Texas Hero

“Foreign meaning Americans?”

“Americans and anyone else who would put down roots and, hopefully, help stem attacks on settlements by the Commanches and Apaches. Given the proximity to the States, though, it’s only natural that most immigrants were Americans. Led by Stephen Austin, they flooded in and soon outnumbered the Mexican population five to one. It was only a matter of time until they decided they wanted out from under Mexican rule.”

“Those pesky Texans,” Jack drawled.

“Actually,” she replied with a smile, “they called themselves Texians then. Or Tejanos. But they were pretty pesky. Tensions escalated, particularly after General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna seized control of the Mexican government and abrogated the constitution. In the process, he also abrogated most of the rights of the troublesome immigrants. There were uprisings all over Mexico—and outright rebellion here in Texas.

“After several small skirmishes, the Americans declared their independence and sent a small force to seize the Alamo. When Santa Anna vowed to march his entire army north and crush the rebellion, the tiny garrison sent out a plea for reinforcements. William Travis, Jim Bowie and Davy Crockett, among others, answered the call.”

The names sounded like a roll call of America’s heroes. Jim Bowie, the reckless adventurer as quick with his wit as with his knife. Davy Crockett, legendary marksman and two-term member of Congress from Tennessee. William Barrett Travis, commander of the Texas militia who drew a line in the sand with his saber and asked every Alamo defender willing to stand to the end to cross it. Supposedly, all but one did so.

Those who did met the fate Ellie related in a historian’s dispassionate voice.

“When Santa Anna retook the Alamo in March, 1836, he executed every defender still alive and burned their bodies in mass funeral pyres. Or so the few non-combatants who survived reported.”

“But you think those reports are wrong.”

“I think there’s a possibility they may be.”

With that cautious reply, she led the way through the small door set in the massive wooden gates fronting the mission. Inside, thick adobe walls provided welcome relief from the heat. A smiling docent stepped forward to greet them.

“Welcome to the Alamo. This brochure will give you… Oh!” The smile fell right off her face. “It’s you, Dr. Alazar.”

“Yes, I’m back again.”

“Our museum director said you’d finished your research here.”

“I have. I’m playing tourist this afternoon and showing my, er, friend around.”

The docent’s glance darted from Ellie to Jack and back again. Suspicion carved a deep line between her brows. “Are you planning to take more digital photos?”

“No. I’ve taken all I need.”

“We heard those were stolen.”

“They were,” Ellie replied coolly. “Fortunately, I make it a practice to back up my work.”

The volunteer fanned her brochures with a snap. “Yes, well, I’ll let Dr. Smith know you’re here.”

“You’ve certainly made yourself popular around here,” Jack commented dryly.

“Tell me about it! The exhibits are this way.”

Exiting the church, they entered a long low building that had once served as the barracks and now housed a museum of Texas history. Ellie let Jack set the pace and read those exhibits that caught his interest.

They painted a chillingly realistic picture of the thirteen-day siege. There was Santa Anna’s army of more than twelve hundred. The pitiful inadequacy of the defending force, numbering just over a hundred. Travis’s repeated requests for reinforcements. The arrival of the Tennesseeans. The wild, last-minute dash by thirty-two volunteers from Goliad, Texas, through enemy lines. The final assault some hours before dawn on March sixth. The massacre of all defenders. The mass funeral pyres that consumed both Texan and Mexican dead. The pitiful handful of non-combatants who survived.

The original of Travis’s most famous appeal for assistance was preserved behind glass. Written the day after the Mexican army arrived in San Antonio, the letter still had the power to stir emotions.

Commander of the Alamo

Bexar, Fby 24th, 1836

To the People of Texas and All Americans in the World

Fellow Citizens & Compatriots

I am besieged by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna. I have sustained a continual bombardment & have not lost a man. The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion, otherwise the garrison are to be put to the sword if the fort is taken. I have answered the demand with a cannon shot, and our flag still waves proudly on the walls. I shall never surrender nor retreat.

Then, I call on you in the name of Liberty, of patriotism, & of everything dear to the American character, to come to our aid with all dispatch. The enemy is receiving reinforcements daily & will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his own honor & that of his country.

Victory or death

William Barrett Travis

Lt. Col. Comdt

P.S. The Lord is on our side. When the enemy appeared in sight, we had not three bushels of corn. We have since found in deserted houses 80 or 90 bushels & got into the walls 20 or 30 head of Beeves.

Travis.

“Whew!” Jack blew out a long breath. “No wonder the mere suggestion that this man didn’t die at the Alamo has riled so many folks. He certainly made his intentions plain enough.”

Nodding, Ellie trailed after him as he examined the exhibits and artifacts reported to belong to the defenders, among them sewing kits, tobacco pouches and handwoven horsehair bridles and lariats. A small, tattered Bible tugged at her heart. It was inscribed to one Josiah Kennett, whose miniature showed an unsmiling young man in the wide-brimmed sombrero favored by cowboys and vaqueros of the time. Silver conchos decorated the hatband, underscoring how closely Mexican and Tejano cultures had blended in the days before war wrenched them apart.

When Jack and Ellie emerged into a tree-shaded courtyard, the serene quiet gave no echo of the cannons that had once thundered from the surrounding walls. Tourists wandered past quietly, almost reverently.

“Okay,” Jack said, summarizing what he’d read inside. “Susanna Dickinson, wife of the fort’s artillery officer, said that Travis died on the north battery. Travis’s slave Joe said he saw the colonel go down after grappling with troops coming over the wall. They make a pretty convincing argument that William B. stuck to his word and died right here at the Alamo.”

“An argument I might buy,” Ellie agreed, “except that Susanna Dickinson hid in the chapel during the assault. After the battle, she reportedly saw the bodies of Crockett and Bowie, but never specifically indicated she saw Travis’s. She probably heard that he died on the ramparts from other sources.”

“What about Joe’s report?”

“Joe saw his master go down during the assault, then he, too, hid. Travis could have been wounded yet somehow survived. The only document that indicates his body was recovered and burned with the others is a translation of a report by Francisco Ruiz, San Antonio’s mayor at the time. Unfortunately, the translation appeared in 1860, years after the battle. The original has never been found, so there’s no way to verify its authenticity.”

She knew her stuff. There was no arguing that.

“On the other hand,” she continued, “rumors that some of the defenders escaped the massacre ran rampant for years. One held that Mexican forces captured Crockett some miles away and hauled him before Santa Anna, who had him summarily shot. There’s also a diary kept by a corporal in the Mexican army who claims he led a patrol sent out to hunt down fleeing Tejanos.”

Her eyes locked with Jack’s.

“Supposedly, his patrol fired at an escapee approximately five miles south of here, not far from Mission San Jose. The corporal was sure they hit the man, but they lost him in the dense underbrush along the river.”

“Let me guess. That’s the site you’re now excavating.”

“Right.”

It could have happened, Jack mused. He’d experienced the confusion and chaos of battle. He knew how garbled reports could become, how often even the most reliable intelligence proved wrong.

Still, as they moved toward the building that housed a special exhibit of weaponry used at the Alamo, he found himself hoping the theory didn’t hold water. A part of him wanted to believe the legend—that William Barrett Travis had drawn that line in the sand, then heroically fought to the death alongside Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie and the others. Texas deserved its heroes.

The museum director evidently agreed. Short, rotund, his wire-rimmed glasses fogging in the steamy heat, he stood in front of the door to the exhibit with legs spread and arms folded and greeted Ellie with a curt nod. “Dr. Alazar.”

“Dr. Smith.”

“Were you wishing access to those artifacts not on public display?”

“Yes, there’s one rifle in particular I want to show my, er, associate.”

Jack flicked her an amused glance. Obviously, Ellie wasn’t ready to admit she’d been intimidated into acquiescing to a bodyguard.

“I’m sorry,” the director replied with patent insincerity. “I must insist that you put all such requests in writing from now on.”

Ellie’s eyes flashed. Evidently Smith had just drawn his own line in the sand.

“I’ll do that,” she snapped. “I’ll also apprise my colleagues in this and future endeavors of your generous spirit of cooperation.”

She left him standing guard at his post. Jack followed, shaking his head. Elena Maria Alazar might be one of the foremost experts in her field, but she wouldn’t win a whole lot of prizes for tact or diplomacy.

“Damn Smith, anyway,” she muttered, still fuming. “I suspect he’s the one who raised such a stink with the media. He seems to think I’m attacking him personally by questioning his research.”

It sounded to Jack as though the man might have a point there. Wisely, he kept silent and made a mental note to have Mackenzie run a background check on the museum director.

“I’ll show you the images of that shotgun later,” Ellie said as they retraced their steps.

“Why is that particular weapon so significant?”

“It’s a double-barreled shotgun, reportedly recovered after the battle. Records indicate William Travis owned just such a weapon, or one similar to it. It’s almost identical to the one we recovered at the dig.”

Tugging her ball cap lower on her brow to shield her eyes against the blazing sun, she wove a path through the milling crowd outside the Alamo and made for the elaborate, wrought-iron façade of the Menger.

“I wish I could convince Smith that I’m still wide open to all possible theories. And that I have no intention of caving in to threats, obscene phone calls or petty nuisances like putting my requests for access to historical artifacts in writing.”

Her mouth set, she rummaged around in her shoulder bag, dug out a parking receipt and approached the parking valet.

“Why don’t I drive?” Jack said easily, passing the attendant his receipt instead. “I want to get the lay of the land.”

He also wanted to make sure someone skilled in defensive driving techniques was at the wheel whenever Ellie traveled.

She didn’t argue. When the Cherokee came down the ramp, its tires screeching at the tight turns, she tossed her bag into the back and slid into passenger seat. The ball cap came off. With a grateful sigh for the chilled air blasting out of the vents, she swiped the damp tendrils off her forehead.

“Which way?” Jack asked.

“Take a left, go past the Alamo Dome, then follow the signs for Mission Trail.”

Propping her neck against the headrest, Ellie stared straight ahead. For the second time in as many hours, Jack sensed the accumulated stress that kept the woman beside him coiled as tight as a cobra.

“Tell me about these obscene phone calls. How many have you received?”

“Five or six.” Her nose wrinkled. “They were short and crude. Mostly suggestions on where I could stick my theories. One of the callers was female, by the way, which surprised the heck out of me.”

Nothing surprised Jack any more. “Did the police run traces?”

“They tried. But the calls came through the hotel switchboard, and there’s something about the routing system that precluded a trace.”

Jack would fix that as soon as they returned. The electronic bag of tricks Mackenzie had assembled for this mission included a highly sophisticated and not exactly legal device that glommed onto a digital signal and wouldn’t let go.

“See that sign?” Ellie pointed to a historical marker in the shape of a Spanish mission. “This is where we pick up Mission Trail. You need to hang a left here.”

“Got it.”

Flicking on his directional signal, Jack turned left. A half mile later, he made a right. That was when he noticed the dusty black SUV. The Ford Expedition remained three cars back, never more, never less, making every turn Jack did. Frowning, he navigated the busy city streets for another few blocks before spinning the steering wheel. The Cherokee’s tires squealed as he cut a sharp left across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

“Hey!” Ellie made a grab for the handle just above her window. “Did I miss a sign?”

“No.”

He flicked a glance in the rearview mirror. The SUV waited until one oncoming vehicle whizzed passed, dodged a second and followed.

Ellie had figured out something was wrong. Craning her neck, she peered at the traffic behind them while Jack whipped around another corner. When the SUV followed some moments later, he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a single button.

“Control, this is Renegade.”

“Renegade?”

Ignoring Ellie’s startled echo, Jack waited for a response. Mackenzie came on a moment later.

“Control here. Go ahead.”

“I’m traveling west on…” He squinted at the street sign that whizzed by. “On Alameda Street in south San Antonio. There’s a black Expedition following approximately fifty meters behind. I need you to put a satellite on him before I shake him.”

“Roger, Renegade. I’ll vector off your signal.”

“Let me know when you’ve got the lock.”

“Give me ten seconds.”

Jack did a mental count and got down to three before Mackenzie came on the radio.

“Okay, I see you. I’m panning back… There he is. Black Expedition. Now I just have to sharpen the image a little…” A moment later, she gave a hum of satisfaction. “He’s tagged. I’m feeding the license plate number into the computer as we speak. How long do you want me to maintain the satellite lock?”

“Follow him all the way home. And let me know as soon as you get an ID.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks, Mac.”

“Anytime,” OMEGA’s communications chief answered breezily.

Jack snapped the transceiver shut and slipped it into his shirt pocket. A quick glance at Ellie showed her staring at him in astonishment.

“Your company has a satellite at their disposal?”

“Several. Hang tight, I’m going to lose this joker.”

Jack could see the questions in her eyes but didn’t have time for answers right now. The first rule in personal protective services was to remove the pro-tectee from any potentially dangerous situation. He didn’t know who was behind the wheel of the SUV or what his intentions were. He sure as hell wasn’t about to find out with Ellie in the car.

Stomping down on the accelerator, he took the next intersection on two wheels. Ellie gulped and scrunched down in her seat. Jack shot a look in the rearview mirror and watched the larger, heavier Expedition lurch around the corner.

Two turns later, they’d left the main downtown area and had entered an industrial area crisscrossed by railroad tracks. Brick warehouses crowded either side of the street, their windows staring down like unseeing eyes. Once again, Jack put his boot to the floor. The Cherokee rocketed forward, flew over a set of tracks and sailed into an intersection just as a semi bearing the logo of Alamo City Fruits and Vegetables swung wide across the same crossing.

“Look out!”

Shrieking, Ellie braced both hands on the dash. Her boots slammed against the floorboards.

Jack spun the wheel right, then left and finessed the Cherokee past the truck with less than an inch or two to spare. Smiling in grim satisfaction, he hit the accelerator again.

The bulkier Expedition couldn’t squeeze through. Behind him, they heard the squeal of brakes followed by the screech of metal scraping metal. Still smiling grimly, Jack made another turn. A few minutes later, he picked up Mission Trail again, but this time he headed into the city instead of out.

“We’d better put off our visit to the site until tomorrow,” he told Ellie. “By then I should have a better idea of who or what we’re dealing with.”

“Fine by me,” she replied, wiggling upright in her seat.

Actually, it was more than fine. After that wild ride, her nerves jumped like grasshoppers on hot asphalt, and her kidneys were signaling a pressing need to find the closest bathroom.

Jack, on the other hand, didn’t look the least flustered. He gripped the steering wheel loosely, resting one arm on the console between the bucket seats, and divided his attention between the road ahead and the traffic behind. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored sunglasses, but not so much as a bead of nervous sweat had popped out on his forehead.

“Do you do these kinds of high-speed races often in your line of work?” she asked.

“Often enough.”

“And you’ve been in the same business since you left the Corps?”

“More or less.”

“How do you handle the stress?”

He flashed her a grin that reminded her so much of the man she’d once known that Ellie gulped.

“I’ll show you when we get back to the hotel.”

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