Forty-Nine
Alejandro didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.
He had only managed to wrap up the wounds so much, but the bandages kept bleeding through to the point he gave up trying to change them. Usually, walking several miles carrying equipment would be no sweat at all, but now he moved at a slug’s pace. What he needed to do was rest. Just take a couple days off, get some sleep, let his new wounds heal as much as possible. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not with his mission so close to the end.
It was almost midnight now as he lay in the woods almost three hundred yards away from Fernando Sanchez Morales’s house. The equipment he had dragged along—the rifles and extra ammo and RPG launcher—lay on the ground beside him. He currently used a riflescope to watch the men Morales had hired to maintain the perimeter. So far he had counted eight, though there were undoubtedly more inside the house.
Morales had kept his wife and son holed up in that house for over a year now. As far as Alejandro knew, the man hadn’t once let his family step outside the gates. He had forced them to become prisoners in their own home. There was something about the idea that gave Alejandro a perverse sort of pleasure, especially considering Morales was the architect behind his own family’s demise.
Once Alejandro had learned that Morales was the one who came up with the plan—who had shot down all other ideas because he was certain his was the best—Alejandro knew he would save Morales’s wife and son for last. Sure, there was the possibility that Morales would put his wife and son on a plane, send them to some remote country, but Alejandro didn’t think so. Morales didn’t seem the type to run. He loved his family, yes, but he was too proud to be labeled a coward.
Alejandro set the riflescope aside, placed his forehead against the cold ground, and closed his eyes.
He thought he might just rest for a couple minutes. Gain his strength. He had been mostly lucky the past year and a half. Certainly what he had accomplished hadn’t been easy, but he had managed to make it work. As the names on the list started being crossed off, maybe he had become too arrogant, too sure of himself. That’s why he had gotten shot when he attacked the convoy, and how he had managed to let himself get stabbed by that narco. And since then, driving here from Michoacán, he hadn’t gotten any sleep—not even a few minutes—so yes, resting for a bit should not be a problem. After everything he had been through, surely he deserved some time to rest. Some time to close his eyes. Some time to drift into that welcoming darkness …
“No.”
Alejandro whispered it, opening his eyes and shaking his head suddenly.
No, he couldn’t rest. Not now. Not when he was so close to finishing this. Not when he was on the cusp of avenging his wife and children.
He would make his attack tonight because he didn’t know how much longer he had to live. When the attack would occur exactly, he didn’t know, but it would happen sometime tonight. It had to.
Alejandro picked up the riflescope again and surveyed the perimeter.
Just a couple more hours, he told himself. Just a couple more hours until this was all over.
For now, he would have to wait until the time was right.
Inside the house, Fernando Sanchez Morales poured himself another shot of tequila.
Jose Luis said, “Maybe you should slow down.”
Fernando threw back the shot. He closed his eyes, savoring the sweet and spicy taste, and then set the glass tumbler on the tabletop and looked up at his right-hand man standing in the doorway.
“When will they be here?”
Jose Luis checked the time on his watch.
“Soon.”
Fernando shook his head and went to pour himself another shot.
Jose Luis said, “If you keep drinking, you won’t be able to go.”
Fernando shot to his feet so quickly the chair tipped back and clattered to the floor. His jaw clenched as he glared at Jose Luis.
“Are you going to tell me what I can and cannot do in my own goddamned house?”
Jose Luis lowered his eyes and cleared his throat.
“I apologize. But it’s important to be in the right frame of mind.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I’m just having a couple shots. Maybe you should have one too. It will help you loosen up.”
Jose Luis shook his head and said quietly, “No, thank you.”
Fernando stared hard at his right-hand man. He knew that Jose Luis was a recovering alcoholic. That he had been clean for over a decade now. As far as Fernando knew, the man had almost no vices, which had always worried him. A man with no vices was a man you couldn’t trust, his father once said. Now he squinted at Jose Luis and tried to figure out what the man was hiding.
“Do you think you’re smarter than me?”
Confusion flashed on Jose Luis’s face. It was there for just a moment, and then the man shook his head.
“No, of course I do not.”
“I’m your boss.”
“Yes.”
“You do what I tell you to do.”
“Of course.”
Fernando took the bottle and topped off the tumbler. He set the bottle aside and with his index finger pushed the tumbler across the table toward Jose Luis.
“Drink it.”
Jose Luis didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Fernando said, a bite in his tone, “Drink it now.”
Jose Luis stood silently for another moment before he approached the table. He avoided Fernando’s eyes as he leaned forward and picked up the tumbler and placed it to his lips to take a sip.
“Don’t sip it. Down it. The entire thing.”
Jose Luis paused, staring at the tumbler. Then he closed his eyes, tipped the tumbler back, and swallowed it whole.
Fernando smiled.
“Now did that taste good?”
Jose Luis wiped his mouth but said nothing.
Fernando cleared his throat.
“I said, did that taste good?”
Jose Luis nodded and whispered, “Yes.”
Fernando
