When his peasant army ran into a force of six thousand trained and armed Spanish troops, they were slaughtered, and Father Hidalgo was executed by a firing squad. His last words were “Though I may die, I shall be remembered forever.”
His head was cut off in Guanajuato City, east of Guadalajara, where it was displayed for ten years. It was finally taken down and buried when Father Hidalgo’s goal of Mexican independence was achieved in 1821.
“Mexicans seem to have a thing about cutting people’s heads off,” remarked Akil, referring to a recent spate of Ciudad Juárez drug vendettas that had been reported in the U.S. press.
Suárez, whose mother’s family hailed from the colonial city of Puebla, east of Mexico City, turned to Mancini and asked, “Where did you learn all that?”
“I guess nobody told you that Manny’s really an oral encyclopedia,” Davis answered.
“More like a freak who reads constantly and never sleeps,” Akil added.
“But don’t cross him. ’Cause he’s crazy strong. Bench presses three seventy-five like it’s nothing, even though he looks like a puss.”
They had passed through Immigration and were retrieving their bags.
Grabbing Suárez by the shoulder, Mancini said, “You probably know that Mexican independence is celebrated on September sixteenth, which is the day in 1810 when Father Hidalgo gave a speech called the Grito de Dolores during Mass, which was essentially a battle cry for independence. I can quote a few lines from it, if you like.”
“Are you part Mexican?” Suárez asked.
Davis answered before Mancini got a chance. “Joey Mancini. He’s as Italian as meatballs and spaghetti.”
Akil whispered into Suárez’s ear, “Don’t tell anyone, but Mancini’s our secret weapon. We use him to bore people to death.”
Suárez choked back a laugh.
“Akil thinks it’s cool to be ignorant,” Mancini responded. “He believes that his boyish insouciance makes him more attractive to the random chicks he picks up in bars and hotel lounges.”
Akiclass="underline" “What the fuck does ‘insouciance’ even mean?”
“Look it up, Akil. Any good psychologist can tell you that you’re compensating for your small dick and latent homosexuality.”
“You wish, Manny.”
Crocker always enjoyed Mexico and had visited almost a dozen times. The last was a cave-diving trip that he had taken with Holly to the Yucatán. Not only were the underground air and cave water restorative, but as they swam and looked up at patches of sky through holes in the caves, Crocker felt that they were in the presence of spirits that were thousands of years old.
There was something deep and mysterious about the country. He wasn’t a big reader, but his interest in military campaigns had drawn him to the incredible True History of the Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz del Castillo-an eyewitness account of the Spanish conquest of Mexico. Crocker had marveled at how the relatively small group of six hundred soldiers, with fifteen horses and fifteen cannons, had prevailed against an Aztec army numbering in the hundreds of thousands.
Especially interesting was the pivotal role played by La Malinche, the Nahua Indian woman from the Gulf Coast of Mexico who served as Cortés’s guide and interpreter and later bore him a son. Nearly six hundred years later, she was still a controversial figure in Mexico. Crocker had heard that to call someone a malinchista was to accuse that person of being a traitor to their people, or someone who hated Mexicans.
As they approached the exit, his thoughts were interrupted by a large Hispanic-looking man who stepped into his path. “Tom Crocker?” the man asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Carlos Nieves, FBI. I’ve got a colleague and two SUVs waiting on the curb. You want a lift?”
“How much?”
“A round of beer and a plate of nachos.”
Crocker checked Nieves’s ID and indicated to his men to follow. He’d been told that the man running the joint FBI/DEA task force was named David Lane, so he asked, “Where’s Lane?”
“He’s waiting at headquarters, which is actually in a compound in the Zapopan part of town,” Nieves answered as he helped load the SEALs’ gear into the back of one of the SUVs. “You’ll be bunking in the same compound, in a separate structure. It’s pretty damn posh, with a barbecue, nice patio, even a pool. You bring a suit?”
Crocker shook his head. He wasn’t interested in pools or amenities. The little time they had left was ticking past. As they rode into the city, he pictured Lisa Clark’s face and tried to imagine the stress she and her daughter were under. He considered pulling innocent women and children into conflicts and using them as barter to be the lowest form of cowardice.
Nieves slowed the black Honda Pilot. Looking ahead, Crocker saw a sea of red brake lights covering all four lanes of the expressway.
“What’s going on?” he asked. The sky was dark purple and charcoal gray.
“Looks like a roadblock,” Nieves explained, steering the vehicle onto the shoulder and passing a long line of cars and trucks. He was broad with a big square head, stood six foot three, and must have weighed 260 pounds. Like a lot of really big men Crocker had met, there was a gentleness about him.
“What kind of roadblock?” Crocker asked, looking back to check that the second SUV with Davis and Mancini aboard was behind them.
“I don’t know what you’ve been told about Guadalajara,” answered Nieves. “It’s always been a sophisticated city. Big parks; universities; lots of history, culture, and art; and a real vital tech industry that some people say is a close second to Silicon Valley. Even though it’s the second-largest city in Mexico, it’s been pretty much untouched by the usual drug cartel violence, until last year. Since then the shooting, bombings, and other acts of violence have been virtually nonstop.”
“How do you explain that?” Crocker asked. A billboard to their right advertised The Hangover Part III, showing Ken Jeong parachuting into Las Vegas. The Spanish translation of the title was ¿Qué Pasó Ayer? Parte III (What Happened Yesterday?)
“A war’s raging between the two major cartels for control of the city,” Nieves answered. “The Sinaloans have quietly owned this area for years, buying judges and cops, absorbing local groups, and plying their dirty trade. Their main business, by the way, is crystal meth.”
“Really?” Crocker interjected. “I’m no expert, but I thought it was coke and pot.”
“Crystal meth has the highest profit margin,” Nieves explained, “and the cartels can make it themselves. They don’t have to worry about growing marijuana and poppies, which requires cropland, rainfall, and harvesting. And in terms of cocaine, they don’t have to hassle with producers in Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru, or middlemen in Central America and Haiti.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Meth is not only relatively easy to produce, it’s also cheap and highly addictive, whether smoked, snorted, injected, or swallowed in a pill. Which explains why worldwide consumption has skyrocketed.”
Crocker flashed back to the image of Carla smoking meth on the edge of her bed and wondered if it had been imported from Mexico. Ahead, flashing blue lights marked the roadblock.
“If it’s the military, they’ll probably wave us through,” Nieves offered. “But if it’s the police, we might be stuck here for hours.”
“How come?”
“Because almost all the police in this country, whether they’re local, municipal, state, or PFM, are corrupt up to their fucking eyeballs. Locals will tell you they fear them even more than the narcos. The army, on the other hand, conducts raids of labs and warehouses, then disappears back into their barracks. They’re all about seizing drugs and burning them in a big bonfire show. But they rarely make arrests.”