I ask, “Have we made the news yet?”
Atticus tells me to wait a moment, then says, “Yes, they’re already running the coverage. They don’t appear to know President Cortez is with you. Once that happens, the coverage will go international.”
“I don’t have GPS on me. What’s my route?”
Atticus relays the directions, and they’re straightforward enough that I disconnect and toss the phone onto the passenger seat.
President Cortez leans forward in his seat to look up at the helicopters in the sky.
“Are you sure this will work?”
Keeping both hands on the wheel, my foot pressed to the gas, still swerving from lane to lane, I decide to tell him the truth.
“No.”
A couple minutes later we pass through the 405 interchange. Now there are a dozen police cars following us. The traffic becomes a bit more congested, and for the first time, I lift my foot off the gas. At the last second, I jerk the wheel and steer us over to the right lane to the next exit. We’re going so fast it feels like the SUV comes up on two wheels as we take the turn. Going south on Bundy Drive now, there’s a red light up ahead, but I tap the brakes, scan the traffic, and then breeze through it, nearly clipping the rear end of a pickup truck.
Swerving through more traffic, some of it oncoming, people leaning on their horns and shouting out windows. I make a hard turn onto Ocean Park Boulevard, the SUV almost fishtailing, and then ride the brake as I jerk the wheel once more, onto a side street, and press all my weight down on the gas pedal.
The SUV’s needle ticks up, going from 60 to 65 to 70, and in the back President Cortez spots the fence ahead of us and shouts.
“Stop. Stop. Stop!”
We crash through the fence. I’m prepared for the airbag to deploy from the impact, but it doesn’t. The SUV is large enough that we barrel through and continue out onto the airfield.
“Mr. President, welcome to the Santa Monica Airport.”
Forty-Eight
More news choppers fill the sky, three of them, as well as a police chopper. At least a dozen police cars have ringed the airfield. A few unmarked police cars, too. A few black SUVs. Two ambulances. Three fire trucks. The only thing they haven’t sent yet is a tank, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one’s on its way.
Not even ten minutes have passed since we crashed through the gate, so that’s a pretty impressive response time.
I eye President Cortez in the rearview mirror.
“That’s a lot of people. You must be somebody important.”
He doesn’t smile at the joke. He stares out his window, watching all the flashing lights, his face tight.
“Where is he?”
He doesn’t look at me when he asks the question, but that’s okay. It’s the question I’ve been expecting him to ask.
“All in due time.”
“No”—his voice loud, his teeth gritted—“tell me now.”
I keep watching him in the rearview mirror, waiting for him to shift his gaze to meet mine. When he does, I wait for a beat, and then nod.
“We buried him in a woods near the Chihuahua, Sonora border.”
“Who do you mean by we?”
“An associate of mine was with me. He entered the country to help me stop your son. You have to understand, Mr. President, at the time I didn’t know his story.”
“How did you learn it?”
“Father Crisanto.”
President Cortez shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath.
“I had heard Father Crisanto was murdered. Gunned down in the street in front of his church. How did you know to speak to him?”
“That’s a long story. But the main thing is we tracked him down, and he told us about your son. About how the cartels wanted to hurt you, and so they targeted Alejandro and his family. Can I ask you a question?”
The man shuts his eyes again, and nods.
“When did you discover your son was the Devil?”
The Devil was what the news media had dubbed Alejandro Cortez. El Diablo. A serial killer who had targeted the wives and children of cartel bosses, abducted them, and burned them alive.
President Cortez looks out his window again. He doesn’t speak for a long time, and then he tilts his face to meet my gaze again in the rearview mirror.
“Not for several months. I believed his body was among those found in the fire. My wife did, too. It … made it easier, having that closure. But then the murders started happening, to those women and children, and part of me began to suspect.”
“How so?”
“At the time I believed nobody else could be so brazen. Not if they had anything to lose. And clearly by then my son had nothing to lose.”
From the cluster of police cars, a man begins to approach. He wears a Kevlar vest with his badge hanging from a chain around his neck. He has his hands raised, holding a bullhorn in one of them.
“This must be the hostage negotiator.”
I wait until the man is ten yards away—moving slowly, one cautious step at a time—before I lower my window a few inches. By now I figure a half-dozen snipers have set up all around the airfield, and I don’t want to give them an easy shot.
“Take one more step, and I’ll shoot him in the head!”
The negotiator freezes.
“Turn your sorry ass around and head back to your friends!”
The negotiator doesn’t move. He’s here to negotiate, and so far he hasn’t had a chance to properly do his job.
Before the man can say something, I shout again.
“If you don’t back away in the next five seconds, I’m going to blow his fucking brains out!”
The negotiator doesn’t move at first, at least to my liking, so I start a countdown.
“Five!”
The negotiator takes a quick step back.
“Four!”
Another step.
“Three!”
Another step.
“Two and you better turn your ass around and get moving!”
The negotiator complies. He doesn’t hurry, though, instead walks at a measured pace, probably to try
