he’d have to work fast to find someone who might actually know where the girl was being held. That would be a tightly guarded secret – there weren’t many the Don would trust with the information – which meant that El Rey ’s first priority was to locate one of the inner circle, which was populated by some of the most hunted fugitives in Mexico. Even with his contacts and expertise it would be a tall order on short notice.
He hated rush jobs. They ran against every principle he held dear. Being in a hurry resulted in cutting corners and failing to take the time to accurately evaluate risks, which in turn led to botched operations. As the afternoon faded and his watch read five o’clock, his brow furrowed. The government idiots were burning time he didn’t have.
The door to the meeting room opened, interrupting his ruminations. Hector entered, trailed by his two shadows, who were lugging the equipment he’d requested. They set the gear on the table and watched as he methodically checked each item before sliding it off to one side.
The inspection took fifteen minutes. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he closed the lid on the final container and turned to Hector.
“I will need to get to the airport immediately.”
“I assumed so. We need to know where you’re going so the crew can file a flight plan,” Hector said.
“Culiacán, of course. The heart of the Sinaloa cartel. If I’m going to get answers, I’ll need to start there. Now, how do I get in touch with you when I need my injection? That’s the loose end so far,” El Rey warned.
“Use the cell phone I gave you.” Hector patted his breast pocket. “I’ll get someone to you within twenty-four hours, if not sooner.”
“I still think you should give me the syringe. I might be somewhere you can’t easily reach me.”
“Don’t be. I understand the onset of symptoms is highly unpleasant.”
It was pointless to argue. They obviously intended to keep him on a short leash.
El Rey had verified the signed presidential pardon was everything he’d demanded and had made arrangements for an attorney to keep the original under lock and key. He’d also made a copy of it and uploaded it into an e-mail program. It wasn’t foolproof as a deterrent, but it would have to do. The truth was that if the government really wanted to screw him, it would find a way.
“Have a car waiting in ten minutes. We’ve wasted enough time. Is there anything else?” El Rey asked. He pulled the stack of money Hector had set down towards him and methodically counted the bundles of pesos and dollars, then slid them into the bag with the rest of his gear.
“No. Check in every day if you can and update us. We can only help you if we know what you’re doing.”
“Guaranteed you’ll hear from me. I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“That’s the whole idea.”
~
A haze of pollution created the illusion of an orange full moon over Mexico City. On the outskirts, the dust from unpaved dirt roads worsened the effect, presenting chronic respiratory problems for the unlucky residents. Living downtown resulted in the same damage to the residents’ lungs as smoking a pack of cigarettes a day; the average life expectancy of Chilangos , as they were called, was ten years shorter than in other Mexican cities.
Traffic noise had faded as the night wore on, the clamor of population slowing once the dinner hour had come and gone. One by one, the lights went out in the shabby little homes on the periphery of the valley as the tired habitants settled in for sleep.
The target was located in a rural industrial district with no streetlights and only grudging illumination provided by an occasional lamp mounted for security on one of the compounds’ fortified gates. Even the inevitable stray dogs in the neighborhood avoided the darkened streets once the workers had gone home, preferring to forage in the squalid residential district a quarter mile away. The
He hated rush jobs. They ran against every principle he held dear. Being in a hurry resulted in cutting corners and failing to take the time to accurately evaluate risks, which in turn led to botched operations. As the afternoon faded and his watch read five o’clock, his brow furrowed. The government idiots were burning time he didn’t have.
The door to the meeting room opened, interrupting his ruminations. Hector entered, trailed by his two shadows, who were lugging the equipment he’d requested. They set the gear on the table and watched as he methodically checked each item before sliding it off to one side.
The inspection took fifteen minutes. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he closed the lid on the final container and turned to Hector.
“I will need to get to the airport immediately.”
“I assumed so. We need to know where you’re going so the crew can file a flight plan,” Hector said.
“Culiacán, of course. The heart of the Sinaloa cartel. If I’m going to get answers, I’ll need to start there. Now, how do I get in touch with you when I need my injection? That’s the loose end so far,” El Rey warned.
“Use the cell phone I gave you.” Hector patted his breast pocket. “I’ll get someone to you within twenty-four hours, if not sooner.”
“I still think you should give me the syringe. I might be somewhere you can’t easily reach me.”
“Don’t be. I understand the onset of symptoms is highly unpleasant.”
It was pointless to argue. They obviously intended to keep him on a short leash.
El Rey had verified the signed presidential pardon was everything he’d demanded and had made arrangements for an attorney to keep the original under lock and key. He’d also made a copy of it and uploaded it into an e-mail program. It wasn’t foolproof as a deterrent, but it would have to do. The truth was that if the government really wanted to screw him, it would find a way.
“Have a car waiting in ten minutes. We’ve wasted enough time. Is there anything else?” El Rey asked. He pulled the stack of money Hector had set down towards him and methodically counted the bundles of pesos and dollars, then slid them into the bag with the rest of his gear.
“No. Check in every day if you can and update us. We can only help you if we know what you’re doing.”
“Guaranteed you’ll hear from me. I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
“That’s the whole idea.”
~
A haze of pollution created the illusion of an orange full moon over Mexico City. On the outskirts, the dust from unpaved dirt roads worsened the effect, presenting chronic respiratory problems for the unlucky residents. Living downtown resulted in the same damage to the residents’ lungs as smoking a pack of cigarettes a day; the average life expectancy of Chilangos , as they were called, was ten years shorter than in other Mexican cities.
Traffic noise had faded as the night wore on, the clamor of population slowing once the dinner hour had come and gone. One by one, the lights went out in the shabby little homes on the periphery of the valley as the tired habitants settled in for sleep.
The target was located in a rural industrial district with no streetlights and only grudging illumination provided by an occasional lamp mounted for security on one of the compounds’ fortified gates. Even the inevitable stray dogs in the neighborhood avoided the darkened streets once the workers had gone home, preferring to forage in the squalid residential district a quarter mile away. The
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