Against All Enemies

and who had been repeatedly calling Pablo. That he’d finally decided to answer one of the calls was a well-kept secret from Corrales, who had cloistered all of them away in a pair of apartments above Farmacias Nacional.

Corrales had said that the cartel would not find them because they were unaware of his friendship with the apartment owner, and Pablo believed him. The owner of the pharmacy, also one of Corrales’s friends, ran a prescription-drug-smuggling operation to foil U.S. customs regulations that stated you could carry only the amount of a prescription for personal use back into the United States and that you needed a copy of the prescription. The pharmacist had partnered with a doctor, and together they wrote and sold thousands of dollars’ worth of falsified prescriptions that moved across the border. They were small-time smugglers but proud of their business, and thus far not a single one of their mules had been caught — a remarkable record. Corrales had laughed at them, because what the cartel smuggled was worth millions.

Dante Corrales wouldn’t be laughing for much longer, though.

“Where are you going?” the man asked, sitting on the sofa in a tank shirt and jeans, a bottle of Pacifico propped on his knee. He’d been on that sofa for the past few days, watching soap operas, going into rages, then calming down. His left arm was still in a sling, the bandages on his shoulder changed daily.

“I’m going to get some lunch,” Pablo told him.

“Get enough for all of us, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pablo shuddered and headed out into the hallway. He entered the stairwell, reached the first floor, and when he opened the back door leading into the alley behind the pharmacy, Fernando Castillo’s men were already waiting. Three of them. They wore long jackets to conceal their weapons.

“He’s up there?” asked one of them, a young punk named Jose who had once challenged Corrales during a smuggling run in Nogales and who Castillo said was now taking over the gang.

Pablo nodded. “There are two cameras. Look for them. And God forgive me.”

“God has nothing to do with this,” said Jose. “Nothing at all …”

Pablo walked away and dialed the number. “It’s me.”

“Are they going up?” asked Castillo.

“Yes.”

“Good. Remember. I want to see a picture of the body.”

“You don’t even want to talk to him?”

“What good would that do?”

“Maybe he’s sorry. Maybe he’ll pay you back.”

“Oh, he’ll pay us back. With interest. Right now.”

Corrales rose and went to the bedroom, where Maria was still lying sideways across the bed, still wearing her negligee and reading one of her fashion magazines. Her panties rode high up her ass, and for a second or two, Corrales thought of jumping on her, but she’d fight him off, piss and moan like the depressed bitch she’d become, and he’d tell her once more to be patient, that Zuniga would come around, that he’d take them in as allies and finally be convinced that he could help them. They had plenty of money to live off for now, but they wouldn’t dare go near the hotel to get any more out of the safe there. Those fuckers had already killed Ignacio, and Castillo was watching the place twenty-four-seven for Corrales’s return.

Corrales saw no way to survive other than to join the rival cartel. He needed protection, because Fernando had the manpower and the money to hunt him no matter where in the world he chose to hide. Deep down he knew he would one day turn his back on the cartel that had murdered his parents. He had used it for all it was worth. His reckless decision to use the cartel’s money to finance his hotel restoration instead of paying off the Guatemalans was probably born in his subconscious. He wanted to get caught. He wanted things to go south so that he’d be forced to get out. That’s why he’d prepared for this day by spending years gathering crucial information: the identities of suppliers and smugglers around the world, including their main contacts, Ballesteros in Colombia and Rahmani in Waziristan; bank account numbers and deposit receipts; and recordings of phone calls and copies of e-mail messages that could incriminate both Castillo and Rojas himself. Corrales would offer Zuniga inside information on the workings of the Juarez Cartel so that he could help the man he once hated take over operations in the city.

But Zuniga had thus far failed to answer any of his calls. Corrales had even sent Pablo to his house, and the man would send out his thugs and tell Pablo to leave or suffer the consequences.

Corrales had set up two wireless battery-powered surveillance cameras around the apartment and pharmacy: one in the hall outside their apartment door, the other in the main stairwell leading up from the back alley door. The small monitor that sat on the bar near the kitchen sink showed static, and Corrales caught that screen from the corner of his eye. He swore and dragged himself from the sofa to investigate the problem.

That his FN 5.7 pistol was lying on the counter beside the monitor was the only reason why they didn’t kill him immediately.

A shuffle of feet just outside the front door caught his attention. He reached for the gun.

Jose, the little rat that Corrales had trained himself, kicked in the door and leveled his gun on Corrales, who was already bringing his pistol around.

There was a half-second of recognition and an almost guilt-stricken sheen appearing in Jose’s eyes before he yelled Corrales’s name.

Corrales fired once — a lightning-fast headshot — as two more bastards rushed in behind Jose, but Corrales was already ducking away, behind the bar, taking good cover. Jose hit the floor, a gaping wound above his left eye.

Maria screamed from the bedroom, and one of the guys broke off and ran down the hall.

Corrales hollered her name, drawing fire from the other guy, who’d dodged into the living room and thrown himself behind the sofa. Corrales burst from behind the bar, and releasing a cry that came from deep within his gut, he rounded the sofa and came face-to-face with the punk, who took one look at him and lifted his gun in surrender.

He was sixteen, if that. Corrales shot him twice in the face. Maria screamed his name.

Two shots rang out. Corrales bounded into the bedroom, just as the last sicario, a heavily tattooed guy with a potbelly whom Corrales had never seen before, turned toward him.

It took but a fraction of a second for Corrales to see Maria splayed across the bed with blood seeping through her negligee. She mouthed his name.

Then two things happened at once.

The guy cried, “Fuck you, vato!” and lifted his pistol.

Corrales opened his mouth, rocked by the sight of his woman lying there, dying, as he jammed down the trigger of his pistol while rushing toward the guy, thrusting the gun into the guy’s chest as though it were a sword, the last two rounds muted as they slammed into his flesh, the muzzle burning the guy’s shirt even as he fired two rounds into the ceiling. The guy crashed backward into the flat-screen television, knocking it onto the floor as he tumbled and landed facedown on the carpeting. The stench of gunpowder and burned fabric and flesh was enough to make Corrales gag.

Shouts came from the hallway outside, Paco the pharmacist, along with his wife, screaming for their two sons to get out of the apartment next door.

Corrales stood there, his chest rising and falling, the very act of breathing almost too painful to bear. He choked up, and tears that had been held back for years finally stained his cheeks as he climbed onto the bed and put his hand on Maria’s face. He was trembling now, lip quivering, his thoughts swirling in a vortex of anger as he flicked a glance at the dead sicario and fired three more times, but his pistol clicked uselessly. What now? Another magazine. There could be more of them outside. He tore off his sling and, with a dull ache in his shoulder, raced back into the kitchen, reloaded his gun, then returned to scoop Maria into his arms and carry her out of the apartment, the shoulder now on fire, his pistol clenched in his hand.

The pharmacist was screaming at him as he hit the stairwell and made it outside, but when he turned back to where he usually parked his car in the alley, he found it there — with Pablo leaning on the hood.

“We just got hit!” he cried. “Get in the car! We have to leave now!”

But Pablo just looked at him, stunned, then reached back into his waistband and drew his pistol.

No, Corrales hadn’t seen this coming, and the betrayal robbed him of breath. He turned away, back toward