Ranger: Through the fire

Sarge,

We settled on a method of attack on what we thought was a long-dormant but well-fortified base of operations for Mercerier. Heraclitus would have been proud.

A few nights ago after the commercial district closed for the night, the piñata shop went dark, though only temporarily. Within the hour, the small fire Heath lit in an adjacent storefront was completely out of control. Given the rush hour traffic jams, and the sorry state of affairs here, it was another 18 minutes before Oaxaca’s bravest were able to arrive. They were greeted by our merry band, outfitted as we were with Oaxacan fire department uniforms and a squad vehicle. The engine company prepared its attack on the fire as we suited up to enter the buildings to search for any civilians. Of course, we knew where a few could be found.

In an effort to keep up appearances, we first entered the taco stand where the grease fire was reported as starting. Working our way quickly to the back of the store with our polehooks and axes, we avoided the engine company which now had two lines hooked up and a good stream pouring into the kitchen. The fire was clearly hot, we felt some of the molten metal conduit pelt our coats as we made our way through the restaurant. At the direction of one of the chiefs, Ramirez used his rabbit tool to force entry on another door to the kitchen before continuing on with us. In the back of the restaurant, in a prep room, we located a heavyset old woman slumped next to a pot of mole sauce. She was still breathing when we found her and apparently had not seen Heath in the restaurant earlier. We were able to pull her out through the back of the restaurant and administer oxygen. We then handed her over to some paramedics. It was unfortunate, Heath should have cleared the area. All things come into being and pass away through strife. I longed for the feeling of administering salvation untainted by the fact that we created the peril.

Finding one civilian on our primary search, we had a strong pretext to search the piñata shop. We found one man just inside the rear entrance of the shop, preparing for a different type of firefight. He initially looked relieved when he saw the firefighters at the back door, until we turned the axes and polehooks on him. Dragging his body through the rear vestibule, we immediately came upon another door. The smoke had descended the better part of the distance to the floor at this point, and we were relatively low, but it was clear the door was steel. Not knowing the conditions behind the door, I had Ramirez try to pry it open.

It was clear the fire had spread to nearby buildings by this point. After a minute or two, Ramirez was able to get the door ajar two or three inches and then open. The room was filled with thick black smoke, which immediately began pumping out from the door. We entered the room blind and moving quickly before I realized Wilson had come across three men who had grabbed him. I approached them and held my hand up, trying to continue our ruse, and to figure out exactly what they were trying to do. At that moment I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes. And then the grenade. He and I rolled for cover, evading the phosphorous. Souls became fire that day. It is a pleasing thing to see the fruition of so many years of training in your men.

Apparently one of Mercerier’s men had avoided the white heat as well. The room burst into flames all around as the brick wall dividing the shop from an attached store started to crumble on top of us. I saw an orange glow and the flash of tracers piercing the smoke. I heard Ramirez start screaming after the first few rounds. After a few moments of silence, the man stepped out of the smoke near me and I brought him down. You cannot step into the same fire twice. Ramirez next emerged flashing me a big thumbs up and a ridiculous smile. He threw the bodies onto the fire.

After that, the building seemed clear. We made our way into the basement where we were able to procure a laptop, some weapons and several documents. We also discovered a passage leading away from the building at which point we decided to leave, perhaps having lost the elements of surprise and mass. We returned to the squad truck, purportedly to refill our air tanks, waiting to make sure no one left through the rear door, until the rear door itself no longer remained.

We then detonated the squad vehicle from a safe distance and our contact, claiming to be a member of APPO placed a phone call to take responsibility for the fire and the attack on four members of the Oaxacan fire department and their vehicle. What a desolate place this is to be able so easily to cover one's tracks.

It is disheartening to leave Ramirez behind, but perhaps some day he will serve a further purpose. He is a hammer where our profession is the scalpel. I have orders to return to Canada where I am reassured some word regarding Deseilligny’s death awaits.

Happy New Year,

Ranger

Ranger: The Cricket

Sarge,

Ramirez and Wilson ate dinner at L’Echalote tonight. I watched them dine through the scope of my VEC-91. I presume whatever they had surpasses the chapulines Ramirez foisted on me this afternoon. The lime helped anyway. I do not think the restaurant itself is privy to the Jacobin plot, but it is crawling with the affluent, decadent Francophiles remaining here in this otherwise impoverished state.

Wilson used the occasion, outside of my direct oversight, to enjoy a glass of Sancerre. I wished he had not. Ramirez, in his usual manner, downed one shot after another. I cannot fathom why they would ever wish to dull their senses in this manner when combat awaits. A time or two I saw a waitress edge in too close. At first, I ached for something to happen, to close my fist and make it all disappear, but the meal passed without incident. They tell me the food was fantastic.

They were able to bring me some chocolate mousse, which I will confess having a certain weakness for. It compares well with the mousse we long ago enjoyed on the Rive Gauche while posing as Sorbonne students. I can recall the dimly lit basement café and the thick distressed wood platter holding a cornucopia of cheeses like it was yesterday. One of your last missives troubles me. Master of escape indeed. My arms have told tales in the past, but only when burn-marked by spent bullet casings. That problem is easily solved. Death awaits us all, there is no need to join him in his Milgram experiment.

The evening did provide us with some information. We followed a small party of Francophones to a commercial district that had emptied at the close of the business week. We conducted some surveillance on the property. Having studied Jomini, I will not risk a direct assault without knowing what danger awaits. I am certain the innocent storefront masks a stronghold. Pinata sales? There are no children here.

I have also carefully reviewed Corporal’s last communiqué. I believe the photos he received were not the photos I sent. Verify the watermark and watch the mails. I received some unclear communications from home. I have a feeling there is something, a truth which is being withheld. The body I saw was riddled with rot and decay. I have sent him home, though notably missing the teeth necessary to make a dental identification, as was clear in the pictures.

I recall one of Toynbee’s favourite haunts back home. When I return, I will pay a visit.

Your brother in arms,

Ranger

Ranger - The snail

Sarge,

Ramirez guided me to an enclave outside of Oaxaca where support for the Emperor has not waned, and where a rare book store offered us many treasures - including a second print edition history of the Pastry War. I believe you will find the book quite interesting. I apologize for the blood stains. Other brown calf-skin bound pages held memories of untold numbers of cigarillos commingled with the writings of the great French masters.

I spent my Christmas trying to figure out what the hell happened to Deseilligny. I long to believe that his death was a good omen, but I cannot when he did not face a commando in the moment of truth. It, and rough seas soured my dinner, at least to the extent that lutefiske can be soured. The mail is slow to reach Corporal in the mountains and I cannot imagine you are in a safer place.

Mercerier was in Mexico for Dia De Los Muertos. Though he is long gone, his imprint on Oaxaca is clear. Starting with the book seller. He confronted me between the stacks, taking note of my interest in Tartuffe and The Learned Ladies, asking whether I would prefer the Spanish or English translation. When I told him my preference was the original French, his face dropped. The sickly green fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling began to flicker as if on cue. The look in his eyes changed from skeptical curiosity to something more martial. He motioned to me to stay and promised he had an antiquities book shelf which he thought would be more to my liking, He then falsely sauntered away, navigating the delicate labyrinthine shelves of the shop, towards a rear egress.

Ramirez was there to meet him. When the book seller unsheathed a small .380 ACP pistol, Ramirez closed the distance, pulling him in by his arm and near simultaneously drawing a knife under his belly. He knocked the man’s draw arm against the bookshelf, which wavered with the blow. The gun and entrails fell to the floor. As the moment stretched out, I had closed the distance and found my hand over the booksellers mouth and my knife to his neck. I felt him trying to scream obscenities before he instead decided to relieve his pain by biting down hard on the blade of my hand. I felt the blood began to flow and brought the knife closer. In a second I realized the situation was too far gone, and that we were already going to be cleaning up a mess, rather than getting information. I ended it.

But Ramirez, clever haruspex bastard, had an idea. Did I mention he was part Mixtec? He started in with the intestines, apparently after he noted a half-eaten snail. There can’t be too many places in town that are selling escargots. Wilson and Heath, back at the safe house, begin the search.

Meanwhile, I am stuck here dragging the book dealer to the back room, setting out wet floor signs and mopping the floor. Ramirez took over the register when another customer walked in less than ten minutes after tonight’s soiree. Strange to see him with the wire rimmed glasses he found in a drawer set upon his nose, struggling to give advice about Ochoa. I smile at the customers and try and explain the blood on the floor by pointing at my heavily bandaged hand. The floor is dark with blood, slick and dangerous now that the overhead light has gone out.

After the customers leave, Ramirez takes great pleasure in asking me if the Royal Ontario Museum was burning, would I rather rescue a painting or a cat. Art is but an imitation of life. And besides the changes to the museum look like hell. I'm not sure I wouldn't just watch the whole place burn down from the McDonald's across the street.

Ranger

Ranger - Through the lens

What a strange turn we have taken. We continue towards Devil’s Island. Indications so far are good that we have picked up a trail. Unfortunately, the jungle has collected its toll. Heath and Wilson now fight malaria.

There is no civilization within a 80 kilometers of our current position and so we have had some time to speak freely. Guiana is an inhuman place indeed. And our communication itself is bad air. I would liken it to Conrad, but I cannot disabuse myself of the notion that it is we who have brought evil to this place and not the converse. Wilson, perhaps affected by his malaria, questions me – “Is it possible we have escaped from the dark canopy of the jungle and found only more darkness?” I think our night vision supports his conclusion.

Every night at dusk we enter our shadow world, gathering the information we can and destroying the rest on the edge of a machete. Every hour is filled with long shadows and long knives. Thoughts erupt like muzzle flashes, how do we gain knowledge when we have come to kill rather than ensnare? Though I recognize that men like Devenuelle, Deseilligny, and Mercerier cannot be left alive long enough to bite down hard on the cyanide capsules I have no doubt they carry. In the case of Devenuelle, as you know, I hope the last thing he remembers was your face. Standing next to his assassin, the sand beginning to sting his eyes, the warmth of his essence running down his chest and out of his extremities with not even the desert sun able to restore it. And that he choked on that memory.

We brush past leaves, past signs of archaic encampments and I find my mind drifting back to training in Yellowknife. And most unusual of all, longing for a dime store Scotch Egg. Hope things are well with both of you. Once we have cleared here, we will conduct our own investigation of the cold trail in Oaxaca.