by Jack Slater
Hector held out his hand mockingly. “My name is Captain Hector Alvarez León. Perhaps that will brush away a few cobwebs.”
Still, the senator did not react. Hector’s respect for the woman’s skill grew, if only grudgingly.
“I’m here to offer you a choice, Josefina,” he said, deliberately failing to use a term of respect that she did not deserve.
“Senator Salazar.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She didn’t contest the point, and he noted that although she was wary, she did not seem scared by his presence. Her reaction was wary rather than intimidated. It was the way she held herself – almost on her tiptoes, rather than backing away.
“I’ll humor you,” she said eventually. “If only to keep myself alive.”
“I haven’t threatened you.”
Salazar gestured at herself. “You broke into a woman’s dressing room. You’re half my age and twice my weight. You could do anything to me, and what defense would I have?”
“You could scream.” Hector shrugged. “Your bodyguard is right outside. But you don’t want to do that, do you, Josefina? Because you’re worried about what I know.”
Her lips pursed. “What do you want?”
“To give you a choice,” he said, spreading his palms wide. “To do the right thing.”
“And what is that?” she replied in a mocking lilt. “I suspect something that makes you rich.”
“Quite the opposite. Hand yourself in to me now, and you have my word that you will be treated with the… respect due your station. If you don’t”—he shrugged—“you will have to bear the consequences.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Quite the opposite. As I said, it’s a choice.”
Her dark eyes tightened. “What do you have?”
“I thought you were just humoring me.”
“I am.”
In the background, the charts of the crowd on the opposite side of the stage began to build into a crescendo. Even through the Winnebago’s chassis, their words were clear and distinct. “JO–SE–FI–NA! JO–SE–FI–NA!”
They called out the mantra over and over, rising in tempo and volume with each rendition so that it became akin to a Benedictine chant. Salazar closed her eyes, seeming to exult in the adulation.
“Do you hear that?” she murmured.
“Hard to miss.”
“You think you can threaten me?” she snapped, her eyes opening wide. “You have nothing. If you did, you wouldn’t be in here beguiling me with words. So no, I don’t accept your offer.”
Hector thrust his hands into his pockets, not surprised by the outcome and not entirely disappointed. “Are you sure you want to do this? Remember, you have a choice.”
“You have my answer,” she snapped. “Now get out.”
He didn’t linger. On his way out, he shook Santiago’s hand.
“She’s fine,” he said. “You’ve done a good thing for your country. It won’t be forgotten.”
54
Warren Grover was seated in the hotel bar in the Four Seasons on Paseo de la Reforma, a stone’s throw from Mexico City’s enormous and ornate city park. He was wearing a tan suit and an open-collared white shirt, and seated on top of a plush turquoise armchair upholstered with a velvet material he could easily have been lost in a crowd of similarly-attired upwardly-mobile international travelers.
Like the clientele, the staff were attractive and comfortable operating in multiple languages. A waitress passed by his table and was momentarily painted in the bright midday sunlight now streaming through the large glass windows.
“Can I get you a drink?”
He nodded, not particularly paying attention as he pulled a laptop out of a travel case by his side. “A scotch. Something peaty, with two cubes of ice. And the Wi-Fi code.”
“Are you staying with us?”
“I’ll pay cash.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She was as good as her word, and after returning with a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid, she slid a thick business card onto the table in front of him. It was cream-colored, reassuringly hefty, and had the code printed on it.
Grover punched it into his computer and pulled up the website of a local cable news channel. He took a sip of the whisky as the feed buffered, his cheeks puckering slightly as the warmth made its way down his chest. The ice clinked against the glass as he set the whisky back down.
The laptop’s tinny speakers started blaring as the video feed began to play. Grover received a couple of irritated looks and tapped the mute button. He didn’t want to listen to the inane nonsense the news anchors spouted in order to fill the airwaves either.
The picture on the screen was of the crowd streaming into the Plaza del Zócalo, formally known as Constitution Square. It was a place that had hosted celebrations and demonstrations and festivals and massacres ever since Aztec times. Today, it was home to a political rally.
Senator Salazar was not yet on stage, and so the camera played out over the crowd. The square wasn’t yet even a fifth full, though that wasn’t an enormous surprise, since it was so enormous that several hundred thousand could fill it comfortably. Nor were the demonstrators assembled like sardines, but instead spread out. Still, they seemed lively, and flags and banners fluttered on a light breeze.
Still, Grover accepted that there was little he could do but sit and wait. And since there was little enough happening in Constitution Square, his eyes wandered across the bar. He’d chosen it precisely because it was the type of location that was frequented by business travelers and tourists rather than cartel types. It was one of Mexico City’s most glamorous destinations, and both management and security services were anxious to keep it that way. It was for that reason that he felt comfortable relaxing. There was little danger to him here.
He spotted a dark-haired woman sitting near the window. She had a bottle of local beer on the table in front of her, resting on a square white napkin. She had the frame of an athlete, rather than a model, but clearly didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. She could be a local, but Grover thought not. She looked to be of Asian descent. Maybe half and half, resulting in a caramel tan and thick, dark hair.
Attractive, Grover judged.
She was probably about thirty. Maybe a couple of years older, but in sufficiently excellent physical condition that she could have passed for a decade younger with enough makeup. Not that she was wearing any.
He looked away, conscious of the risk of her noticing his attention. Besides, there would be time for women later. He returned his focus to the laptop screen.
Something was happening in the Plaza, he saw. The crowd was chanting something. He plugged in a pair of headphones and listened. They were calling for Salazar. Over and over again, chanting her name, imploring her to come out.
And after a couple of minutes of this, she emerged. As always, she was wearing heels and a tight skirt that ended a few inches below her knees. Two enormous screens on the stage behind her blew her up in size a dozen times as cameras at the event focused on her for the benefit of those at the back of the crowd.
As she reached the podium, she held her arms out in front of her beneficently and waited for the crowd to quiet. It took almost a minute, but eventually they did. She leaned forward to the microphones and started to speak.
But no words came out. At least, not through the PA system – and not through the news feed either. Salazar was clearly talking, but the microphones weren’t picking up her voice.
Grover cursed the incompetence of the AV technician who had failed to correctly perform his job. Did the prick not understand how much was riding on this?
Salazar tapped the microphone, and still nothing.
Behind her, the screens went dead. No longer did they display a live image of the woman at the podium. They were just dark. Salazar didn’t appear to notice, though she was gesturing at someone off-stage, presumably to sort out the technical issues.
The screens behind her flashed back into life. But instead of displaying the earlier video feed, they were playing something else entirely. It was slickly produced, almost like a campaign ad.
Grover shook his head, mumbling to himself, “What the hell are they doing? It’s a fucking clown show.”
Sadly for him, that wasn’t the end of it. A voice started dispassionately listing payments and dates. “June 5, 2020: $72,000. July 11, 2020: $101,000.59. September 3, 2020: $41,000…”
The voice went on and on, listing exact amounts, then the banks from which the money was transferred. Then the accounts in which it landed. Each blow deepened Grover’s unease. He recognized every word of what was being said. Not the precise amounts of the payments, but close enough.
He’d authorized every one.
The walls started closing in on him. This was a hit job, that was entirely apparent. Someone knew everything, and whoever that someone was had waited for the precise moment in which they could inflict the greatest damage on his plan. The video kept playing, the narrator kept talking, and Senator Josefina Salazar, the leading candidate in the Mexican presidential elections, saw her career disappear into smoke.
She gripped the side of the lectern for support, clearly in shock.
The crowd’s mood turned. At first, Grover had heard expressions of surprise and confusion. Now it was anger. They had seen the woman before them as a heroine, as the savior of their country.
And now they understood that she was no different from the rest. She too had her snout deep in the trough.
“Fuck,” Grover hissed, thumping the table in front of him so hard the whisky tumbler jumped. A dozen pairs of eyes fell on him, all mirroring the same expression of disapproval.
But the dark-haired woman’s didn’t. She looked for all the world as though she hadn’t heard a thing.
It’s over, Grover knew. There’s no coming back from this.
Without Salazar, he had no hope of ever exercising any real measure of power in this country again. If she’d made it to the presidency, maybe. But not now. Far from running for office, she would now be running for her life. It would be exile abroad, or the scarce comfort of a prison cell for her.
One by one, the watching eyes around him returned to their own conversations. Grover quickly packed his laptop away, cutting the news anchor off mid-stream. He zipped up his wheeled carry-on case and left some money on the table for the drink. He walked quickly outside.
He didn’t notice the woman following him. She was good at that.
He walked past the hardwood-fronted reception desk, around a circular table topped with half a dozen vases of lilies, and out through the lobby to the hotel’s entrance. He raised his arm, gesturing at a row of taxis. A blinking light flickered on, and one pulled toward him. The driver was hefty, wearing a red plaid shirt and a baseball cap over his eyes.
Grover climbed in, shoving the case onto the back seat beside him, and closed the car door. “The airport.”
The driver said nothing.
“I’m in a hurry, man.”
“Aren’t we all,” the man replied dryly.
In English.
Grover froze. To his side, the car door opened, and the woman from the bar climbed in alongside him. The second she was in, the taxi started moving.
And she pulled out a pistol and thrust it into his crotch. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” she murmured. “I hear those things are kinda precious to guys like you.”
“Who –?” Grover whispered.
Neither man nor woman said another word for the next half hour, despite his protestations. The taxi drove east out of the city and into the country. After a while, they passed fields on either side. Irrigation sprinklers painted a rainbow in the dry air on one side.
The taxi stopped on the side of a dusty road several miles outside of Mexico City. The asphalt had clearly been laid within the past year or so, but it was already crumbling at the sides as was so often the way in this part of the world. Over-strung powerlines hung overhead, dipping so low that a lost semi-truck might easily find itself barbecued after making contact.
The man killed the engine. He twisted in his seat and stared directly into Grover’s eyes. Still he said nothing.
“Who are you?” Grover asked, attempting to stop his voice trembling, but mostly failing.
“Trapp.” The man smiled mirthlessly. He didn’t extend his hand. “You can call me Jason.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Grover whimpered. “I’ll give you anything you want. Everything I have.”
“And how much is that?”
“Millions,” Grover lied. He was congenitally incapable of doing otherwise.
“That’s all?” Trapp said, frowning. “I don’t believe you.”
“Tens. Hundreds. Just let me live, okay? You can have it all. Just don’t kill me.”
Trapp cocked his head at Ikeda. “What do you think? Should we take the money and run? Spend the rest of our lives on a white sand beach somewhere sipping mojitos and getting fat?”
Ikeda laughed, though to Grover’s ears the sound was cold and strangely discordant. He didn’t sense that she was interested in the offer. “We’ve never taken the money before, have we?”
“No, I guess not.”
“And why’s that?”
Any amusement that had previously decorated Trapp’s face disappeared. “Because we’re not fucking traitors.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Ikeda murmured, as if the reason had only just dawned on her. She jabbed the muzzle of her pistol hard into his crotch, causing him to moan out loud. It wasn’t really from the pain, just the mounting realization that there was no way out.
“What do you want?” he moaned.
Outside the car, Grover heard the scratching of tires passing over the loose-packed surface of the road. He looked around desperately, forgetting that both his unwanted visitors could see exactly what he was doing as hope filled his breast. There was someone out there.
“Please!” Grover yelled, hopeless. “Help! Help me, please…”
It took another few seconds for the vehicle to come into view. It was a black sedan, several years old, and coated in a thick layer of dust that mostly obscured the license plates. It was moving slowly, just a few miles an hour. Grover tried again, calling out at the top of his lungs as his fingers ineffectually tugged at the handle of the locked car door.
The car slowed, giving him a moment of joy, and then pulled in behind the taxi.
Maybe they think we’ve broken down, he thought wildly, losing any connection to rationality he once possessed. They’ll see the gun.
Grover twisted and stared over his shoulder, willing the driver to get out. He could see two shapes behind the windshield. Both men. Both young. Both about the same age. And both extremely fit.
And in that moment, he understood that all hope was lost.
“They are here for you, Warren.” Trapp smiled. “Just not the way you hoped.”
“Why won’t you just take the money?” Grover moaned, his fingers still scrabbling at the door as though a process in his mind had short-circuited. It wasn’t about escape anymore. Just something for his brain to cling on to.
“You know the reason,” Trapp commented dispassionately. He looked at Ikeda. “Do you want to do it, or shall I?”
“I’m human! You can’t just do this to me. I have rights,” Grover protested, his voice tight with desperation. His limbs were now leaden with terror. Even if the door had sprung open, he probably wouldn’t have been capable of running.
“You had rights,” Ikeda replied. “But the president has determined you are a threat to national security. Don’t ask me for the legal precedent. I don’t know it by heart.”
“I’m entitled to a lawyer,” Grover mumbled, still battling.
By this point, Ikeda seemed done caring. She looked up at Trapp. “You have a suppressor?”
He nodded.
“Then you do it.”
&nbs
p; “My pleasure.”
A metallic, scratching sound indicated that Trapp was fixing a suppressor to the end of his own weapon, but it was all happening out of Grover’s eyesight, hidden by the rear of the taxi’s front seats. He tried looking in the mirror but saw nothing.
The scratching stopped.
“Anything you want to say?” Trapp said, jerking his head to the side as he twisted and leveled his pistol at a spot somewhere between Grover’s eyes.
They flared wide. “Huh?”
He didn’t notice, not immediately, that the pressure on his groin had subsided. A click echoed around the car’s interior, which caused Grover to flinch, thinking it was the pistol’s hammer. It wasn’t. The locks on the doors were now inactive. Ikeda opened hers and began climbing out.
Grover tried to do the same.
He wasn’t quick enough. Trapp squeezed the trigger three times, and as many rounds smashed through Grover’s body. The first tore through his heart muscle, destabilizing it so that the next contraction ripped it apart. That would’ve been enough to kill him, but another round to the chest and one to the skull made absolutely sure.
A single spurt of red bloodied the cab’s interior clear plastic shield. After that, the heart was in no shape to continue pumping. Grover slumped to one side.
Dead.
55
Culiacán, Estadio de Sinaloa
6 Days Later
Ramon Reyes strode through the busy hallways of the Catedral Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, better known as Culiacán Cathedral. His leather-soled shoes clapped against the worn marble floors, ceasing only as he stopped occasionally to examine one facet or another of the preparations for his wife’s funeral. Iker, who had become ever-present these past few days, hung a few paces behind and remained as silent as always.
As he entered the main body of the cathedral, a priest clad in ankle-length robes bowed his head. His expression was studiously neutral. Reyes ignored him. He didn’t really care whether the men of God either liked or respected him. Just so long as they knew their place.
