Against All Enemies

working for him, a man who answered to him, a man who knew better than to disrespect him like this. Corrales had yet to have his morning coffee, and he’d wanted to get this meeting over within five minutes, but the workers in the tunnel had told him that Romero had still not arrived and that he usually didn’t show up until eight a.m. What kind of bullshit was that? The man was being paid good money to get the job done, and he thought he could float in every morning at eight? Did he think he was a banker? Hell would be paid — with interest — and his failure to answer his cell phone was salt in the wound.

And so Corrales waited for him inside the warehouse, listening to the clunks and roars of heavy construction equipment being used next door. The vibrations worked their way up into his legs and back. Those guys got to work at dawn and finished at dusk. They didn’t stroll in at eight. They had a sense of urgency that Romero needed to learn.

“Go get me some goddamned coffee,” Corrales finally shouted at Raul, who was loitering near the metal roll-up door with Pablo.

Raul shook his head, muttered something under his breath, then headed outside, the sky washed pink by the rising sun. Pablo shifted up to Corrales and said, “Are you okay?”

“This fucking guy won’t be here till eight, you believe that shit? And why isn’t he answering his phone?”

“Something else is bothering you,” said Pablo. “You want to talk about it?”

“What’re you, my shrink?”

“You still upset about the two guys we lost at the V Bar? Don’t be. Those assholes screwed up the job big- time. I told you from the get-go they were cabrones.”

“I don’t give a shit about them. It’s the American I’m worried about. Can’t find him now. He could be working with the Federal Police, who knows …”

“Aw, that dumb shit probably just got scared off. He didn’t look like a Fed. Just some asshole business guy who thought he could come down here and get some Mexican slaves for his company, the fucker …”

“No, there’s something happening, and if we don’t keep our eyes wide open, this …all of this …is going to come tumbling down, and the boss will make sure you get buried right here.”

Corrales sighed and waited another five minutes for his coffee. Pablo continued to make small talk, most of which Corrales ignored. Raul finally returned, and Corrales practically wrenched the cup from Raul’s hand and took a long sip. His nose crinkled. This was hardly as good as the Starbucks he’d get on the other side of the border, but he’d drink it anyway, and as he reached the bottom of his cup at exactly 7:39, Pedro Romero dragged himself into the warehouse. He shoved his glasses farther up his nose and tugged at his jeans, which were dropping below his potbelly. He frowned at Corrales and the others and lifted his voice, “Buenos dias.”

“Where the fuck you been?” Corrales asked, marching up to the man, whose gaze widened.

“I was at home, then I came here.”

“You don’t know how to answer your cell phone?”

“My battery died. I was recharging it in the car. Did you try to call me?”

“Uh, yeah. They told me you come in at eight a.m. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

Corrales smacked the man hard across the face. Romero recoiled and raised a palm to his cheek.

“Do you know why I did that, old man? Do you? Because you are a digger! You are not a fucking banker! You get here when the sun comes up, and you leave when the sun goes down. Do you fucking understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to save your daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You want to collect your money?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you get here when I say! Now, tell me right here, right now, that we have broken through to the other side and will be ready to begin shipping tonight.”

“I need a few more days.”

“What? ‘A few more days’? What the fuck is that?”

“I will show you how far we are, but we’ve had some trouble. As I told you in the beginning, the water table is very shallow here, and we’ve had to pump water out of the tunnel quite a few times already. It is a complicated operation.”

“Maybe if you got to work earlier, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Senor Corrales, I want to assure you that my being here one hour earlier would not make a huge difference. It takes all night to pump out the water, and we cannot dig while that’s happening.”

“Don’t challenge me, old man. You better make me a believer. Let’s go.”

“All right, but you must know that these men are working as hard as they can. I have two shifts, as you ordered, but I cannot remain here around the clock. I have my family to take care of, and my wife needs help.”

“Then you’d better find her some help, because I want this tunnel opened up and ready to go by tonight.”

“Tonight? There is too much dirt and rock left to remove. It is physically impossible.”

“No, it’s not. You’re going to make it happen. Trust me.”

Corrales’s smartphone rang. Fernando Castillo was calling. “Hello?”

“Dante, the boss has another job for you. We need you back right away.”

Bell 430 Helicopter

En Route to San Cristobal de las Casas

Chiapas, Mexico

Miguel Rojas and Sonia Batista sat in two of the three backseats of a twin-engine corporate helicopter whose cabin boasted utility seating for up to seven passengers in addition to the pilot and copilot. The helicopter was one of several Jorge used for short business trips, and while it was merely a corporate transport and not armed like a military craft, his pilots always carried pistols. As with all of Jorge’s other means of transport, no expense had been spared in regard to accents and trim: rich Italian leather and exotic hardwoods, along with small flat screens and headphones to watch corporate presentations and/or movies. Miguel and Sonia had forgone the idea of watching a film in favor of taking in the views. They had donned their headsets and microphones so they could hear and speak to each other over the drone of the aircraft’s powerful Rolls-Royce engines.

In front of them were the dour-faced bodyguards/chaperones they’d been forced to drag along: Corrales, Raul, and Pablo. Well, it could be worse, Miguel thought. Jorge had said he was sending a team of twelve men to travel with them, and some members of that team would arrive ahead of them. They would rent four SUVs to move in a caravan everywhere they went. Miguel had pleaded against this. He wanted a nice, intimate vacation with Sonia — not a security spectacle/parade everywhere he went. Besides, per his father’s insistence, he’d kept a low profile for most of his life, and the average citizen in Mexico could not identify him the way they could identify Jorge. There was no reason to believe they needed such a big team, which would, in fact, call a lot of attention to themselves and perhaps even invite criminal activity as local citizens pointed their fingers and said, “There he goes, the rich guy with all his bodyguards.” Jorge had finally agreed to send along three men, and Miguel thanked his father profusely for reaching a compromise. What Miguel hadn’t counted on was Corrales’s attitude. Miguel had made it quite clear to the man — the most arrogant of the bunch — that he needed to keep his distance and stop ogling Sonia. Even Corrales’s simple “Yes, senor” sounded sarcastic. Miguel was certain that the man hated the fact that he’d worked for nothing, been handed everything on a silver platter — while Corrales had probably been a street punk who’d been lucky enough to get a job working for Jorge Rojas.

“How long will it take to get there?” Sonia asked, staring out the window.

“About three hours or so,” Miguel answered. “But we have to make one stop to refuel. Have you ever been on a helicopter before?”

“A few times with my father. There was this famous cyclist — I can’t even remember his name, because I was only ten or eleven at the time — but he’s like a living legend and had his own helicopter. He took us on a vacation.”

“I’ll tell you something funny. There’s a big nut on top of the rotor, and you know what the pilot calls it?”

She shook her head.