He’d killed my sister. He’d stolen my wife. Those were things that could never be made up for, no matter how much the country believed in me or set me up to be a demi-god, like so many narcos before me.
Diego nodded grimly. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it. If you decide to kill Luisa, I’ll look away but I won’t help you. But if you tell me to protect Luisa and save her from him, I will. I have your back Javier.”
I gave him a wry look. “She has a way of worming into your heart, doesn’t she?”
His smile was grave and I knew how much he actually respected my wife. I had wondered if Diego had ever fallen in love, ever married, ever had children. He never talked about his past like that, but so many people wiped their past clean when they became a narco or sicarrio. They couldn’t hold onto memories because memories were just fire and would burn in their hands. You couldn’t hold a gun if your hands were scarred.
Mine were only bloody.
It was almost morning when Evaristo appeared in the bunker, coming down the narrow staircase from the world up top.
“Didn’t get any sleep?” he asked, peering down at Diego and me as we sat on the couches, tapping our fingers and feet from boredom and anticipation. It was odd to see him now with that authoritative slant, after everything I’d done to him.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” I said, suddenly exhausted. “Like little bitches.”
He smiled and shoved his hands in his pant pockets. “You know, I’m the one who should have the problem with you.”
“Is that right?” I asked carefully, sliding my tongue over my teeth.
“I’m the one who is still missing a toe.”
I shrugged. “And I had to wear the same orange jumpsuit for a few weeks, all while you made a deal with the actual devil.”
He sighed and sat on the arm of the opposite couch, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. “Normally I would argue that. Javier, I know a lot more about you than you can even imagine. About your rise within the ranks of Travis Raines, the gringo, all the way to your takeover. About your little scuffle with the Americans in California, which then had you thrown into a US prison, then your release and the kidnapping of Luisa Reyes. The fall of Salvador. The Sinaloa cartel that you took.” He paused. “But despite all you’ve done, I know you’re not Esteban Mendoza. That there is a line between ambition and lunacy, between, well, evil and pure evil, if you want to be dramatic.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to be on the more dramatic side?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You know, I had a brief talk with your wife.” I stiffened. “When you sent her to look after me. She’s a good, kind woman you know. But full of spikes, as my grandmother would say. She told me you would go far, all the way to the top, and you would not fail. And I believed her. I wanted in on that. Esteban is just a rabid dog. He’s dangerous and deranged and getting more psychotic as this goes on, as the power is finally passed on to him. I haven’t just been studying you, I’ve been studying him. But he doesn’t have your intelligence, your charm, or your connections. He is the losing side. You are not. You will take it all back and for once, I will be on the side that wins.”
After a moment I said, “That’s a nice speech. But you probably should have arrested Esteban while you had the chance.”
“There was no chance with the federales. Contrary to your belief, they do things by the book. And that’s why they always lose and will continue to lose in the end. Being good and just doesn’t guarantee success. If anything, it can mean your failure.”
I exchanged a glance with Diego. “A pessimist,” he remarked.
“A realist,” Evaristo countered.
“And so young at that,” I added.
“It’s in our blood, what can I say.” He got up off the couch. “Unless you have any objections, tomorrow we strike your residence near Culiacan.”
“My objection is that I’d rather strike it right now. While they are both there and are both alive.”
“And you’re too smart to know that we aren’t about to rush into anything. Try and get some rest,” he said, undoing his tie and walking into the kitchen.
Sleep would be unlikely. But I found myself drifting away on that couch for a few hours, despite my own objections.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Luisa
Javier always used to tell me he didn’t think he had a soul, and if he did, he was sure it was a dirty one. I was more inclined to believe he did, despite the ways he ruled his life. I believed that everyone had a soul, somewhere deep in their body, and it was up to them to let their real spirit free. Even those deemed bad, corrupt, immoral, had light shining through them from time to time. In Javier’s case, I likened his soul to a dirty window. The glow was muddled and what did come through was in little cracks and smudges.