I opened my desk drawer and took out a file folder. Call me old-fashioned but I needed to have most of my intel in my hands as well as on the computer. My brain handled it better that way.
Flipping it open, I took out a picture of Evaristo Martinez Sanchez. He was young, twenty-four, a light-skinned, blue-eyed Mexican. Probably made the ladies go crazy. For a moment I realized he was about Luisa’s age and that they would make a good-looking couple. I’m not sure if I was relieved or not when I found my stomach curling with jealousy over the thought.
It was a serious photo, like a mugshot, and in color, probably taken for his government ID. Evaristo was part of the task force for the Policía Federal Ministerial, or PFM, those lovely people our government hired to fight organized crime and people like me. This organization, unlike the AFI before them, were hard to bribe and did things by the book like many of the Americans liked to think themselves did. In other words, they were a pain in my ass and could do serious damage to any cartel, if given the chance. The federales, we called them.
Evaristo was ranked up there on the team that watched Angel Hernandez and the Tijuana plaza. He wasn’t in charge of the unit — kidnapping the boss would be too risky for me and federale bosses would never talk. Stubborn little bastards. That stark loyalty and honor would be useful for my side, if only their morals weren’t so fucked up.
But being second in command, Evaristo would know enough, and the more I read up about him, the more I liked him. He came from the barrios of Matamoros, dropping out of school when he was thirteen to become a petty criminal. He screwed up once and made enemies with the wrong people (are there any right people?) which put him in a precarious position at a very young age. Like most youth, he joined the Mexican army because there was nowhere else for him to go. He liked the discipline there and had the willingness to do jobs others wouldn’t. He was a quick learner and more than eager. As soon as he was out, the PFM swooped in and recruited him.
The PFM wear masks when they do raids so that people like me don’t recognize them. But the internet is a funny thing, and Este knew how to get information. I felt like I knew Evaristo well. Already he reminded me of our Juanito, who was essentially Este’s guy Friday now, following him around like a puppy.
I was looking forward to kidnapping him. Torturing him, just a bit, at first anyway. I’m not an animal. Just to see how he handled it. To see if he was as good as the reports from his supervisors said he was.
Naturally, I wanted him to fail. When he failed, he would give me the information I needed to take Angel out. When I took Angel out, I’d take over the plaza. Evaristo would be spared because of my graciousness, and hopefully I wouldn’t have inflicted too much damage to his pretty boy face. Or maybe I’d be doing him a favor. Too much * can be tiring at times.
I was surprised that Este came through with everything. He opposed my plan at first. Said it was too risky and that our cartel was too good for this. Too elegant. That we didn’t need to fall into stereotypical violence that besieged the country, that hiring sicarios to take out a lord was beneath us.
I don’t think Este knew who I’d become.
But Este leaned over and tapped Evaristo’s photo. “He’s a sitting duck. Two days. I set up the staged bust and they’ve got the message. They’re on it.”
“Just as I asked,” I reminded him. He had a habit of trying to take over my ideas, even if he didn’t agree with them. Always trying to one up me when he should have known there was no one-upping the patron, not when you were a barefoot fool.
“Yes,” he said, rather reluctantly. “Should I go and make sure it all goes through?”
What was in motion now was that Este had tipped off someone at the PFM about a safe house location and an impossible amount of cocaine and meth looking to make its way up on a big rig to San Diego. But the safe house was a ruse. We would be there waiting for them. And we’d take out Evaristo as soon as we had the chance. It’s hard to hide those blue eyes behind a mask, and at six foot two, he’d stand out among the men like a sore thumb. Of course with something like this, I wasn’t involved. Other people did my dirty work for me. I had a growing team of ex-soldiers and cops who could go into any situation and come out alive with the target.
“No,” I told him. “Let them do it. You’d just get in the way, tripping over your own sandals, your hair in your eyes like a little girl.”
My insults didn’t seem to work on Esteban anymore. He jerked his chin at my forehead. “Is your hair thinning a little bit? Must be the stress.”
I raised my brow. “So is that all you came to tell me?”
“Is that all?” he repeated incredulously. “I come here to tell you that I orchestrated your plan exactly as you wanted, the bait has been taken, and you wonder if that’s all?”