Against All Enemies

hold huge stashes of cocaine and marijuana. The dash had a secret code you typed in via a remote, and the center console where the radio and A/C controls were located would pop open and rise on motors to allow access to a secret compartment that extended all the way to the firewall. Rueben couldn’t believe how sophisticated the operation was, and because of that, he’d built up the courage to take on larger shipments. The car’s gas tank had been cut in half so that the side facing the car could carry blocks of drugs while the bottom masked the scent of the drugs with gasoline. The tank had then been sprayed with mud to disguise it from the border agents, who used mirrors to check for recent work to the underside of any car. Twice Rueben had been pulled off the line, his car inspected, but during both times he had not been carrying any drugs. That was part of the operation as well — establish a frequent traffic pattern that some agents became familiar with, and a solid alibi, like a job in Mexico while you lived in California. The cartel had covered that part for him, and many of the Border Patrol agents remembered him and his car, so more often than not, he glided on through, just another high school kid who’d found some part-time work in Mexicali.

But today was different. They’d pulled him off the line, and he drove to the secondary inspection area. There he saw a tall, lean Hispanic man who looked like a movie star and whose eyes would not leave him. Rueben parked the car and stepped out to speak with one of the Border Patrol agents, who checked his license and said, “Rueben, this is Mr. Ansara with the FBI. He’d like to talk to you for a few minutes while we check out your car. No worries right now, okay?”

Rueben did as always: He pictured happy thoughts with his girlfriend, eating out, kissing her, buying clothes with the extra money he made. He relaxed. “Sure, man, no problem.”

Ansara narrowed his gaze and simply said, “Follow me.”

They went into the crowded station, where at least fifteen people in dusty clothes sat in chairs, their expressions long. Rueben immediately concluded that they’d all been trying to sneak through the checkpoint and had probably been caught at the same time. Perhaps they’d been hiding within a tractor-trailer’s load or other such large shipment. A mother and two small girls were sitting there, and the woman was sobbing. Six or seven Border Patrol personnel manned positions behind a long counter, and one agent was trying to explain to an old man that anyone carrying as much cash as he had needed to be searched and detained, the money declared.

Rueben steeled himself against the scene and hurried after Ansara down a long, sterile-looking hall. Rueben had never been inside the facility, and his pulse began to mount as Ansara opened the door to what was a small interrogation room where another young man about Rueben’s age sat at the table, brooding. He was a white kid with brown hair and freckles. His arms were covered in tattoos, and he wore a skull earring made of gold.

Ansara closed the door. “Have a seat.”

Rueben complied, and the other kid just kept staring through the table.

“Rueben, this is Billy.”

“What’s up?” Rueben asked.

“Dude, you have no fucking idea,” the kid groaned, still not bothering to look up.

Rueben looked his question at Ansara. “What’s going on? Am I in trouble or something? What did I do?”

“I’ll cut to the chase. They recruit you kids out of the high schools, so we always start there. A couple of your friends tipped us off because they’re afraid for you. I also made a promise to your sister — but don’t worry …she won’t tell your parents. Now, I brought Billy down here to show you something. Show him, Billy.”

The kid suddenly shoved his chair back and propped both of his bare feet up on the table.

He had no toes.

Every one of them had been hacked off, the scars still fresh and pink, and so ugly that Rueben tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“I lost a load worth fifty thousand. I’m only seventeen, so they worked it out so I only got probation. Doesn’t matter, though. They came across the border for me. Caught me one day after class. Threw me in a van. Look what those fuckers did to me.”

“Who?”

“Your buddy Pablo, and his boss, Corrales. They chopped off my toes — and they’ll do it to you, too, the moment you fuck up. Get out now, bro. Get out right fucking now.”

A knock came at the door. Ansara answered and stepped outside to speak to an agent.

“They really did that to you?”

“What do you think? Fuck, dude, you think I’ll ever get laid again? You think any woman is going to be attracted to a guy with these fucking feet?” He threw back his head and started crying, and then he began screaming, “Ansara! I want out! Get me the fuck out of here! I’m done!”

The door opened, and Ansara appeared, waving Billy outside. The kid rose and hobbled to the door, carrying a pair of odd-looking boots under his arm.

The door closed again.

And Rueben sat there alone for five, ten, fifteen minutes, his imagination running wild. He saw himself in prison, being trapped in the shower by fourteen potbellied gang members who wanted him as their little bitch — all because he wanted to go to college and make some extra money. He wasn’t a rocket scientist. The scholarships wouldn’t help very much. He needed the cash.

Abruptly, Ansara returned and said, “Your car has a very unique dashboard and gas tank.”

“Fuck,” Rueben said and gasped.

“You think because you’re not eighteen you’ll just get released or put on probation?”

Rueben couldn’t help it. He began to cry.

“Listen to me, kid. We know the cartel’s spotters are out there, watching all of this. We made it look like we didn’t find anything. You’ll finish your run today. You’ll deliver the drugs. But now you work for me. And we have a lot to discuss …”

16 BACKSEAT DRIVER

Bonita Real Hotel

Juarez, Mexico

The only way Moore could stop thinking about Rana’s murder was to focus on the moment, on the two men who had been following him. They were now parked across the street from the hotel. They must be bored out of their minds, he thought. They’d been sitting there for two hours, just playing with their cell phones and watching the front door and parking lot. While some aspects of the cartel were highly sophisticated, others, like human surveillance, were crude and rudimentary. A few times they even got out of their Corolla (with a front quarter-panel that was red, although the rest of the car was white) and leaned on the trunk, smoking cigarettes and repeatedly looking in the hotel’s direction. These young studs were geniuses, all right, and Moore could see why they’d been given the flunky job of tailing him. Any sicario worth his salt would never entrust money, guns, or drugs to a couple of stooges like this. When he’d returned, Moore had observed two spotters on the hotel’s roof, both dressed like construction workers, but they were security to alert Corrales and his cronies of any attacks on the hotel itself. Whether they were in contact with his tail Moore wasn’t sure.

Moore had photographed the two punks by the car several times already and sent the pics back home, where analysts identified them and searched Mexican police files for more data. Both men had records, mostly petty stuff — burglary and drug possession — thus neither of them had done any serious time. They were marked in their police files as “suspected cartel members.” Somewhere out there was a Mexican police detective with a keen eye for the obvious.

Moore sent a text message to Fitzpatrick, who replied and said they were not members of the Sinaloa Cartel and most assuredly worked for Corrales.

That was a disappointment, and a problem, because he was trying to goad the Sinaloas into a meeting via his real estate inquiry, but Fitzpatrick said neither he nor Luis Torres had been given orders to pick up the American at the hotel.

Moore pondered that before answering a call from Gloria Vega.

“I’ll make this fast,” she said. “We engaged some cartel members. Fitzpatrick confirmed they were Zuniga’s