His face was unreadable. “I don’t worry. I plan.” He finally offered a small smile. “Weren’t we talking about Madrid? That’s way more cheerful than my situation.”
“Once you get the shot, that’s it, right? That’s the final one?”
“Supposedly.”
“You think that’s a lie?”
“I treat everything as one until proven otherwise. In my former line of work, that was the prudent course.”
She nodded. “You would make a great reporter, you know. Gorgeous, smart, charismatic…”
“I’ll let you know if I need a day job. I hear you’ve got clout.”
“Seriously, though. Will you think about Spain?”
“What’s the timing?”
“I have to give them an answer by the end of the week.” She shook her head. “The network here hasn’t even made a new offer yet – that’s how confident they are that they’re the only game in town.”
“One offer is no offer.”
“Exactly.”
“If they bettered the Spanish one, would you stay?”
She sighed and pushed her cup away. “I feel like it’s time for a change. I’ve gone as far as I can here. Exposure to a major European market would make me far more valuable long term. Staying would be the wrong decision, at least for now. That’s not to say I wouldn’t ever return. But I feel like I’ve outgrown Mexico, you know?”
He studied her. “I do. It’s an interesting proposition. Move to Spain to be the boy toy of a celebrity.”
“The hours are good.”
“I’ll say.” He caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for the check. “Let me think about it.”
“I won’t take the job if you won’t go.”
He shook his head. “Yes, you will. You’ll do what’s smart and what’s best for you. I just need to get used to the idea of leaving Mexico. I mean, I’m not married to it, and Spain is hardly the provinces…”
“It would be wonderful. We could start a new life.” She didn’t have to say together.
“You’re very convincing.”
The check arrived and she smiled again. “I plan to be more so.”
Chapter 9
Zapopan, Jalisco, Mexico
Steam rose off the parking lot of the Mariscos Sinaloa restaurant as the sun baked away the last of the moisture from one of the high-altitude morning showers that visited the Guadalajara area – the mountainous region drew flash storms like a magnet. Five SUVs were parked near the main building, which consisted of a massive concrete bunker topped by a three-story-high palapa roof. A set of brightly painted concrete stairs led to the entrance, which boasted a stylized image of a lobster and a shrimp wearing sombreros and shaking maracas. On the sidewalk in front, a row of placards had been set out by the service staff in anticipation of the restaurant opening for lunch, boasting the specials of the day prepared just like Mama used to make.
Four men with hard faces and hair trimmed close to their skulls in an unmistakably military style stood by the entrance. All wore baggy short-sleeved shirts that hung over their trousers, barely concealing the pistols in their belts.
Inside, a half-dozen figures sat drinking beer at a circular table near the kitchen. Three of them had cell phones clamped to their ears, and one was working on a laptop computer. An imposing dark-complexioned man with a mop of black curls atop a swarthy face checked his watch impatiently and sent a text message. From the four corners of the restaurant, flat-screen TVs blared the same banda video of sixteen men in identical yellow suits with purple shirts playing tubas, horns, guitar, and accordion, sidestepping rhythmically as a portly singer crooned about love gone wrong.
Hector Agundez had been, until recently, the number two man in the Sinaloa Cartel. But he’d split from that group and formed his own organization when the ever-present threat of Don Aranas was neutralized with its kingpin hauled off in chains. The new cartel, La Familia, had made rapid inroads into the Sinaloa Cartel’s territory primarily because Agundez knew all the distribution routes and had developed relationships with most of the trafficking network as he laid the groundwork for his new gang. Sinaloa still held most of its home state, but Jalisco and points south were hotly contested, and he’d taken a lot of territory from the cartel in a short period.
Not that it had been easy. The remnants of the Knights Templar Cartel, the Jalisco Cartel, Los Zetas, and the Jalisco Nueva Generación were all fighting it out for dominance of Guadalajara, and not a day went by when there wasn’t a pitched battle or a van filled with mutilated bodies abandoned in a prominent spot, accompanied by a message to rivals scrawled on a bedsheet that vowed more bloodshed to come.
Don Aranas’s escape had sent a seismic shock through Agundez’s group, and his key nucleus was busy strategizing how to best negotiate terms with Sinaloa; Aranas’s reputation as invincible had been cemented by his miraculous prison break. Alliances were common between competitive groups in contested areas, and Agundez hoped Aranas wouldn’t allow hard feelings to get in the way of good business. Until word of Aranas’s newfound freedom hit, Agundez’s plan had been to eradicate Sinaloa whenever there was a clash, but with Aranas on the loose, everything had changed. The man was a master tactician, and the Sinaloa troops would be revitalized with him at the helm again.
“Any word?” Agundez asked nobody in particular. The nearest man, Adolpho Gomez, shook his head as he continued speaking softly into his phone. Agundez scowled and rubbed a pudgy hand across his brow, the orbiting overhead fans doing little to dispel the growing muggy swelter.
A vendor in ratty clothing, his skin the color of roasted almonds from long years in the sun, was pushing an ancient icebox on wheels decorated with a hand-painted depiction of a polar bear enjoying a frozen ice pop. He made his way along the street toward the parking lot, every now and then ringing a little bell in the hopes of attracting customers, but judging by his demeanor, he wasn’t having a productive time. The rickety conveyance bounced on worn rubber wheels as he neared the men by the stairs, and he rang the bell again to signal that he was open for business.
One of the guards reached into his pocket and retrieved a few ten-peso coins. He counted the change and took a few steps toward the vendor. “Got any coco?” he asked.
“Oh, certainly, sir.”
The vendor opened the hinged lid of the cooler and reached inside. When his hand came out clutching a sound-suppressed semiautomatic pistol, the guard barely had time to register the weapon before it popped and a red dot appeared in the center of his head.
The coins hit the sidewalk as the dead man’s knees buckled, drawing the attention of the others, but the vendor was already in motion, firing with steady deliberation as he neared. None had time to get their guns free, and all were dead before they hit the ground, the subsonic ammunition so silent the only sound was the snicking of the weapon’s slide and the tinkle of spent shell casings bouncing against the pavement.
The vendor tapped his concealed earbud and muttered a few words, and then dropped the handgun back into the cooler and extracted a suppressed submachine gun. Three black SUVs rolled into the lot and pulled to a stop, and a dozen figures in full blue combat dress with Federales emblazoned across their backs leapt from the vehicles, weapons held at the ready as they ran to where the vendor waited for them, out of sight of the men in the restaurant.
The gathering of cartel thugs looked up in surprise when the armed contingent burst through the entrance. Two of the gangsters drew pistols and dove for cover as the police’s automatic weapons opened up on them. The high-velocity rounds shredded through the wooden tabletops that the pair had knocked over to shield themselves, and within seconds both men were burbling their last breaths in a lake of blood.
The rest of Agundez’s men stood frozen as the sound of gunfire died and the shooters approached, assault rifles trained on the survivors. Agundez’s face twisted with anger as he slowly raised his hands, and the others followed suit.
“Have you lost yo
ur minds? I pay everyone for protection. Whoever is in charge of this operation–”
“Silence!” the leader of the squad barked. He glanced at the man to his right and then back at the cartel kingpins. “Which one of you is Agundez?”
Agundez’s frown deepened. “I am. And who are you?”
The leader nodded and the police guns blazed. Agundez’s men staggered backwards as rounds tore through them, the slugs churning their chests into hamburger.
When the gunmen stopped firing, Agundez was the only one left standing, stunned, his hands still held high. The leader walked toward him.
Agundez met his stare and hissed his question. “Who are you?”
The leader’s gun butt caught Agundez on the side of the head, and he went down like a bag of rocks.
“Me?” the leader growled. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
He turned to his men and nodded, and one of them moved to Agundez with a syringe. He popped its bright orange cap, holding the plastic nub between his teeth, and after finding a promising vein, emptied the contents into Agundez’s arm as the wounded cartel boss moaned groggily. By the time he straightened, Agundez was out cold.
The leader tilted his head at the unconscious figure. “Get this sack of shit out of here. Take the men’s weapons and belongings, and write a warning in their blood,” he ordered, and then turned on his heel and made for the entrance.
Outside, the ice-cream vendor was on a cell phone, his eyes on the empty road. The leader grunted as he walked past him. “It’s done.”
The vendor spoke softly as the leader returned to his waiting SUV, the steam drifting skyward from the drying pavement a ghostly fog in the brightening sunlight.
Chapter 10
Mexico City, Mexico
Cruz made his way down the hall of the condo to his front door and slid the key in the lock. He’d promised his wife, Dinah, that he would come home during the day at least twice a week rather than working his customary twelve-hour stints straight through, as had been his habit before they’d tied the knot.
He swung the door wide and stepped into the condo – the latest in a long string of temporary residences they’d been relegated to for their safety. As the number one law enforcement officer in the nation chartered with stopping the cartels, Cruz was in constant danger of one of them deciding to snuff him out.
“Dinah? I’m home,” he called, setting his briefcase down in the foyer by the entrance.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she said.
He made his way toward the sound of her voice and kissed the back of her neck. She smiled as he sniffed the mouthwatering aroma rising from the pan she was laboring over. “Wow. Smells delicious. What is it?”
“An Italian dish. I downloaded the recipe from the web. Chicken pizzaiola.”
“I can’t wait. How are you feeling?”
Dinah had been under the weather for the last week, every morning claiming she was vastly improved over the prior day, but by evening lethargic and moody. He’d been after her to see a doctor, but so far she’d resisted.
“So-so.” She paused. “Lunch will be ready in five minutes.”
“I’m not going to nag you, but…”
“I know, Romero. I already made an appointment to go in tomorrow morning.” She watched him move into the dining room. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could take a day off, is there?”
He laughed bitterly. “That’ll be the day. They just stuck me on a task force to close the barn door after Aranas, who’s probably halfway to Aruba by now.”
“Well, you are the foremost expert on the man. I mean, you’ve even met him…”
“Which is why I know this is completely pointless. I mean, come on. Somehow the staff of our most secure prison missed that someone was excavating a tunnel almost a mile long directly under the facility, and I’m supposed to catch the mastermind who’d evaded arrest for twenty-something years? Ridiculous.” Cruz sat down at the table. “But I haven’t told you the best part.”
“How hungry are you?”
“My stomach’s growling, but I probably shouldn’t eat too much.”
Dinah entered the dining room with a heaping plate in her hand. “Starting first thing tomorrow.” She set it down in front of him and pulled a chair free.
“What about you?” Cruz asked.
“I’ve been nibbling. Besides, I’m not hungry.”
“Are you taking vitamins? You might be anemic.”
“Every morning.”
The extent of Cruz’s knowledge of feminine disorders exhausted, he turned to the chicken, which tasted even better than it smelled. He cleaned his plate without speaking, and Dinah nodded when he put his fork and knife down and sighed.
“You were going to tell me the best part?”
He patted his stomach. “Guess who’s heading up the task force?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not you?”
“No. Why have an experienced authority on cartels direct things when you can call in the big guns?”
Dinah’s voice softened. “That bad?”
He nodded. “Worse. Godoy,” he said, his expression souring.
“I thought he was out of your hair permanently?”
“So did I. But the good news is that I think he’s being set up to take the bullet when we fail.”
“You’re that sure you won’t be able to track Aranas?”
“I’ve said all along that a guy like Aranas doesn’t get caught unless he wants to. I haven’t changed my opinion. The man’s obscenely rich and wildly smart. We might as well put a fortune teller on staff, because he’s as gone as you can get, and my bet is we never see him again.”
“At least you’re optimistic.”
“It’s a complete sham, but I got sucked into it, and now I have to hand off real investigations to Briones while I sit in meetings with a dolt who couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”
Dinah nodded sympathetically. “Can’t you just have him killed or something?”
“Don’t give me any ideas.”
“Seriously, just refuse to work with him. They’ll choose you over him.”
“I tried. They’re not taking no for an answer.” He pushed back from the table and checked the time. “Besides, if I’m right, he’s going to be the piñata who gets all the blame in the end, so I have mixed feelings about reporting to him. On the one hand I want to resign, but on the other I want to see him burn, publicly humiliated and gone once and for all. He’s a menace. You should have heard him today. I’d forgotten how much I hate that cockroach.”
“You want some dessert?” she asked. “I have flan.”
“Not really on my diet, is it?”
“I think it’s diet flan. You burn more calories digesting it than you take in,” Dinah said with a straight face.
“Then I’d be a fool to refuse, wouldn’t I?”
She smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, she had a small portion for herself and a jumbo helping for Cruz, which she placed in front of him. He ate it with relish, and when he was done, grimaced. “I did it again. I ate too much.” His gaze rose toward the ceiling. “Why, God, do you do this to me?”
“Somewhere there are starving children. Don’t be an ingrate.”
“If I didn’t know how good the flan was for me, I’d feel worse.” He grew serious. “I’m probably going to have to stay late tonight. I have to deal with my own workload as well as the Aranas thing. Briones can’t handle it all himself, at least not at this stage.”
“How late?”
“I wouldn’t wait up.”
She shook her head and exhaled in frustration. “You promised no more of these, Cruz.”
“I know. But how could I have foreseen the Aranas thing?”
“Let Briones handle your other stuff. Mexico can do without you saving it for one night.”
“I wish it was that easy.” He told her about the child prostitution ring. When he finished, she closed her eyes resigne
dly.
“Okay. I understand. But I don’t like it.”
“I know. I swear once we do the raid, that will be it. He can deal with the rest. I’m sorry, Dinah. I really am.”
She opened her eyes and reached for his plate, her face unreadable. But her shoulders were tight, her body language conveying her disappointment. When she responded, her voice was fatigued.
“So am I, Cruz. So am I.”
Chapter 11
El Rey pushed through the familiar bulletproof glass doors that served as CISEN’s anonymous entrance, past a pair of burly security men in black suits, and strode to the reception desk, where an attractive young woman in an immaculate white silk blouse greeted him with a neutral smile.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I need to see Rodriguez.”
Her brow lifted slightly. “The director? Do you have an appointment?”
His tone didn’t change. “Tell him he has a visitor who’s been calling his cell phone for a week, with no reply.”
She looked over to the guards. “Sir, I’m afraid if you don’t have an appointment–”
El Rey stepped closer. “Look, you seem like you’re nice, so I’ll spare you the unpleasantness. Just make the call. I’ve been in his office more than a few times – the director knows me well. So do as you’re told, and it will go better for you.” The cold menace in the assassin’s voice must have gotten through to her, because rather than sounding the alarm, she pressed some buttons and whispered into her headset. El Rey moved to a beige leather couch and took a seat, clenching and unclenching his hands, which thankfully had stopped shaking earlier.
Ten minutes later, three men rounded the corner from the bowels of the building. El Rey recognized the one in the center as the new director of CISEN – the former assistant director, Rodriguez, who’d moved up the ladder since the assassin’s last visit. El Rey stood as Rodriguez approached.
“Come into the conference room,” Rodriguez said, and led him through a security area to one of the myriad rooms on the ground floor, followed by the pair of flunkies.
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