The Cartel

by Don Winslow

  —

  They start a life of odd domesticity, given their circumstances.

  Officially transferred from COC into the unit with the two other women, Magda actually moves to the cell next to Adán’s and spends most of her nights with him.

  He gets up early to work and then joins her for breakfast. She goes back to her cell to read or work out, then they lunch together. He goes back to work and she reads more or watches television until they have dinner together.

  Some afternoons he takes an hour or two off and they go out into the yard and join one of the volleyball games with other inmates, play basketball, or just get some sun. In the evenings it’s television or movie nights, although more and more often he wants to go to bed early and make love.

  He’s enamored of her.

  Lucía was pretty, petite, and thin. Magda’s body is lush—full hips, heavy breasts—a fruit orchard on a warm, damp morning.

  And she’s smart.

  A bit at a time, Magda reveals the extent of her knowledge about the business. She lets drop small bits of information about the cocaine trade, people she’s met—friends, acquaintances, connections. She casually mentions the places she’s been—South America, Europe, Asia, the United States—to show that, while she’s a proud Sinaloan, she’s no mere chuntara, hillbilly, either.

  That she could be an asset to him, and not only in bed.

  Adán doesn’t doubt that, actually.

  It isn’t a matter of doubt, it’s a matter of trust.

  —

  Magda sees the blade.

  A glint in the sunshine.

  “Adán!” she screams.

  He turns as the small, thin man—perhaps in his thirties—steps toward him, knife leveled horizontally and held back at the waist like a professional. The man thrusts the blade, Adán pivots, and the knife slices the small of his back. The attacker pulls back the blade to try again, but two of Los Bateadores are already on him, pin his arms behind him, and start to drag him off the volleyball court.

  “Alive!” Adán yells. “I want him alive!”

  He reaches around and feels the hot, sticky blood seep through his fingers. Francisco grabs him, then Magda, and then he blacks out.

  —

  His would-be assassin doesn’t know who hired him.

  Adán believes him, and didn’t think that he would, actually. Juan Jesús Cabray is a good man with a knife, serving a pair of sixty-year sentences for dispatching two rivals in a Nogales bar with a blade. He did a couple of jobs for the old Sonora cartel back in the day, but that means nothing now. Now he’s tied to a pillar in a basement storage room as Diego lazily shoulders a baseball bat and prepares to swing.

  “Who hired you, cabrón?”

  Cabray’s head lolls forward like a broken doll, but he manages to shake it feebly and mutter, “I don’t know.”

  Adán sits uncomfortably on a three-legged stool. The seven stitches itch more than hurt, but his side is starting to ache. Whoever hired Cabray used multiple layers of cut-outs to approach him. And they chose a man who had nothing to lose. But what would he have to gain? That his impoverished family would receive a bundle of cash—money that he could no longer provide. So he would keep his silence, use the one resource that God gave to the Mexican campesino—the ability to suffer. Diego could beat this man to death and it wouldn’t matter.

  “Stop.” Adán edges his stool closer, and says softly, “Juan Cabray, you know you’re going to die. And you will die happy, thinking of the money that will go to your wife and family. That’s a good thing, you’re a brave man. But you know…Juan, look at me…”

  Cabray lifts his head.

  “…you know that I can reach out to your family, wherever they are.” Adán says, “Listen to me, Juan Jesús Cabray, I will buy your wife a house, I will get her a job where she doesn’t work hard, I will send your son to school. Is your mother alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will see that she is warm in the winter,” Adán says, “and that you have a funeral that will make her proud. So, the only question is, do I take your family under my wing and make them my family, or do I kill them? You decide.”

  “I don’t know who hired me, patrón.”

  “But someone approached you,” Adán says.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the guards,” Cabray says. “Navarro.”

  Two of Los Bateadores hustle out.

  “What did he offer you?” Adán asks Cabray.

  “Thirty thousand.”

  Adán leans in and whispers into Cabray’s ear, “Juan Jesús, do you trust me?”

  “Sí, patrón.”

  “Save us time,” Adán says. “Tell me how to find your family.”

  Cabray whispers that they are in a village named Los Elijos, in Durango. His wife’s name is María, his mother is Guadalupe.

  “Father?” Adán asks.

  “Muerto.”

  “He is waiting for you in heaven,” Adán says. Wincing a little as he stands up, he says to Diego, “Make it quick.”

  As Adán walks out of the room, he hears Cabray mutter a prayer. From the hallway, he hears the tiro de gracia, the mercy shot.

  —

  “Who?” Adán asks Diego.

  They’re sitting back in his cell. Adán sips on a glass of scotch, to ease the ache in his side.

  Diego looks at Magda sitting on the bed.

  “We can speak in front of her,” Adán says. “After all, she saved my life, not your men.”

  Diego flushes but has to acknowledge this truth. The men responsible for guarding Adán have been transferred to Block 4, the worst unit in the prison, where the child molesters, the murderers, the lunatics go. There will be no movie nights, no women, no parties. They’ll be fighting and killing over scraps of food.

  New men will be coming in over the next few days.

  They’re volunteers, men who willingly get themselves convicted and sent to prison, knowing that when they get out in a few years they’ll be offered opportunities to traffic drugs, to make fortunes that they could never otherwise dream of.

  The guard Navarro ran as soon as word got out that the attempt failed. They’re tracking him now. The warden was apoplectic with apologies, promising a full investigation and increased security. Adán simply stared at him. He would do his own investigation and provide his own increased security. Even now, five Bateadores stand outside the door.

  “Suppose it was Fuentes,” Diego says, naming the chaca of the Juárez cartel. The Juárez plaza was always connected to Sinaloa, and now Vicente Fuentes might be concerned that Adán wants it back. But he had asked Esparza, related by marriage to Fuentes, to reassure him that Adán Barrera only wants to make a living from his own territory.

  Or the murder attempt could have come from Tijuana, Adán thinks. Teo Solorzano led a revolt against my sister in my absence and might well be afraid of the consequences now that I’m back. This could have been a preemptive strike.

  “What about Contreras?” Magda asks.

  “He has no reason to kill me,” Adán says. “Contreras is better off with Garza in prison. He’s the co-boss of the Gulf cartel now, he makes more money, and has me to thank for that.”

  And I sent Diego personally to speak with Contreras, to assure him that I have no designs on the Gulf or ambitions to take back my old throne.

  But Contreras has ambitions of his own, Adán thinks.

  It could have been any of the three, but we won’t know, Adán thinks, until we find Navarro, and maybe not even then. If this attempt came from any of the men they’re thinking about, the guard is probably already dead. Some man he trusted offered to get him out, then took him somewhere and killed him.

  He looks at Diego and smiles. “We’ll see who comes first.”

  Diego smiles back. Each of the three groups will send an emissary to deny responsibility. Whoever comes first is probably the most nervous, and for good reason. If they’d succeeded in kill
ing Adán, they’d be in negotiations with Diego Tapia and Esparza already.

  But having missed, they’d be at war with them.

  Not a good place to be.

  “This village of Cabray’s,” Diego says, “I’ll have it bulldozed to the ground.”

  “No,” Adán snaps. “I gave the man my word.”

  Find the family, Adán tells him, and set them up with exactly what I said. And put a school in the village, or a clinic, or a well—whatever it is they need—but make sure they know who it came from.”

  After Diego leaves, Magda, flipping through Mexican Vogue, says, “Perhaps you’re looking too far away.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For the people who tried to kill you,” Magda says. “Maybe you should be looking closer. Who was in charge of protecting you? Who failed to?”

  The suggestion makes him angry. “Diego is blood. More like my brother than my cousin.”

  “Ask yourself, who has the most to gain by your death?” Magda asks. “Diego and Nacho have their own organizations now, they’ve become used to being their own bosses. Has Nacho even come to see you?”

  “It’s too risky.”

  “Diego came.”

  “That’s Diego,” Adán says. “He doesn’t give a damn.”

  “Or he does.”

  Not Diego, Adán thinks. Maybe the others, although I doubt it. Nacho was a close friend and adviser to my uncle, and was as good an adviser to me. He’s married to my sister’s brother-in-law’s sister. He’s family.

  But maybe.

  But Diego?

  Never.

  “I’d bet my life on Diego,” he says defensively.

  Magda shrugs. “You are.”

  He sits down on the bed next to her.

  “If they tried once,” she says, “they’ll try again.”

  “I know,” he says. And one day, they’ll succeed, he thinks. I’m a stationary target in this prison. And, whoever it is, if they really want me dead, I’m dead. But there is no use dwelling on it. “You saved my life today.”

  She flips a page and says, “It’s a small thing.”

  Adán laughs. “What do you want in return?”

  Magda finally looks up from the magazine. “You’ve saved my life many times over.”

  “Christmas is coming,” Adán says.

  “Such as it is”—she sighs—“in this place.”

  “We’ll make the most of it,” he promises.

  If we live long enough.

  Matamoros

  Tamaulipas, Mexico

  November 2004

  Heriberto Ochoa watches from a pew in the third row of the church as Salvador Herrera holds the baby girl over the baptismal and the priest says the words. As is tradition, both infant and godfather wear white, and Herrera’s squat form reminds Ochoa of an old refrigerator.

  The church is packed, as befits the bautizo of a powerful narco’s daughter. Osiel Contreras stands to the side of the font and beams in paternal pride.

  Ochoa remembers the first time he met Osiel Contreras, over a year ago now. A soldier then, Ochoa was a lieutenant in Mexico’s elite Airborne Special Forces Group, and Contreras had just risen to the leadership of the Gulf cartel after Garza’s arrest and extradition.

  They met at a barbecue on a ranch south of the city, and Contreras mentioned that he needed protection.

  “What kind of men do you need?” Ochoa asked. He sipped his beer. It was cold and crisp.

  “The best,” Contreras answered. “Only the best.”

  “The best men,” Ochoa said, “are only in the army.”

  It wasn’t bragging, it was a simple matter of fact. If you want gangbangers, drug addicts, thugs, and malandros—useless layabouts—on your payroll, you can pick them up on any corner. If you want elite men, you have to go to an elite force. Ochoa was elite—he’d taken counterinsurgency training from the American special forces and the Israelis.

  The best of the best.

  “What do you make a year?” Contreras asked. When Ochoa told him, Contreras shook his head and said, “I feed my chickens better.”

  “And do they protect you?”

  Contreras laughed.

  Ochoa deserted the army and went to work for the Gulf cartel. His first task was to recruit others like him.

  The Mexican army was rife with desertion anyway. Armed with cañonazos de dólares—cannonballs of money—Ochoa easily seduced thirty of his comrades away from their long hours, shabby barracks, and lousy pay. Within weeks he’d brought over four other lieutenants, five sergeants, five corporals, and twenty privates. They brought with them valuable merchandise—AR-15 rifles, grenade launchers, and state-of-the-art surveillance equipment.

  Contreras’s terms were generous.

  In addition to a salary, he gave each recruit a bonus of $3,000 U.S. to put in the bank, invest el norte, or buy drugs.

  Ochoa bought eighteen kilos of cocaine.

  Now he was well on his way to becoming a rich man.

  The work itself was relatively easy—guard Contreras and enforce the piso. Most paid willingly, the recalcitrant were taken to the Hotel Nieto in Matamoros and persuaded, often with a pistol barrel shoved down their throats.

  Just a few months into the job, Contreras ordered him to eliminate a rival trafficker. Ochoa took twenty men and besieged the man’s compound. The occupants of the fortified house, maybe a dozen of them, returned fire and held Ochoa’s men off until he dashed to the back of the compound, found the propane tank, and blew it up, immolating everyone inside.

  Mission accomplished.

  The resultant bonus from a grateful Contreras bought more cocaine, and the story gained them useful notoriety.

  And now they have become far more than just bodyguards. The original thirty are now over four hundred, and Ochoa has begun to worry a little bit about the dilution of quality. To counter that, he’s set up three training bases on cartel-owned ranches out in the countryside, where the new recruits sharpen their skills on tactics, weapons, and intelligence gathering, and are indoctrinated into the group culture.

  The culture is that of an elite force.

  On missions, they blacken their faces and wear black clothing and hoods. Military protocol is strictly observed, with ranks, salutes, and chain of command. So is loyalty and camaraderie—the ethic of “no man left behind.” A comrade is to be brought off the field of battle, dead or alive. If wounded, he gets the best treatment by the best doctors; if killed, his family is taken care of and his death avenged.

  Without exception.

  As their numbers grew, their role expanded. While mission one is and always will be the protection of Osiel Contreras and his narco-turf, Ochoa’s force has gotten into lucrative side markets. With the boss’s approval—and why not, he gets thick envelopes of cash—the men have moved into kidnapping and extortion.

  Shopkeepers, bar owners, and club proprietors in Matamoros and other towns now pay Ochoa’s men for “protection,” otherwise their businesses might be robbed or burned to the ground, their customers beaten up. Gambling dens, brothels, tienditas—the little stores that sell small amounts of dope to junkies—pay off.

  They’re scared not to.

  Ochoa’s men have a well-earned reputation for brutality. People whisper about la paleta, said to be a favored technique of Ochoa, in which the victim is stripped naked and then beaten to death with a two-by-four.

  But to be truly famous, a group needs a name.

  In the army, Ochoa’s radio call signal was “Zeta One,” so they went with that and called themselves the Zetas.

  As the original Zeta, Ochoa became known as “Z-1.”

  The original other thirty took their nicknames from the order in which they came over—Z-2, Z-3, and so on. It became a hierarchy of seniority.

  Z-1 is tall, handsome, with a thick head of black hair, a hawklike face, and a muscular build. Today he wears a khaki suit with a deep blue shirt—his army-issued FN Five-seven pistol tucked i
nto a shoulder holster under his left arm. He sits in the crowded church and tries to stay awake as the priest drones on.

  But that’s what priests do—they drone.

  Finally, the service comes to an end and the participants start to file out of the church.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” Contreras says.

  A fiend for intelligence, Ochoa knows his boss’s history. Born dirt poor and fatherless on a shitty ranch in rural Tamaulipas, Osiel Contreras was raised by an uncle who resented the additional mouth to feed. The young Osiel worked as a dishwasher before running off to Arizona to deal marijuana, only to end up in a yanqui prison. When NAFTA came along, Contreras, with scores of others, was transferred to a prison back in Mexico. The legend goes that he had an affair with the warden’s wife, and when the warden found out and beat her, Contreras had him killed.

  When he got out of jail, Herrera ostensibly got him a job in an auto body shop but really as a trafficker for Garza. The two men earned their way to the top. It was often said that they sat at the feet of God—Herrera on the right, Contreras on the left.

  “Herrera is coming with us,” Contreras says now.

  Lately, Contreras has become more and more annoyed with his old friend. Ochoa can’t blame him—Herrera had always been high-handed, all the more so since assuming the head chair, and he’s started to treat Contreras more as a subordinate than a partner, interrupting him at meetings, dismissing his opinions.

  Still, the two men are friends.

  They washed dishes together, served time together, came up the hard way under Garza, a hard man.

  The three of them get into Contreras’s new troca del año, a Dodge Durango. “You can take the boy out of the country,” Ochoa muses as he squeezes his long legs into the pickup’s narrow rear compartment. Contreras gets behind the wheel—he loves to drive a truck.

  In the rural shitholes they grew up in, you were lucky to have a pair of shoes. Even a baica was a dream. You’d stand there in the dust and watch the grandes speed by in their new pickups and think, one day that’s going to be me.

  So Contreras has fleets of trucks and SUVs, he has drivers, he even has a private plane with a pilot—but when he gets the chance to get behind the wheel of a pickup truck, he’s going to do it.