Unless I lost her first.
I was keeping her safe, as safe as I could, as safe as anyone could. I had all of Sinaloa under my finger, which meant the police and the military. Guards were outside my door, my compound was patrolled, the hills were watched … I had eyes everywhere. Radios, cell phones, everything was monitored with what the local military had. If anyone was coming, we knew about it.
In reality there were few to fear. America wouldn’t touch me, not after I had informed on Salvador to the DEA. I had the Juarez plaza and unity with Nuevo Laredo. After I seized Tijuana, which was still my plan, I would control everything except the Gulf. They were not true Sinaloans, not like me, not like the real narco royalty. They were who I had to watch, my only real threat in the end. And they had tried before, only to be thwarted in the process.
But keeping Luisa safe from others also meant keeping her away from me. I couldn’t let what happened last night happen again. She couldn’t be my own victim. I knew I was hurting her by pushing her away, by keeping her at a distance. But it was for her own good, and mine.
I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I knew I wasn’t myself. I woke up with this deep-seated need to maim and hurt. To fuck. To make others suffer, as I suffered.
And I knew I had to use this anger, sharpen it like a knife. It would be greater than any weapon.
The only way through was up. To the top. Until I had all of Mexico. Until I was unstoppable.
Until there was nothing left to fear.
***
There was a knock at my office door. I didn’t have to ask who it was. It was always Este. Luisa never bothered to knock anymore. She never bothered at all.
“Come in,” I said, my voice sounding more tired than I’d like. I didn’t want Este to think I wasn’t on top of the game. He didn’t need to know about my dreams, the sleepless nights. It had been a long day, though, and I supposed I was allowed to look like I’d been working at my desk from dawn until dusk.
The door opened and he stepped in. As usual he looked like a fucking moron in his board shorts and wife-beater. Flip-flops on his feet, like a damn Californian cartoon.
“Lose a bet?” I asked as I briefly looked him over.
“You used that line last week,” he said, sitting down across from me on the other side of the desk. He kicked off his flip-flops and crossed his legs at the ankles. My lip curled in disgust, the thought of his dirty feet on my sheepskin rug.
“I’ll try to be more original next time,” I said dryly, putting my agenda away. I folded my hands in front of me and gave him a pointed look. “Have we found him yet?”
A slow, crooked smile spread across his face. It told me everything I needed to know.
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 pussy can be tiring at times.