by Don Winslow
An “unfortunate mistake,” my ass, Keller thinks. It was deliberate, the only way of warning Barrera that someone could think of.
But who?
—
Four federal agents are waiting when the helicopter lands at a ranch farther down in Nayarit.
Adán looks at Nacho. “I guess you’ll take Tijuana on your own. And the rest of it.”
“Come on,” Nacho says.
They get out of the helicopter and follow the agents into the house.
Four million dollars later, the helicopter takes off again, with Nacho Esparza, Diego Tapia, and Adán Barrera on board.
—
Keller has a cup of coffee in a Condesa café, and then does a little shopping at El Pendulo bookstore. He picks up an Elmer Mendoza novel, then walks along Avenida Amsterdam, which used to be part of the old racetrack, and stops in at Parilladas Bariloche for a reasonably inexpensive dinner of papas con amor and arrachera. Sitting there perusing the Mendoza, he knows that he’s the image of the lonely, middle-aged divorced man—reading alone at a table for one.
Maybe, Keller thinks, I’ve become too used to solitude.
Maybe I like it too much.
He finishes dinner and then walks over to the Parque México.
Barrera has gone radio silent—no calls, no e-mails, no sightings, not even any rumors.
The trail is cold and dead.
The next meeting of the Barrera Coordinating Committee has the feel of a postmortem. Keller looks at his colleagues and wonders which, if either of them, has been tipping off Barrera.
He’s also aware that he’s been told to keep his big mouth shut about it—Mexican law enforcement has its shiny new soul—and Art Keller is not going to besmirch it. And the truth is that he doesn’t have anything solid, just his suspicions.
And his gut feeling that both of these men are about to throw in the towel.
Aguilar is actually right when he points out to Keller that the search for Barrera is only one part of a multifaceted effort, and that neither SEIDO nor AFI can commit all their time and resources for what seems to be an increasingly quixotic quest.
Keller hears the subtext—we’re going to get you the hell out of here—and he’s too smart to hasten the process of his own demise by making noise about corruption.
“Let me tilt at one more windmill,” he says.
—
Keller and Vera watch from behind the one-way glass as Aguilar interviews Sondra Barrera.
She looks like hell, Keller thinks.
The Black Widow.
“You were present at the Christmas party in El Puente prison,” Aguilar says.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Sondra answers.
“Well, you were there,” Aguilar says. “We have witnesses.”
Sondra doesn’t respond.
“You were there with your son Salvador and other members of the family,” Aguilar says.
“I don’t know—”
“Where is Adán Barrera?”
Sondra laughs.
“Did I say something funny?” Aguilar asks.
“Do you think Adán would tell me where he is?” Sondra asks. “Do you think I would tell you if I knew?”
“Do you know?”
Sondra Barrera has no love for her brother-in-law, Keller knows, but she’s not going to give him up, even if she could. He’s her paycheck, her pension, her social security.
“My husband is dead,” Sondra says.
“I’m aware of that,” Aguilar answers. “What are you getting at?”
“That Adán has an instinct for survival,” Sondra says. “Other people die for him. You’ll never find him.”
“Is he in touch with your son, Salvador?”
“Leave my son alone.”
Keller sees the alarm in her eyes. Aguilar must have seen it, too, because he presses, “Tell me where Adán is and I won’t have to speak to your son.”
“He’s good,” Vera says to Keller. “Whatever else you can say about the persnickety bastard, you have to admit he’s good.”
“Please leave my son alone,” Sondra says, on the verge of tears.
“I wish I could.”
“You’re bastards, all of you.”
“You’re hardly in a morally superior position, Señora Barrera,” Aguilar says. “Do you know how many people your late husband killed?”
Sondra doesn’t answer.
“Would you like to know? Does it matter to you? No, I thought not.” He hands her his card. “This is my number. If Adán contacts you, I hope you will call me. And please have Salvador make an appointment. I don’t want to pick him up on campus and embarrass him.”
After Sondra and her lawyer leave, Aguilar comes into the room and sits with Keller and Vera. “Well, that was useful.”
“It was,” Keller says. “I know Sondra—she’ll panic.”
“Do we have a trace on her phones?” Vera asks.
“Of course,” Aguilar answers. “And her son’s.”
“Luis is getting into the game,” Vera says, getting up to leave.
“I’ve been in the game,” Aguilar answers.
But Vera is already out the door.
Aguilar turns to Keller and says defensively, “I’ve been in the game.”
—
Sondra calls a number in Culiacán. “…they’re talking about obstruction charges.”
“They’re bluffing.”
“It’s not Adán’s voice,” Keller says.
“No,” Aguilar agrees.
“I will not go to prison. I will not have my son go to prison.”
“Relax. We’ll fix it.”
“What does that mean?” Keller asks.
“I don’t know,” Aguilar snaps.
“Call him.”
“That’s not necessary. We can take care of it.”
“He’s not leaving us hanging out there.”
“You know he wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t know that.”
“Sondra—”
She hangs up.
“Who was she talking to?” Keller asks.
“Esparza?” Aguilar asks. “Tapia? I don’t know.”
But now they have the number she called, and it’s a simple matter of technology to tap its calls.
They sit through a long night. Finally the man in Culiacán, now code-named “Fixer,” makes a call to the 777 area code—Cuernavaca. “Sondra’s panicking.”
“Tell her to calm down.”
“You don’t think I did? She wants us to talk to him.”
“To say what? Just fix it.”
“Obviously. If she gives us the time.”
“What can she tell them?”
“Who knows what she knows?”
“Silly bitch. What about the kid?”
“He’s his father’s son.”
“The man loves him.”
“Then we should tell him.”
Keller feels a jolt shoot through his body. The men on the phone call are about to contact Adán.
The next minutes are agony.
Aguilar orders an underling, “Get Vera in here.”
The AFI chief shows up twenty minutes later, disheveled, in a tracksuit and sweatshirt. “This had better be good. I’ve been seducing this woman for weeks.”
Aguilar briefed him.
They sit in silence, watching the phone monitor.
Hoping, praying.
Then it lights up.
“Cuernavaca” is on the phone.
“Jesus,” Vera says. “It’s 555—a Mexico City number. Barrera’s here.”
Here, Keller thinks, in Mexico City. He’s so goddamn smart, Barrera, he flies under the radar by getting under the radar’s shell. You have to hand it to the son of a bitch, it’s as clever as it is arrogant.
Classic Adán Barrera.
Keller listens as “Cuernevaca” says, “It’s me.”
“What is it?”
“Is that Barrera?”
Aguilar asks.
“Can’t tell,” Keller answers.
They listen as “Cuernavaca” describes the problem with Sondra Barrera. Then the recipient of the call says, “The pendejos, why do they have to interfere with families?”
Keller nods. It’s him.
“What do you want to do?” “Cuernavaca” asks.
“Just tell her you spoke with me and we’re fixing it. Send them on vacation or something.”
“Atizapán,” the technician says, naming a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, “5871 Calle Revolución.”
“Cuernavaca” says, “Do you think…we should…”
“She’s my brother’s wife.”
The call goes off. Vera grins. “Did we just hear ‘Cuernavaca’ suggest killing Barrera’s sister-in-law?”
Keller is already on the horn to DEA to request a satellite run.
By early morning they have a hit.
“Look at this,” Keller said.
He shows them a grainy video image of Adán Barrera standing on the roof of the house, gazing out over the neighborhood, a cup of coffee in his hand. He only stayed a minute, and then went in.
“It’s him,” Keller says.
“Are you sure?” Aguilar asks.
Keller has come to learn that the head of SEIDO is a cautious man, constantly checking and rechecking the “facts” to make certain that they are indeed facts, and not rumors or deliberate misinformation. The image is grainy but Keller is reasonably sure it’s Adán—the short stature, the shock of black hair across the forehead…
“Put a percentage on it,” Aguilar presses.
“Eighty-five,” Keller says.
“Eighty-five is good,” Vera comments.
Keller wants to go in right away. He requests and receives another satellite flyover with mega-audio capability and sits listening to what he believes is Adán’s voice inside the house.
Talking to a woman.
“Do you want red or white?”
“Red tonight, I think.”
“Is that her?” Keller asks. “Magda Beltrán?”
The beauty queen.
Aguilar shrugs. “Narcos have a lot of women.”
“Not Adán,” Keller says. “He’s more of a serial monogamist.”
They run the audio against DEA recordings of Adán and come up with a close match.
“We know that he’s inside the house now,” Keller says. “Let’s do it now.”
“It’s too risky,” Aguilar says.
Vera—usually the more aggressive—agrees. “Too much chance of my men hitting each other in a crossfire.”
“Or a civilian,” Aguilar says.
It’s frustrating—the AFI troopers are good, more and more of them have received training at Quantico, but Keller yearns for American special forces, with their high level of training and equipment. He knows it will never happen—D.C. would never send, nor would Los Pinos ever accept, American troops on Mexican soil—but Keller would give a lot right then for special operators who preferred to fight at night.
But this is the Mexicans’ call to make, and they decide to wait until dawn. Aguilar puts his best surveillance team on the scene, and Vera sends an AFI plainclothes team in case Barrera tries to leave the house.
“We have him penned in,” Vera reassures Keller. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be there in the morning.”
Keller hopes so.
Adán hasn’t stayed free this long by being careless, and he doubtless has men watching from the house, as well as halcones—“falcons,” lookouts—on the street. Not to mention an average, misguided citizen who sees Barrera as some kind of Robin Hood and who could get very rich very quickly by warning the patrón about strangers in the neighborhood.
But now the “strangers” are in place—four armored vehicles filled with AFI troopers with black hoods and Kevlar vests—parked blocks away from the building. The troopers are armed with automatic rifles, flash-bang grenades, and tear-gas canisters. Two helicopters stand by to take off as soon as the raid starts, and they’ll drop more AFI troopers onto the roof.
Keller urges the sun to hurry the hell up.
The house will be full of sicarios, and, sleepy or not, they’ll fight to protect Barrera, and there will be gunfire. And when the shooting starts, Keller thinks, the distinction between justice and revenge tends to get blurred.
Then Vera’s voice comes over the radio.
“Two minutes.”
The plan is straightforward, perhaps too much so, Keller thinks. At the “go” command, the vehicles will charge up to the building and AFI troopers will get out, bludgeon open the door, and go in while others guard the back entrance and seal off the streets. The SEIDO agents will follow to make arrests and gather intelligence and evidence—cell phones, computers, cash, and weapons.
Aguilar checks the load on his service revolver, and tightens his Kevlar vest. Then he turns to Keller and says, “You will remain in the vehicle. We will bring Barrera out and you will identify him. Is that clear?”
“I heard you the fifteenth time.”
They sit in silence for an interminable ninety seconds, until they hear Vera say, “Go.”
Aguilar starts to follow his men out of the car.
Keller watches him go down the block, then pulls his gun and follows.
“Juras! Juras!”
Keller hears the halcones shout that the cops are coming, but the lookouts—most of them kids—run away as the AFI troopers pour out of the vehicles.
Gunfire blasts from the windows and the roof.
Vera seems oblivious to the bullets zipping around him. Pistol in hand, he urges the men with the battering ram to hit the door. More afraid of him than the bullets, the troopers pick up the ram and run it into the door.
The door comes off its hinges, pulling the trip wires on the grenades attached waist high to the sill.
Keller sees the red blast as two troopers fly back.
“Muévanse!” Vera yells at the stunned survivors.
Move!
They balk as bullets zip out through the doorway and they look at their two comrades lying in the street, limp as puppets.
“Rajados! Cowards!” Vera yells. “I’ll go!”
He runs in.
His men follow him.
So does Keller, who trots toward the house, remembering Vietnam and his Quantico training—don’t run to your death—and saves his oxygen for the firefight.
And, like ’Nam, he hears the choppers coming in.
—
The house is a bedlam.
The power out, faint light comes through the few windows—screams of pain and bursts of automatic weapons fire cut through the darkness. The carnage is horrific, although it’s hard to make out the narcos from the AFI troopers. Keller hears Vera’s voice in front of him, toward the back of the house, shouting orders.
Stepping over the bodies of dead and wounded, Keller looks for the stairs. Adán wouldn’t be on the ground floor or on the top. He’d be on the second, in the back, with the possibility of getting out a window.
If he’s even here, Keller thinks. This was an ambush—a booby-trapped ambush—and they were ready for us.
But the voice track said he was here. Was here, anyway, Keller thinks as he finds the stairs and starts up, pistol pointed in front of him.
Then he trips over Aguilar’s legs.
The lawyer sits on the landing, his back against the wall, his legs stuck straight out, his left hand grasping his right arm, the glassy look of the wounded in his eyes.
He sees Keller.
“You’re supposed to be in the car,” Aguilar says softly.
Keller crouches beside him. The wound is jagged—shrapnel, not a bullet. Keller rips Aguilar’s sleeve and uses it as a tourniquet. “The medics are on the way. You won’t bleed out.”
“Go back to the car.”
Keller continues up the stairs.
A grenade clatters down the steps.
Befor
e he can move, it goes off by his ankles. The smoke explodes up, choking him, blinding him. Staggering up the stairs, he hears gunfire above him, as the AFI troopers fight their way down from the roof. A sicario appears through the smoke in front of him. He looks confused when he sees Keller, then throws his AK up to his shoulder.
Keller fires twice into his chest and the man goes down.
Pushing past him, Keller makes it to the top of the stairs. He opens the first door he can find and sees—
Adán—
—standing by the bed—
—a pistol in his right hand.
“Don’t,” Keller says.
Hoping he does.
Barrera raises the gun.
Keller fires.
The first bullet takes off the bottom of Barrera’s jaw.
The second goes through his left eye.
Blood sprays against the wall.
The woman screams.
Keller lowers his gun.
—
Vera walks up behind him.
Together, they look down at the corpse.
The black hair, the slightly pug nose, the brown eyes.
Well, one brown eye.
“Congratulations,” Vera says.
“It’s not him,” Keller says.
“What?!”
“It’s not fucking him.”
Adán used lookalikes before, at least three of them during his war with Palma, and when Keller sees the body up close, remote from the chaos, adrenaline, darkness, and smoke, he realizes that it wasn’t Adán and that the whole raid has been a setup.
Keller, Vera, and the AFI troopers tear through the house, and in one of the bedrooms they find it.
The bathtub has been torn up and there it is—the entrance to a tunnel.
Keller jumps down.
Pistol in front of him, he moves down the tunnel, which is wired for electricity and has lights. He hopes that Barrera is in here, cowering somewhere, but the greater likelihood is that if Barrera’s down here, he has an army of sicarios protecting him.
Keller keeps pushing anyway.
Vera is right behind him, his gun also drawn.
They walk under the street and then come to the end of the tunnel and another metal ladder. Keller climbs up and pushes open the trapdoor into another house.
It’s empty.
Barrera is gone.
—
They do the press conference that afternoon. Aguilar questioned the wisdom of making a public show of what had been a desperate shootout near the nation’s capital, but Vera insisted.
