With a hand on the small of her back, he guided Anita into the brightly lit lobby. A maître d’ in a ruffled shirt and black jacket checked their reservation as the soaring voices of a mariachi band filled the air and bounced off the plastered walls and Saltillo tile floor. It was a far cry from the leather-and-oak eateries in Washington that held secrets from past centuries, where deals were made in private, quiet corners. Tia Flora was bright and brassy, and the food and drink matched, hot and savory, washed down with tequila, salt, and lime.
The maître d’ tucked a couple of the large leather-bound menus in the crook of his arm, but his faced dropped as he looked past them to the entryway. He snatched up a couple more menus and pushed Dawson and Anita aside with a sweep of his arm. He forced a wide smile as four men hurried into the restaurant.
The first two were bear-like men with cropped hair, sunglasses, and thick necks rising out of wide collars. Each kept a hand tucked inside the lapel of a sport coat that could not hide the holstered hardware underneath. The two made a quick scan of the place, then nodded to the maître d’ before turning to an older man with a rugged face, thick white hair, and dark, darting eyes. To his right was a younger, heavyset man in a business suit and sporting a thick mustache below gold, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his thick nose.
“Oh, my God,” Anita whispered. “It’s El Guapo.”
“Who?”
“Don Diego Borrego.”
“Of the Borrego cartel?”
“Yes. I’ve known him since I was a child. He’s like an uncle to me.”
Dawson gazed wide-eyed. Borrego? Un-freakin’-believable. For years he’d read about Borrego, nicknamed El Guapo, or “the handsome one.” He headed the Borrego cartel, one of the earliest and still among the richest and most violent cartels battling over Juárez, the gateway to the massive American narcotics market.
Dawson’s mind raced, his heart pounding. El Guapo was famous for flying planes loaded with cocaine from Colombia into Mexico. Along with bundles of marijuana, it was packed into the U.S. on the backs of human drug mules, loaded onto dune buggies that spun across the desert where the border was wide open, or dragged through tunnels burrowed under urban barriers.
Other cartels were muscling in, killing anyone who stood in their way. El Guapo’s major competitor was the Sonora cartel to the west. The Borrego cartel was also under attack by the Zapata cartel, run by former Mexican commandoes trained by U.S. Special Forces, who had gone into the drug business for themselves. They controlled most of the Texas border to the south of Juárez to the Gulf Coast.
Borrego did not look the part of a cartel boss, Dawson thought, and he could see how he’d gotten his nickname. His handsome features belied the ruthlessness buried in his heart. His enforcers were a cadre of killers who had grown up in the streets. They cared only for cash and power. Unlike them, El Guapo exuded the air of a distinguished elder statesman, albeit one who remained alert and vigilant.
Borrego’s weary eyes opened wide as he recognized Anita standing just a few feet away. A grandfatherly smile lighted his face. He took her hand and lightly kissed her cheek. He cupped her hand in his. “Anita. Como esta?” he said with a smooth and baritone voice. “It’s been such a long time.”
“Tio Don Diego, what a surprise to meet you here,” she said.
Borrego turned to the younger man with him. “You remember Vincente?”
“Of course I remember Vincente,” she said. “We’re practically cousins. It’s been many years.”
Vincente put his hands on her shoulders, pecked both cheeks, and stood back with a bright smile.
“Vincente just returned after many years of working in Colombia,” Borrego said. “He’s going to take control of the family enterprises.”
As the conversation paused, Anita smiled and turned to Dawson. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Kyle Dawson, a reporter from Washington, D.C. I think you may have known of his father, Sam Dawson.”
Borrego’s eyes widened again. “Sam Dawson? His son? Ah, of course. The journalist.” He turned back to Anita, ignoring Dawson’s extended hand. “I would love to talk, but I must let you go. We have some urgent business to discuss.” He motioned to the interior of the restaurant. “Enjoy yourself. And please be kind enough to give my regards to your mother.”
Borrego, Vincente, and the two others followed the maître d’ and disappeared.
Dawson took a breath, his heart still pounding from the encounter. “So,” he said, trying to calm down, “El Guapo, or Don Diego, as you call him, is your uncle? How in the hell…?”
“He’s like an uncle to me.”
“Like an uncle?”
“My father was his lawyer. Up until my father died.”
“Sounds like he made a deal with the devil.”
“We had a good life.”
“Maybe you should have been a lawyer.”
“That’s what my father wanted.”
“Journalism is not exactly a safe job in this city.”
“Safe like, uh, Baghdad?”
“Touché.”
The maître d’ returned and paused, looking at Dawson and rolling his eyes. “El Guapo must be taken care of. You understand.”
They followed the maître d’ into the restaurant and to a small corner room with just three other tables, each occupied. The maître d’ paused at the entryway and nodded to the adjacent room, indicating that was where El Guapo was sitting, then showed them to their table, pulling out a chair for Anita. “Your margaritas are coming, courtesy of El Guapo,” he said, flopping menus on the table. “Your dinner is taken care of as well.”
Dawson smiled and nodded, taking his seat. “Interesting family and friends you have. So this is your favorite place?” Anita seemed nonchalant about the encounter with the cartel boss.
“My father used to bring me and my mother here when I was a kid. This was his favorite. It’s been a few years since I’ve eaten here. Seems different now.”
A couple of large, salt-encrusted margaritas arrived. Dawson lifted his glass, clinking it against hers, taking a sip. He leaned in close. “My God, Anita. I can’t believe you have access to someone like that. Why don’t you get an interview? It would be a huge scoop. National stuff.”
Her eyes opened wide for a moment, then narrowed and flared angrily. “I consider him family, and…”
“And what? You’ve always talked about getting out of El Paso. An interview with Borrego, or El Guapo, or whatever he’s called, would do it.”
“It’s not that easy. He’s virtually untouchable. Men like him hate the press.” She leaned close and whispered. “Who the hell do you think has been killing journalists in Juárez? When they say no stories, they mean no stories.”
Dawson considered the dangers and shook his head. “I’m not suggesting you get yourself killed. Convince him that an in-depth story could help his image. If anyone could do it, you could since you’re so close.”
She shook her head adamantly. “There are boundaries. I’ve been lucky. I want to keep it that way.”
“So El Guapo must be your secret source.”
Anita flushed and scowled, then dismissed the remark with another shake of her head. “No, uh, not really. But I can call him if I need help.”
“You mean protection?”
She stared, then sipped her drink.
They both turned to shouting and commotion deep within the restaurant. Boots pounded the tile floor and came closer until a man wearing a black ski mask burst into their room and trained an assault rifle on them. Behind him, others also wearing ski masks, black T-shirts, and camouflaged cargo pants, unleashed a barrage of deafening gunfire inside El Guapo’s dining room.
As the shooting erupted, the man at their door then held his weapon high and sprayed the walls. Dawson, Anita, and the other diners shrieked and dove to the floor, Dawson instinctively pulling Anita with him as he upended the table for a modicum of protection.
“El Guapo es muerto!” the gunme
n shouted from the doorway. El Guapo is dead. Another burst of bullets splintered the edge of the table behind which Dawson and Anita cowered, pounding the plaster wall. Dust and chunks of plaster fell, coating them.
From behind the table, Dawson glanced around the table’s edge at the shooter, a heavily muscled man who looked like he was about to shoot again. But the gunman’s weapon was swatted down by another standing beside him in the doorway, who shouted. “No!”
The shooter turned, surprised. Their forearms were covered with tattoos, including one of an eagle clutching weapons and the words “Semper Fi” in barely readable flourishes amid crude prison-style markings. It was the Marine Corps motto. What the hell? Ex-Marines?
His weapon pointed at Dawson’s head, the gunman asked, “Quien están?” Who are they?
“Nadie. Vamonos,” the other said. No one. Let’s go.
The gunman looked at Dawson and shook his head.
My lucky day, Dawson thought. The next time, maybe not so much.
The killers turned and ran, their footsteps fading deep in the restaurant, leaving it eerily silent.
Dawson drew a deep and halting breath and looked at Anita, her face just inches away from his, her eyes wide and panicked.
Chapter 14
Juárez, Mexico
Chalky dust drifted in the air. Dawson coughed and slowly relaxed his hold on Anita, who was shaking. She had grasped his arm so tightly that it hurt. “Is it over?” she whispered, barely audible over the ringing in his ears.
“I think so.” He slowly unpeeled her fingers. His hands shook and his knees were weak as he forced himself to stand.He bent to help Anita to her feet.
Anita brushed dust and bits of plaster from her hair, then buried her face in her hands at the shock of what had just happened, her shoulders shaking from the muffled sobs. Then she stopped and gasped, dropping her hands, her eyes wide, and darted into the adjacent room. Dawson tried to restrain her, but she pulled away. He followed her into the adjacent room.
Borrego, Vincente, and the two bodyguards were on the floor, their bodies oozing blood that soaked their clothes. Chunks of plaster covered the floor, dust hanging in the stillness. The scent of gunfire lingered. Anita cried out and ran to the elder man, slumped against the wall. She dropped to her knees. “Tio Don!”
Anita touched Borrego’s cheek as he weakly turned to her. His mouth formed words, inaudible to Dawson, and his hand slowly rose to her face. Borrego gagged, blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. His eyes went blank and his head fell to the side. “Tio Don,” she moaned, her eyes closed, her head drooping.
One of El Guapo’s wounded men rolled onto his stomach, groaned, and pulled himself onto all fours. The man coughed blood and sucked in a breath while grasping for a handgun on the floor. Placing a bloodied hand on the wall, he rose unsteadily to his feet. His glazed eyes scanned the room. The man worked his jaw, trying to speak, but collapsed and thudded to the floor.
Cries came from deep in the restaurant as diners realized the killers were gone. Dawson helped Anita to her feet, his adrenaline still pulsing. She turned and hugged him tightly, tremors shaking her. He had not felt like this since Iraq.
The maître d’ appeared in the doorway, his faced contorted as he realized the restaurant’s thriving business could soon be dead, just like one of his best customers. But then the restaurant might become a landmark, Dawson thought—the place where the late, great Don Diego Borrego, aka El Guapo, was gunned down in cold blood. Dawson shook his head. I’ve been in the news business too long.
Kitchen crew crowded around the maître d’ who stood in the doorway, mouths agape, wiping their hands on grease-stained aprons as waiters pressed from behind, gawking at the carnage.
“Hello,” Anita said hoarsely into her cell phone, clearing her throat. “Get me Peterson.”
Focused and intent, her face was no longer contorted by the horror just moments ago.
She stared at Dawson, not really seeing him. “Who’s doing the damned news?… Yeah…this is Anita. I have a story, a big story.…What?… Put him on.” She paced, hand on hip. “I’m in Juárez at Tia Flora’s. … It’s a restaurant. …There’s been a killing.…So what? They just killed Don Diego Borrego.…What do you mean, who’s that? El Guapo! He’s one of the biggest drug lords in all of Mexico, one of Mexico’s richest men.…Yeah, killed, executed.…Yeah, it’s nasty. I’m looking at it right now.…Send Brad over here. He’ll find it.”
Dawson impulsively reached for his notebook. It wouldn’t take long for the Juárez media to get on this one, like hungry dogs on raw meat, and blaze the killing across the front pages of the tabloids for days. They’ll scramble to get a shot of the murder scene. Where’s my damned camera? Hell of a news photo. Freeze-frame of a nightmare. A story formed in his mind:
JUÁREZ – Drug lord Don Diego Borrego, known as “El Guapo” or “the handsome one,” along with his son Vincente and two bodyguards, were shot to death Saturday in a Juárez restaurant.
Heavily armed men fired at point-blank range while horrified diners ate nearby. No customers were injured.
Known for his drug-ferrying air armada, El Guapo was gunned down at the upscale Tia Flora restaurant, patronized by many of Mexico’s power elite.
Officials fear El Guapo’s death will add fuel to an already bloody war that has savaged northern Mexico for a decade as drug lords battle for control of Mexico’s highly lucrative drug trade.
Dawson drew a deep breath. He had to act quickly to collect quotes and comments while everyone was still in shock. He wanted their gut reactions. The horror would son pass and people would collect their thoughts. But logical comments were not the best. Dawson tapped the maître d’ on the shoulder. “Did you know him well?”
The maître d’ nodded gravely. He was a man with a neat mustache accenting a narrow face framed by wavy dark hair. “It was his habit to come here Saturday nights. Tonight, I was worried. I was afraid for him.”
“You were afraid? Why?”
“There were things being said.”
“What things?”
“That his days were numbered. But El Guapo was never worried. He never showed fear.”
Dawson scribbled quickly. “Who was saying that El Guapo’s days were numbered?”
The maître d’ looked from one body to the next, then at Dawson, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”
“I’m a journalist. Washington Herald.” Dawson’s words didn’t seem to register. “Did you see these men come in? Did they show guns?”
“I told El Guapo that I would warn him if any strange people came to the restaurant. He always eats privately in this room.”
“How did the killers get in?”
The maître d’ began to shake. “I was seating someone when they came. I tried to stop them, to hold them back, but they put a gun to my head and pushed me down.” His face scrunched at the thought, and his eyes watered. “They told me they would kill everyone if I tried to interfere. What could I do?”
“Can you say that for me on camera?” Anita asked.
Dawson jerked at the interruption. He was incredulous at how she moved so quickly into reporter mode. Dawson scowled, looked at the bodies on the floor, then at Anita. “These two men were like your uncle and cousin?”
Her face darkened, catching his drift. “I…I didn’t think they would die like this. Or that I would see it.”
The maître d’ twitched at the wail of distant police sirens.
“The police are going to question us,” Dawson said to Anita. “We could be here all night.”
“That’s nonsense,” she said. “I’m going to do a standup from here.”
“I doubt it. We’re witnesses.”
“I’ll just have to use my powers of persuasion,” she said with a smile.
Dawson folded his notebook, tucked it inside his jacket, and turned toward the sound of tromping feet. “Here they come.”
Rifles held high, police in black fatigues, knit black
masks over their faces, shoved their way through the crowd. Anita and Dawson stepped back as a Mexican commando waved an automatic rifle in their faces.
“Asshole,” Dawson muttered, lifting his hands as if under arrest. Another used the butt of his gun to push them back, making Dawson stumble. “We didn’t do anything! We were just here eating dinner.”
“Callaté! Shut up!” another man barked at Dawson, pushing his way past the armed policemen. He was slim, with dark hair, a thick mustache, and a tan sport coat over a crisp white shirt and a pink tie. The top cop, Dawson thought. The man scanned the bodies with disdain, glanced at Dawson and Anita, then turned to one of his uniformed men and ordered the place closed. “I want everyone’s name, and I want everyone interviewed,” he said in Spanish, then focused on Dawson and Anita. “Who the hell are you?” he said, in heavily accented English.
“Who the hell are you?” Anita retorted.
The well-dressed cop smiled. “Colonel Jorge Hernandez. Of the federal police.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you cooperate, this will go much better for you.”
Anita rolled her eyes. “We were just here eating. We saw nothing.”
“You saw nothing?”
Dawson shook his head. “We were in the next room.”
“Hold them,” Hernandez said to one of his black-clad men. He turned to the bodies on the floor, moved into close, then knelt to inspect El Guapo’s lifeless eyes. He pinched the man’s chin, moving the head back and forth, then barked out more orders.
A Mexican policeman with a video camera mashed to his face scanned the murder scene, pausing to focus on each of the bodies. He slowly panned the room, training the camera lens finally on Dawson and Anita.
She glared, then looked away as her phone rang. She answered it with a soft, “Hello?”
Hernandez twisted to the sound of the phone, frowned and waged a finger at her.
Borderland Page 7
