The anger bubbled to the surface again, battling for supremacy, and he considered his options. Unlike in some countries, he couldn’t go to the media and tell the story of his pension being stolen – it would be censored with a single call from Godoy. Nobody would touch it; and frankly, it wasn’t really news. People were forced to do ugly things every day by uncaring, malevolent superiors – they worked in dangerous conditions, breathed toxic dust on construction sites, toiled for pennies, sold their bodies and souls for a few tortillas and a scrap of bread. That was reality.
He could contact the companies that had expressed interest in hiring him for security consulting work, but he knew that if the government was vindictive it could exert enough pressure to nip that in the bud. And if Cruz walked now, when the nation was facing a crisis...the administration would be vindictive, he could be sure.
Perhaps even of graver concern was the issue of personal safety. Cruz had made many enemies over his career, and some of the most dangerous and violent psychopaths in Mexico wanted him dead. The list of cartels that would cheerfully cut his heart out and stick his head on a pike was too long to contemplate. There was a reason that he had to move every five or six weeks. If he quit, that would be over, effective immediately, and he would be on his own. Which would mean going into hiding without the resources of the Federales to protect him.
He could manage it, but Dinah...the risk to her would be too great. She would need to quit working with children – something she loved – and they would need to disappear, for years. The money wouldn’t be a problem, but the disruption to their lives...
The bartender glanced at him with an eyebrow cocked as he busied himself cleaning some glasses, and Cruz held up a finger and then pointed at his beer. When the bartender delivered another Modelo, he reached for the tequila glass and then hesitated, eyeing Cruz.
“Uno mas?” he asked. One more?
Cruz shook his head and gave the glass a baleful look.
“No, muchas gracias. Listo...,” he replied, requesting the check. He was done. If he had another double shot of tequila, it would turn into the whole bottle, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated. He needed to think – to think through his next moves.
He sat, listening to a seemingly endless procession of singers bemoaning the unfairness of fickle love, and over time, hit a plateau where he no longer felt angry, but rather resigned and very, very old – far beyond his forty-something years. He took his time with the beer, nursing it, and when two men entered, laughing noisily, it served as his cue to leave. He dropped a few peso notes onto the scarred wooden surface of the bar and pushed back, finished with his internal debate. It could have gone either way, but ultimately the thought of Dinah dictated his actions. He couldn’t just fall into a bottle and shut out the rest of the world. He would need to join his fellow struggling humans and suck up the ugliness, and choke down his pride and morality in favor of cynical pragmatism.
There was really no other choice. Godoy had painted him into a corner where no matter what he did, he was screwed. As unpleasant as it was, the option of working with the assassin was the lesser of the evils he’d been presented with.
But he wouldn’t give Godoy the pleasure of knowing it until the end of the day.
Sunlight hit him full in the face when he stepped out onto the sidewalk, and he squinted, his eyes adjusting from the comfortable gloom inside the cantina. He would go home and take a nap, sleep off the residual effects of the alcohol, and then call Godoy just before business hours were over. It was childish, he knew, but that was fine. He would take even the smallest vestige of autonomy and self-respect at this point.
He flipped out his cell phone as he fished for his sunglasses and dialed his administrative assistant.
“Capitan Cruz’s office.”
“Celia, this is Cruz.”
“Oh, good. I have about fifteen messages for you. When will you be back in?”
He thought about it. “I’m going to be out of touch the rest of the day. Reschedule any meetings, and tell any callers that you haven’t heard from me.”
“Yes, sir...” The young woman sounded unsure.
“I have a few errands I need to attend to, and I don’t want to be disturbed. The world can wait a day,” Cruz said, and then wondered if he was slurring. He decided he didn’t much care.
“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“No. But remember: You haven’t talked to me.”
“I understand. One thing, though. We just got word that El Gato is going to be transferred this afternoon. Some judge ordered it.”
“Damn. Have you seen the paperwork?”
“Yes. It’s all there.”
Cruz sighed. “Fine. Then it’s out of my hands. We’ve done what we can. Now it’s up to the system to deal with him.”
An uncomfortable silence hung on the line. No point in unloading on Celia. It was time to get off the call.
“I’ll be in early mañana. Hold down the fort today,” he said, then disconnected.
He watched pedestrians move along the sidewalk as he got his bearings, then squared his shoulders and turned, moving away from the bar towards a row of taxis waiting for the early lunch rush to begin. He flagged one down, and a man separated himself from a group loitering by a tree and approached unhurriedly, dropping his cigarette butt into the gutter as he gestured to the first car.
Cruz gave him the address of his apartment and sank into the back seat, hating himself for what he knew he was going to do. He shut his eyes and tried not to think, but it was pointless, and as the cab darted through traffic, horn honking periodically in belligerent complaint, he cursed Godoy and the entire power structure of unthinking bureaucrats and petty tyrants that had placed him in this impossible position.
He wanted to decline the assignment about as badly as he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but he knew there was only one possible response.
Because, like it or not, his country needed him.
And as always, he couldn’t refuse the call.
Chapter 11
The hills west of Montemorelos, in Nuevo León, were cool in the afternoon. A breeze tickled the tops of the thick trees around the spacious villa, well off the main highway, down a three-mile private drive that was heavily guarded by gunmen. An iron gate featuring two dancing stallions blocked the way, and three men with assault rifles occupied the gatehouse. The bouncing beat of music emanated from a small radio next to their sophisticated communications gear – the technology surprising in a rural area, but not to anyone who knew the property well.
One of the dozen ranches owned by Manuel Heraldo Alvadez, the current leader of the Los Zetas cartel, easily the most violent and powerful criminal syndicate in Latin America, it was remote and vast, ensuring the reclusive owner’s privacy. Alvadez moved around constantly, and the actual title to the property was held by a network of shell corporations, impenetrable and anonymous to the myriad law enforcement agencies that had targeted him. The enigmatic leader had taken power from the old leader, Sanchez Triunfo, in a bloody series of clashes that had left hundreds butchered in its wake, but the younger Alvadez was now the undisputed top dog after Triunfo had fled the country, weary of the escalating violence that had claimed most of his family.
Four ponies trotted in a large wood-fenced area to the side of the main house, which was majestic in a time-worn hacienda way, ravaged by the sun and elements but still standing proudly, a testament to the care that had gone into its construction almost a century earlier. A dozen men with leathery brown skin stood at strategic positions around the buildings, their Kalashnikovs and AR-15s held with comfortable familiarity – each of them an ex-marine who had gone into private practice for ten times the money with the cartel, and all veterans of countless armed skirmishes and massacres.
A heavy-set man in his late-thirties, wearing jeans, pointy-toed ostrich-skin boots with hammered silver toe caps and a red western-style shirt, waved his white cowboy hat at the m
an in the corral, who returned the signal with a nod before returning to the horses. The man set the hat back on his head and turned to the three men standing attentively by his side, all of whom were similarly attired. Alvadez cleared his throat, the dust kicked up by the hooves cloying, and spoke softly, an unmistakable undertone of menace in his voice.
“I don’t care who he is. He must pay for my nephew’s death, as well as the amount he’s cost us with his most recent raids. I want it known that to go up against us is to invite destruction,” he hissed.
“Si, Jefe. But he’s untouchable. The head of the D.F. anti-cartel taskforce. We’ve been trying to learn his whereabouts for months, with no success. He’s like the invisible man,” one of the entourage – Alvadez’s most trusted inner circle – complained.
Alvadez spat onto the dirt by his feet and glared at the speaker – Jorge, a captain who had been with him for six years. The subject of their discussion had engineered a raid where he had lost over a dozen men, as well as one of his sister’s sons, a young man he’d been grooming for a leadership position in the cartel.
“There’s always someone who knows. And it’s always a matter of money. I don’t care what it costs – I want him. This is personal, do I make myself clear? So put the word out however you need to. Pick a number for the reward that will sway even the most loyal.”
All the men grinned at the idea. Los Zetas’ annual revenue was in the tens of billions of dollars, and money was like water for Alvadez. Gold-capped teeth flashed in the sun at their leader’s suggestion.
“There’s also, of course, the danger that going after him invites even greater retribution. He’s the number one man in Mexico when it comes to law enforcement and the cartels. The outcry will be...well, I don’t need to tell you what the reaction will be,” Jorge persisted.
One of the ponies let loose a whinny and broke into a canter and Alvadez smiled at the sight of such a perfect form, so innocent and unspoiled, the result of centuries of careful breeding.
“Since the election we’ve been getting pounded. I thought we had a deal, but apparently not, and it’s getting worse, not better. We’ve tried diplomacy. Now we need to go for the throat. This man has made himself a visible target of our wrath, and in his latest foray his men killed one of my family. I don’t care what it takes. I want him dead. Is there some part of that you find ambiguous or confusing?”
The three men’s faces blanched. Their leader’s tone had taken a dangerous turn, and they knew from experience that his anger could manifest in a dramatic and violent fashion. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of a tantrum. The fields around the hacienda were littered with the buried corpses of personnel who had disappointed in one way or another.
And then, like storm clouds parting before the sun, he grinned as he watched the trainer work with the horses, directing them this way and that. With his smile, the tension diffused, and the men observed the equestrian display with approval.
“Now what else do we have to talk about?”
“As you’re aware, in addition to the regrettable death of your nephew, we lost a fair amount of know-how in the latest explosion. But we estimate that our meth volume will only dip for a few months, at most. We’re diverting some of the Malaysian product in order to meet demand so nobody steps in while we’re short,” Jorge reported.
“Very good. And how’s the push into Central America going?”
“Well. We own Guatemala now, and the same with Honduras and Nicaragua, except for pockets where Sinaloa still has loyalists. But we’ve taken an ‘exterminate on sight’ policy with the local gangs that don’t play ball with us, so we’ll prevail. You can see the effect in the murder rates for all the countries – Costa Rica, Honduras, Nicaragua, Panama...”
“The goal was to have us in firm control of all Central America within a year, and it looks like that will happen. And why? Because I spared no expense, and have been laser-like in my objectives. But in spite of all this, you can’t find one lousy federal policeman? This...Cruz continues to elude you?” The menace was back without warning.
“It will be our top priority, Jefe,” Jorge assured him, and his two companions nodded solemnly, neither one wanting to attract attention by speaking out of turn.
“Do that. I want results, not excuses. And now we have one more item for the morning, no? The family of the informant we believe gave this Cruz the information about the Mexico City lab? Where are they?” Alvadez growled.
“In the garage, Jefe.”
The drug lord stalked from the corral to a stand-alone building large enough to house four vehicles, and threw open one of the doors. Inside were four men wearing black uniforms with the Los Zetas crest emblazoned on the left chest and holding M4 assault rifles. One of the men put his rifle down upon seeing his boss enter and picked up a roll of duct tape. He caught Alvadez’s eye and motioned with his head at three women, their hands bound behind them, kneeling on the floor, which had been covered with a heavy plastic sheet. Alvadez moved to each and glared at them, then stepped back and addressed the captives.
“You know why you’re here? Because your boy Javier decided to roll on me and sell me out to the Federales. All right. Start the video,” he instructed, and a fifth man flicked on the record button of a handheld video camera. Alvadez and his group stepped out of range of the lens and stood against the wall behind the camera man, watching the masked and uniformed man with the tape curse at the captives and then move to each, slapping a piece of duct tape across their mouths.
“You see what happens, you lying weasels? You think you can screw us over like we’re your bitch? Guess again. This is what happens, puta,” the masked man snarled at the camera, and then picked up a two-by-four from the ground. Tears streamed down the women’s faces as he approached them, and then he slammed the first one in the back of the head, knocking her face forward onto the floor. He quickly did the same to the other two, and then tossed the beam aside and retrieved a rusty machete.
The decapitations were captured on film, each blow and hack memorialized, and after a few minutes there was nothing left but the cleanup. The camera was switched off, the video to be distributed via the web, and Alvadez stepped forward and spit on the corpses before turning, careful to avoid the pooling blood, and moved back towards the daylight streaming under the door. He swung it open and stepped outside, waiting a few seconds until his eyes adjusted to the sun, and then gestured to his men to follow him to the house.
“Now, what’s for lunch? Deisy said she was going to prepare a surprise.” Deisy, the head of the kitchen staff, was a short woman of Mayan ancestry and a culinary wizard. “Come, all of you. Join me. There will be time enough to discuss the rest of our business over a decent meal.” Alvadez took a final appreciative look at his ponies, then turned and moved to the front porch, trailed by his subordinates, who exchanged dour looks.
Nobody had reacted to the executions – that was par for the course, and didn’t warrant comment – but the directive to go after Cruz was a different issue. Taking on the Federales in a frontal manner was tantamount to declaring open warfare on the Mexican government, and none of them was so foolish as to believe that there wouldn’t be a terrible price to pay for that. But nobody wanted to cross Alvadez, either, so they were resigned to what they would have to do – prepare for yet another long, bloody campaign once Cruz was dead. It was inevitable, but Alvadez was the boss, and questioning his wisdom was a recipe for an early grave.
The men trudged towards the house, the sound of clomping pony hooves following them, each lost in his thoughts, wondering how they were going to get the information their leader wanted; and then how they would reach a man who was as untouchable as any in Mexico.
Chapter 12
Cruz started awake with a jolt, momentarily disoriented, then remembered where he was, and why. Home, in bed, a long siesta having purged most of the effects of the tequila. He glanced at his watch and groaned. Almost four o’clock. He rolled over and tried to thi
nk of a reason to put off calling Godoy, and couldn’t think of one.
Cruz waited another few minutes, then swung his legs from beneath the sheets and set his feet on the cool travertine floor. After a brief trip to the bathroom, he punched his cell phone to life and selected Godoy’s number. The receptionist connected him almost immediately, and then, after answering, Godoy told him to hang on, and put him on hold. For five minutes.
Typical.
When he came back on the line, Cruz told him that he would agree to head up the Iron Eagle task force, and he could almost hear the smirk of triumph in Godoy’s voice.
“I need you to jump right into this, Capitan. It’s the highest priority, as I indicated. I’ll make a call and see if I can get CISEN to have you meet with their people today.”
“It’s too late today. I’ll need time to assemble a team on my end and brief them before I’m ready for that,” Cruz protested.
“Much as I appreciate your logistical concerns, I’m afraid I need to insist. I’ll call you back as soon as I have confirmation. The clock is ticking, Capitan. No time for dallying,” Godoy said, and Cruz wondered whether he was just trying to get even with him for making him wait most of the day for an answer. The line clicked and went dead, and Cruz was left staring at his phone. Godoy had hung up on him.
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