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He was watching her intently now. “Why did you come back?”

“This is my home. I never wanted to leave permanently. I just wanted to live here on my terms.” She pointed to the little girl who now held Harold's hand. “I wanted to help other little girls hope and dream and grow up safely.”

Simon nodded slowly. “I don't want to do anything to harm these kids, Sofia.”

“Then you must leave. Now. Today. Forget what Harold said about this big dream of yours. This apparatus. Go back to
el norte
and finish it there.”

Simon's voice grew sadder still. “I didn't come to Ojinaga to complete this device. Not really.”

“Then why else did you—?” Her question was cut off by the sound of an all-too-familiar siren. “Wait here.”

As the dark SUV pulled up by the front gates, Simon felt a faint rush of fear. Other than the siren and the flashing red light attached to the roof beside the driver's window, it could have belonged to the hunter. Then the passenger door opened, and a smiling Enrique stepped into view.

He entered the orphanage like he owned the place.

The kids pretty much erupted from their hiding places. They scampered over and danced around him. Enrique smiled and he talked, and the kids answered with a single unified shout. He accepted a plastic bag from his driver and started doling out handfuls of hard candy. The kids shrieked and laughed and raced about, their hands full of sweets.

The mayor of Ojinaga was every inch a winner. He wore a starched long-sleeve shirt, white with broad chalk-blue stripes that matched his silk tie. His suit pants were a rich tan. His tasseled loafers defied the dust. Simon imagined the man had them polished twice a day.

Simon realized he did not like the mayor. Enrique had done nothing to justify such feelings. But his gut said this guy was too used to having it all. And Sofia was part of that plan.

At Sofia's approach, Enrique separated himself from the kids so he could give her a kiss. The children shrieked with laughter. Simon had the distinct impression that Sofia merely endured his attentions. When she was free, she pointed to Simon, then started over to where the little girl stood with Harold and Agent Martinez.

Juan skipped over to stand beside Simon. “That is Mayor Morales.”

Simon watched Sofia take the little girl's hand and lead her into the dormitory. “We've met.”

“He lets me call him Enrique. He is a very good man.”

Enrique started toward Simon, then changed course when the agent approached and saluted him. Simon said, “Sure is a popular guy.”

“Enrique is running for governor of Chihuahua. He will win. He must. He has stood up to the drug cartels here in Ojinaga. He has arrested many of their men.”

Then from the girl's dormitory there came a soft wail.

Instantly the kids went silent. Many children slipped into the shadows. Harold crossed the courtyard and entered the dorm. From inside came another soft cry, a wordless lament against a hot and uncaring world.

Agent Martinez spoke to Enrique, gesturing back toward the girl's dormitory. Even the mayor's nod carried a sense of imperial smoothness, turning the gesture into a half bow. Simon could not understand what he said, but the man's tone carried power. The agent softened enough to smile briefly.

Then she noticed Simon and said something that turned the mayor around. Enrique waved him over. “Señor Simon, come and meet one of the good guys!”

Simon had no interest in talking with the cops, any cop, north or south of the border. But he had no choice. He hated how he recoiled inside, as though guilty of some crime rather than being the victim this time. Old habits died hard.

Agent Martinez had a cop's gaze, hard and tight and measuring. She showed no expression as Enrique said, “Señor Simon Orwell, honored guest of our fair city, was brutally attacked yesterday. How is your wound, señor?”

“Healing.”

“The bullet missed our guest,” Enrique said cheerfully. “The rock ricochet did not.”

“Guns are much less common in this country,” Martinez said. “Where did this happen, señor?”

“I was run off the highway by the industrial zone and chased through the desert.”

Enrique set a hand on Simon's shoulder. “Señor Orwell came to visit Professor Vasquez, formerly of MIT, perhaps you have heard of him?”

Agent Martinez hesitated a fraction of a second, then said, “Perhaps. The name sounds familiar. What was your business with the professor?”

“We're working on a project to transform wasted power into usable electricity.” Simon stopped and amended, “Rather, we were.”

“There was a discussion with our city council,” Enrique went on. “Or perhaps I should say, a misunderstanding. With Dr. Clara.”

“Ah.” The agent nodded slowly. “Of her I have most certainly heard.”

“Señor Orwell was on his way back to the border. A man pulled a board studded with nails across the highway. The attacker chased him into the maquiladora, where Señor Simon was rescued by my assistant town manager. Very fortunate, yes? They returned to his car this morning, only to discover it had been burned out.”

“You were carrying drugs, señor? Or large amounts of cash?”

“Do I look to you like a courier?”

“What you look like, señor, is a man who has had other discussions with the police.”

“Look,
I
was the one attacked here.”

“Of course, señor. And my job as agent in the national task force is to determine whether drugs or drug money was involved.”

“There were no drugs,” Enrique said smoothly. “There was no money.”

“You are certain of this how?”

“Because Señor Orwell came seeking a grant to continue his scientific research that he started with Professor Vasquez. The professor has recently died. We are told it was a heart attack.”

The agent's phone rang. She slipped it from her belt and checked the readout. “I must take this. If you will excuse me, Mayor Morales. I am sorry for your troubles, Señor Orwell. Good day.”

Enrique's gaze followed the agent back through the orphanage gates. “There are too few such people in Mexican law enforcement these days. Agent Martinez is a true friend of the people. She has had numerous death threats. Her family lives in Mexico City under an assumed name.”

Simon watched the unmarked car pull away and did not respond.

“Is it true what she said, that you have had other run-ins with the law?”

Simon remained silent.

“Excuse me. It is none of my business.” The hand dropped from Simon's shoulder. “Only, it appears you will need to apply for a new passport. I can certainly expedite matters. But this will be more difficult if you have a record.”

Simon said carefully, “I have no priors.”

“Excellent. In that case, it will only be a matter of a few days. A week at most.”

“A week?”

“Perhaps less. You could, of course, travel to your nearest consulate or the embassy in Mexico City.”

“I'm broke. Everything I brought with me is gone.”

“Then leave it with me.” Enrique started toward Sofia, then turned back. “Is it true what they say, that you can complete the professor's work?”

Perhaps it was just how everything the mayor did and said carried this polished edge. But Simon had the feeling that Enrique's question was not so casual as it appeared. Or that the question had just popped into the mayor's head. “Maybe. With time. And money.”

Enrique flashed the smile made for billboards. “Then let us hope you are successful upon your return to your country, Señor Simon.”

The mayor crossed the courtyard to where Harold stood in the dormitory doorway. The orphanage director turned and greeted Enrique as an old friend. They talked for a few moments, then Enrique patted Harold's shoulder, called softly into the dorm, and walked back to his car. He waved at Simon before the driver closed his door.

As the car pulled away, Simon thought,
there goes a man who has everything
.

Which was bitterly ironic, as it was exactly what they used to say about him.

Carlos was on the hunt. It was his favorite part of the job. And his job was anything his
jefe
told him to do.

Carlos was lucky to be alive. Of the kids he ran with in his youth, he was the only one still drawing breath. And it was all because of his boss.

When he was eleven, the war had come to his village.

In Mexico, there was only one war these days. The gangs that controlled the drug trade were in the middle of a civil war, fighting each other for control and power. And the civil war gave no thought to innocents. In this war, there were only winners and losers. That was what the cartel men had said when they came to his village. Did Carlos and the other children want to win? Or did they want to die?

The gang needed the village's kids. That was why they came. To recruit every child over nine years of age. The gang loved hitting villages like his, close to major cities and familiar with the war and the violence. Everyone in his village knew a family who had suffered. They heard the tales from cities like Juárez or Chihuahua. So when the gang came to their village, the locals already knew the consequences if they refused to cooperate.

The gang gathered all the kids in a dusty lot beyond the empty factory that once had employed half the village making pottery. They showed off their guns—the military-grade automatic rifles, the pistols, the Tasers, the machetes. They made the children hold them and handle them. They then gave the children a choice. The kids could join the gang and each receive five hundred American dollars to take home to their families. Or they could watch their families die. All of them. Even the animals. A lesson to be remembered by all who joined the gang. That there was no escape. That hope was a myth imported from north of the border, from the
Yanquis
who consumed the drugs and fueled the violence that had come to their village. Here, there was no hope. Only this choice. Join or die.

Carlos had known there was no choice at all. Not for him. Only for his family. If he joined the gang, he would die an early death. Almost all the soldiers in every gang were dead before their twenty-fifth birthday. It was a tragic statistic that played on television and filled the newspapers. Mexico's youth were being wiped from the face of the earth.

But at least he could save his family. So Carlos had said yes and joined the gang.

He spent four years as a mule, ferrying drugs across the American border. He traveled with the
coyotes
, pretending to be the son of some other family. So his own family would survive.

All the money he earned he gave to his mother. He was the oldest of five children, and his family was now secure. They bought land. They prospered. His photograph was placed upon the altar in the corner of his mother's bedroom. Every six months she pleaded with him for a new photograph. Carlos hated these photographs for two reasons. First, each photograph was a reminder to him of just how close death remained. Second, in each photograph he could see the change. Carlos had always been known for his smile. And it was still there, the teeth shining through his beard. But inside, where it mattered, there was nothing left. The photograph did not lie.

Then when Carlos was fifteen, a marvel had come to his village.

The jefe had managed to sweep away the gang. How he had done this was a matter of much debate. But no one questioned that it was the boss who had done this thing. And not just from his small village. Across the entire north of Chihuahua state, the cartels vanished.

The jefe's
family had owned much of Chihuahua's finest farmland for generations beyond count. They now owned hotels in resorts like Acapulco and inside the capital city. They could have slipped across the border and lived an easy life in the safety of America, where people walked the streets without fear of death. Though most of his family now lived elsewhere, el jefe had remained and fought for the little people. And made life safe once more for the family of Carlos.