“So, when our informer accused him of rape, El Niño claimed that he’d been seduced, and his mother believed him. Ayo’s narcos dumped the girl next to the highway like so much trash. Sister Maria is still recovering. So be gentle.”

  Colon led Serrano into the side corridor which provided access to the sacristy, a meeting room, and a study. That’s where Sister Maria was waiting. A transparent veil covered her head, her hands were folded in her lap. Serrano could see why El Niño had been attracted to her. Sister Maria was beautiful.

  She rose as the men entered. “Sister Maria,” Colon said. “This is the man I told you about. He would like to ask you some questions about the Ayo family and their hacienda. I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Colon withdrew. Serrano invited Sister Maria to sit, and chose a chair across from her. The young woman seemed uncertain at first. But once she realized how mundane Serrano’s questions were, she became more voluble. Bit by bit, Serrano drew her out.

  At La Hacienda Roja everything was dictated by Elena Isabella Ayo, ranging from major financial decisions all the way down to the way the dining room table was set.

  Her sons Ricardo and Mateo did as they were told and ran the day-to-day drug operation, while Benito spent most of his time posing, drinking, and womanizing. Activities that his mother pretended to be unaware of.

  Employees were divided into three groups. The narcos sold drugs, kidnapped people, and ran the family’s protection rackets. They were young, violent, and often users themselves.

  Roughly half of the household staff were people like Sister Maria, who were hired to perform certain tasks such as bookkeeping, aviation, and maintenance.

  Sister Maria had been Aya’s social secretary, in charge of arranging formal dinners, parties and the bullfights held to entertain so-called “clients.” Meaning suppliers and second echelon dealers.

  Finally, there was the more numerous group that the Ayos referred to as prestamistas. They were prisoners “on loan” from José Ortega, the local district court judge, who was on the take.

  That was when Serrano felt a glimmer of hope. He would never be able to infiltrate the narcos, or be hired to coordinate parties, but he might be able to access the hacienda as a prestamista.

  As the conversation came to an end Serrano offered the novice an envelope. “This is a thousand dollars, Sister. For your time. Please don’t speak of this meeting to anyone.”

  “I promise,” Sister Maria said. “But I don’t want the money.”

  “Okay,” Serrano replied. “But what about the church? Surely Father Olmo could use the money to do God’s work.”

  Sister Maria accepted the envelope. Their eyes locked. “Are you going to harm the Ayo family?”

  “Yes.”

  Sister Maria nodded and said, “Good. Make them pay.” And, with that, she left the room.

  Serrano stared into space. He had a decision to make. He could go home, see Martina, and try to sleep. Or he could save time by taking immediate action.

  Father Colon entered the room. “How did it go?”

  “Well,” Serrano replied. “Sister Maria was very helpful.”

  “So, what are you going to do now?”

  Serrano told him. Colon was visibly disturbed. “You will be in great danger, my son. Shouldn’t you think this over?”

  “I have,” Serrano replied. “Paco is a prisoner. I must free him. I’m going to give you my wallet. The guns are locked in the trunk of my car. Can you get it to my house? And give me a ride to Agua Frio?”

  “Of course I can,” the priest said. “Kneel. We must pray.”

  Serrano had never been any good at praying. Just doing. But he knelt, let Colon do the talking, and hoped that God was listening.

  It was dark by the time the two men left. Colon was driving an old KIA. Neither man felt like talking. So, they were mostly silent during the trip. Eventually Agua Frio’s lights appeared, and Serrano ordered Colon to pull over. “Who knows what kind of technology the Ayos have installed here. Let’s keep your car off their radar. Tell Martina I’m working on it. Tell her I love her.”

  And with that Serrano got out, turned his back on the KIA, and started to walk. His luggage consisted of an old blanket Father Olmo had contributed, a canvas bag with half a bottle of tequila in it, and some candy bars. The sort of kit that a vagabundo might have.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach town. The streetlights were on, and with the exception of two cantinas and a modest hotel, everything was closed.

  Judging from the mix of off-road vehicles and sleek sedans parked outside the Dos Amigos bar, it was a favorite of the local narcos, and the perfect place to get in trouble.

  Serrano climbed a couple of steps, pushed a swinging door open, and found himself in a large room. The smell of marijuana hung in the air, a South American soccer game was playing on the big screen TV, and pop music was competing with the game.

  No one looked Serrano’s way because every eye was on the arm-wrestling match taking place at the center table, where two narcos were going at it. Biceps bulged as bets were placed, backers shouted encouragement, and a half naked waitress served drinks.

  Serrano spotted a tiny table with one chair in a corner, and walked a weaving course in that direction, as any drunk might. It wasn’t long before the waitress stopped by. “So, hon, what’s it going to be?”

  “A Corona,” Serrano replied. “Gracias.”

  “That’ll be 40 pesos.”

  “Forty!” Serrano said loudly. “That’s bullshit! Do I look stupid?”

  A big man appeared as if out of thin air. “Yes,” he said, “you do. Now, pay or get out.”

  Serrano stood, swayed as if inebriated, and steadied himself. “Get out? I just arrived.”

  Then he took a swing. The bouncer blocked it, punched Serrano in the jaw, and knocked him to the floor. Then the lights went out as the metal-capped toe of a cowboy boot hit the side of his head. The plan was working.

  Serrano awoke to discover that his head hurt, he was cold, and lying on a cot. His right hand went up to the wound and found a bandage. And, from the feel of it, there might be stitches too.

  Part of Serrano wanted to remain where he was, staring at the roof of what must be a tent. But another part of him wanted to pee, explore, and find something to eat.

  Serrano threw the single blanket to one side, swung his boots over onto to the gravel floor, and felt a stab of pain. It took the better part of a minute for it to subside. That was when Serrano realized there were other cots, five of them, four of which were occupied.

  Carcel de Agua Frio. That’s where Serrano was. And, that’s where he wanted to be. Sort of.

  Serrano forced himself to stand, and heard gravel crunch under his boots as he left the tent. The sun was just starting to break with the horizon, and a sign pointed the way to el baño.

  A concrete path led to a cinderblock building which housed a six-man shower, four urinals, and two sinks. The glare from the fluorescent lights made Serrano wince.

  A ceiling mounted camera whirred as he stood in front of a urinal. A surefire way to eliminate fights, sex acts, and sub rosa commerce.

  Serrano was washing his hands when a klaxon sounded, and a voice was heard over the P.A. system. “All prisoners will fold their blankets, hit the showers, and report to the cocina al aire libre. Move it.”

  Serrano didn’t have soap, a towel, or clean clothes, so he followed the signs to the cocina and was the first to arrive. There was a coffee urn, eggs served on metal pie plates, and box lunches for later in the day.

  Serrano took his share, carried his food to a remote picnic table, and sat down. Other inmates filtered in soon thereafter, and one of them made a beeline to Serrano’s table. “Hi! I’m Chico… What’s your name?”

  Chico, if that was his name, appeared to be in his early twenties. And, despite his cheerful demeanor, was festooned with what Serrano took to be gang tattoos.

  So, what was Chico? A friendly kid? A jailhouse hustler? Or a spy, acting on behalf of the management? Serrano was inclined to put his money on option three. Assuming that was correct, Chico could be used to plant Serrano’s cover story. He summoned a smile. “I’m Alberto Esteban. My friends call me Beto.”

  “Welcome to the circus,” Chico said. “We call it that because of the tents, the animals, and the clowns.”

  Serrano couldn’t help but laugh. “So, what’s the scoop? Will they put me in front of a judge?”

  “Yes, they will,” Chico answered. “Judge Coro is stern but reasonable. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut, do your time, and move on. That’s what I’m going to do.”

  None of that lined up with what Sister Maria had told him. So, Serrano’s suspicions were confirmed. He nodded. “Gracias, Chico… I appreciate the guidance. Go along to get along. That’s what I always say.”

  The klaxon sounded again and Chico stood. “I have to go. A guard will track you down. Do what he says. Hasta luego.”

  Chico’s words proved to be prophetic when a guard appeared ten minutes later and made his way over to Serrano. “Prisoner Esteban? Follow me.”

  Serrano tried to keep a straight face. Only one person knew him as Alberto Esteban. And that was Chico. “Yes, sir. Shall I return my plate, sir?”

  “Yes,” the guard replied. “Take it over to the return window.”

  Serrano complied, followed the guard, and was led through a maze of passageways to the point where a police van was waiting. Two men and a woman were chained inside. Serrano joined them, was secured in place, and forbidden to speak.

  The other inmates were clearly under the same restriction, because the ten-minute journey was made in total silence. The courthouse was a modest one-story building with nothing more than a sign and a Mexican flag to distinguish it from the laundromat next door.

  After being released from the van and fitted with leg irons, they were led to a side door that opened into a wire mesh cage. It looked out onto a courtroom. There was a raised bench to the right, tables in front of that, and roughly thirty seats for onlookers. They were empty.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Then two men appeared from the left, took their places at the tables, and began to chat with each other. Prosecutor and defense attorney? If so, they seemed to be on extremely good terms.

  Another five minutes passed. A policeman appeared. “All rise for District Judge José Coro.”

  The prisoners were already standing, but the lawyers rose, and continued to stand until Coro was seated.

  A clerk had entered. She read a name, one of the other men was released into the courtroom, and ordered to speak in a loud clear voice. “Are you Manuel Pérez?”

  “Sí.”

  “Did you steal apples from the Ayo farm?”

  “Sí.”

  Then and only then did Coro speak. “Señor Pérez, you are hereby sentenced to six months of hard labor. Next.”

  At no point had either lawyer done anything other than twiddle a pen and sip water. They were clearly window dressing, a nod towards certain laws, while Coro processed the latest batch of prestamistas.

  Serrano’s alter ego was called next. Serrano, a.k.a. Esteban, left the cage as Pérez returned. The clerk spoke. “What is your name?”

  “Alberto Esteban.”

  “Your file says you don’t have any ID. Why?

  “ I got drunk, and a man hit me. When I woke up my wallet was gone.”

  “The court will accept that name on a provisional basis, while the police attempt to recover your wallet,” Coro announced. “You’re charged with public drunkenness and disorderly conduct. Are you innocent or guilty?”

  “Guilty.”

  Coro nodded. “You are sentenced to six months of hard labor. Next.”

  It seemed that six months was the length of time that Coro and Elena Ayo had agreed on. Once the others had been processed, the inmates were transported back to the jail and were put to work cleaning bathrooms and emptying trash cans. “Enjoy your day off,” a guard said. “You’ll have to work tomorrow.”

  *

  Lugar de Paz, Mexico

  It was Saturday, and Martina was at home doing chores, when the narco knocked on her door. She held Serrano’s derringer down along her right leg. “Yes?”

  “I have a message,” the boy announced. “From El Cuchillo.”

  Martina accepted the envelope and ripped it open. The drug lord’s handwriting was surprisingly legible:

  Señora Blanco,

  If you would like to chat and spend some time with your son, please be at the Rancho del Sol at 2 PM.

  Sincerely yours,

  Pablo Enrique Ramirez

  Paco! A chance to visit Paco! Her heart leapt with joy.

  But Ramirez wanted to chat. Why?

  Anticipation was mixed with fear as Martina drove to the ranch, worked her way through the checkpoints, and arrived at the site where the Ramirez house had been.

  The charred wreckage was gone. Stakes connected by yellow string marked the outline of a new residence which, judging from stacks of lumber, would be constructed soon.

  An open-sided tent was located next to a shiny motorhome, and that’s where Ramirez was waiting for her. He stood. “Welcome to Rancho del Sol, señora. I’m Pablo Ramirez. We’ve never met before. But we know each other in a way that only enemies can. ¿Sí?”

  “Sí,” Martina replied.

  “Please,” Ramirez said, as he gestured to a chair. “Have a seat? It’s quite warm. Can I offer you a cold lemonade? Iced Tea? Or a Coke?”

  “A glass of iced tea would be welcome,” Martina replied. “Assuming it isn’t poisoned.”

  Ramirez chuckled. “No. I shall drink from the same pitcher that you do. Besides, we share a common cause. We want Nick Serrano to succeed.”

  Balasco arrived with a pitcher of iced tea, poured, and faded into the background. Ramirez took a sip. Martina did likewise. “So,” Ramirez said. “What, if anything, have you heard from Señor Serrano?”

  “Nothing,” Martina replied. “But he told me to expect that. Getting close to La Roja won’t be easy.”

  “No,” Ramirez agreed. “It won’t be. So, tell me Señora, how will our little war end?”

  “One of us is going to die,” Martina said. “And I hope it’s you.”

  Ramirez nodded. “I understand. But consider this, Señora. I have no children. When I die, the Ayo family is likely to fill the vacuum.” He took another sip from his glass. “You are an educated woman. A teacher. So, you’ve read Homer’s Odyssey, and know that Odysseus chose to sail past Scylla, a monster with six heads and shark-like teeth. Why? Because she was the lesser of two evils. Perhaps you should think of me as Scylla.”

  Martina was both surprised and amused. “So, Elena Ayo is Charybdis. The giant whirlpool that destroys everything in its path three times a day.”

  Ramirez nodded. “I knew you would understand.”

  “Even though I’m reluctant to agree with you on any subject, no matter how mundane, I’m tempted to do so now.” She set down her glass on the table with a soft click. “I want to see my son.”

  Ramirez stood. “Please follow me.”

  Together they walked over to the riding arena. Two narcos were on duty.

  And there, beyond the fence, was a brand-new playset. Paco was hanging upside down from a crossbar. And, when he saw his mother, he produced a yelp of delight. “Mamá!”

  Martina hurried to break his fall. They hugged. And both of them cried.

  El Cuchillo felt a stab of jealousy. He had millions. But Martina Blanco had something even more precious. He turned and walked away.

  *

  La Hacienda Roja, near Agua Frio, Mexico

  Serrano was depressed. Three days had passed since his incarceration and subsequent enslavement. Because that’s what the prestamistas were: slaves.

  And as such they had virtually no freedom of movement. They boarded a truck each morning, and were transported to a location on the Ayo family’s sprawling hacienda, where they were assigned to a task involving manual labor. With a jefe there to supervise them, there was almost zero chance to slip away.

  And that was the essence of Serrano’s plan. Or had been his plan because it was in the shitter.

  Some of the prisoners picked fruit, and some harvested vegetables, but Serrano was part of the gang that dug drainage ditches. Not the big ones that were maintained with a backhoe, but the “feeders” that ran between rows of trees, and were frequently filled with debris and dirt.

  The work wasn’t especially difficult, and the trees threw plenty of shade, but it was incredibly boring. So, whenever a member of the Ayo clan came by, it broke the monotony.

  Ricardo and Mateo often patrolled together. But on that particular day, Benito was making the rounds. Not in a pickup truck like his brothers, but on a show horse that seemed to prance rather than walk.

  And unfortunately, El Niño arrived just as a prestamista named García was urinating against an apple tree. Benito yelled something incomprehensible, spurred his horse, and charged the hapless man. Hooves flailed as the horse reared and García went down.

  Then, rather than back off, El Niño urged the animal to attack again. And that was when Serrano lost it. One moment he was standing there, leaning on a shovel, and the next he was in motion. There was no conscious decision. Just the need to stop a murder.

  Serrano jumped, got hold of an arm, and dragged Benito down onto the ground. He was vaguely aware of yelling and a commotion, as Ayo family employees converged on the scene and pulled Serrano off of the youth. Then they proceeded to beat the hell out of him.

  Eventually someone ordered them to stop, and a half-conscious Serrano was dumped into the back of a pickup. It was half full of decaying fruit, and Serrano was aware of the rotten egg odor as he passed out.

  When Serrano awoke, it was from a nightmare and he found himself locked inside a cell. The fact that such a thing existed on a farm spoke to the Ayo main source of income, which was drugs. A business that would inevitably involve locking people up. Informers, policemen, and hostages came to mind. Now it was Serrano’s turn.