He threw down the reports and started to pace from one end of the room to the other as the rest of the team drank beer and snacked on chips and salsa.
Nieves picked up his exegesis on the drug cartel war where he’d left off. “Some say Chapo Guzmán and the Sinaloans have grown fat and happy. I don’t know about that. Maybe he’s gotten so big and powerful he doesn’t care about what happens in Guadalajara. It’s rumored that about half the ministers in the government are on his payroll. All I know is that about a year ago, Los Zetas, which has traditionally operated along the Gulf Coast, started moving in, and things got ugly. I’m talking gunfights, kidnappings, decapitations, full-scale terror.”
“What’s the difference between the Sinaloa cartel and Los Zetas?” Davis asked.
“Sinaloa is basically a family-run organization that has grown by leaps and bounds and now employs something like two hundred thousand people. Generally they go about their business of dealing drugs and making money and leave other people alone. El Chapo is like a character out of a popular telenovela-a common man with a third-grade education who has built a global empire and continues to evade capture by the government and the U.S. Songs are written about him; journalists are constantly spreading gossip about which beautiful woman he’s been seen with.”
Nieves cleared his throat and sang the verse of a song in Spanish. “That one’s called ‘El Regreso del Chapo.’ Translated, it says: ‘Short guys are always fierce.’ That’s how the saying goes. It’s been proved with Chapo Guzmán.”
“Short guys, Suárez,” Akil cracked. “He’s talking about you.”
At five eleven, Suárez was now the shortest guy on the team. Based on the confused expression on his face, he still wasn’t up to speed in terms of the group’s give-and-take humor.
“Nice song,” Davis offered, “but I still prefer Black Crowes or U2.”
Akiclass="underline" “Why don’t you just say ‘I’m vanilla’?”
“Black Crowes aren’t vanilla.”
“Bullshit.”
“Tell us about the Zetas,” Crocker said, steering the conversation back to business.
“Los Zetas are a whole different story. Their founders are deserters from Mexico’s elite special forces. They’re brutal, efficient, highly organized, and well armed. They don’t care about their popularity. They’re all about power, influence, and money.”
“What does this have to do with the kidnapping of the Clarks?” Crocker asked.
As Nieves opened his mouth to answer, his phone rang to the theme from The Godfather. He held up a hand to Crocker and nodded as he listened to the person on the other end. Putting down the phone and rubbing his big hands together, he said, “That was Lane. He’s ready to see you.”
Crocker slapped the side of the sofa where Mancini, Akil, and Suárez were sitting and said, “Good. Let’s go.”
David Lane was younger than Crocker expected-mid-to-late thirties, medium height, short dark thinning hair, a long face. He wasn’t anyone who would stand out in a crowd, but he projected commitment and intelligence. He also looked harried and tired.
The FBI agent in charge sat at a dining room table covered with papers, the sleeves of his blue-check oxford shirt rolled up to his elbows. He was typing furiously on a laptop and sipping a Diet Coke when Crocker approached.
“Welcome,” Lane said. “I’m finishing a report on the violence today.”
“I hear you have a plan.”
Lane finished typing, leaned forward and reread what he had just written, and pressed Send. Turning to Crocker, he said, “The violence here is shocking to our sensibilities but not unusual for them.”
“I just read a bunch of news reports Nieves gave me. Gruesome stuff.”
“A Mexican academic I know explained that it goes back to the Aztec view of the world, which was frightening, and ruled by gods who were dangerous and demanding. Our God isn’t so demanding, is he, Crocker?”
“I don’t know.”
“Our God wants us to be fair and considerate, but he doesn’t demand our blood in return for simple things like the sun rising in the morning or rainfall,” Lane said, nodding toward a redheaded woman who entered in tight blue pants with a pistol in a holster on her hip.
She smiled back at Lane as if they had made some secret communication.
“No, he doesn’t,” Crocker remarked.
“The Aztecs believed that the gods gave nothing without demanding something in return,” Lane continued. “In the case of the Aztec god of rain, Tlaloc, he required the blood of children ages six and seven to ensure the end of the dry season and a sufficient period of rain. Boys and girls were chosen who had double cowlicks in their hair, which was considered an auspicious sign. He preferred the children of nobles. After they were selected, they were dressed in colorful paper costumes and carried from the city to seven ceremonial sites. Their mothers followed them. If they cried a lot, that was considered a good omen. The quantity of tears the children shed before they were sacrificed was considered a direct correlation to the rain that could be expected in the coming year.”
Lane was obviously thoughtful and well read. But Crocker hadn’t come to hear a lecture on comparative religions, or on the cultural connection between the Aztecs and the modern cartels. “Interesting,” he said. “Now let’s talk about the mission.”
“The more time I spend in this country, the more I appreciate the difference in cultures,” Lane continued, maintaining a composed demeanor. “I don’t think we fully understand the cultural and historical context we’re dealing with here.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“You’re nodding your head like you agree,” Lane said, “but you’re looking at me like I’m full of shit.”
“I was told that a senator’s wife and daughter are scheduled to be executed less than thirty-six hours from now.”
“We’re well aware of that, Crocker,” Lane replied.
“For your information, we’ve been operating without sleep for more than two days, with little in the way of resources,” the redhead announced as she pulled a document out of a printer.
“You’ll be moving soon enough,” said Lane. “We’re planning a raid for early tomorrow morning. Isn’t that correct, Karen?”
“Right.”
Crocker quickly glanced at his watch. “You’re talking six to eight hours from now?”
“Yes, Crocker. Is that soon enough for you?”
He didn’t care about their attitude, or whether or not they’d slept. He wanted to make sure that what he had just heard was right. “So you’ve established where Lisa Clark and her daughter are being held?” he asked.
Both Lane and Karen nodded. “That’s correct.”
Crocker’s sense of urgency shot up. “Where are they?”
“Nearby.”
“How’d you find them?”
Lane stood and indicated to Crocker to follow him outside through the double glass doors. Karen grimaced and shot him the middle finger.
Crocker didn’t waste a second worrying about the impression he had made on her, or on Lane, for that matter. He stood facing Lane as a warm breeze blew through the compound, stirring the full trees, and Lane lit a Marlboro. From a distance the lights of the city conveyed only promise and beauty.
Lane’s eyes narrowed as he exhaled a long stream of white smoke through the amber porch light.
“I understand that you and your men are the best at what you do, which is why you’re here. And I totally respect that,” he said in a measured tone of voice. “But I want you to know that my people are incredibly capable and dedicated, too. Karen, Nieves, Marion, Higgins, the others. They’ve worked their butts off and risked their lives to bring us to this point.”