The boy said, “He was a heroin addict. Long time ago.”
A heroin addict. Great. It would be a miracle if he recovered. She didn’t think a man like him was worth saving, either. He was some kind of top-tier criminal, a friend or enemy of Armando’s. The world would be a better place without both of them. But what could she do besides cooperate?
“Bring me some hot water,” she said to the boy. “Clean hot water, in bowls or buckets. I also need bandages and antibiotic ointment.”
The boy went to fetch the items while the bearded man stood guard.
She attached an oxygen mask to the patient’s dirty face and she searched for a vein that would accommodate an IV. His hands and arms were toast, so she pushed up the leg of his jeans and removed a ruined shoe. It was fused to his sock, which had burned through the soles of his feet. Shaking her head, she peeled the fabric away from his skin and she swabbed his ankle. It was one of the least affected areas of his body. His blood pressure sucked, but she finally got in. She secured the IV and gave him several injections.
Then she rolled up her sleeves and began to work.
Chapter 11
Ian didn’t get a chance to watch Maria disappear into the crowd.
As soon as she left him, the train’s engine rumbled to life and his cellphone vibrated with an incoming call. He fished it out of his pocket, cursing. There was too much noise in the open area, so he ducked behind the block wall once again.
“I’m here,” he answered.
“On the train?” LaGuardia asked.
“About to board. I don’t have much time.”
“Understood. Sorry it took so long to get back to you.”
Ian wondered if the delay had been strategic. He didn’t expect LaGuardia to keep him on speed dial, but some serious shit was going down. Ian had found a dead body and been instructed to avoid the police. This situation was urgent, and those orders were questionable, at best. Even though Ian was new to ICE, and just a grunt on temporary assignment, he knew the regulations. U.S. agents couldn’t ignore Mexican authorities while operating in Mexico. Not overtly, anyway.
If Ian happened to get caught, he’d make a great fall guy. Who would believe him, a disgraced DEA agent with a record of going rogue?
Plausible deniability. LaGuardia had it in spades.
He might have been waiting for Ian to get a safe distance away from the federales before he bothered to initiate another communication.
“I didn’t expect company that fast,” Ian said, cautious.
“Did they get a good look at you?”
“No,” he replied, which was only half-true. One of the men had seen his face, but so what? Ian was hot on Sarai’s trail. He wanted to stay the course. He wanted to find Sarai and help nail Armando Villarreal to the wall. His career hung in the balance.
“I have some new intel on the target,” LaGuardia said. “Are you familiar with the PFM?”
If memory served, PFM stood for Policía Federal Ministerial. It was a special agency in Mexico that investigated police officers, sort of like Internal Affairs. “Yes.”
“Villarreal has connections to that organization.”
“He was an informant?”
“He might have been an agent.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. A man named Armando Villarreal Castillo worked as an armed guard in the capital building for almost ten years. During that time, the PFM was created to fight police corruption. We believe that Villarreal was recruited for an organized crime unit.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on the sequence of events. The Los Rojos cartel went on a killing spree, targeting the families of the investigators. Villarreal’s wife was among the victims. After her death, three of Los Rojos’s top members were murdered by an unknown assailant. Then Villarreal fled to San Diego and hooked up with Carlos Moreno.”
Ian absorbed this information with a frown. He didn’t know much about the Los Rojos cartel, which operated in central Mexico. He was more familiar with their rivals in Tijuana. “You think he joined the Moreno cartel for protection?”
“Either that or he was following orders,” LaGuardia said. “The guy in charge of the PFM’s covert ops was assassinated two years ago. He took the names of his agents to the grave.”
“Two years is a long time to stay in a broken assignment.”
“Maybe he couldn’t leave.”
“Why didn’t he approach U.S. authorities?”
“Would you have in his position?”
Ian rubbed a hand over his jaw, uncertain. Everyone liked to point fingers at Mexico’s corrupt law enforcement system, but there were dirty players on both sides. Villarreal wouldn’t have known who to trust, and he’d been in the country illegally. “I wouldn’t have gone on the run with a hostage. That’s the act of a desperate criminal.”
LaGuardia didn’t argue there.
“Does this information change my orders?”
“Not at all. I just wanted you to know who you’re up against. Los Rojos has a major beef with Villarreal. They will be extremely aggressive in their pursuit.”
“I appreciate the heads up,” he said. He doubted this was new intel, and he’d rather have been told sooner, but he wasn’t deterred by the extra danger. If anything, it invigorated him. He was about to sign off when he noticed a stir of energy in the crowd. He glanced over the top of the wall and his stomach dropped. The federales were here.
“I have to go,” he said, ending the call.
Staying in the cargo station was not an option. He grabbed his pack and tugged the brim of his cap down. His height was a dead giveaway, so he ducked his head as he joined the herd of passengers. They were all breaking the law, eager to avoid arrest. They moved as one, rushing together like spooked cattle.