Years before, when Americans started falling in love with the green fruit, the avocado business boomed, and the cartels took notice. It wasn’t called green gold for nothing. Farmers were harassed, lands were usurped, and those who resisted were killed—their bodies hung along the road as a warning. But where the Alcantara family ruled in the town of Cayetano, the residents were loyal and quickly rose up and formed a private army. Mexico’s government was fighting its own drug war and left them alone. The narcos who went after the Michoacán agricultural business were splinter groups from the larger cartels and newer blood. Migs wondered if the remaining leaders would honor the unspoken code not to touch the Alcantara family.
His uncle Don Pepito—Joaquín and Hector’s father—hired mercenaries to fight against the splinter group and train the Cayetano private army. Four years had passed since his uncle’s death—a death that riddled Migs with guilt and made him stay away from his family.
“The truck broke down in Sinaloa,” Drew said. “Driver called Joaquín and said he was staying overnight. Your cousin got suspicious and sent one of his men to inspect the truck while it sat in one of the truck depots. Sure enough, fucking coke was mounted in the wheelbase.”
His father rarely cursed and was a very chill businessman, so this gave Migs an idea how this turn of events had shaken him.
“So the driver is a suspect. How many truck drivers do you have?”
“We have one hundred and twenty who are full-time. Same number part-time.”
“Shit.”
“The farm employs over five hundred workers and we have around a hundred in our warehouse. Cesar has six supervisors under him.”
“Is Tessa aware of this problem?”
“I haven’t told her because …” Drew let the statement hang and Migs sucked in a breath.
“No way is Cesar in on it, Pops,” he growled. “Did Joaquín suggest that?” He never liked that particular cousin of his even when they were kids. Joaquín was the same age as Tessa, his sister being older by a few months, and Migs recalled the ongoing competition between the families about who was the first grandchild. And Tio Pepito’s wife had the audacity to say that it was the first male grandchild who mattered. Avoiding Joaquín would be impossible at Abbi Mena’s eightieth. He might as well prepare for the inevitability of veiled looks and clipped conversation.
A nagging suspicion persisted that Joaquín knew of Migs’ involvement in Tio Pepito’s demise.
“He did not,” Drew paused. “Not directly. He pointed out that someone would be on the receiving end here.”
“You have a hundred other possibilities.”
“Look, I didn’t bring you in here to get you involved. Just wanted to give you a heads up why I’m distracted. It’s not because I’m ignoring you or Ariana while you’re visiting.” Drew smiled, his face relaxing. “I’d say that’s the single best news I’ve received in weeks.”
“Thanks,” Migs acknowledged. “But fuck keeping me out of this, Pops. I’m here. Make me useful.”
Drew’s brow arched. “I thought you were a disenfranchised ex-soldier.”
“I’m still an Alcantara,” he said roughly. “The livelihood that supports you, Mamá, abuelita, and the five Marias—everyone in this house is important to me.”
Drew leaned back in his chair and regarded him thoughtfully. “What are you suggesting?”
“Is the truck still at the truck stop?”
“Yes. The mechanic was returning with the parts this morning to do the repairs. Should take a few hours. Joaquín is debating whether to call it back to Michoacán.”
“Why did he get suspicious?” Migs’ brain bounced around the information in his head. “There’s nothing unusual with transport breaking down. Happens all the time.”
“Let me back up a bit.” His father hinged forward in his seat. “A week ago, a business rival made a snide comment at a society party. High-ranking government officials overheard the statement about the cartels getting their piece of Michoacán gold and said your cousin was too naïve to take over the business.”
“Ouch.”
“The man suggested that maybe the wrong heir was put in charge.”
“Did he mean Hector?” Migs said incredulously. “I’m surprised he’s going to make it to his thirties with the way he’s partying it up in Vegas.” And using the excuse that he was running the hotel. Everyone knew the Alcantaras had capable staff managing that part of their business.
“You, Migs.”
“Me?” His brows drew together. “Does that man even know I work as a mechanic in LA?”
“After you left the army, the Mexican government was very interested in you.”
Migs was aware of this. He’d been approached a couple of times by agents of the CNI—Mexico’s intelligence agency. His handlers at the DEA and later at the agency had to make sure his cover was airtight as a former spec ops guy disillusioned with Uncle Sam who joined a biker gang and had become a mechanic. Migs also made sure he built enough street cred in LA as a bruiser-for-hire.
“Thought they’d be over that myth by now.”
“You weren’t a myth. You never talked about it, but I knew you believed in what you were fighting for.” A sad look came over his father’s eyes. “I’m sorry our government let you down.”
Migs held his father’s gaze as much as he could. The lies he’d told his family had been weighing heavy on his shoulders for a while, but he reminded himself it was for their own good. They would be horrified if they found out he was in the thick in the fight against the cartels, especially with what happened to Tio Pepito.
“That’s in the past. I’m happier now…although you know who Ariana’s brother was, right?”
A pained expression crossed his father’s face. “If I hadn’t, you can be sure your sisters gave me the scoop. Tessa wasn’t very sure but looked up Ariana online.” His dad paused. “What the hell is a vitamin infusion spa?”
Migs chuckled. “I’ll fill you in on that later. Now tell me what else you know about the cocaine in our trucks?”
“I don’t understand why we need vitamins injected into us.” Abbi Mena invited Ariana to tour her sprawling garden. Different heirloom corns, a variety of peppers, vegetables, and other herbs like cilantro were in full growth.
Ariana laughed, not offended at all. “You know how fast-paced LA is. The stress. The nightlife. Stars with hangovers need a quick fix to be up and looking vibrant in front of the camera within a few hours.”
“Your vitamin infusion does that?”
“Yes, I see immediate benefits in our clients.”
“Maybe it’s just dehydration?” the older woman looked skeptical.
Ariana laughed again. “That too. When people are fatigued, they need vitamins and nutrients. You’ve heard about the banana bag that they use to cure hangovers? The vitamin infusion we use is from Switzerland.”
“Miguel said you lived there for a while.” Abbi Mena bent over to inspect a squash. Even if she was schooled in modern farming the older woman explained, she still followed the ancient tradition of Tres Hermanas—three sisters—corn, beans and squash. Corn was a nutrient hungry plant and the beans enriched the soil with nitrogen. The corn provided the bean with a pole to climb, and lastly the squash crept along the ground and blocked sunlight, becoming a natural weed killer.
“Yes, I lived there for three years and made frequent trips back.” With Switzerland on the forefront of advanced medical technology and Ariana making LA her home, she knew skin care and anything as elusive as the fountain of youth would be a hit in the city of angels, but she believed no amount of topical cream was enough if the internal health was not in sync. “Many of our clients are too busy. They may even have a personal chef or a food service which provides them a balanced meal, but many times they are stressed. And stress depletes essential vitamins and nutrients. That’s why they need an infusion. A percentage of them have stomach issues and with my methods what they need is delivered straight into
the bloodstream.”
“All right, I won’t argue with you,” Abbi Mena said. “I still think real food is better.” She waved at her corn stalks. “The American diet has made corn the enemy. It’s because most of the corn is GMO. In Mexico, the farmers put a lot of pressure on our government to outlaw this because it is contaminating our heritage crops.” Fierce conviction framed her face. “Corn is deeply intertwined in our culture. People think corn is just carbs—starch. It’s not. Take the masa for example.”
“The nixtamalization process releases the B vitamins,” Ariana said.
Miguel’s grandmother nodded—a pleasantly surprised look flashed across her face. “Very good.”
“I will do a disservice to my clients and my own culture if I don’t know this.”
“Abuelitaaa!”
They both turned to see Lettie calling from the kitchen entrance that fronted the garden.
“Mamá is back from the market.”
The older woman gave her a sideways glance as if sizing her up. “There’s a lot to prepare for the weekend.” A smile tugged at the corners of Abbi Mena’s mouth. “Let’s have some fun.”
The entire farmer’s table was covered with assorted plastic and paper bags. Migs walked in, carrying more, a fistful in each hand. Bella followed him holding an armload of bottles. They were arguing as usual.
“I would think living in LA would’ve sucked that machismo out of you.”
“It was one bag, Bella.”
“You could have broken the olive oil! Tessa would be pissed. That’s her special request from Mamá.” Migs’ sister turned to Ariana. “Why do men insist on carrying the bags in all at once?”
“It was three trips, and this was the last one.” Realizing there was no more room on the table, Migs rounded by Ariana on his way to the kitchen counter. “Give me a kiss, woman.”
A gleam in his eyes caused a flutter low in her belly. “So bossy,” she murmured before doing as he ordered.
“You like it when I boss you around.” He smirked and passed her.
“I think, Bella, it’s because our brother couldn’t wait to see his wife,” Lettie said sagely.
“They just had breakfast together not two-hours ago,” Bella said.
“They’re on their honeymoon.” Delia walked in. A towel was draped around her neck and she was fanning herself. “Hooh, the market was hot, but I think I got everything you want, Mami.”
Abbi Mena was at the sink, already preparing the market haul. “This fish is very fresh. We can bake it in the outdoor oven or marinate the other one in lime. Leticia!”
Migs’ sister walked over to their grandmother who gave her instructions on what to do with the fish.
“Friday is usually fish and leftover day,” Bella explained, walking to stand beside Ariana. “But I heard we’re having lechón on Sunday.”
“Roast suckling pig?”
“Yes. Mamá told Migs to check the outdoor fire pit.”
“Wow.”
“And that’s not even considering tomorrow.” Bella grinned at her.
Migs came back around and grabbed Ariana by the waist, tugging her close while addressing his mother. “Sí, Mamá. What’s for tomorrow?”
“Ask your abuelita. I bought too many things, I don’t remember anything,” Delia answered without looking up from sorting the bags. “Some of these are Tessa’s. That daughter of mine has expensive taste. Where’s the olive oil?”
Bella nodded to a corner of the kitchen. “There. Migs nearly broke it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to go to the warehouse?” Her brother shot back.
“I don’t feel like going in today. Tessa can handle the guys. It’s Friday.”
“She has to do payroll. Why don’t you help her out,” Delia said. “That way I don’t have to listen to you and your brother argue all day. You’ll make Ariana think that’s all you two ever do.”
“That’s probably fifty percent true,” Migs muttered under his breath.
“All right,” Bella said grudgingly. “I know when I’m not wanted.” With that, she flounced out of the kitchen.
“Do you really fight all the time?” Ariana asked her husband.
It was Delia who answered. “Typical sibling fights. For some reason Miguel and Bella like to get into it. No harm,” she paused. “Most of the time. I only said that so Bella would go help her sister. She’s been lazy lately.”
“She’s moping about her breakup with Carl,” Lettie announced.
“Still?” Delia said, surprised. “That was six months ago.”
“What did Carl do?” Migs growled.
“Miguel, go check the fire pit,” Abbi Mena interjected.
“You aren’t roasting the pig until Sunday,” her grandson countered.
“Do your abuelita a favor and go check. Sí, Miguelito? So I can put that one thing out of my mind?”
He exhaled heavily as if chastised. “All right.” He stalked out of the kitchen.
After he left, Abbi Mena turned to her daughter and Lettie. “You two should know better than to mention Carl in front of Migs. You know how he’ll react.” The older woman looked at Ariana. “My grandchildren. They argue all the time. Sometimes it’s their way of showing affection. Sometimes they are mortal enemies. But when one of them is hurt by someone outside the family, you can be sure they will be the first to protect each other.”
A warm ache settled on her chest. “I got that feeling about Migs yesterday. It’s the same with my brothers. When we were children, they teased me mercilessly, but if someone at school made me cry, they’d be the first to beat the guys up.” She didn’t add when Raul got older, the retribution he meted out was much worse.
The older woman’s eyes grew soft. “You miss them.”
She teared up, feeling so alone, and yet Abbi Mena’s words brought her comfort. “Yes.”
A look passed between them and Miguel’s grandmother came over and took her hand, squeezing it. “One day you can tell me the story.”
Migs wiped the sweat off his brow as he excavated the debris that had accumulated in the fire pit. Unlike the Cochinillo of Spain, the Latin American version was called lechón and could be heavier than twelve pounds. They would need a bigger pig to feed the entire Alcantara household and that also depended where the twins were on their diet. Were they vegetarian this month?
He chuckled as he thought about Maripat—Maria Patrice, and Maricor—Maria Corazon. They also went by Pat or Cora. Both were in their third year of Environmental Science in UC Berkeley and from what he’d gleaned from Pops, they were thinking of a master’s degree in Agriculture and Natural Resources. His family had a strong affinity with the land, and Migs was determined to protect their dreams.
Burying the pole deeper into the ground to make it steadier, he nearly didn’t feel the phone vibrate in his pocket. Fishing it out, he answered the call.
“I’ve instructed my contact at border patrol to let the truck through,” Garrison said.
“Thanks.”
“Sure you don’t need my help?”
“No. At this point it’s a family matter.”
“They are bringing coke onto American soil.”
“Still not our purview. It might not even figure on the DEA radar with the amount of cocaine being brought in. But I’d appreciate intel on the splinter groups that are terrorizing the Michoacán province.” Migs walked under the shade of a peach tree. The noon sun was a killer.
“I left word with my DEA contact. I’ll let you know.”
“Have you gotten anywhere with Connie Roque?”
“She insists she wasn’t involved.”
“Right. Do you believe her?”
“No. But she hasn’t had direct contact with any Carillo lieutenants. She was in a relationship with one of the Águilas. She could have been targeted for her access to Ariana. It’ll take me some time to find out information on both fronts, but until we know more, we’re keeping Connie and her daughter in a safehouse.”
“I’ll call you when I have more.”
Ending the call with Garrison, Migs turned to see Ariana approaching with a beer in her hand.
“That for me?” he called.
“I was instructed by your abuelita to bring my man a cold one.”
Migs chuckled. “She probably waited until she was certain I’d fixed the fire pit.”
Ariana handed him a Miller Light. He hated these watered-down beers, but his sisters and father liked them. He’d probably do a beer run with Cesar and catch up. Thinking of his brother-in-law brought a frown to his face. He took a pull of his beer to hide his reaction.
“What’s wrong?”
“This is like water,” he said.
“Maybe that’s what you need. If you’re done here, lunch is almost ready.”
“You mean they cleared that pile on the table?”
“No, we’re eating by the alcove.”
“Great, as long as it’s not out here. I’m roasting. Come on, wife.”
Friday lunch at the Alcantara household was an informal affair. As everyone worked in the kitchen, finger food was laid on the table along with baskets of warm tortillas and salsas at each end. Leftover meat from the previous night was reworked with some sauce to provide a filling for tacos.
Bella walked in freshly showered and appeared to be dressed for work. She picked up a tortilla and slathered it with red salsa.
“You and Ari should come with me. Show her the warehouse.”
Migs swallowed the bite he had in his mouth. That was actually not a bad idea. Gave him a chance to suss around the place.
“Or not,” Bella said.
“I was thinking it was the best idea you had today.”
His sister rolled her eyes.
“No, really. I’m sure Ari would love to see it, but I promised to take her shopping …” Migs let that hang.
And his sister walked right into his trap. “Duh, do it online. I’ll help. I have nothing to do in the office anyway except answer phones or emails.”
Protector Of Convenience (Rogue Protectors Book 2) Page 11
