of gray hair. Once Lopez’s clean-shaven face was spotted by the crowd, the screaming grew louder, and some hollered, “Kill the pig!” The officers surrounded Lopez, and at least two reared back and began pummeling the old man.
“They’re teaching him a lesson before they arrest him,” shouted Gomez in her ear. “He’s been taking money from the cartels and serving as an informant for them. Children have died because of him. And now he needs to pay.”
The group broke into a chant: “Lopez is the devil and must go down! Lopez is the devil …”
The chant continued, and Vega flinched as another officer with biceps the size of her hips struck a hard blow to Lopez’s cheek.
That was it. Gloria Vega, former Army Intelligence officer and CIA operative, now embedded with the Mexican Federal Police, had seen enough.
She raised her gun into the air and fired off a salvo, the rat-tat-tat silencing the crowd. Before she knew what was happening, a hand wrapped around her neck, other hands had wrenched the gun from her grip, and still more hands were dragging her back into the police station. She screamed and tried to writhe out of their grip, but it was no use. They dragged her inside, and there she was immediately released as Gomez passed in front of her and tugged off his balaclava. “What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s not right. What evidence do they have? They can’t beat up the old man like that!”
“He’s in bed with scum. So
She bit her tongue. Oh, God, how she bit her tongue.
“I told you I would try to keep you alive,” Gomez added. “But you make that very hard when you do something like this! Now, listen to me. Lopez isn’t the only one. The other commanders are dirty as well. Today we are going to clean up this house, and you’re either going to help or I’m going to put you in a jail cell to keep you safe.”
She wrenched off her own mask as the shouting outside seemed to reach a fever pitch. “You’d better lock me up for now. I can’t watch this anymore.”
Vega rubbed the corners of her eyes, the frustration burning so deeply that she thought she might vomit. How much more could she take? How long would they have to wait before she could slap cuffs on Gomez and be done with it? He was the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing who needed to swallow a bullet. She imagined herself shooting him right there, cutting off one vein of corruption but realizing that the network was so complex that his death wouldn’t make a difference. No difference at all. Her heart began to sink.
“Gloria, come with me,” he ordered.
She followed him into his small office, where he closed the door so they were out of earshot of the other inspectors and officers. “I know how you feel,” he said.
“Really?”
“I was your age once. I wanted to save the world, but there is too much temptation all around us.”
“No kidding! They pay us nothing. That’s why we can’t do anything. It’s just a crazy game, and we’re all wasting our time here. Wasting our time. What else can we do?”
“The right thing,” he said. “Always the right thing. This is what God wants.”
“God?”
“Yes. I pray to God every day to save our country and save our Federal Police force. He will do it. We must have faith in him.”
“There has to be a better way. I need to make more money than this. And I need to work with people I can trust. Can you help me do that?”
He narrowed his gaze. “You can trust me …”
Johnny Sanchez had parked his rental car on Avenida Abraham Lincoln, which was just five minutes from the Cordova Bridge, in order to take his girlfriend, Juanita, to his favorite restaurant in Ciudad Juarez. The Montana’s Southwest-style interior featured dining on two levels and rich wood accents throughout. White linen tablecloths and scented candles did not go unnoticed by his date, and Johnny made sure they got a table near the gas fireplace.
As they waited for their entrees, Juanita tugged nervously on the straps of her red dress and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not here. You’re out there somewhere.” She lifted her chin toward the window and the bridge beyond.
“I’m sorry.” He wouldn’t tell her that his mother’s godson was a
She frowned and blurted out, “I think we should leave Mexico.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like it here anymore.”
“You just got here.”
“I know …I came for
“You said you were going to dance.”
“You want me to show my body to other men?”
“You paid enough for it.”
“That’s no reason.”
“No, but if it makes you happy …”
She leaned forward and grabbed his hand. “Don’t you understand? I want you to say no. I want you to be jealous. What’s wrong with you?”
“I can’t think straight anymore. And you’re right. We need to leave Mexico.” His voice cracked. “But we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Senor Sanchez?”
Johnny turned at the approach of two men wearing expensive silk shirts and pants. They were both in their mid-twenties, neither more than five feet tall, and if Johnny had to guess at their nationalities, he would say Colombian or Guatemalan.
“Who are you?” Johnny asked.
One man lowered his voice and gazed unflinchingly at Johnny. “Senor, we need you to come with us. It’s a matter of life and death.” That was not a Mexican accent. These guys were definitely from South America, somewhere …
“I asked you a question,” Johnny repeated.
“Senor, please come now, and no one will be hurt. Not you. Not her. Please.”
“Johnny, what the fuck is this?” asked Juanita, lifting her voice and thrusting out her chest — which drew the attention of both men.
“Who do you work for?” asked Johnny, his pulse beginning to race.
The man looked at him. “Let’s go, senor.”
Johnny’s gun was back in the hotel room. He looked to Juanita, then leaned over and gave her a deep and passionate kiss.
She pushed him away. “What’s going on?”
