“Is that before or after you destroy El Charro?” asked Rafael, rolling his eyes. He wished Damian would give up his quest. El Charro was invincible and he didn’t want his friend getting hurt.
Damian doubted if El Charro remembered the nanny who had come chasing after a little girl and chanced upon a meeting of black crows. No. El Charro was the scavenger of carrion. One dead body was no different from another. Damian was not going to waste his time trying to make him remember. El Charro didn’t deserve explanations or justifications. He deserved fire and ashes, an incinerating descent to hell.
“First El Charro, then Warren Sedgewick.” Damian started the engine. “Then I take the place where it all began.”
As they drove away, Damian did not think of Skye. He never once thought of Skye. She was locked up in a room with windows that were boarded up with sheets of plywood. And Damian always, always stayed away from strawberries and gap-toothed girls with hair like spun gold.
The rivalry between the Sinaloa cartel and Los Zetas was escalating. Every day bodies were turning up in the ditches; blood was flowing in the gutters. El Charro called a meeting of his most trusted allies and advisers.
“Damian,” he said, examining the ‘C’ he had just carved into the victim at his feet. “My blade needs replacing.” He handed Damian his cane.
Every year, Damian took El Charro’s cane to a blacksmith in Caboras, who fitted it with a new, razor-sharp, custom piece.
“We are meeting at the new warehouse in Paza del Mar tomorrow. 3 pm. Have it fixed by then,” said El Charro. “Comandante 21, look after these bodies.” He stepped over them, holding a handkerchief to his nose.
Damian followed El Charro out and watched him drive away in his air-conditioned sedan. He switched the sim card on his phone and made a call. “I have information for Emilio Zamora.”
He didn’t have to wait long. Emilio Zamora was the younger brother of Alfredo Ruben Zamora, the man who had attempted to kill El Charro, the man Damian had shot in the cantina. Of course, Emilio, like everyone else, thought Juan Pablo was responsible for his brother’s death. Ever since El Charro had sent Alfredo’s severed head to his funeral, Emilio had been vying to get even.
“Tomorrow. The warehouse in Paza del Mar. 3 pm. El Charro and all of his right hand men.”
“Who is this?” asked Emilio, but Damian hung up.
The perfect opportunity had finally presented itself.
Damian guarded the door while Comandante 21 accompanied El Charro inside the warehouse. One by one, men arrived in bodyguard-driven cars, and took a seat around the long table, with their muscle men standing a respectable distance behind them. The location had been disclosed last minute as an added security measure. For all intents and purposes, the warehouse functioned as a shipping facility for canned sardines, but Damian knew that the cardboard boxes and crates stacked around them were filled with shrink wrapped bales of marijuana, blocks of cocaine and methamphetamine, along with carefully sealed bags of brown powder heroin.
Every man in the room was connected to the cartel in one way or another. Some owned the farmers who grew local marijuana; others had contacts in Colombia, Peru or Bolivia. A few ran the hidden super labs that manufactured methamphetamine. They were all involved with the preparation, transportation and distribution of drugs, carrying them over the American border via cars, trucks, speedboats, drug tunnels and cross border mules. They had dirty cops and judges in their pockets, and stash houses in Los Angeles, El Paso, Houston, Tucson. From there, the drugs infiltrated other major cities, trickling down to hundreds of suburbs and communities beyond. Damian wondered which of them had been present the day MaMaLu had interrupted the meeting at Casa Paloma. He glanced at his watch. It was 2:45 pm.
“Damian! How’s it going, man?” He felt a hard slap on his back.