by James Samuel
“High. This isn’t an election year. It’s not even a midterm year. There are no scandals and no international crises. The media are looking for something to focus on, and if we aren’t more careful it could be us.”
Romero took a deep breath. His slender shoulders rose up and down as he scratched his designer stubble.
“Come on, Mr. Romero, you won’t lose a cent. You’ll still be making millions a year, regardless.”
Romero straightened up and adjusted his sunglasses with a manicured fingernail. “For you, Senator Black, I can cut shipments by half for six months.”
“You’re a reasonable man, Mr. Romero,” said George, not quite believing it himself. “Once everything has passed, you can get back up to full steam again.”
Romero didn’t display the excitement that George did. The smile dropped from his face leaving him looking altogether serious. Once again, he steepled his fingers and then cracked them.
“Understand, Senator Black, we trust one another. But if you ever think to fuck me, you will go down with me.”
The butler, who had been lingering on the upper part of the patio, clicked the little recording device in his pocket.
Chapter Seven
Santa Rosa de Lima, Guanajuato, Mexico
The little town of Santa Rosa de Lima rested on the limits of the City of Celaya’s municipal control. James and Sinclair stepped out of a taxi on the roundabout with the welcome sign affixed to the centre. The dusty town held no more than a couple thousand people, but it had gained notoriety due to the penchant for the leadership of the La Familia Celaya cartel to house themselves here in the mansions on the outskirts.
“Isn’t this a charming place?” said Sinclair. “Look, there’s a little juice stand.”
James glanced at the obese woman sitting at her stand, underneath a piece of plastic covering the large plastic bottles of orange juice and the hibiscus-based Jamaica juice. Bystanders hiding under the shade of the leaning trees gave them a fair few looks. Tourists didn’t come here.
“We shouldn’t be standing on the side of the road like this,” said James.
“Are you getting cold feet? You just shot a member of a cartel in the head. Standing here shouldn’t scare you too much.”
James ran his tongue across the front of his teeth. He didn’t care about shooting that prisoner. The only good member of any drug cartel was a dead one in his eyes. The world had become a marginally better place with his death, but he didn’t like Sinclair nonchalantly pointing out his kills like they were hunting deer.
“We’re vulnerable here,” said James. “There’s no cover and nowhere to run to.”
“We’re safe here. We’re under their protection.”
James grunted. He knew that, but he sensed they were being watched from the moment they moved into the open. An old Mexican man in a tan Stetson sat with his back against a tree smoking a cigarette. He never took his eyes off them. Could he be an informer for the cartel too?
The black S500 from the night before circled the roundabout and pulled over next to them. Once again, the window rolled down, but this time Francisco appeared behind the glass.
James thought he looked like any other narco, but he had a kindly, almost welcoming, face. He thought of him like a Hispanic John Gotti parading around in front of the cameras.
“Welcome to Santa Rosa de Lima. Get in. Also, Mr. Wood, happy to meet you at last. Mario’s told me all about you.”
Sinclair shook Francisco’s hand through the passenger window. “I hope that the deal is still on, and you can trust us now. We’re on your side on this.”
James and Sinclair piled into the backseat together. Today, only the driver and Francisco had come to greet them. James wasn’t sad about not seeing Mario. He sensed Mario had taken a dislike to him, even after proving himself at the bordello.
“Santa Rosa de Lima is like most small towns in Guanajuato and Michoacán,” Francisco explained. “Poor, abandoned by the government. They don’t care for none of these people. We have protected them for years. Most of these streets were repaired because of us.”
James stared out the darkened window and inspected the town. The people dressed poorly, and most of them were drastically overweight, but the roads ran smoothly, and the houses, with signs of recent renovation, didn’t look like they belonged here.
“So, we’re going to meet Mr. Rodriguez?” said Sinclair.
“Yes,” said Francisco. “Call him Montoya, though. Only his mother calls him by his last name.”
“Got it. You hear that, James?”
“I heard it. He’s called Montoya.”
In a few minutes, they reached the border of Santa Rosa de Lima. A high wall topped with broken glass and electric fencing hid Montoya’s mansion from the outside world. James noted the security cameras on the gates.
Francisco stuck his head out of the window and pressed the button next to the steel gates. He said something in muffled Spanish, and the gates opened automatically. A large garden encircled the orange mansion house that stood before them. A couple of white pick-up trucks and a large black BMW 4x4 were parked in front of the main staircase leading to the massive front doors. The trees marking the boundary between grass and pavement were cut into curved shapes, like the tendrils of a great fire.
Francisco turned to his guests in the backseat. “We’ll see Montoya in a moment,” he said. “Before we go in, I’m going to need you to give me your guns. Nobody but his bodyguards are allowed to bring weapons into his home, I hope you’ll understand.”
It was no use denying they had any guns on them. They fumbled for their pistols and handed them over to Francisco. James patted the combat knife hidden behind his back.
“Alright.” Francisco left the car and secured the weapons in the trunk. He bent down to the open window and motioned for them to get out. “Stick with us.”
James climbed into the blazing sunshine. He squinted as he inspected the interior courtyard of the guarded mansion. Some of Montoya’s guards huddled underneath the shade of the overhanging roofs and lazy palms. Each of them shouldered large semi-automatic and automatic rifles.
He didn’t like being at the mercy of a drug lord. If Montoya wanted to turn around and execute them, nobody would ever find the bodies. His mouth went dry at the thought.
“Come on, James.” Sinclair gestured at him to follow Francisco.
Francisco led them through the front doors of the colonial-style mansion. Wide rooms with long windows characterised each sector of the mansion they saw. Every chandelier hanging above their heads bore a gold finish twinkling like morning stars.
Montoya’s office resided in the western part of the mansion. Francisco knocked on the door and a guard in a light-yellow shirt answered. There were no friendly greetings exchanged, like with the other narcos they’d come across, only silent nods of acknowledgement.
The office of Montoya Rodriguez could have passed for one of the great state rooms of Buckingham Palace or the Palace of Versailles. The same gold finish that bedecked every lighting appliance didn’t stop at Montoya’s centre of operations. Bookshelves with leather-bound volumes gleamed with gold leaf on the spines. A statue of what James thought to be Cupid sat to the right of the man of the moment.
Montoya remained at his desk, unmoving and emanating coldness. Was it all part of the act? Image was everything in this game. His shaved head gave way to black, beady eyes. His rotund figure gave him an aura of intimidation not seen amongst his soldiers. He didn’t stand to greet them as the three entered his office.
Francisco bowed his head as he took Montoya’s offered hand. Like a mafia don, Francisco reaffirmed his loyalty in low, sincere Spanish.
“This is James Winchester and Sinclair Wood, the Englishmen I told you about.” Francisco gestured to them in turn. “Please, gentlemen.”
They stepped forward without taking their eyes off Montoya. The closer they got the more the folds under his eyes deepened like chasms.
“Gentlemen,” Mont
oya said at last. “Please, sit.”
The two men settled into low-backed leather chairs beneath the enormous desk.
Montoya grabbed a wooden box on his right and slid it into the centre of the table. He opened it up to reveal long, thick cigars.
“Do you smoke?” asked Montoya.
“Not for me.” Sinclair shook his head. “James, this is about the only time you’ll get a good cigar.”
James bit his tongue and reached forwards, never taking his eyes off the cartel leader. He felt vulnerable even performing such an action. These men were not known for their loyalty. They could turn on them at any time.
He took the cigar and brought it to his lips. He took out his lighter and proceeded to illuminate the end. Someone had already prepared the cigars by trimming the ends. Immediately, the taste of a top-quality Cuban cigar painted the insides of his mouth.
Montoya, too, took a cigar and lit it with a solid silver lighter in the shape of a gun. The flame erupted from the barrel, where he held it for a moment, before dropping it back on his desk with a clink.
“Francisco tells me you’re trustworthy. I’m sorry that I wouldn’t meet you earlier,” said Montoya. “You must understand that money isn’t everything. If we took the offers of everyone who came to give us money, it would be quite easy for people to take advantage of us.”
“We understand, Mr. Montoya –”
“Call me Montoya. I’m an ordinary working man.” A hint of a smile crept across Montoya’s face for the first time.
“Montoya,” Sinclair corrected himself. “So, now that we’ve helped you, we’re hoping you can help us find Quezada. His death will be a benefit to all of us. And we’re outsiders, so we don’t get the same suspicion as one of your soldiers.”
“That’s true. But Quezada is not so easy to find. When you lead a cartel, you don’t eat dinner in the middle of Celaya. It’s too dangerous. Both sides are trying to take each other out, so they’re always trying to track his movements and my movements.”
“Well, Montoya, where should we start?” asked Sinclair. “We wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“This is where we can both help each other, my friends. You see, we know Santa Maria de Guadalupe has come in from the north. That’s the territory we’re fighting over. Whether it’s gasoline or drugs, there’s only room for one of us. Unfortunately, Quezada is winning.”
James noted the sudden flash of concern on Francisco’s face.
“He’s taken us by surprise again and again. Smart guy. Two weeks ago, he took my sister Jessi.”
James took another long drag of his cigar and blew the enormous cloud of smoke out into the air. “Sorry to hear that.”
Montoya didn’t seem that sad about it at all as he waved his hand dismissively. “I have five sisters. It’s a matter of honour, not the person. Jessi is sweet and innocent. She is not part of my operations. Quezada broke the rules when he took her. We wouldn’t kill his mother, yet he takes my sister, who has nothing to do with the business, you understand?”
“We understand,” said Sinclair. “I should tell you, Blackwind will do whatever it takes to get the job done. Our organisation has never been one for convention or for specific rules of engagement.”
Montoya raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. He looked impressed.
“Francisco, tell Ramon outside to get everything we know on Jessi.”
Francisco bowed his head again and departed. He closed the door with as much care as a burglar in the night.
“Will she still be alive?” asked James.
He saw Sinclair stiffen in his peripheral vision.
Montoya’s countenance darkened at the thought. “I hope so. No, I know so. We Mexicans understand what honour is, most of us at least. Quezada is a rat but he’s not stupid. He knows that as long as he has my sister, he keeps me trapped. He stops me from launching an assault against him. We have friends in Michoacán who are ready to support us. The Jalisco cartel doesn’t like him either. But I can’t attack because I know he will kill my sister. It would dishonour me. Make me look weak.”
James tried his best to understand the logic behind it. He understood honour, but if Montoya couldn’t care less about one of his five sisters being taken, why did it matter if she lived or died?
“But if we can rescue her out from under his nose…” said Sinclair.
“Exactly. If he loses his hostage, he will die. Quezada has few friends. He knows it. Other cartels would love to see him hanging from a bridge in León or Celaya.”
Francisco returned with a manila folder. He flipped open the cover and retrieved a file similar to those used by police investigators.
Montoya took the file from him and began to recount the details, “Jessi was taken from León after she’d eaten dinner with her friends two weeks ago. The restaurant is on the outskirts of the city, called Yolanda’s Roadside Café. Nothing fancy. I always told her never to draw attention to herself.”
“Any further sightings?” asked James.
“We got the license plate of the car. It was driven to just outside of Dolores Hidalgo and found burning. As I said, these people are smart.” Montoya raised his finger. “But one thing all narcos have in common is we steal from each other. I know that Quezada’s men won’t have gotten far. There are only so many places he can go.”
“So, Dolores Hidalgo and the area around there would be the place to start?”
“Yes, Mr. Winchester. We couldn’t go any further because that’s Quezada’s territory. It would be too dangerous, but two tourists wouldn’t look so strange. People visit Dolores when they stay in Guanajuato.”
“Thank you,” said James.
Already, James had a kaleidoscope of schemes racing through his head. The wheels had started to turn. He’d never visited the city of Dolores Hidalgo. His time in Mexico had been characterised by his reclusive nature. James ventured outside as little as possible if he could help it. A lot of his enemies would never stop hunting him.
“Rescue my sister and kill Quezada, and I’ll be always in your debt, my friends,” said Montoya. “You’ll always be able to call on La Familia if you need help in Mexico.”
Sinclair thanked Montoya for his help and patronage and a round of handshakes followed. Francisco escorted them out of the office without a word. He seemed dazzled by the divine presence of his boss.
Despite how well the meeting had gone, James realised the easy part of making friends with Quezada’s enemies was over. Now, they had a mountain to climb.
Chapter Eight
Guanajuato, Guanajuato, Mexico
Francisco dropped them off at the bus station and they made their way back to Guanajuato City. James didn’t speak much on the journey home. Now he had a clear path towards finding Quezada, his mind concocted all sorts of schemes to complete the contract and stop this drug war from getting out of control.
“You never did tell me why Blackwind wants Quezada so much,” James said after they got off in Guanajuato.
Sinclair rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “They didn’t tell me anything as to why. We don’t ask questions of the client. Only Gallagher knows the real reasons.”
Joseph Cecil Gallagher ran Blackwind behind the scenes. Although they had someone else run the private military organisation’s public face, Gallagher pulled all the strings. He rarely made himself available and spoke to his mercenaries as a faceless voice. James had only met him in person once when he joined straight out of the army.
“I was thinking about it on the bus. It just seems strange.”
Sinclair sighed. “You really need to keep your focus on the mission.”
“Could it be a job issued by another cartel, or worse, the Mexican government?”
“It could be all of those things,” Sinclair replied curtly. “It could be none of those things, but that’s not our job. I received orders and we are bound to carry them out. We have our contract, and we can complete it in any way we like, just as long as the final resul
t comes in. Now focus.”
Realising he wouldn’t get anything out of Sinclair, James dropped the subject.
“Coffee?” Sinclair asked.
“Alright.”
They walked through the bus terminal, passing a long row of ticket booths dominating the back wall, one for each of the bus companies. The times of departures were all stuck on the walls behind the bored-looking men and women in suits, like an old school airport departures board. A small crowd huddled around a coffee station next to the booths. James scanned the setup looking perplexed.
“I can’t do this by myself,” he said. “I’m going to need help.”
“What?” Sinclair raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You’ve been here for over a year now and you don’t know how to order coffee?”
James shot a venomous look at Sinclair. “No, not coffee, the rest of it. I almost never leave Guanajuato. I don’t know anything about the wider state, or Dolores Hidalgo. I need someone who does know.”
Sinclair pulled his smartphone out of his pocket and began scrolling as the line inched forward. James looked ahead and observed an old woman’s shaking hands as she counted out one-peso coins.
“This is my guy in Mexico,” said Sinclair. “He works for us. Another agent. He’s called Diego Gutierrez.”
“A local?”
Sinclair put the phone to his ear. “Mexican, from Aguascalientes. Hello, my friend. How long has it been?” He paused. “Good. Look, I’ve got someone I need you to talk to. There’s some work in it for you if you’re not busy.”
James took the phone from Sinclair. “Hello, Diego?”
“Good afternoon,” Diego said in perfect English. “Sinclair told me there’s some work for me.”
“It’s my work actually, but I need someone who knows Mexico. Someone who knows the lay of the land and Guanajuato.”
Diego guffawed on the other side. “I know everything about this cursed country. What do you need?”
“Can we meet in Guanajuato? I won’t do this over the phone. You never know who might be listening.”
