Saint Death

It was as simple as that: they were on the 67 and across. A neat line of palm trees on either side of the road. A smooth ribbon of asphalt. A large sign that welcomed them to America and invited them to ‘Drive Friendly — The Texas Way.’

The Riata I

“Is this it?” Caterina asked him.

“It is for him. My employer will be here in a couple of hours.”

“And then?”

“Not our problem any more. He’ll take him off our hands and then he’ll sort you out with what you need: papers, money, someplace to live.”

Beau sat and tugged off his boots. He unbuckled his holster and tossed it onto the bed.

“What do you think happened to Smith?”

“I don’t know. That boy’s as tough as old leather, though. I wouldn’t count him out.”

Beau looked at her. She was tired but there was a granite strength behind it. After all she had been through, well, Beau thought, if it had’ve been him? He might’ve been ready to pack it all in.

“Long night,” she said.

“Tell me about it.”

“I’d kill for a cold drink.”

“There’s an ice machine outside. I’ll get some. Thirty seconds?” He pointed at the door to the bathroom. “Don’t — well, you know, don’t talk to him.”

Her smile said that she understood.

The machine was close but, even though the door to the motel room was going to be visible the whole time, he didn’t want to tarry. González was resourceful and smart — thirty or forty or however the hell old he was practically ancient in narco-years — and although Caterina was smart, too, he didn’t want to leave him alone with her for any longer than he had to. He went outside in his stockinged feet and walked across to the machine. He filled the bucket with crushed ice, took a handful and scrubbed it on the back of his neck and then across his forehead and his face.

He was getting too old for this shit.

When he got back to the room Caterina had taken his Magnum .357 out of the holster. The bathroom door was open. González was on his knees, his hands in front of his face. She was pointing the gun at his head.

“How do you get paid?” she asked him.

“Cash on delivery.”

“So, what? — he’s got to be alive?”

“He don’t got to be. More for me if he is, though.”

“Ah,” she said. “Sorry about that.”

The gunshot was audible all the way across the scrubby desert.

60

Capitán Vicente Alameda lived with his wife and three children in the upscale neighbourhood of Campestre. The district rubbed against Highway 45, just before the crossroads with Highway 2, and massive maquiladoras were gathered on one edge of the neighbourhood. Plato continued along an avenue that could have been in any city north of the border: a Starbucks, Chili’s, Applebee’s and strip malls. He turned into Alameda’s street and parked. Razor wire lined the top of brick and stucco walls. Uniformed guards stood watch at gated entryways. Gold doors on one home reflected the lamp-light. Parked in the driveways were BMWs and Lexuses, many with Texas license plates. Alameda’s house had an Audi in the driveway. There was a large garden. A pool. Four or five bedrooms judging from the windows on the second floor. A set of gates, although they hadn’t been closed.

It wasn’t a policeman’s house.

Plato got out of the car and looked up. The sky was full of stars, a rind of moon hanging over the silhouette of the factories on the edge of the neighbourhood. He made his way up the street to a small zócalo where the grackles in the eucalyptus trees called out in drowsy alarm.

He pressed the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Capitán — it’s Jesus Plato.”

“Plato? It’s late. Do you know what time it is?”

“I know. But I need to talk to you.”

“Tomorrow, Jesus, alright?”

“No, sir. It has to be now.”

The intercom cut out. Plato stood at the gate, staring through the bars at the home beyond. The curtains in one of the large windows on the first floor twitched aside and Plato saw Alameda’s face.

He held his finger on the intercom for ten seconds.

He would wait as long as it took.

After a minute, the front door opened and Alameda came outside. He was wearing slippers and a dressing gown.

Plato slipped between the gates and met him in the garden.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Alameda hissed. “You’ve woken the children!”

“I must be some kind of idiot. How long have we known each other?”

“Ten years.”

“Exactly. Ten years and you’ve never invited me here. We’ve had barbeques at my place and at Sanchez’s, but you never did the same. Don’t know why that never struck me as odd. Now I can see why.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first thing I would’ve asked is where you could possibly be getting the money to afford a place like this. It’s not on a captain’s salary, I know that much. Not wondering about that could all have been stupidity on my part, I’m capable of that, but I don’t think so, not this time. I think it was wilful blindness. I didn’t want to look at what was staring me in the face.”

“I had an inheritance. My father-in-law.”

“No you didn’t. Drug money bought all this.”

“Come on, Jesus. That’s crazy.”

“I don’t think so. I’m sorry it’s come to this, sir, but you’re under arrest.”

“You want to do this now? Now? You’re retiring.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I’d have to talk to Emelia, of course, but I’m thinking maybe I can stay on another six months. There’s a lot of cancer that needs to be cut out. Now’s a good a time as any. Maybe I can do something about that.”

“You know what that’ll mean for you and your family?”

“I know I swore an oath. When I retire, I aim to have done what I promised to do.”

“You’ve lost your mind, Jesus.”

“That’s as maybe, Capitán. But you’re still under arrest.”

Plato took out his cuffs and, with Alameda’s wife and children watching open-mouthed from the windows, he fastened them and led him back out and onto the street.

61

“And there you have it,” Felipe said with a grand gesture. “The best equipped methamphetamine lab in Mexico.”

Isaac and his two colleagues looked suitably impressed. That was good. Felipe had been struggling to maintain their confidence after what had gone down at the mansion. He had struggled a little during the flight south to maintain his mood. The day since the attack had been an ordeal. There was nothing from Adolfo. One of the men thought that he had seen the foolish boy led out of the house at gunpoint but he couldn’t be sure. There had been no word from him. No ransom. No gloating message. Nothing.

Felipe had very little idea of who had been responsible. He only knew who it was not. It wasn’t the cartels. Only Los Zetas had the kind of military training to do what had been done and, even then, it would have taken more of them than the six that had been counted. But if not them, then who? The Army? Special Forces? The Americans? His sources said not. The Luciano family seeking revenge? Hired mercenaries? Again, there was no suggestion that it was them.

Who, then?

The Englishman?

He was at a loss.

Isaac was admiring the thorium oxide furnace. The gleaming new laboratory had restored his faith.

Felipe knew why: greed.

The promise of great wealth had a way of doing that.

The American Drug Enforcement Agency classified a lab as a “superlab” if it could produce more than ten pounds of meth every week.

The one that Felipe had built could produce twenty pounds a day.