by Don Winslow
They’re still small players.
But the 2016 reality is that the big players will have to put together coalitions of a lot of small players. La Oficina operates in Aguascaliente, in the Federal District. As Tito has created a presence in Mexico City, it would be good to have an ally perched on his flank to worry him. Good but not essential, Ric thinks, and he hopes that his father doesn’t give away too much for what might be a slight advantage.
Then again, the alliance is as much preventive as aggressive. Tito would like to consolidate his power in the District by securing his flank, and an agreement here with La Oficina would prevent that.
“I am painfully aware,” Núñez says, “of the long-standing tensions between the Tapia wing of the organization and ourselves. Bitterness and mistrust remain. But we have apologized for what we now recognize as mistakes . . . injustices, really . . . in our past treatment of the Tapia brothers. You have suffered some of those injustices. But the past is the past, and all we can do now is sit down together and inquire how we can move forward.”
“Cut the shit,” Callarto says. “We need an outlet for our product. Can you help us or not?”
“Did Tito turn you down?”
“We haven’t gone to him. Yet.”
García says, “We thought we’d come to old friends first.”
“What do we get in return?”
“Loyalty,” Callarto says.
“Loyalty is a concept,” Núñez says. “I was hoping for something more concrete.”
“What do you want?”
Núñez smiles. “I don’t bid against myself.”
“If you need action against Jalisco in the District,” Callarto says, “we’ll jump in.”
“With both feet?” Ric asks. “Into the deep end?”
“Within reason,” Callarto says.
Within reason, Ric thinks. That translates as “as long as we think you’re winning.” They think my father is weak, they think they can take advantage of it. He says, “We don’t need any fair-weather friends.”
Núñez puts his hand up. “Ric—”
“No, these guys are playing us,” Ric says. “They’ll take our routes and leave us in the lurch when we need them.”
He can see it in Callarto’s eyes.
“I’m not asking for your loyalty,” Ric says. “I’m demanding it. You get back on board or we’ll crush you like the bugs you are.”
“You’re a pretty confident kid,” Callarto says.
“I’m not a kid,” Ric says.
“Maybe Tito will offer us a better deal.”
“He will,” Ric says. “But he can’t deliver on it.”
“He can deliver the Tecate crossing to us,” Callarto says.
“We’ll take it back,” Ric says. “We’re winning in Baja. We’re winning in Acapulco, all of Guerrero. Mazatlán’s a done deal. You pick the wrong side of this and we’ll bury you.”
“Let me ask you something,” Callarto says. “Who the fuck are you to talk to us like that?”
“I’m the Godson,” Ric says. “Now let me ask you something: How many men do you have outside?”
Callarto glares at him. Then says, “I heard you grew up. I guess I heard right. Okay, we’ll—”
Blood splatters Ric’s face.
Callarto’s mouth is gone, a gaping maw.
He slides from his seat.
Ric lunges at his father and pulls him to the floor. Bullets zip over them, smack into the walls, shatter china. García snakes across the floor toward the back door. Blood pools beneath Callarto’s head, his dead eyes stare at the ceiling.
Ric crawls to the window, risks a look out.
Four SUVs and a canopied flatbed truck form an arc in front of the house. All the vehicles are marked cjn. Sicarios shoot from behind car doors. His own men are scrambling for cover—some return fire from behind the trees, others from the cars, others lie on the ground, dead or wounded.
Ric pulls his Sig 9, shatters the window with the butt and fires out.
He lets loose five shots and then a round jams in the chamber. Pulling out, he leans his back against the wall and tries to clear it. Belinda has shown him how to do it a dozen times, but he can’t seem to get it done as bullets come through the window.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He has to get out of there.
Has to get his father out of there.
Ric looks back out the window. Three of his vehicles are there, but one is gone. Either they took off or they’re coming around the back of the house. Some of his guys stand with their hands over their heads. CJN sicarios pull them toward the truck and shove them in.
Crawling back to the table, he grabs his father by the elbow. “Stay low.”
They crawl out of the kitchen through the small living room, past the old sofa, a coffee table, an ancient television set.
Ric sees the back door.
Open where García went through.
He gets his dad into the doorway and looks out.
One sicario stands outside.
Ric makes himself breathe.
Makes himself get calm and then clears the jam in the pistol and jacks another round into the chamber.
He has to make the shot good. Aligning the sight center mass, Ric holds the gun in both hands and squeezes the trigger.
The sicario falls back, dropping his gun.
Three of Ric’s people roar up in an SUV. The passenger door flies open. Ric pushes his father ahead, jams him into the passenger seat and then hops in himself.
The car takes off.
If there’s no back road out, they’re dead.
The car smashes through a fence into a pepper field.
They four-wheel through the deep dry dirt, down a gentle slope, and then hit the river. No choice but to try it. The driver sets it in the water and eases his way across. Up to another field until they hit a dirt road. Find their way onto the highway back to Culiacán.
Ric feels blood flow down his face.
Wonders if he was hit, then feels up to his hairline and realizes it’s slivers of glass. Pulls down the sunshade, looks into the mirror and pulls them out.
“You okay?” he asks his father.
Núñez nods. “Who was it?”
“Tito.”
“Now he has the nerve to hit us in Sinaloa,” Núñez says.
Yeah, it’s not good, Ric thinks.
Not good.
He blinks the blood out of his eyes.
“The fuck, man?” Iván asks over the phone. “In El Vergel? Tito has some fucking balls on him. Is your old man okay?”
“He’s a little shaken up,” Ric says, “but he’s okay. We had two of our people killed and another four taken away. I don’t know what’s happened to them.”
“Well, either they’ve changed uniforms,” Iván says, “or you’ll find them on the side of a road somewhere.”
“I suppose,” Ric says. “Iván, we need to sit down.”
“Sounds serious.”
“It is,” Ric says. He tells Iván about his father wanting to meet with all the brothers, to clear the air.
“Clear the air about what?”
“Don’t jerk me around right now.”
“I don’t know—”
“Your investment?” Ric says. “With Rafael Caro? You fucked us, Iván.”
“Hey, not everyone is invited to every party.”
“We have to be invited to this one,” Ric says. “You and I had a deal—my father runs the cartel until he retires or passes—then you take the big chair. You can’t go off on your own. We’re still one thing.”
Long sigh. “When do you want to sit down?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow, the day after . . .”
“Neutral territory, though,” Iván says. “It can’t look like I’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“And I want someone to guarantee my safety.”
“You don’t trust
me now?”
“I don’t trust your old man,” Iván says. “He’ll find a way to blame this attack on me.”
“That’s pretty paranoid.”
“I’m paranoid?” Iván says. “He’s paranoid. I want Caro. If he arranges the meeting, we’ll be there.”
Ric says he’ll get back to him and goes upstairs to his father’s room. Núñez is in bed but awake, sitting up. Ric sits at the foot of the bed. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Núñez says. “I wouldn’t be without you. You got us out of there.”
Ric doesn’t answer.
“What I’m saying is that I’m grateful.”
“Okay.”
“Did you speak with Iván?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He was evasive,” Ric says. “Defensive. He knows he’s in the wrong.”
“He has to make it right,” Núñez says. “We need to be in that syndicate, more than ever now. We need the leverage it would bring over Tito. Without that . . . All three brothers are coming, yes?”
“Yeah, but why do you—”
“They all need to listen,” Núñez says. “They need to understand that while we gave them Baja, they are still part of the cartel, and I am the head of that cartel.”
“Iván wants it on neutral ground,” Ric says. “And he wants Caro there to guarantee his safety.”
“Did he know about the Oficina meeting?” Núñez asks. “Did you tell him?”
“I might have said something.”
“If you and I are both dead,” Núñez says, “the cartel goes to Iván.”
“I don’t believe he’d do that.”
“He froze us out of the syndicate,” Núñez says.
“Caro froze us out.”
“And Iván went along with it,” Núñez says. “You know he wants to be boss, you know he’s always resented us.”
“He’s my friend.” But Ric feels sick. Because he realizes that he has doubts. You made the deal with Iván, he tells himself. You gave him the motive to kill us and not to wait. Iván Esparza isn’t exactly known for his patience. “He wouldn’t do that.”
“If you say so,” Núñez says. “But I’ll know at the meeting. I’ll know when I look him in the eyes. His father could mask his thoughts; the sons, not so much. Also, I want to talk to you about Belinda Vatos.”
“What about her?”
“My old head of security, Manuel Aleja, is getting out of prison,” Núñez says. “I want him to take his old job back. I’m sure Belinda will understand.”
Ric’s pretty sure she won’t. Her entire identity is tied up with being the chief of security. “It’s not fair.”
“Neither is it fair that Aleja spent five years in prison for us,” Núñez says. “He deserves to have his old position. He’s earned it.”
“So has she.”
“She’s young,” Núñez says. “She’ll have plenty of opportunities. Please thank her for her service. Give her some kind of bonus—some more territory in La Paz for drug sales or something.”
Yeah, she’s not going to be happy with a tip, Ric thinks. It’ll only make her angrier. “She already has that.”
“Then give her more.”
“This is a mistake,” Ric says. “We’re in the middle of a war and she’s one of our best fighters.”
“She’s too flamboyant,” Núñez says. “Frankly, I think she’s a little crazy, maybe even psychotic. Her killings are . . . grisly . . . macabre. We don’t want to be associated with that kind of thing.”
“We want, what, clean killings?”
“She’s small potatoes,” Núñez says. “You need to stay focused on the big picture. Right now that’s the Park Tower syndicate. And New York. Ultimately, we’ll beat Tito by gaining influence in Washington and by winning New York and the East Coast market.”
Ric knows his father is right about New York. Their representatives are killing it there with the fentanyl-enhanced heroin. It’s a page from Barrera’s old playbook—boost production, raise quality, cut prices and drive the competition out of the market.
And the profits coming back from the New York hub are truly phenomenal, Ric thinks.
But his father is wrong about Belinda.
“First things first,” Núñez says. “Let’s set up the meeting with the Esparzas.”
Ana Villanueva looks at the old man.
He looks harmless and bland. A long-sleeved blue checked shirt buttoned to the neck, pressed denim jeans, a blue baseball cap. A cheap watch with a black plastic band, a medallion of the Virgen de San Juan de Lagos around his neck.
Rafael Caro could be anyone’s grandfather, she thinks.
“Ask me anything,” he says. “I have nothing to hide.”
“You spent twenty years in an American prison,” Ana says, “for the torture-murder of an American agent.”
“Thirty-one years ago I was a marijuana grower,” Caro says. “But I didn’t kill Hidalgo. I had nothing to do with it.”
“So the governments of Mexico and the United States were misinformed.”
“Badly misinformed,” Caro says. “I spent twenty years in prison for growing marijuana. Now it is mostly legal.”
He shrugs fatalistically.
“You knew Adán Barrera,” Ana says.
“We were friends once,” Caro says. “Then we were enemies. That was a long time ago. Why are you asking me questions about things that happened in another lifetime?”
“Okay, let’s talk about now,” Ana says. “There are rumors that you are supporting the old Tapia people in their war against the Sinaloa cartel. Is there any truth to that?”
Caro chuckles. “None. Why, after twenty years in prison, would I want more trouble? I don’t want war, only peace. Peace. Besides, wars cost money. Look around you, do I look like I have money? I have nothing.”
“Some people say you want power.”
Caro says, “All I want is peace. I apologize to the family of Hidalgo, to the DEA and to the Mexican people for any mistakes I made.”
“Have people been to see you?” Ana asks. “Seeking your support?”
“What people?”
“Ricardo Núñez,” Ana says. “Iván Esparza . . . Tito Ascensión . . .”
“They have all been to see me,” Caro says. “To pay their respects. I told them all the same thing I told you. I’m an old man. I’m done with the business. I want no part of this.”
“And that was all right with them?”
“Yes,” Caro says. “They have their lives, I have mine.”
Ana is quiet for a moment.
Caro sits in perfect stillness.
Serene as a Buddha.
Then Ana says, “Tristeza.”
Caro shakes his head. “A shame what happened to those young people. A tragedy.”
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Only what I read in the newspapers,” Caro says. “What you people write.”
Ana takes a risk. “Would you like to know what I’ve heard?”
“If you’d like to tell me.”
“I heard,” Ana says, “that there was heroin on that bus. Heroin that Damien Tapia stole from Ricardo Núñez.”
“Oh.”
“And I’ve heard that Damien Tapia has been to see you,” Ana says.
The slightest stir. The slightest edge to the eyes. “I don’t know the Young Wolf.”
“But Eddie Ruiz does,” Ana says. “And you know him.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“His cell was right above yours at Florence.”
“Is that right?”
“Help me out here, Señor Caro,” Ana says. “I don’t think Palomas could have made the decision to have those kids killed all on her own. Certainly, the Rentería brothers didn’t have the authority. So who gave the order, do you think?”
“As I told you, I know nothing about it.” He lifts his arm and looks at his watch.
“Do you have an appointmen
t?” Ana asks.
“My urologist,” Caro says. “Don’t get old—it’s a mistake.”
He stands up slowly. The interview is over.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Ana says.
“Thank you,” Caro says. “I just want people to know the truth. Please write the truth, young lady.”
“I will.”
Caro has no doubt of that.
The phone rings.
It’s Ricardo Núñez.
The meeting is set deep in the mountains, far to the north of Culiacán, at an old camp along a curve of the Humaya River.
Caro’s caution is appropriate, Ric thinks—the entire leadership of the Sinaloa cartel will be gathered in the same place at the same time. A single strike from Tito, Elena or Damien could destroy them. But the trip is arduous, a jarring drive up a bumpy single-lane road. Ric notices his father wince when the car bounces.
Ric knows that the meeting has to go well.
So much weighs on it.
They have to reestablish unity with the Esparzas. Tito is too strong to fight if they’re at all fractured, if there’s mistrust between them. Besides, Ric misses his friendship with Iván, hates the tension that’s come over them lately.
But the Núñez wing has to be allowed into the syndicate. Without that, they become second-rate players, and his father has made it clear that is unacceptable for Adán Barrera’s rightful heirs.
So Ric hopes that Iván is in a conciliatory mood and that Caro will be reasonable.
And that his father is on his game.
He wasn’t in the meeting with the Oficina people, Ric thinks, and neither Iván or Caro will tolerate me stepping into the lead position in my father’s place.
The convoy pulls off onto an even smaller, bumpier road, through a thick stand of trees and then onto a low bridge across the river to the eastern bank. The dirt track parallels the river for a couple of wooded miles, then veers into the clearing where the meeting will be held. The ground is open, sloping down to the river; on the other side are thick brush and trees, beyond that, steep wooded mountains.
The Sierra Madre Occidental—prime opium country.
Caro set strict rules—three vehicles per party, a total of ten armed guards for each group. Ric sees that they’ve arrived first.
Núñez looks at his watch.
Ric’s father reveres promptness.
And they’re sitting out in the open. An ambush from the trees could annihilate them in an instant.