by James Samuel
“Sure, my friend. You know the restaurant Casa Ofelia in El Centro?”
“I do.”
“Good, it’s one of my favourite restaurants. Meet me there. Wait for my confirmation.”
The line went dead, and James handed the phone back to Sinclair as they inched forward again.
“I told you Diego is someone you can trust. He knows this country better than anyone, as far as I know. Just be careful not to trust him too much.” Sinclair ordered their coffee in Spanish, before switching back to English. “Don’t tell him everything about everything.”
“What are you talking about? If he’s one of us, then he’s on our side. I trust you with my life.”
“That’s different. I have a reputation for that. Diego doesn’t.”
James scratched his head, suddenly regretting the idea of drafting anyone else in at all.
“Look, Diego has been with us for years. But that doesn’t mean he’s got a good track record, do you understand?”
James accepted his coffee from Sinclair and blew on it. “If he doesn’t have a good track record, why is he still working for Gallagher?”
“He’s effective when he takes on a contract, but he has a lot of other outside business interests in Mexico. He’s only here because he finished his last contract, and now, like you until recently, he’s laying low. You can trust him outside of Mexico, but inside his number one priority isn’t us.”
The two men moved away from the coffee woman to stand outside the station with their little paper cups.
“Diego has been banned from performing any missions within the country or involving anything to do with Mexico because we can’t trust his loyalty. He owns too many businesses and he’s connected to too many Mexican politicians.”
“So what?”
“So what? So what?” Sinclair exclaimed. “If one side is paying you more than your day job ever could, whose side would you be on?”
James nodded. It finally all made sense. If he owned anything more than a bank card and a passport, he would always take the side of the man with the most money. Nobody entered their line of work out of loyalty to a cause. Dollar bills talked.
“How many people know about this?”
“Gallagher does, but that’s it. Well, and me, of course.”
James ran his tongue around his mouth, wondering if he wanted to work with Diego at all. With his life on the line, he wanted someone who would always have his back.
“Just remember, a man’s loyalty is only to himself, especially in this business.”
He tapped his foot, agonising over the decision in his mind. Drafting in more field agents meant escalating the situation. More bodies meant more chances for things to take a turn for the worst.
“I’ll do it.”
James decided to take the chance. Even if he didn’t quite trust Diego’s loyalties, he trusted Sinclair’s judgement. It took no more than a few minutes for Sinclair’s phone to buzz with Diego’s confirmation.
“He will meet you at Casa Ofelia now.”
Dropping half his coffee into the trash can, he bade goodbye to Sinclair. The ten-minute trip back to the centre passed uneventfully. With everything that had already happened today, James was thankful for the few minutes of calm.
He’d never visited Casa Ofelia before. Nestled in a sea of tourist-orientated restaurants, James hesitated to immerse himself in that tourist hell. He peered inside the varnished shutters and saw Casa Ofelia had but a handful of patrons. James lingered outside for a moment. He spotted a man sitting alone in the corner, a wall partially hiding him from the waiters and the kitchen staff.
James finished his cigarette, stubbed it under his shoe, and entered the restaurant. The inside of Casa Ofelia boasted a cornucopia of decoration. Every inch of the wall, from the tops of the tables to the ceiling, held various pieces of religious imagery. Crosses carved and coloured in every shade imaginable plastered one white wall. On another wall, skulls painted in indigenous patterns represented the Day of the Dead. James wondered if he’d accidentally entered a museum.
The man in the corner looked up from his menu. “Are you Sinclair’s friend?”
James nodded and sat down opposite him on the hard-wooden chairs painted in a garish shade of blue.
“Diego Gutierrez.” He held out his hand.
“James Winchester.”
The two men grasped hands. Diego wore a blue short-sleeved shirt. Like most of the employees of Blackwind, he bore no tattoos and no other identifying marks. His short, spiky hair and thin-framed glasses made him look more like a student fresh out of university than a gun for hire.
“The Enchiladas Tricolor are terrific here,” Diego said. “I think I’ve just talked myself into getting them.”
James went with him to the counter. They ordered the enchiladas and a jar of Jamaica juice between them. It didn’t take long for the jug of deep red, sweet hibiscus tea to arrive. Diego poured them both a glass.
Diego raised his glass. “I suppose we should toast to working together for the first time.”
James joined him in that. After what Sinclair had told him about Diego, he lacked any real enthusiasm for this new partnership.
“So, what do you need?”
James explained the contract and everything that had transpired thus far. Diego had an intricate knowledge of the different cartels and their leaders. He stopped James when he tried to tell him about Quezada. “I’m well aware of him,” he said like a man who didn’t need to be told about his job.
“I didn’t know Montoya had a sister called Jessi,” Diego mused. “Still, I’m sure we can get her back. Quezada won’t be guarding her personally, I’m sure. They normally put a sicario on hostages.”
“What’s a sicario?”
“Narco talk for a hitman. They have the falcons, who act as spies. They watch the streets, follow people, and report on anything interesting. Those are the lowest members in a cartel. Then you have the sicarios, the people who carry out the killings, and they report to the lieutenants. Those are the leaders on the ground in any cartel. Above them, you have the men who control everything.”
“I see.”
“Finding Montoya’s sister will be a matter of talking to the right people. So far, we have something to go on, Dolores Hidalgo. That’s where we’ll have to start.”
James finished his drink and leaned in to listen closely. “And who would we talk to?”
“Santa Maria de Guadalupe, of course.” Diego chuckled.
James tilted his head. “I’m not following you.”
“Find someone from that cartel and make them talk. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Most of the soldiers are idiots. If it weren’t for drugs, they’d be working in an Oxxo putting bottles of coke in the refrigerators.”
James couldn’t help but smile at that. Oxxo was the government-run convenience store that covered all of Mexico. They rarely closed, and they often put more than one on the same street. The barely literate employees worked for almost nothing, the job of last resort for the locals.
“In any case, we find one and make him talk.”
“You make it all sound so simple, Diego.”
The waiter brought them their enchiladas. The dish was split into three sections, with a red, white, and green sauce to match the colours of the Mexican flag. Casa Ofelia served everything on wide, clay plates, with hand-painted white swirls around the edges.
“Ah, finding a narco isn’t difficult. When they dress like they do and cover themselves in tattoos, you can spot them a mile away. You just need to go to the right areas. You’re not going to find them in the middle of Dolores, that’s for sure.”
James picked up his fork. “Well, that’s that, then, I suppose.”
“That’s that,” Diego agreed.
James tucked into his enchiladas, already more confident that Diego was the man for him. He liked a man who got straight to the point.
Chapter Nine
Dolores Hidalgo, Guanajuato
, Mexico
Dolores Hidalgo achieved its claim to fame as the cradle of the 1810 revolution. Even now, each night they recreated the famous call to revolution by famous priest Miguel Hidalgo. According to Diego, the 1810 revolution was one of the only armed conflicts Mexico had ever won.
“Don’t you have a car?” asked James as they approached Dolores Hidalgo on a rickety public bus.
“I do. I took the liberty of parking it in the town late last night before I came to pick you up. I don’t want to drive into town with everyone knowing my license plate number. These narcos are smart, and Dolores falls within their territory.”
James nodded. He still didn’t think much of the organisation of the cartels. He’d seen what the real mafia could do and how single families had survived for generations without being destroyed. After what he’d seen and heard, he couldn’t say the same for the aspiring narco dynasties.
The town of Dolores Hidalgo lay on the border of the relatively tranquil state of San Luis de Potosi. Dolores provided safety for its people by keeping them as far from the narco conflicts as possible.
“We’ll take a taxi to where I left my car,” said Diego. “I left it in El Centro and had someone watch it. The narcos don’t show their faces too much there. It’s too visible and it has too many tourists.”
Diego hailed a taxi driver in hardened Spanish. The driver, seemingly intimidated by Diego’s demeanour, hurried to open the back doors for them.
The ride into El Centro took no more than ten minutes. Contrasting to the hustle and bustle of Guanajuato City, their driver had no trouble weaving between cars and cutting people off. Diego refused to say a word during the journey. His lack of desire to speak made James wonder if the taxi drivers of the city reported back to the cartels if they heard anything juicy.
When the driver dropped them off at the central plaza, he couldn’t move fast enough to flee the area. Diego didn’t turn his eyes away from the departing taxi until it had vanished around the corner.
“I don’t trust him,” said Diego. “Not one bit.”
“No, I would have never got that idea.” James made no effort to hide his sarcasm. “Why were you so hard with him? I imagine it just raised his suspicions.”
“You have to be, or they start asking questions in this town. You never know if one of them has a relative working for a cartel. Anyway, welcome to Dolores. Gringos like you love places like this.”
James glanced around the square, dominated by a large church with two towers flanking the door. The church of Dolores Hidalgo came with the usual cohort of old women who would never take their eyes off the Virgin Mary inside, hunched over, with some dropping to their knees and weeping holy tears.
The buildings ringing the square each had faces washed with a different bright colour, in the same way as Guanajuato. Other than that, it seemed like any other colonial town in Mexico.
“I parked a couple of streets away in a garage of a contact of mine. We’re going to the narco part of this city. When we start moving, no stupid questions. Just stick with me and do exactly what I say.”
James was taken aback by that. “You do know I’m not new to this, don’t you?”
Fire ripped through Diego’s eyes. “You also don’t know this town, this land, or this country. That’s the price of my helping you. There’s nothing for me to gain from this. It’s a favour. The least you can offer me is to do things my way in my own country.”
James wanted to fire back, but he knew he needed Diego. If he upset him, he would be on his own. With a slight nod, he allowed Diego to take command.
As they walked through El Centro to grab Diego’s car, James noted the ice cream stalls everywhere. He had to blink a couple of times when he saw the different flavours advertised, including mole, which was a combination of chilli and chocolate sauce, and a mysterious flavour known only as ‘beer’.
The colourful buildings continued to spread away from the central plaza. The streets were largely quiet. James spotted only one other tourist, an old man striding confidently through town with his wife in tow bellowing in English. Diego didn’t make eye contact with them as he strode onward.
Eventually, they came to a building with a garage attached to it. Diego hammered on the wide metal door. It took only a couple of minutes for James to hear footsteps tapping on the concrete floor inside. The garage opened halfway with a squeak. Its Mexican owner jumped to throw the garage door open fully.
“Any trouble?” asked Diego.
“No trouble,” said the little fat man.
Diego took out his wallet and stuffed several US dollar notes into his chubby fingers. Dollars were desired far more by Mexicans than the unstable Mexican peso. Only twenty-five years before, the Tequila Crisis had crashed the peso, and it had continued to decline in value ever since.
“Get in,” Diego ordered.
James climbed into the black Land Rover. The sort of car nobody ever saw in Mexico, and if they did, it typically belonged to a narco. The roomy interior came with all the modern accessories, and a cavernous back with removable seats. James already saw the possibilities for interrogation when they got their man.
“Tinted windows. Nobody can see a thing from the outside.” Diego fired the car up. “I use this as my work car. A pity Gallagher won’t allow me to export it for other jobs. Says it would leave a paper trail that could be followed.”
“Well, he’s got a point. There’s a reason we usually rent cars.”
Diego snorted. “Too careful. By the time they know who we are, they’re already dead.”
Kicking the car into gear, he accelerated onto the road. James didn’t ask who the owner of the garage was or why Diego had chosen him. He sat back and observed the streets of Dolores Hidalgo. Like any new town, he did his best to map out the place in his mind in case he ever needed to flee.
They soon left the safety of El Centro and entered the outskirts of town. The further they got from the heart of Dolores Hidalgo, the more sinister the inhabitants became. Every one of them scurried around like they had a secret to hide. The fact they drove a narco car made them tear their eyes away.
“We’re in narco territory now. See the graffiti on the walls?”
James gazed at the graffiti. He’d never understood the artwork behind graffiti or how anyone could read what those little Raphaels and Da Vincis scrawled in their cheap spray paint. But he didn’t need to know these people to know they’d entered a place ordinary people shouldn’t roam. The crumbling and half-built concrete buildings sat on plots of land with sickly tufts of grass sticking out of the scorched earth.
“You see all these people?” said Diego. “These are all narcos. Look at their clothes. Someone who lived in an area like this couldn’t afford designer labels like that.”
“Are they all armed?”
“Not with guns. You find a lot of them are sloppy when you’re deep within their territory. Remember, Dolores isn’t a big narco area. Those are mostly near the towns that intersect their supply lines. That’s where most of their revenue comes from in this state.”
“So, we just have to make sure we find one who isn’t armed.”
“It won’t matter. They’re not real soldiers. Surprise them and take them as soon as you can. We just need to find one who’s on his own. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
Every so often, Diego would slow down and cruise past little roadside bars and taquerias, searching for a victim. He did this for about twenty minutes before jabbing his head at a man ahead of them. A mask of black ink covered his whole neck. A long gold chain dangled on his chest. James knew the drill.
“I’m going to slow down as we get closer to him. There are some traffic lights there. Just kneecap him and drag him into the car. The backdoors are unlocked.” Diego clicked a button and James heard the distinctive locking mechanism.
Diego cruised towards the traffic lights, then came to a halt. The unsuspecting narco had almost reached the front fender of the car. James unfastened his seat bel
t and grabbed his Ruger Superhawk .44 calibre revolver from the footwell.
“Now, go,” Diego yelled.
James threw the Land Rover’s door open and leapt out. The narco flinched in shock. James levelled the revolver at the narco’s leg and fired. The powerful calibre ripped through his kneecap, dropping him with a howl of pain.
He bull-rushed the screaming narco and dragged him by his stricken leg across the ground. The man looked not much older than a boy and could do nothing to stop James from dragging him parallel with the back door. He struggled for a few seconds before James forced him into the back of the car.
James jumped in after him and held the gun to the narco’s head.
Diego accelerated from the scene, the wheels screeching away. His eyes locked, unblinking, on the road ahead. James continued to watch over the narco like a hawk. He forced the young man’s hands above his head as he pinned his knee onto his stomach to hold him against the seat of the moving car.
“Don’t move,” James said in Spanish. “I’ll kill you if I have to.”
The narco didn’t protest but continued to moan. James allowed him that little luxury. The bullet had penetrated his kneecap and he would never walk without a limp for the rest of his life.
James flashed a quick look to the back of Diego’s head. “Where are you going?”
“I know a place.”
Chapter Ten
Tlahuelilpan, Hidalgo, Mexico
Hidalgo state had experienced some of the worst violence in the country. Fernando waited in tense silence with Alex in a crumbling home in Tlahuelilpan. Only months before, the denizens of this town had fought the Mexican police to a standstill. Many of the burned-out cars were strewn across the sides of the main highway even now.
“Does this feel like a trap?” asked Fernando.
“No.” Alex peered out of the grimy window from behind the frayed curtains. “Rasgado is an important man, and I’m reporting directly to Quezada. He wouldn’t betray us. We’re the only reason he’s a rich man.”
Fernando nodded and readjusted himself on the moth-eaten sofa. The sofa squeaked under his weight. A small, grainy TV, set on a wooden box in the corner, showed commentators screaming as Chivas, the local football team from Guadalajara, thundered in a goal.
