Prison Director Salvador Quinones missed the phone call from Fernando Castillo because he’d been down in the courtyard, making sure none of his guards shot any of the rioting inmates there. As skirmishes went, this one had been small, only a dozen or so inmates involved, one of whom had murdered Felix, the ice-cream vendor, a fifty-nine-year-old father of three who did nothing more than make broken men happy with cold treats. One of the newest punks had stabbed him. Damned shame.
When you attempted to house three thousand men in a facility capable of holding only fifteen hundred, tempers would flare on a daily basis. In order to address that — and the facility’s reputation for violent uprisings — Quinones had allowed his inmates to buy a little comfort. They could rent cells with their own toilets and showers, buy small refrigerators, stoves, fans, and TVs, and even receive cable by paying a monthly charge. A few cells came equipped with air conditioners. Prisoners had conjugal visits in special cells they could rent for $10 per night. In fact, Quinones had helped build a small prison economy in which privately owned stores participated and inmates without funds could earn money by doing odd jobs or working in the shops. He tried to stress the humanizing factors of his facility, but in the end, he knew his efforts might very well be forgotten or taken for granted. Moreover, his salary as director of the entire facility, which rose up from the concrete like an alabaster behemoth cordoned off by fence and barbed wire, was hardly enough to put his two sons through college in the United States.
And so, when Fernando Castillo had offered a particular “arrangement” and had thrown around numbers that had Quinones’s mouth falling open, he’d jumped at the opportunity.
“Hello, Fernando. I’m sorry I missed your call.”
“That’s all right. I need six men to go over to Zuniga’s house and kill Dante Corrales. He’s there right now.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Please do. I sent my own men to do the job, and Dante killed them all. Your boys had better have more luck.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Fernando, when Dante sees who’s coming after him now, he’s going to wet his pants.”
The six men Quinones already had in mind for the job were members of the Aztecas gang, and within ten minutes all of them were standing in his office, their arms sleeved in tattoos, their heads shaven, their scowls growing even tighter as they suspected that something bad was going down in the prison.
“Not at all,” he told them. “I have a job for you. The pay is more than any of you would earn in a year. I will provide all the weapons and the cars. You just need to get the job done, then return to the prison.”
“You’re letting us go?” asked the shortest one, whom the others simply called Amigo.
“You’re all men serving sentences for murder. What’s one more, right?”
“What if we don’t come back?” asked Amigo.
“Then you don’t get paid. And we’ll let your friends know how you betrayed the group inside. They’ll come for you in the night. And you know what will happen. All things considered, you all have a very nice operation here, and some of the best living conditions. I’ve taken good care of you. Now it’s time for you to do something for me.”
36 ZONA DE GUERRA
The one-story commercial building that housed Border Plus, an electrical supply company owned by Zuniga, had a rear loading dock and pit to accommodate tractor-trailers, and beside the dock stood a secondary entrance with a concrete ramp large enough to permit a car. One of Zuniga’s
Zuniga liked to use the facility as a transfer-and-exchange point to keep the Juarez Cartel’s spotters guessing. They’d watch the Range Rover pull inside, and they never really knew how many people would leave or how many were in the car. Sometimes the exchanges involved as many as four vehicles. It was a basic but generally effective method of concealing who was actually visiting Zuniga’s ranch and how much product was being transferred in and out.
Moore assumed the Rover was well known by the Juarez Cartel, and it was probably still being used as the primary transfer vehicle to make the spotters believe that Zuniga and his people were unaware of their presence. Whatever the case, Moore sat back to enjoy the ride.
They’d allowed him to keep his smartphone, which unbeknownst to the thugs permitted Towers to listen in on his every move. That, coupled with the GPS beacon embedded in his shoulder, was supposed to make him feel more secure. Sure, you could lower yourself into a pit of snakes with a bottle of antivenom in your pocket, but the bite was still going to hurt.
He glanced over at the
The kid began to laugh. “I like you. I hope he lets you live.”
Moore hoisted his brows. “He’s a pretty smart man.”
“He’s always sad.”
Moore snorted. “If you had your wife and sons murdered by your enemies, you’d be sad all the time, too.”
“His family was killed?”
“I can see you’re a new guy.”
“Tell me what happened,” the kid demanded.
Moore gave him a lopsided grin and left it at that.
Within fifteen minutes they reached Zuniga’s gates and rolled up the driveway to turn into the four-car garage. Moore was led into the living room, which Zuniga had had professionally decorated in a southwestern theme. Crosses, quivers of arrows, multicolored geckos, and pieces of sandstone art hung near an impressive gas fireplace whose flames illuminated the granite mantel. Across the broad room lay Navajo-patterned rugs, and pigskin-covered furniture was arranged around the hearth.
Dante Corrales was seated on one sofa, wearing a black silk shirt, his arm bound in a sling. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had trouble getting to his feet as Moore approached.
Zuniga loitered behind the sofa, a beer in hand. He sighed deeply and said, “Senor Howard, I’ve just had a big dinner, and I’m already beginning to fall asleep. So let’s get down to business.”
“Who is this guy?” asked Corrales.
“He is a business associate,” Zuniga snapped.
Corrales’s frown grew more sharp. “No, no, no. I told you why I’m here and what we’re going to do together — just the two of us, no one else.”
“Dante, if you’re as valuable as you say, then I’m selling you to him.” Zuniga began to chuckle.
“Selling me? What the hell?”
Moore held up a palm. “Relax. We’re all here to help each other.”
Moore’s smartphone began to vibrate. He winced and decided to ignore the call.
And then, before anyone else could speak, gunfire boomed from somewhere outside, drawing their gazes toward the bay windows along the front of the house.
