Against All Enemies

shine, J.C. was preparing for them a luscious early-evening dinner, and, admittedly, he had more money than he could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes. Hell, the North and South American indexes were even rallying to five- month highs. Life was spectacular. He should not be feeling so dour.

Alas, Miguel was growing up too quickly, and while Rojas had helped find for his boy a lovely girlfriend, part of him regretted that, because this girl — who reminded him so much of his precious Sofia — would now become the center of the boy’s life. Rojas smiled inwardly. He was simply feeling the pain of a father coming to terms with his son’s independence. That was all. Logic needed to trump emotions. Easier said than done, though. When he saw them together, looking so young and vibrant and beautiful, he could not help but see himself and Sofia. He was jealous, of course, jealous of his son’s youth and the fact that he’d found someone to love when Rojas had lost the love of his life. Was it right to feel that way? To envy your own son?

Across the cabin sat Jeffrey Campbell, an old friend from USC who’d founded Betatest, a company involved in the early stages of applications for several cell-phone platforms. Campbell had made millions and was expanding his business into South America with Rojas’s help. They’d both played on the soccer team and had once dated twin sisters, which became quite a sensation on campus, as those two young vixens were well sought after by legions of students.

“You look a million miles away,” said Campbell.

Rojas smiled weakly. “Not quite a million. How’re you feeling?”

“I’m all right. I always thought I’d go before him. It’s not easy to bury your kid brother.”

That last sentence stung Rojas. “Of course not.”

Campbell’s brother, also a college athlete, who had never smoked a single cigarette in his life, had contracted lung cancer and suddenly passed away. He was thirty-eight. His doctors suspected that he’d been exposed to depleted uranium when his M1A1 Abrams tank had struck an IED while in Iraq, but proving that and trying to gain reparations from the military would be difficult.

Rojas’s older brother had died when he was only seventeen and Rojas had been fifteen. They’d grown up in Apatzingan, then a much smaller town in the state of Michoacan in southwest Mexico. Their father had been a farmer and rancher who on weekends repaired farming equipment and the taxis for a company that operated in some of the cities. He was a broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and tan felt hat that some people joked he wore to bed. Their mother, whose large brown eyes and thick brows could form an expression that chilled Rojas to the bone, toiled endlessly on the farm and kept their home impeccably clean. His parents had instilled in him a work ethic that tolerated no distractions, one that also gave him little patience for those who chose to shuffle nonchalantly through their lives.

The night had been cool and crisp, the wind sweeping down from the mountains and swinging the fence gate to and fro, since the latch had rusted off. The three gangsters were standing there, backlit by a waning moon, waiting for Rojas’s brother, Esteban, to emerge and confront them. They were dressed in dark clothes, with two wearing hoods like grim reapers. The tallest stood farther back, like a sentinel charged with recording the incident for eyes more powerful than his.

Rojas came out onto the porch and grabbed his brother’s wrist. “Just give it back to them.”

“I can’t,” said Esteban. “I already spent it.”

“On what?”

“On fixing the tractor and the water pipes.”

“That’s how you got the money?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do this?” Rojas’s voice was beginning to crack.

“Because look at us! We’re peasants! We work all day, and for what? Hardly anything! They work for the cartel and in five minutes they make what we have in a month! It’s not fair.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t have done it!”

“Okay, you’re right. I shouldn’t have stolen their money, but I did. And now it’s too late. So now I have to talk to them. Maybe they will let me work it off.”

“Don’t go.”

“I have to get this over with. I can’t sleep anymore. I have to make a deal with them.”

Esteban yanked his arm free and started down from the porch, heading across the dirt trail toward the fence.

Rojas would watch him make that walk over and over in his nightmares. He marked every footfall, every shifting shadow edging across his brother’s corduroy jacket. Esteban was tugging nervously on the sleeves of that jacket, pulling the fabric deeper into his palms. Rojas had always looked up to his older brother, and never once had he seen him afraid.

But those hands tugging on the sleeves …and his gait, carefully measured but the boots dragging deeper than they usually did …told him that his hero, his protector, the boy who had taught him how to fish, skip rocks, and drive a tractor, was very much afraid.

“Esteban!” Rojas cried.

His brother spun and raised a finger. “Stay on the porch!”

Rojas wanted nothing more than to either accompany his brother or run back into the house and alert his parents, but they had gone into the city to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and Rojas’s father had boasted about saving up enough money to treat his wife to an expensive meal.

One of the gangsters said something to Esteban, who fired back a retort, his voice rising. Esteban neared the gate, and oddly enough, the gangsters refused to come past it, as though there were some force holding them back.

It was not until Esteban pushed past the gate and stepped into the dirt road beyond that they surrounded him. Rojas thought of the shotgun their father kept under his bed. He thought of rushing out there and blasting each of those evil boys in the face. He could no longer watch his brother being accosted by these cabrones.

He remembered the candy that Esteban had brought home last week, a real luxury to them, and he realized that even that had been purchased with the stolen money.

“Here,” Esteban had said. “I know how much you love chocolate.”

“Thank you! I can’t believe you got some!”

“I know. Neither can I!”

And after they’d finished eating all the chocolate and were lying in their bunk beds, staring up at the ceiling, Esteban had said, “You should never be scared of anyone, Jorge. People will try to intimidate you, but no one is better than anyone else. Some have money and guns. That is the only difference. Don’t be scared. You need to be a fighter in this life.”

“I don’t know if el padre would go along with that,” he’d said. “He told us to be scared of the gangs.”

“No! Never be scared.”

But Rojas was scared, more than ever now, as he’d watched the gangsters begin shouting at his brother.

The shortest one shoved Esteban, who returned the shove and screamed, “I’ll pay back the money!”

And then the tallest one, the sentinel who’d remained a few steps behind and had not said a word, reached into his jacket and produced a pistol.

Rojas gasped, tensed, reached out—

The gunshot made him flinch and blink as Esteban’s head snapped to one side and he dropped to the ground.

Without a word, Rojas ran into the house, into his father’s bedroom, and snatched up the shotgun. He rushed back outside. The three gangsters were already sprinting across the field, toward the moon hanging low on the horizon. Rojas banged past the gate and screamed after them. He fired the shotgun twice, the boom echoing off the house and hills. The gangsters were well out of range. He cursed, slowed to a halt, and struggled for breath.

Then he turned back to his brother, lying motionless in the dirt. He rushed to his brother’s side, and the shotgun fell out of his hands. The gaping hole in Esteban’s head sent shudders through him. His brother stared back with a weird reflection in his eyes, and later on, in the dreams and nightmares, Rojas would see the moon in those eyes, and against that moon, cast in silhouette, stood the sentinel, raising his pistol. Rojas would struggle to see