“I’m proposing that you partner with me in the areas where I have the most influence. What’s done is done. It’s a new landscape, and you need to adapt. Without me, you have nothing. Your partners in the U.S. have been negotiating with me, and we’ve struck a bargain. The Colombians have likewise reached an agreement. They view your cartel as a relic now. Past its prime. No insult to you, but that’s the truth.”
Aranas took a long pull on his cigar. “It’s your truth. Not mine.”
Agundez shook his head. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
That elicited a laugh from Aranas. “The only thing I regret is not suspecting you sooner. This? This is justice. You’ll discover I don’t forgive easily firsthand.”
“Killing me will solve nothing. All your problems will remain.”
“Maybe. But I’ll get the satisfaction of roasting you alive – which at my age is a consideration. None of us knows how much more runway we have left, although I think you can safely assume you’ve run out of yours. So it’s the simple pleasures I have to enjoy – especially in this business.” Aranas cleared his throat. “Before I’m done, I’ll know everything about what you’ve put into play and have planned. I will know who else in my organization is working against me. I’ll know everything that you do, which means your value to me is nil.” His voice softened. “You really called this one wrong.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
Aranas turned and called out, “Paco? Chuco? Showtime.”
Agundez’s eyes widened at the names. He had been Aranas’s right-hand man long enough to know what the men’s specialty was. He struggled against his bindings and made another attempt to salvage the situation. “I won’t tell them anything. I’ll die in silence. And you’ll be finished because you let your pride interfere with your business judgment.”
“You make many assumptions. I’d have thought by now you’d know that I always have a plan. Within a few days, I’ll have both the government’s support and a renegotiated deal with our friends from the north. You, on the other hand, will be a smudge on the floor here and a lingering bad smell.”
The steel door opened and two rough-looking thugs entered. Aranas nodded to them and dropped his cigar on the floor. “Nice seeing you again. Enjoy your stay in hell.”
“Aranas! We can work this out,” Agundez said, his voice cracking.
“Afraid not. If you want to treat me like one of your underage putas, you’re going to get the reward you deserve: a gasoline bath once the boys here are done with you, which won’t be for a while. Resist as much as you like, old friend. It makes their work more challenging.”
Aranas marched to the door, never looking back, ignoring Agundez’s frantic pleas. The man had feigned loyalty for a decade, and there could be only one price for betraying Aranas’s trust.
Which he would pay in blood over the course of the night at Aranas’s enforcers’ capable hands.
Chapter 17
Cruz looked up from his screen as Briones entered his office. The long hours had worn at him, dinner had been nothing more than a burrito off a cart eaten at his desk, and now his eyes were red and burning, with an endless amount of work still remaining. Briones pulled Cruz’s door closed and placed the laptop he was carrying on the small circular table they used for their meetings. Cruz watched him and stood when Briones took a seat.
“What have you got for me?” Cruz asked as he moved to join Briones at the table.
“I pulled all the nearby traffic cam footage and just finished going through it. Of course what we were looking for was the last I got to.”
Cruz pulled a chair closer to the younger man and sat heavily. “Isn’t that always the way it works?”
“Anyway, we have several good images of the Land Rover as it goes through an intersection.”
“Really? Plates?”
“I ran them. Stolen.”
“Ah. So we have a worker being transported around in a stolen luxury vehicle. Not really common, would you say?”
“No, but I’m not sure how much good it does us.”
“Let me see the footage.”
“Of course.” Briones tapped in an instruction and the computer screen blinked. A monochrome image came to life, and they watched as the target vehicle rolled through a yellow light. “Not much, as I said.”
“That one does us no good at all.”
“Here’s the next.” Another virtually identical few seconds of Land Rover blurred across the screen. “Also a bust, other than to confirm that he isn’t intimidated by traffic signals.”
“Tell me this gets better.”
“Last one.” This footage was slightly clearer.
Cruz nodded. “Can you zoom in so I can see their faces?”
“Yes. But you can’t make out the worker. Hat’s in the way.”
“Not really our lucky day, is it?”
Briones typed in a few more commands and then thumbed the cursor button until he’d magnified the image to four hundred percent. “That’s as high as I can get before it starts breaking up. Not enough resolution on these cheap cameras. Plus the lenses are always filthy.”
“Let’s see it again.”
They watched the same footage, and Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “Can you freeze the frame where the driver is looking up?”
“I think so.” More typing, and then Briones had the image as a still on the screen. Cruz squinted at it for a moment and then pushed back from the table. Briones glanced up at his superior. “What is it?”
“Pull everything on the car. When it was reported stolen, what district it came from, whether or not it’s been found. If it has been, I want it dusted for prints by forensics. Every inch of it, am I clear? And I want the results on my desk the second they’re done.”
“Will do. It’ll take a little while, though. Night shift.” Briones closed the laptop. “But why the sudden interest? Beyond what we already have, which are only suspicions?”
Cruz stood at his window, staring out at the lights of Mexico City shimmering before him, considering how much to tell Briones. Several moments went by, and then he turned to the lieutenant with a clenched jaw.
“I know that face,” Cruz said softly.
“You do?”
“I think so. He looks different, but some things never change.”
“Who is it?”
“You wouldn’t recognize the name,” Cruz hedged.
“I can run it through the system.”
“No need. Now go. Clock’s ticking, and this is the only lead we have.”
Briones nodded and strode from the room, obviously not happy about being kept in the dark about the driver’s identity. He returned two hours later, his expression tense.
“I had the technicians follow the Land Rover on the traffic cameras, until it disappeared in the Pedregal district.”
“Then we lost him?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Cruz scowled at their bad luck. “Put out the word tonight to every informant we have. We’re looking for a member of the Sinaloa Cartel – a driver thought to be in Aranas’s inner circle. We know the man’s here, or was. That’s our only chance, I’m afraid.” He moved to the window. “Put out an APB on the Land Rover.”
Briones looked at his watch. “Very well, Capitan. I’ll do so immediately. But don’t expect miracles. We don’t even have a name.”
“True, but you know how these guys are. They talk. Brag. Someone has to know if he’s still in town. Offer whatever reward you want. A quarter million pesos. I’ll okay it.”
Briones nodded and left with his marching orders, the night looking like it would be longer with the additional project.
Cruz returned to staring out his window, eyeing the familiar skyline like it held a precious secret. He paced as he did so, until he finally retraced his steps to his desk.
“You’re out there, aren’t you, you bastard? It was all a setup. Everyone else may have bought it, but not me,” he whispered.
&nbs
p; Cruz sat and looked at the pile of paperwork and the graph on his screen, and then threw a final stare at the city’s glowing sprawl.
“You didn’t fool me for a second.”
Chapter 18
The crowd at Cambalache in Mexico City’s upscale Polanco district was boisterous now that the day’s toil was over. The Argentine wine was flowing like water, and the aroma of thick steaks and expensive perfume drifted through the dining area. Godoy took a small sip of the wine the sommelier had recommended and nodded his approval. The young woman seated across from him, obviously less than half his age, pushed her glass toward the man just as he moved the bottle toward her, almost causing a spill. She tittered nervously, and Godoy winked at her as the sommelier poured her cup a third full, and then did the same for his.
Godoy raised his glass in a toast and she clinked hers against it. He watched her face as she took a taste of the crimson nectar, and savored the smile that spread across her features.
“Oh my. That’s really good, isn’t it?” she exclaimed.
“Yes. It’s a Malbec from an excellent year. Very different from Mexican wine, more robust.”
“I wish I knew more about it…like you.”
“Stick with me, my dear, and you will.”
She chanced another sip and then put her glass down so she could fidget with her sequined top – which, Godoy noted, she filled out more than amply. Her caramel skin glowed in its reflected light, and her bleached blonde hair lent her a cheap, unsophisticated quality that was like catnip to him. The polar opposite to his wife, who was as class conscious as a member of a royal court and who’d transformed from a svelte ingénue into…he preferred not to think about it.
Leticia was twenty-three and worked as a teller at Godoy’s bank, and had caught his eye when he’d been making a deposit. He was always on the lookout for new talent, and after some small talk he’d invited her to cocktails after she got off work. One thing had led to another, and now he’d been seeing her for a month, during which time her fortunes had improved considerably, mainly due to his generosity in helping pay for her apartment and his showering her with gifts.
He ordered for her and tried to rein in his annoyance as she checked her phone every few minutes and texted. That was one of the things considered to be ‘progress’ that he viewed with dismay – the elevation of rudeness to acceptable social behavior. He’d have never considered bringing a television into a restaurant on a date, but many these days saw nothing wrong with abruptly interrupting their conversations to text or tweet or Facebook.
The steaks arrived, perfectly prepared, and by the time they were done with dinner, Godoy was ready to be rid of the restaurant, which had gotten increasingly crowded and noisy. He paid the bill, the wine’s warm glow flushing both their faces, and he led Leticia to the exit, marveling at her long legs, made all the more remarkable by her impossibly high heels. Out on the sidewalk the valet waved a waiting taxi over. They slid into the rear seat, Leticia giggling as Godoy murmured lascivious suggestions in her ear.
Her apartment building was in a reasonable area of town, a working-class neighborhood that still remained affordable even as it was slowly gentrified by speculators eager to improve the scarce available land for the burgeoning middle class that had emerged in Mexico over the last two decades. He tossed the driver a few bills and Leticia spilled onto the sidewalk, the street devoid of traffic as the residents tucked in for the night.
She lived on the third floor. The elevator was out of service again, a state in which it seemed to spend the lion’s share of its existence. Godoy was panting slightly as they reached her landing, but he still mustered the energy to grab her ample bottom.
“Oh, you! Can’t you wait until we’re inside?” she chided.
“I can’t help myself. Hurry up or I’ll make a spectacle of myself right here in the stairwell.”
She stepped away from him and they hurried down the hall to her door. Godoy continued his fondling as she felt for the keys, and he was beginning to feel a familiar stirring by the time she got the door open.
They stepped into the dark hallway and Godoy pushed her roughly against the wall, his hands sliding her miniskirt up over her hips as he locked his mouth on hers. She was squirming free when he sensed motion behind him. He pulled away as a blow landed on his skull, and his vision starburst into a thousand points of light. His knees buckled and he moaned in pain, and then two strong hands gripped him beneath his arms as a black cloth bag slid over his head.
“Don’t struggle or it’ll be worse for you. And if you scream, I’ll cut your balls off. Do you understand?” a voice asked from behind him.
Godoy managed a grunt in the affirmative and wondered why Leticia wasn’t yelling. His confusion deepened when he heard a different voice addressing her. “Did you really think you’d be able to get away with this? Stupid bitch. Now he’ll pay for your treachery.”
“Please…” Godoy pleaded through the cloth. Some part of him hoped to convince his attackers to release him, although another understood that it wasn’t going to happen. Kidnappings were a regular occurrence in Mexico City. Godoy had believed himself to be immune from the crime, given his station within the police department, but his throbbing skull convinced him otherwise.
“Shut up,” his assailant growled. Another blow struck the side of Godoy’s head and he gasped as he fell to the floor. He was spared the agony from a kick that landed on his ribs a moment later, his consciousness replaced by the comforting numbness of oblivion.
The kidnappers worked quickly and efficiently, two of them hoisting Godoy between them as the third placed a call on a cell phone. They manhandled him down the stairs, and after checking to ensure the sidewalk was still empty, waited till a dark brown van drew to a stop at the curb in front of the entrance.
Two minutes later the van was on one of the capital city’s wide boulevards, Godoy stashed in the cargo area with a pair of captors for company. The third kidnapper sat in the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. The snatch had gone off without a hitch, and the prospect of a healthy payday was now a virtual certainty.
One of the men in the back tossed Godoy’s wallet forward and the passenger caught it with ease. He rifled through the thick sheaf of cash and pocketed it, and then stopped when he came to Godoy’s official credentials. His boss hadn’t told them anything about whom they were grabbing – it was immaterial, given the sin he was guilty of – and the passenger’s eyes widened at the photo ID with the Federal Police crest emblazoned across the top. He leaned toward the driver as he took a drag on his smoke.
“Looks like we’ve got a VIP aboard. A cop, no less.”
“A cop? He’s not armed, right?”
“No. We searched him. He’s clean.”
“What kind of cop doesn’t carry a gun these days, even off duty?”
The passenger studied the identification, sounding out the words. His reading skills were rudimentary, limited to whatever he’d mastered when he’d quit school in fifth grade.
“Says he’s some kind of associate commissioner. So a higher-up.”
The driver turned onto another street and shrugged. “Well, he picked the wrong bimbo to bang – which he’ll figure out the hard way. Hey, got another smoke?”
The passenger shook a cigarette free and handed it to the driver. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”
The driver grinned as he reached for the lighter. “Not to me. He could be the pope, for all I care. I just need to know that the boss wants him.”
“Stupid bastard should have known better than to cross him.”
The driver nodded grimly. “You got that right.”
Chapter 19
El Maquino stood over his boxes like a mother hen as he checked and rechecked the wall clock. He’d forced himself to stop switching his lights on and off, but his teeth were tingling from the constant brushing. He trembled with nervous energy at the thought of strangers soon to arrive in his abode, even though he knew it was nec
essary for them to be there. He couldn’t carry the boxes downstairs by himself, or he would have. He’d tried but given up when his back had transmitted the reality of their weight now that they were fully assembled.
They weren’t much to look at, he knew, but like many treasures, their inner beauty was what gave them their value. He’d been working on them for a month, first designing them, then machining all the parts required, and finally fitting them together with the precision of a Swiss watch. Now all his work was done, and the only thing that remained was to hand them off like a proud parent.
“Big surprise. Going to be a big surprise, all right,” he said softly, reaching out to touch one of the smooth surfaces and then jerking his hand back like he’d touched a stove burner. “Oh. Got to clean it. Don’t want any fingerprints. That would be bad. Very bad.”
He moved to the workbench, spotless now that he was finished with his current project, and slid open a drawer. Inside was a package of bright yellow hand towels. He withdrew one and took a bottle of cleaner from the top shelf, and set to wiping the exterior of the box for the tenth time that day.
The door buzzer chimed. He shuddered and swung around, jarred from the comforting routine of the task. He looked at the clock approvingly.
“Right on time. That’s good. Very good. Prompt. Time’s valuable,” he said, repeating a saying he’d heard his entire life.
He resisted the desire to switch the lights on and off again and instead made for the door, leaving the room illuminated as though banishing the night with technology. “It’s a big day. A very big day indeed. Right on time. Yes, sir. Good.”
He unlocked the deadbolts and relocked them once in the hall, then rushed to the stairs, his anxiety building with each step. Strangers in his place. Unthinkable. But there was no other way. It was necessary, and they’d be gone soon enough.
At the front door, he eyed the four heavyset men in the dim light of the security screen before calling through the metal plate, “Yes?”
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