The Cartel (76 page)

Chicken theft, Marisol thinks.

She’s glad for a bit of normalcy.

Maybe Erika can come for dinner.

—

“What was the motive?” Keller asks Orduña as they stand at the scene of the attack. The car has been pushed off to the edge of the highway, its body riddled with bullet holes like a Hollywood movie prop. The blood inside is all too real. “Why would the Zetas kill an American?”

Then he sees the answer.

On the floor by the gas pedal, spotted with Jiménez’s blood—a jack of spades.

The Zetas know that American intelligence has been working with the FES, and this was payback.

They couldn’t get to me, Keller thinks, so they took the first agents they could find. But what were Jiménez and his partner doing on Highway 57, a dangerous road in the middle of the CDG-Zeta war?

Then again, the drug war is getting very real for Americans. A FAST team in Honduras had just been in a firefight with Zeta cocaine traffickers, and several American citizens had recently been killed in the Juárez area. But there hasn’t been an American agent killed in Mexico since Ernie, and Keller knows that the response will be massive.

Maybe the Zetas don’t care.

Maybe they think they’re invincible.

Just a week ago, another mass grave site was discovered near San Fernando, with the story that the Zetas had once again hijacked a bus off Highway 101 and killed most of the passengers.

Stories of grisly torture and forced gladiator-style combat were making the rounds. Hard to know if they’re true, but this much is a fact—the Zetas are establishing a reign of terror over whole parts of Mexico, and Americans have no immunity.

Later that day, while Keller, Orduña, and FES are combing the countryside for the attackers, the Zetas make their position absolutely clear. Heriberto Ochoa releases a communiqué in the press that directly challenges the governments of both Mexico and the United States:

“Not the army, not the marines, not the security and antidrug agencies of the United States can resist us. Mexico lives and will continue to live under the regime of the Zetas.”

—

Chuy’s
estaca
moved in like morning fog.

They came up Carretera 2 from the east, got out of the vehicle before they hit the army roadblock at Práxedis, and then hiked the countryside, using the riverbank as cover, until they came to the outskirts of Valverde.

Now they wait.

Chuy takes a nap.

Wakes up when an elbow digs into his side and he sees the woman come out of the building, walking with a cane.

The woman police they told him about is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is the North American DEA agent.

Forty told Chuy that he’d get the man out of the way, and he did.

—

Marisol stands at the kitchen counter and chops onions for the stew she’s making. Erika is coming over and she’s already late. Where is that girl? Marisol wonders.

She puts some butter and olive oil in the pan, smashes a clove of garlic into it and turns on the heat to brown the chicken before she puts it in the pot. It’s one of Arturo’s favorite dishes and she wishes he were here to enjoy it. But he’s out doing whatever it is that he does, so he’ll just have to miss out.

Marisol hears something outside.

A car engine. Must be Erika.

Peeking out the window, she sees headlights pass by. For some reason it spooks her. She dismisses it as silly but nevertheless looks to see that the Beretta is on the chopping block, within reach.

The way we live now, she thinks.

And where is Erika? Where is that girl?

She calls her on her mobile but just gets voice mail.

—

Keller turns onto Carretera 2.

After a futile hunt, he’d flown back to Juárez. There’ll be an emergency meeting at EPIC tomorrow, Taylor’s flying in from D.C., and Keller figures he can get an evening in with Marisol before going up. All DEA and ICE personnel in Mexico have already been called back or put under heavy security in the consulates, but Keller decides he’s exempt from that.

He’s been under a death threat since the day he came here, so what’s the difference? He’s been in Mexico—just on this last incarnation—longer than the U.S. was in World War II. When you ask people, “What’s America’s longest war?” they usually answer “Vietnam” or amend that to “Afghanistan,” but it’s neither.

America’s longest war is the war on drugs.

Forty years and counting, Keller thinks. I was here when it was declared and I’m still here. And drugs are more plentiful, more potent, and less expensive than ever.

But it’s not about the drugs anymore, anyway, is it?

He calls Marisol to tell her that he’ll be there for dinner. The line is busy. He’s asked her to get call waiting but she’s so stubborn about “being rude.”

He dials Erika.

No answer. Voice mail.

—

Magda likes her new car—a powder-blue Volkswagen Jetta perfect for navigating the traffic of the greater Mexico City metropolitan area and easy to park, as it is now at the Centro Las Américas shopping mall in the suburb of Ecatepec.

As much as she enjoyed Europe, and as successful as her trip was, she’s glad to be home. And it’s somehow symbolic of the “new Mexico” that her gynecologist’s office is in a sparkling new shopping mall with the Nordstrom, the Macy’s, the Bed Bath & Beyond.

Everything is commerce now, she thinks, even babies.

She wonders how Adán will react to the news she just got.

Or should she even tell him?

A lot of women have children on their own these days, and certainly she has the economic wherewithal to raise a child by herself. The fact that she’s a multimillionaire still surprises her, but certainly she doesn’t need a man to provide formula, diapers, and all the other paraphernalia that comes with a baby. She can hire platoons of nannies, if she wants, and she doesn’t have to worry about some company granting her maternity leave.

After her diplomatic mission to Europe, she’s going to be even richer.

The Italians, the ’Ndrangheta, loved her—more important, they respected her—and she’s confident that they’ll give her new customers not only in Italy but in France, Spain, and Germany as well.

So which good news shall I give Adán first, she asks herself as she slips behind the wheel: that he’s going to make billions of dollars in new money in Europe, or that he’s finally going to be a daddy?

And how will he react?

Will he divorce his young queen to marry me?

Do you want him to?

She’s become used to her freedom and independence; she’s not sure she wants to saddle herself with a husband. At the same time, the son of Adán Barrera—if it does turn out to be a boy—will inherit vast wealth and power. And if it’s a girl? Fuck them all—she’ll inherit a nice piece of change and influence herself.

Her mother is a
buchona.

Magda pulls out of the mall parking lot and has only gone a couple of blocks when she sees the flashers behind her.

“Damn it,” she says.

Ever since the arrest that put her into Puente Grande, she’s had a fear of the police. It’s irrational, she has no reason for fear, because Mexico City is Nacho Esparza’s plaza, and she’s protected.

She pulls over, looks in the rearview mirror, and sees two cops get out of the car. One of them comes up, and she winds down the window. The cop wears a mask over the bottom half of his face, but this doesn’t worry her. Most police disguise themselves these days. She gives him her best beautiful-woman smile. “What did I do?”

“Did you know that one of your rear taillights is out?”

“No, I—”

The second cop gets into the backseat and sticks a gun barrel into her neck. “Just be quiet and you’ll be fine.”

The first cop slides in beside Magda and says, “Drive.”

As she pulls out again and drives, she says, “You’re making a big mistake. Do you know who I am?”

The cop takes off the mask.

It’s Heriberto Ochoa—Z-1.

Now Magda is scared, especially when Ochoa gives her directions and tells her to pull off in a vacant lot next to a construction site. A gun is pressed into the back of her neck, so she does it.

“How was Europe?” Ochoa asks. “Good trip?”

God, she thinks, he knows about that. “It was fine.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“You already know.”

“Yes, I do,” Ochoa says. “You’re not going to talk to them anymore.”

“That’s fine. I won’t.”

“I know you won’t. Take off your blouse.”

Her hand shakes as she starts with the top button. It’s black silk. New. Expensive.

“Slow,” Ochoa says. “Tease me.”

She does it.

“Now the bra.”

Magda takes it off.

Ochoa leers at her breasts. “Nice. Does Barrera like to suck on them? I asked you a question—does he?”

“Yes.”

“The skirt.”

Magda unzips it along the side and slides it down her hips. It’s hard to do from behind the wheel, but she gets it done and the skirt pools at her feet. She’s terrified, but underneath that is fury. Fury that men do this, that they can do this, that they do this
because
they can. She knows it’s not about sex but humiliation, and she
is
humiliated and it makes her furious. Then she sees the knife in his hand. “No. Please. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Anything?” Ochoa asks. “What do you do for Barrera?”

“Everything.”

Ochoa says, “I’m not interested in Barrera’s leftovers.”

The man in the backseat grabs her by the shoulders and holds her as Ochoa forces a plastic bag over her head. Magda can’t breathe, she sucks for air, but all she gets is plastic in her mouth. Her legs kick out spasmodically, her back arches, her hands grab at the bag and try to take it off.

She’s almost dead when Ochoa pulls the bag off. Magda gasps for air. When she can speak, she croaks. “Please…I’m going to have a baby…”

“Barrera’s?” Ochoa asks.

Magda nods.

He puts the bag back on.

The pain is horrible. Her body spasms violently, she wets herself. And then he pulls it off again.

“The world doesn’t need another Barrera,” Ochoa says.

He leans away and the man in back pulls the trigger.

Two hours later police responding to an anonymous tip go out to the corner of 16th Street and Maravillas, where they find a female body in the trunk of a powder-blue 2007 Jetta.

Her stomach has been sliced open and a large “Z” carved into her chest and stomach.

—

Marisol hears something.

She feels alone, and embarrassed that she also feels a little spooked. It’s the wind blowing through the trees, she tells herself. It’s nothing.

But she jumps when her phone rings.

It’s Arturo.

“I’m about twenty minutes out,”
he says.

“Oh…that’s good.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course fine,” Marisol says. She walks to the window and looks out. “Erika is supposed to come but she hasn’t shown up yet.”

“She didn’t call?”

Marisol hears the worry in his voice. “She’s probably with Carlos.”

“Stay in the house until I get there,”
Keller says.
“Do you have the Beretta?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, it’s—”

“Do you have the Beretta? Go into the bathroom. Lock the door.”

“Arturo, don’t be silly—”

“God damn it, Mari, do what I tell you! I’m going to call you back in two minutes.”

Marisol thinks she sees people in the trees now. Must be my imagination, she thinks. Arturo has made me nervous.

“What?”
he asks, sensing her anxiety on the silence.

“Nothing. I just think I see some people is all.”

“Get into the bathroom now.”

She goes into the bathroom and locks the door.

—

Chuy watches the police car roll slowly past.

It’s time.

He hefts his
erre.

Chuy has never killed a woman before.

There was a time when that would have made a difference, but it doesn’t anymore. He doesn’t even contemplate the distinction, it doesn’t occur to him that he took an oath in La Familia to cherish and protect women.

Now he’s seen so many killed, and they die like anyone else.

They want this one hurt first.

Taken, hurt, and cut up.

As a lesson.

—

Erika pulls up at Town Hall and runs upstairs to grab a sweatshirt. Then she gets back in her car for the short drive to Marisol’s. She can recharge her phone there.

—

Keller phones Erika.

Still no answer.

He calls Taylor. “Get people over to Marisol Cisneros’s house in Valverde now.”

“Keller—”

“We’ll talk about it later. Just do it now.”

“I don’t have people in—”

“Do it
now.
” He gets on with Orduña. “I need men in Valverde right away.”

“The closest we have are in Juárez.”

“Chopper them out. Now.”

He gets back on with Marisol.

“Stay on the line with me,” he says. “It’s going to be all right. Stay on the line with me. I’ll be there in five.”

“I hear something outside,”
Marisol says.

“It’s probably nothing,” Keller says, his heart racing. “But if they come in, shoot through the bathroom door. Aim stomach high, by the doorknob. Do you understand? Stomach high, by the doorknob.”

“Stomach high. Arturo…I’m afraid.”

“I’m five minutes away.”

—

Chuy sees the woman police get out of the car.

As she reaches back inside to get her rifle, Chuy’s men are already on her. She puts up a fight but they rip the gun from her hands, open the back door of her car, and push her in.

She yells, screams, and punches.

—

Marisol hears Erika.

Screaming, cursing.

She wants to stay inside. Put her hands over ears, close her eyes, and wait for Arturo to come. But she can’t. She pulls herself up off the floor on her cane, and walks out. She hears Arturo’s voice—
Are you okay? I’m almost there. You’re going to be fine
—and she says. “Good, good, I’m fine.”