“Where are you?”
“Oh, Corrales, you know that’s impossible. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a car.”
“This will take time. Twenty-four hours, at least.”
“I’m sorry, Corrales, but I am supposed to trust you now, after what you did? So no, I don’t have twenty-four hours. I have until midnight. Okay?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Sure, you can. We can take care of this electronically. I have all the information you need.”
But that was not how Corrales wanted to pay off the man. He wanted to get cash so he could bury the money, hide it from Castillo. That kind of money would require him to draw from one of the cartel’s operations accounts, and Castillo would be tipped off by such a withdrawal.
“I will come with the cash,” Corrales said. “By midnight.”
“No, like I said, we’ll send a man for you when you’re ready. No more games, Corrales.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. This is your last chance. I know that you are very sorry for your mistake, and I am willing to help you one last time, because I will profit from it. Otherwise, God help you …God help you …”
Corrales hung up and looked to Pablo. “We need a lot of cash here as fast as you can. Contact Hector and tell La Familia that we need a loan.”
“Now we’re borrowing money from another cartel?” asked Pablo.
“Don’t question me! Just do it!” Corrales winced as the throbbing in his shoulder became a knifing pain.
A crowd of about two hundred people had gathered in the parking lot of a brand-new five-story office complex. Jorge Rojas straightened his shoulders at the lectern and smiled once more at the board of directors, the senior-level administrators, and at the dozens and dozens of office workers who’d been hired to help spearhead this ambitious endeavor. A handful of local media had also arrived to cover the historic ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Rojas had made a surprise visit to the ceremony (he’d originally bowed out of an appearance because of travel plans), but he’d returned early from Colombia and had decided at the last moment to accept the security risk and speak at the event.
He’d arrived in a convoy of six bulletproof SUVs, and his team of twenty men, dressed discreetly in Somoza’s suits and well armed, had secured the perimeter. He was just finishing up his remarks: “And as I’ve said, the current medical model is flawed. It’s our hope to focus on preventative medicine through promotion and greater access to services. This is a patient-centered approach rather than a health-care-system-centered approach. We hope to encourage all citizens of Mexico — and everyone in Latin America, for that matter — to take a more proactive role in their health care. We’ll do this by helping other nonprofit organizations and by providing grants for students, professors, researchers, and other health-care professionals. I founded this institute with one purpose in mind: to help people live better and longer. Now, then, can we cut this ribbon? Because over there, I think they have churros and coffee for us all!”
The audience laughed as Rojas stepped off the podium, accepted the oversized pair of scissors, and did the honors, to great applause. He wished he could have turned to stare into the glistening eyes of his wife, but instead there was Alexsi, always stunning in her designer dresses and jewelry but a mannequin and hardly the conversationalist his wife had been. Beside her stood Castillo, putting a hand to his Bluetooth receiver and speaking softly to the rest of their security team.
Before Rojas could turn away so that they could hear a few words from the new institute’s director, a reporter from XEWTV, Ines Ortega, a middle-aged woman who had interviewed Rojas several times before and whose questions repeatedly annoyed him, pushed herself to the front of the group and thrust a microphone in his face.
“Senor Rojas, you are one of the richest men in the world, and your influence is seen everywhere. I can talk over my Rojas-operated cell phone while shopping at a supermarket you own with money I keep in one of your banks. When I’m finished, I can go buy a cup of coffee at a restaurant you own. You’re hard to escape.”
“I’m happy to help people,” he said, waving his hand at her. “If you don’t have any questions—”
“Actually, I do. How do you respond to people who call you greedy? Much of the nation starves, and you become richer because your businesses never seem to fail …”
“I respond like this,” he said, gesturing back to the medical complex. “We’re doing everything we can to give back to the community. There will always be critics, but the facts speak for themselves. If you want to talk about wealth, then I believe it must be protected to benefit future generations — that’s why it’s important for my businesses to do well. I’m not here to make myself rich anymore. I’m here to help our people and our president address this country’s needs — and if people want to call that greedy, then that is a misinterpretation of what’s in my heart.”
A crack — not much louder than a firecracker — resounded from the back of the group, and almost immediately a thud like a punch struck Rojas’s chest and knocked him off balance. He reached out toward the staircase railing behind him, missed, and collapsed onto the steps, his elbow crashing hard onto the concrete.
Pandemonium swept through the crowd, the screams coming in waves as some fled toward the parked cars while others simply hit the ground, all of them seeking cover except Fernando Castillo, who spotted the lone gunman at the back of the crowd and gave chase as the rest of the security team began to swarm around their prey.
From the corner of his eye, Rojas watched as Castillo ran but twenty steps before opening fire and hitting the man, who dropped before he could reach a pickup truck parked at the back of the lot, beneath two large oak trees. Castillo sprinted to the fallen shooter and put two more bullets in the man’s head, much to Rojas’s chagrin. It might’ve been useful to question the man, but then again, a public figure as prominent as himself had many enemies. This could have been a troubled citizen who just snapped one day and decided to kill someone he’d read about or seen on TV.
Both Alexsi and the reporter, Ines, were at Rojas’s side as he dug into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and wriggled out the round that had lodged in the flexible plate. He lifted it up and showed it to the two women. “Thank God for protection,” he said.
“You will have to call Felipe in Colombia and tell him,” said Alexsi.
They helped him back to his feet as more people, including his board of directors, approached and asked if he was all right.
He returned to the lectern as the sirens grew in the distance. “I’m not dead,” he cried. “And neither is the dream we’ve built here!”
With that, the crowd began to cheer.
Afterward, in the backseat of his armored Mercedes, Rojas watched the TV footage captured by the news crew. The story was being picked up by all the major news networks and newswires: the Associated Press, BBC News World, Reuters, and United Press International. Every major network in Mexico and the United States was either covering the story or about to cover the story, Rojas knew.
He tried once more to call Miguel. No answer. Voice mail.
“Nothing from my son. Nothing from Sonia,” he told Castillo.
“Nothing from Dante, either, but give them some time,” said Castillo. “Maybe there’s trouble with the towers — that would explain why none of them are answering us.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be worried, but if Miguel sees the news of what happened, he’ll be worried, I know.”
“He’ll call you,” Castillo assured him. “Now, sir, are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“Just take us home.”
Alexsi put her hand on his and said, “Everything is fine, my love. Thank God you are so careful. I won’t complain about you going to Colombia again.”
He grinned faintly and tried to calm himself.
She frowned. “Why do you think that madman wanted to kill you? Just jealousy? After all you do for the country? I just can’t believe there is so much hate in the world.”
“Believe it,” he said, turning his attention to the darkly tinted window. They were merging back onto the
