“Now we must plan together how best to use this information to our mutual advantage. It is true we can arrest Serrano for ordering your murder, but he has powerful allies, and our word might not be enough to gain a conviction on this charge alone. Our court system does not work the same as in the US — there are no juries, for example — so it would be best to draw Serrano into a trap; to find a way for the PFM to catch him in the act of conspiring with known cartel members.”
“And exactly how do you plan on doing that?” Vaught asked.
“Right now we have two distinct advantages,” Mendoza went on. “One, he has no idea that we now know for certain what he is. Two, he thinks you’re dead. Tomorrow the PFM will announce that your body was found in a building along with the bodies of five known cartel members. No one will be sure of exactly what happened because a grenade blast will have left the crime scene impossible to decipher. This will put you out of Serrano’s mind. Then, when the time is right, after he has forgotten all about you, you can magically reappear — but only at a moment when he has begun to feel vulnerable in other ways. The idea is to scare him into making a mistake.”
“So you’re planning to apply pressure in the meantime,” Crosswhite said.
Mendoza grinned. “Yes. Pressure creates stress, and men under stress are prone to making mistakes at crucial moments. Up until this point, Serrano has lived a stress-free existence, with little more to worry about than which woman to take to bed on a given night. With your help, Agent Vaught, we’re going to change that.”
“And the gringo sniper?” Vaught asked.
Mendoza turned to look at Crosswhite, saying in slightly accented English, “I understand you’ve had some experience in this area, Agent Crosswhite. Or is my information incorrect?”
Crosswhite looked around the room, chuckling under the collective gaze. “Well, hey, I’m just here to provide the beer on this one. I’m not going operational.”
Paolina was staring hard at Mendoza, her eyes like brown bullets.
“Yes,” Mendoza continued, switching back to Spanish, “I understand, but the PFM would very much appreciate your help in this operation. We feel it’s time you gave something back to Mexico in exchange for the unfettered privacy you have enjoyed as a guest in our country.”
Crosswhite glanced at Paolina, who now looked like she wanted to claw out Mendoza’s eyeballs. Then he looked back at the PFM agent and laughed. “Yeah, okay, sure. I’d love a chance to give back.”
“Excellent,” Mendoza said, rubbing his palms on his knees. “Mexico is grateful for your generosity.”
Vaught snickered, leaning across the coffee table to offer Crosswhite his hand. “Welcome to the team, champ.”
Paolina jerked the stun gun from between the sofa cushions and leapt over the table after him. Crosswhite grabbed her around the waist as Vaught shoved himself over backward in the equipal, only narrowly avoiding the outstretched weapon, its cruel blue arc of electricity snapping and crackling in the air as Crosswhite swung her around with a “Whoa!” and lifted her off the floor, setting her down safely on the far side of the room and blocking her path. “Easy, baby.”
9
The next morning, Lazaro Serrano was eating breakfast on the patio behind his expansive home. A young woman in a green-and-red bikini swam in the pool, pushing around a Chihuahua on a small rubber raft. The little dog was barking at her and wagging its tail, and she was laughing and calling for Serrano to look. He smiled and waved and went on eating. He was fifty years old with a belly and thinning hair, bushy eyebrows, and a thick black mustache.
Oscar Martinez, his chief assistant and confidant, came onto the patio with the morning edition of El Universal and sat down across from Serrano; one of the servants had already set a place for him. He was a slender man in his midforties, with a head of thick, dark hair and a boyish face that easily shaved ten years off his age. “The body of the American DSS agent has been found,” he said, sipping from a porcelain coffee cup.
Serrano looked up from his breakfast with a measure of surprise. “So soon? What did those fools do with it?”
Oscar rubbed his hands together before reaching to put a spoonful of sugar into the coffee. “Well, it seems they did not do anything with it. The body was found in the same building where you last saw him, along with the bodies of six of Ruvalcaba’s people.” Hector Ruvalcaba was a powerful narcotics trafficker — a narcotraficante, also referred to as a narco. The year before, with Serrano’s help, Ruvalcaba had escaped from a maximum security prison via a three-quarter-mile-long tunnel dug from beyond the facility’s walls to directly beneath his cell. Serrano had since helped him take over the southern narcotics trade, leaving Antonio Castañeda as his only competitor. Castañeda controlled the North. “They were all killed by a grenade blast. It seems to have been accidental.”
Serrano went back to eating. “One of those idiots must have dropped it and blown them all up.” He shook his head in disgust. “Why am I surrounded by fools, Oscar? Tell me that.”
Oscar smiled and sipped his coffee. “I do not know.”
“You’re sure the American is dead?”
The younger man set the cup down on the saucer, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “His name was Chance Vaught, a US Army veteran.”
“Are you sure it’s the same man? The agent I saw on the floor was Hispanic.”
Oscar nodded confidently. “Yes, it’s him. His father is a gringo, but his mother is Mexican. They’re shipping the remains back to the United States this week.”
“Good,” Serrano said, taking a sip of freshly made orange-carrot juice. “We don’t need him stinking up Mexican soil.” He sat back with a smile and wiped his mouth. “Be sure to send my condolences to the Vaught family through the American Embassy. It’s important to maintain good relations with our neighbors.”
“I will,” Oscar said. “I’ve already sent them to the embassy itself. Should we expect problems concerning the three federal policemen that Vaught killed?” He tapped the edition of El Universal. “They’re on the front page today.”
Serrano shrugged, picking up his knife and fork. “That’s Captain Espinosa’s problem.” Espinosa was the Federale captain who had turned Vaught over to the detectives working for Ruvalcaba. “He’s got people inside the city police. He’s a true professional, that one, a man I can count on — like you.”
A thin smile spread across Oscar’s lips, and he wondered for perhaps the thousandth time what would happen if Serrano ever found out he was gay. I’d probably disappear too, he told himself, making a mental note to increase his vigilance.
“Will the project in Toluca still be going forward?” he asked. Serrano and Ruvalcaba had been trying to turn the town, located southwest of Mexico City, into a trafficking hub for the past six months.
“Yes, of course,” Serrano said, cutting off a piece of steak. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, I thought you might want to postpone it because of all that’s happened here.”