by Jack Slater
Trapp bit his lip. “That’s the question, right? I’m guessing we figure that out, and we crack this whole thing.”
32
The car was a battered soccer mom mobile with an ingrained cigarette funk. It wasn’t exactly the style to which Fernando Carreon was ordinarily accustomed, but then again, there was a lot about the last few days which was new to him.
And besides, in that moment his mind was otherwise occupied, wrestling with a problem that exercised it more than any he could remember. The plain facts of the matter were that he was in deep peril. Grover had spent two years with him, turning the Federación Cartel into a mean, professional outfit, well-armed and equipped with the latest surveillance tools. He had turned what was essentially a vicious street mob into something more akin to a multinational corporation.
And where his predecessors – and hitherto Carreon himself – had largely eschewed the complex, skilled world of professional espionage, Grover had instead embraced it, recruiting reliable sources even in the belly of the beast: Washington DC.
It had always been possible to recruit informants in Mexico, of course. Sometimes it seemed like half the payroll of any given police force supplemented their incomes by judiciously sharing information. After all, when the stick was the threat of death at any moment, the carrot of a comfortable life was far more appealing.
But in recent years, the Americans had changed tack, presumably recognizing the fruitlessness of their prior course. Where once they had been happy to let the Mexican government clean house – which was a threat only of a short incarceration inside a prison where it was possible to procure women, narcotics, alcohol, and satellite television – now they wanted heads.
More precisely, they wanted the leaders of all the major cartels to serve long sentences inside high-security federal Supermax jails. Small, featureless boxes with immovable concrete furniture, bare light bulbs that never turned off, exercise yards where you never even saw the sky. Places in which a man might go mad years before he ever saw freedom. If that was even on offer.
And that was the task he had given Grover: to prevent at all costs his own extradition to the United States.
Unfortunately, it was now clear that Grover had had other intentions all along. Like a parasite, the man had borrowed his way into the Federación and subverted its activities to his benefit. He’d built himself an army in plain sight.
And then he’d seized control.
“You guys plan on telling me where we’re going?” Carreon asked, peering out of the darkened rear window into a vast, featureless emptiness of desert. Stars twinkled in the skies overhead, an effervescent glow against the velvet quilt of night.
As expected, he received no reply. Only a strained groan from the car itself as the elderly vehicle jolted over a pothole in the dirt road.
There were four other men in the vehicle with him, all Grover’s. His one-time security chief – now the arbiter of his incarceration – was not with them.
That was a problem. And, doubtless, it was intentional.
If Grover was smart, which was not in doubt, then he would never allow himself to be present in the same place as both Carreon and the cartel’s sicarios at the same time.
He switched tack. “What’s the plan?”
“You have your instructions,” one of his guards replied shortly.
“And you have yours,” Carreon murmured softly, slowly switching his gaze over each in turn as they stared resolutely ahead, some clutching on to their weapons, others still with them holstered in plain sight.
Their task was simple: If he showed any sign of disloyalty, any evidence that he was attempting to communicate with his men, then they were to terminate the meeting immediately and allow no survivors. They would probably let him live, but even that was not assured. He gave it maybe a one in two chance, which was a risk not worth countenancing.
The minivan’s headlights bounced over the uneven, dusty terrain before the vehicle began to slow, turning left without indicating. Five minutes later, they reached what he presumed was their ultimate destination: a drab wooden farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, electric light leaking through a spiderweb of cracks between the building’s wooden slats.
There were no other vehicles, something he found curious.
“Out,” one of the guards grunted, jabbing Carreon in his side.
A gentle, backseat swell of car sickness began to fade as he stepped back onto solid ground. He was wearing light blue jeans over tan boots, a white T-shirt, and a faded blue work jacket zipped halfway to his neck. Despite the darkness, he looked like any laborer in the country.
Carreon rubbed his torso, wincing with frustration. As a younger man, he might have taken the blow as a mortal insult and reacted accordingly. He itched to return the favor but held himself back. His time would come.
“You could have just asked,” he groaned.
The guard glanced at the shack, apparently determining whether they were being watched before returning his attention to Carreon once he was satisfied they were not. He gripped his upper arm tightly, leather-gloved fingers biting into the soft flesh.
“You do anything I don’t like, say anything I don’t like, it’ll be the last thing you do. You’re here for one purpose. If you have other ideas, then you’re no use to me – and my instructions are to get rid of you. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Carreon said through gritted teeth. “You need me, and I need you. Message received.”
You’ll be the first to die, he didn’t add.
The walk to the farmhouse was short, punctuated by the crunch of boots against stony desert earth. Carreon kicked up a thin sheen of dust as he walked, two guards ahead and two behind, which coated his lower legs like a mountain’s snow line.
The five men paused outside the ramshackle building, and the last, unspoken reminder passed between Carreon and the masked guard who appeared to be in charge. They never shared their names, these people. He was governed by confusion. The message was clear: Don’t screw around.
The front door was pulled open, hard enough to slam against the opposite wall, and the two guards in front made an ostentatious show of entering first and checking that the room was safe. Only a couple of seconds later was Fernando Carreon allowed to enter.
“Boss!” one of the capos said, jumping to his feet and leaping forward before arresting his momentum, giving the masked guards a strange look. “You’re safe. Thank God. We didn’t know for sure what happened to you.”
Carreon surveyed the squalid, drab room, a far cry from the luxurious accommodation he was used to, and realized he’d sacrifice all of the material comforts of the existence he’d enjoyed for the past two decades for just one more drink at the teat of the most intoxicating narcotic known to man: power.
It wasn’t a lifestyle that Grover had stolen from him. It was his only reason for existence. A man could live on after being stripped of power, but some inherent part of him would forever be lost.
“Iker…” Carreon murmured, remembering the capo’s name.
Until recently, the short, bespectacled man had been a relatively low-level functionary, in charge of some regional security outfit or other. He had a fearsome reputation that belied his bookish appearance, he remembered. A man who was always marked for higher things.
Things had apparently changed since he went to jail. Grover had hidden things from him. Promotions, obviously, and no doubt also the quiet removal of intransigent elements: those who would not acquiesce to his wishes.
Iker squinted curiously. “Jefe?”
“It’s been a long day,” Carreon said, glancing up and noticing that the guards had filed out so that each was stationed in one corner of the rectangular room. There would be no inch that their eyesight did not cover. Not that he’d expected any different. “A long fucking week.”
That prompted a laugh.
“Where have you been?” Iker said, still standing opposite him, glancing over his shoulder at the guards. Carreo
n suspected that his underling guessed that something was amiss, and the knowledge of his impotence burned within him. The agents of his salvation could as easily be the deliverance of his destruction, and presently the latter was more likely than not.
“Busy,” Carreon grunted to buy time. A heavy, rough-hewn wood table sat in the center of the farmhouse, which was lit by a single bare bulb in the center of the room. Somewhere outside, out of sight, he heard the low chugging of a diesel generator powering it. On the surface of the table were half a dozen dusty glasses, messily ringing a bottle that was half-full of amber liquid.
“What are you drinking?” he asked, seating himself at the head.
“Tequila,” Iker replied, reaching for the bottle and pouring another round of drinks. He pushed one toward his boss. “My mother’s recipe. It’s fierce.”
“Good, it’s been a long drive,” Carreon replied.
He reached for the glass, lifted it to his lips, and drained it with his eyes closed. The liquid was fierce. So fierce it burned the back of his throat and stung his eyes, though he was careful not to make a show of it when he opened them. He grinned. “You weren’t kidding. That would put hairs on the balls of a 10-year-old.”
“Worked for me,” Iker replied.
“What’s the latest?” Carreon said as the warmth flowed into his gut. He flicked his wrist and sent the glass skating back toward Iker, who dutifully filled it and topped up his own. The capo sat down, taking the seat at Carreon’s right, and the other half dozen of his lieutenants – or less senior than Iker himself – followed suit.
Iker looked surprised and barely concealed a glance at the nearest of the masked guards in his eye line. “You don’t know?”
“They don’t tell me much,” Carreon said, accepting a refilled glass of homebrew, which he sniffed appreciatively. This drink, this place, it all reminded him of his childhood. Of pulling himself up from the dirt and grime and hopelessness of poverty. Of becoming one of the most powerful men in all of Mexico.
Grover had tried to steal that from him. But he would not succeed. Not now he remembered why he wanted it in the first place.
“I’m kidding,” he said at the look of concern on Iker’s face. “We’ve had to move around. Security concerns. Reyes’ men have been everywhere.”
“That’s true,” Iker agreed. “The whole top rank of the organization is gone. Everyone.”
Carreon thought about it for a few seconds. The loss of some of his oldest friends pained him. But unlike him, they were weak. They were not leaders. They had allowed themselves to be deceived and decapitated.
He lifted his glass and held it out in front of him expectantly. The legs of the alcohol swirled around the scratched material. As it settled, he watched as the other men slowly understood what he was asking of them and raised their own glasses in turn.
“To the next generation, then. You six will be my right hands. You will fight by my side. And you will get the rewards for doing so, you understand?”
They shared looks, all of them except Iker, who held his gaze without blinking. He liked that about the man. He looked like an accountant but had steel in his spine. And he wasn’t afraid of violence, either. Was steady in a fight, they said.
He will need to be.
The others, though, shared a variety of expressions. Some were fearful. Others wore a glint of hope or avarice or disbelief – or all of the above. But that was war. The strong would survive, and the week would be culled, and it would all be worth it so long as they took a few of the enemy down with them.
“What do you want from us?” Iker asked, the alcohol in his hand perfectly steady.
Carreon liked that also. He had his eyes on the prize, this one. “They hit us by surprise,” he lied. “Planned to kill me in that fucking jail. That’s why I had to get out at such short notice. That’s why I’ve been missing the past few days.”
“They’ve killed too many of us already, those Crusaders scum,” Iker spat. “They fight like rats in a sack.”
That’s because they know what’s at stake, Carreon thought. Not riches or power or fame. Just survival.
“And so must we,” he said. He met eyes with each of the capos in turn, holding his gaze until he saw indecision shift to belief. “We need to kill these assholes. We need to go into their homes and dump their bodies in the streets. We will show them who runs this country.”
He paused and sniffed the alcohol. It was coarse, impure stuff and stung his nose hairs. It brought tears to his eyes. But this fight would not be easy. And maybe this was the reminder he needed.
“Are you with me?” Carreon growled.
A roar of affirmation grew in the space, filling his heart with pride. He still had it, after all, whatever it was: the power to inspire men into battle. Perhaps he would have been a warrior in days gone past. Perhaps. But this was his battlefield, and he still had what it took.
They all cheered their belief in him. All but Iker.
The space fell silent. Carreon locked eyes with him. “And you?”
The fighter held the silence for long enough that Carreon began to wonder whether he knew precisely how much power he presently held. But after a long, seemingly interminable wait, he nodded. “To the death, jefe.”
Carreon thumped the table. “Then let’s drink.”
Each man drained his glass in one and set it back on the table. There was a palpable air of anticipation in the room, a rush of conspiracy that bonded each to one another. Carreon knew that they would fight for him. Even those with doubts would look to the man on their left, and then the man on their right, and see only shame in refusing to fight. It was what had carried men into battle for thousands of years, and it wasn’t changing now.
That some, probably many, would die because of this decision did not trouble him. No one entered this line of business with a lily-white heart. Doubtless each of the men seated around this table had blood on their hands.
And besides, he reasoned, Grover had left him with precious little choice. If he didn’t go to war with Reyes’ cartel, then the men from Culiacán would wipe his own organization out. There was no retirement for men like him. The only way to survive this fight was to win it.
That meant Grover as well.
He surveyed the four guards – or at least, the two he could see from his current vantage point – shielding his burning distaste for them from his expression.
“Iker,” he said loudly so that Grover’s lapdogs would hear. “I want you by my side at all times. Spread the word: I’ll pay $1000 bounty for the life of every one of Reyes’ men. No questions asked. Understood?”
His new right-hand man inclined his head, but Carreon wasn’t watching Iker. Instead, his attention was focused on his newly acquired shadows. One of them – he thought it was the man who’d warned him earlier – stepped forward.
“That won’t be possible,” he said curtly. “For your safety, sir –”
Carreon cut him off brutally. “I make the goddamn rules,” he yelled. “It’s my life on the line. Do you understand? We can’t win this fight without taking a little bit of risk.”
He couldn’t see the expression on the guard’s face, but he had a good idea. The man was in an impossible position. Either he fell afoul of Grover’s instruction to keep him separated from his men or he embarrassed Carreon in front of them. Both outcomes had obvious risks.
But as he knew he would, the masked guard bowed his head and stepped back. “As you wish, jefe.”
After all, Carreon knew that he had not technically overstepped Grover’s red line. He hadn’t – yet – attempted to warn his people of the trouble he was in. And the guard must have known that to kneecap his charge now, in front of these men, would destroy Carreon’s authority and risk dooming the already flailing operation.
“Good. Let’s get moving. We have a busy few days in front of us.”
33
Ramon Reyes grinned at Mendoza. “Makes you feel a decade younger, doesn’t it?”
“What does?”
He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, don’t tell me you don’t feel it. The adrenaline. The rush. I forgot how good it tasted.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t get us killed,” came the reply.
Reyes checked his weapon for perhaps the hundredth time. “We’ll be fine.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
They were seated with six other men in the back of a minivan. The others wore military-style black Kevlar helmets, but not Reyes or Mendoza. It wasn’t because he was unafraid of dying. That was decidedly not the case. But there were worse fates than death.
And besides, he could not run. Not forever. Either he made a stand or he would die. It was a clarifying realization — one he’d shied away from at first. But no longer.
Reyes leaned toward his old friend so that the others would be unable to hear. “You ever wonder why he started this – Carreon, I mean? Peace was just as profitable for him as it was for us. And war’s expensive. How many shipments have we lost? How many men? It’ll take us years to rebuild our operations north of the border. Longer if the federales take advantage of our weakness.”
Mendoza shrugged. “I guess he wanted the whole pie. Some people just don’t like sharing.”
“Hell of a risk. And he never struck me as the gambling type. Safe. Fat. But not a risk taker. And why now, after all this time?”
“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” Mendoza grinned.
“I know,” Reyes said wryly. “Nervous, I guess. It’s been a long time.”
“We’ll be fine,” Mendoza replied, gripping his friend by the forearm. “And if not, we’ll be dead, and then it won’t matter either way.”
“An optimist.”
“You know me.”
The back of the van was dark, and the courtesy lights had their bulbs removed to avoid even the faintest possibility of a screwup. Reyes could picture it now: the door opening, the whole operation being painted in bright white electric light. Someone pulling a gun, and the whole thing going sideways.
