my people in my mother tongue… in those moments I do. But when I leave the huts and communities and board private jets and hunt down bank robbers… then no. It just depends what mood you catch me in.
“Speaking of which, why aren’t we flying? It would be so much easier and quicker.”
“Because flying leaves us exposed and a bigger paper trail than driving.”
The duo turned to find Trevor limping forward, his metal leg and missing arm exposed to the sun light from the khaki shorts and tank top he wore, the only one smart enough to dress down for the long car ride to the west. It wasn’t as if he needed to; as a FTM, his body was naturally cold. That he wore this style indicated that he just wanted a tan, something few vampires could maintain given the way their cells were transformed with time.
“Boss, I got you some chips and a hot dog. That good enough for ya or do you have the munchies today?”
“Should be fine.”
“Then good. We’re behind schedule; let’s get going!”