them, seated atop a great shoulder of rock, was an ornate cathedral painted in gold, and several mansions whose towering wrought-iron gates lifted to some four meters. Sonia had remarked that the city seemed more like a theme park than a real place because it was so brightly colored and impeccably clean. Miguel had told her that the people here were exceedingly proud of their Mayan heritage, and you could find Mayan influences throughout everything in the city: from the architecture to the food to the interior design. Miguel’s father often said that San Cristobal reminded him more of Guatemala than of Mexico.
“When is Carnival?” asked Sonia, sitting up in the bed.
He smiled at her. “They’ll start tonight. But we have to go to the village of San Juan Chamula first. I want you to see the church there. Then tomorrow, the ruins.”
A knock came at the door.
Sonia frowned, and Miguel crossed the room and leaned toward the door before opening it. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, sir, Corrales. Is everything all right?”
He swung around, faced Sonia, and nearly burst out laughing, as did she.
“Yes, Corrales, we’re okay. Go back to bed. We’ll be having breakfast at eight a.m., thank you.”
“Okay, sir. Just checking.”
Miguel rushed back toward the bed and took a flying leap onto it, nearly knocking Sonia off the other side. She began giggling as he swung her around and kissed her deeply.
From the balcony of a hotel room around the corner, Moore watched Rojas’s son kiss his girlfriend. The kid had pushed open the curtains and given him a clear view of their naked forms splayed across the bed.
Moore lowered his binoculars and turned back to Fitzpatrick and Torres. The fat man was lying in his bed, fast asleep. Fitzpatrick was typing fiercely on his laptop computer, sending an e-mail to Zuniga.
“Must be nice to be young,” Moore said, sighing over his own lost years.
“They’re pretty horny, huh?” said Fitzpatrick. “So what do we got in the way of security? Corrales and his two flunkies? That’s it?”
“I don’t see anyone else. He’ll stay close and leave the other two to trail. We need to take them out first. I want Corrales alive — and there’s no negotiation there. We have to take him alive.”
“Agreed.” Then Fitzpatrick cocked a thumb over his shoulder at Torres. “What about him?” he whispered.
“Be cool. He’s the least of our worries right now …”
Moore’s smartphone vibrated with a text message from Gloria Vega:
We found Sanchez and his girlfriend outside the Monarch strip club. They were butchered. Gomez thinks the Sinaloas are responsible because of where we found the bodies. Can you follow up?
He thumbed in a reply: I’m on it.
Then he shared the news with Fitzpatrick, who shook his head. “No way. We would’ve known about that hit.”
“Let me call Zuniga.”
Torres stirred and looked up at them. “Why are you two bastards up this early?”
Moore chuckled. “Because, fat boy, we’re on a mission to do more than puke in a bag.”
Torres made a face. “My stomach still hurts. But when I feel better, I’m going to sit on you.”
“Hey, dude,” called Fitzpatrick, gaining Torres’s attention. “We need to make our move today. Let them settle in, get comfortable, get complacent, then bam. So you’d better get going.”
“Exactly,” said Moore. “I think we’ll do it at their villa. Nice controlled environment. We track ’em throughout the day, and then when they get back home, all tired and ready to bang, we take Miguel and the girl — but we need to get Corrales and his boys first.”
“Listen to me, gringo,” said Torres. “I’m in charge here. But I like your plan. However, once we get the boy and his girl, we will kill the girl in front of him. This way he knows we mean business.”
Moore looked to Fitzpatrick, who said, “We might get more money if we have both of them. And we can negotiate with Rojas to open up the tunnels.”
“We’re here to kill Rojas and everyone around him. Senor Zuniga made this very clear to me — and I’m making it very clear to you …”
Fitzpatrick glared at him.
“No,” said Moore. “We keep the girl for extra leverage. Now what about the other guys? Are they coming down?”
Torres cleared his throat. “They should be in Guadalajara by this afternoon.”
“Good.” Moore dialed Zuniga but was sent straight to voice mail. “Call me back, senor.”
“Hey, let’s get cleaned up and get outside,” said Fitzpatrick. “They might be leaving soon.”
Corrales sat at the breakfast table with Raul, Pablo, Miguel, and Sonia, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of the woman. She was the sexiest woman he’d ever seen, much more so than his Maria, and while he knew that staring would get him in trouble once again, he no longer cared. It was clear that the two of them had been loud for his benefit, and so he wouldn’t make it easy for them.
“Thank you for checking on us this morning,” said Miguel, between bites of his cereal. “It’s good to know you’re providing such good security.”
“
“Is it your job to stare at my girlfriend’s tits?”
“Miguel,” Sonia said, and gasped.
“Well, look at him. He’s drooling like a fucking thug over there.” Miguel rose from the table, crossed around it, then came up behind Corrales and growled in his ear, “You better keep your distance today. I don’t want to see you once. Not once. You protect us; that’s fine. But I don’t want to know you are there. Do you understand me, you fucking pig?”
Corrales tensed and shook with the desire to reach for his pistol and cap this spoiled bitch. But he sat there and took it. “Yes, senor. You won’t see us, but we’ll be there …”
“You like your job, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then do what I say and you’ll keep it.”
Miguel moved back to his seat. “I’m so sorry, Sonia. I didn’t want you to see that.”
“It’s okay. Corrales,” Sonia said, pursing her lips, “I know you’re trying to do your job. I am sorry about all of this.”
He smiled at her: a wolf’s grin.
Within an hour they were walking the streets of San Cristobal, with Corrales ordering Raul and Pablo to fan out and keep a half a block away. Pablo called on his cell phone to say, “This is not good. If something happens, we are too far from them.”
“You know what, Pablo? At this point—”
Corrales did not finish his sentence. Another call was coming in from his friend Hernando Chase, who managed the Monarch strip club. “Dante, some very bad news. Johnny was killed. They killed his girlfriend, too. They dumped the bodies outside the club. They must have tortured them, then chopped them up with a saw. They left a note, and I got it before I called the police.”
“Fucking Zuniga,” Corrales said through his teeth.
“No, I don’t think it was the Sinaloas,” said Hernando. “I asked around.”
“What’s the note say?”
“Just two words: Buitres Justicieros.”
Corrales tensed. Avenging Vultures. Fucking Guatemalans — who were supposed to be working for the Juarez Cartel, not executing its allies.
However, Corrales knew exactly why they’d killed Johnny.
