Shaking a cigarette from the pack, Gil proffered it, and Poncho plucked it out, lighting it off of Gil’s.
“We can leave. Ruvalcaba’s in good hands here.”
Gil drew from the cigarette, watching in dull amusement as Ruvalcaba attempted to reason with the villagers, his mournful overtures falling upon deaf ears as they tightly bound his wrists and ankles to the tree. “I wanna stay and make sure. This asshole’s cheated death too many times.”
Poncho took a drag. “He won’t cheat it today.”
“All the same.”
The first stone was the size of a baseball, cast by a woman whose son had been kidnapped the year before. It struck Ruvalcaba in the sternum with a heavy thud, and the old man let out a deep groan. Another stone was thrown. And another. Soon it became a free-for-all that lasted nearly ninety seconds. Many stones missed, but just as many hit the mark, and by the time the last one was hurled, Ruvalcaba was drenched in blood, his face as unrecognizable, and his chin lolled against his chest.
As the villagers walked away down the trail toward the church, Gil stepped up and found a pulse in Ruvalcaba’s neck. “You’d better tell ’em he’s still alive.”
Poncho glanced after them. “They know.”
“So where the hell they goin’?”
“He’ll be dead soon.”
“Not soon enough. Don’t they understand that’s how this bastard keeps surviving to fight another day — because people underestimate him?”
“What can I tell you?” Poncho said. “If he survives, they’ll say it’s God’s will.”
“God’s will, my ass.” Gil flicked away the cigarette and drew the 1911.
“Por favor?” someone said from behind. Please?
He turned to see an old cane farmer of at least eighty standing there with his hand out. “La cuarenta y cinco… por favor?” The forty-five… please?
Poncho spoke with the farmer and translated for Gil. “The Ruvalcabas kidnapped his granddaughter four years ago. Some of the kids found her dead along the road a few weeks later. He’s got bad arthritis in both shoulders, so he couldn’t throw any stones, but he says he carried a forty-five like yours in the army when he was a young man.”
Gil offered the pistol to the farmer butt-first. “Tell ’im there’s a round in the chamber.”
As smoothly as if he’d been handling the pistol all of his life, the old man thumbed down the slide lock and put the muzzle up against Ruvalcaba’s head, squeezing the trigger and blowing the drug lord’s brains out the other side of his skull. Then he wiped the gore from the muzzle with the tail of his shirt and offered the weapon back to Gil butt-first.
Gil shook his head. “You keep it, partner. One soldier to another.”
Poncho translated, and the farmer nodded, tucking away the pistol as he strolled off in the opposite direction of the church.
Poncho stood watching him. “And now?”
Gil let out a tired sigh. “Now I gotta go see about a girl.”
They mounted up, and Poncho gunned the Jeep back up the trail toward the jungle road, throwing mud and slimy jungle muck in all directions. By the time they reached the road, both men were completely splattered.
Poncho stopped to disengage the four-wheel drive.
Gil jerked his thumb back toward the village, his face smeared with black muck. “Sure you don’t wanna head back down?”
Poncho glanced over his shoulder. “Why?”
Gil wiped the muck from his eyes. “You missed a fucking mud hole back there. I thought you might wanna go back and hit it.”
Poncho gave him a wink. “We didn’t get stuck. That’s all that matters.”
87
Eight days later, Mariana met with Pope in a fine Italian restaurant in one of the city’s wealthiest districts. With a stomach full of butterflies, she stood as he approached the table, offering her hand.
His grip was warm and firm. “Hello, Mariana. You’re looking well.”
“Thank you, Bob. I appreciate you making the trip.”
He smiled dryly. “Did I have a choice?”
“Of course. You’re the director.”
They made themselves comfortable, and she signaled the waiter. “The driver I sent — his English was sufficient?”
“I’m sure you know that already,” he replied, not unkindly.
Their orders were taken, and Mariana spread a linen napkin in her lap, looking at him and smiling. “I’ll come right to the point: Rhett Hancock, Hector Ruvalcaba, Lazaro Serrano, Captain Espinosa, and Clemson Fields are dead.”
“All the heads of the five families,” he said quietly.
Never having seen the film The Godfather, the macabre witticism was lost on her. “The southern syndicates have decided to come in under Castañeda in order to avoid a war that would cost everyone a lot of unnecessary blood and treasure. There is one lone holdout: a trafficker down in Tabasco State who hates Castañeda too badly to accept the conditions, but his people are already walking away from him. He won’t last the month.”
Pope studied her, his gentle blue eyes calm and focused behind his glasses. “And if Castañeda breaks the truce… renews violence along the border?”
“He won’t do that. He has everything he could possibly want now. He understands that the DEA will continue to interdict his shipments north of the border whenever they can. And he’s even agreed to tip them off from time to time to keep them looking good in the news.”
Pope sipped his water. “Things change.”
“True. Nothing is forever, but if he decides to break the truce, I have someone in place to remove him: someone very close, whose loyalty is more with Mexico than with Castañeda.”
“Interesting.” Pope spread the napkin in his lap, secretly satisfied with the way the situation had developed. “You’ve been very hard at work.”
“I’ve had a lot of help.”
“And I’d like to know who from. Not even Crosswhite can be in multiple places at the same time.”
She smiled. “Like you said, I’ve been very hard at work.”
“And in exchange for this hard work, you expect to be appointed chief of station?”
Mariana hardened her gaze, conveying a confidence she’d actually begun to feel over the past few days. “Your Mexico network is smashed. I’ve already sent Mike Ortega and his family home with orders never to return. You no longer have any contacts in-country, you don’t speak the language, and you have no one to replace me with — not with my qualifications.”
Pope opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed her assault. “I’ve presented you with a stable border that you can present to the president — taking full credit, of course. I’m the only agent who can guarantee that stability for any foreseeable length of time. Castañeda knows you plotted to have him killed. He respects the power of the CIA, but he no longer has any respect for you. Fortunately, he does respect me, and he knows that he and I can help each other.
“In short, my network is already in place. It’s stable, well connected, and growing more influential by the day. For all intents and purposes, I am chief of station. Now, you can fire me, strip me of my affiliation with the agency — even have me killed — but you’d be stupid to consider it, and we both know it.”
“Would I?” he asked, realizing she had the sight now.
“You always have a plan B. I admit it took me awhile to realize that it was me, but once I saw it, the rest was easy.”
Befuddled by the rapid expansion of her acumen, he toiled to perceive its breadth. “Crosswhite’s not sharp enough to have discerned that. Who’s been counseling you?”