The plan to infiltrate the farm and kill La Roja had been laughably stupid, and Paco was going to die as a result. It was the lowest moment of Serrano’s life.

  The hours dragged by. A house maid slid a meager meal through a slot in the steel door. A single ray of sunshine found the narrow window slit and departed as Serrano waited to die.

  Then, during what Serrano estimated to be late afternoon, he heard movement. That was followed by the rattle of keys, the sound of a key turning, and a man’s voice. “Back away from the door! Place your hands on your head!” Serrano obeyed. He had no other choice.

  Two men appeared, both armed with pistols. They cuffed him. Then they escorted him through an underground passageway, up a flight of concrete stairs, and out into bright sunlight.

  Serrano blinked, and realized that he’d been held in the Ayo mansion, as he was escorted toward the corrals. Serrano heard cheering, followed by applause, as he was led through a gate. “The rodeo is about to end,” one of his escorts said. “Then it’ll be your turn.”

  “My turn to do what?”

  “To fight a bull,” the other man said. “So, kiss your ass goodbye.”

  “And now,” a male voice said over the P.A. system, “a chance to see justice administered!

  “The man you are about to see attacked our Benito, and attempted to kill him. Now you’ll have the pleasure of watching One Ton stomp the estúpido to death!”

  The announcement provoked applause.

  A door opened and Serrano was thrust out into the recently vacated ring. There was stadium seating and at least a hundred spectators.

  A narco held a sword up high. Sunlight reflected off the blade. He spoke. “This is the weapon our matador will use to defend himself!” the man announced. “Will he use it skillfully? Or die like the others?”

  Serrano was only half listening. All of his senses were heightened. He noticed that the man with the sword was wearing a shoulder holster. The sky was cobalt blue. The odor of horse dung filled his nostrils.

  A woman shouted, “¡Atención!” And, as Serrano turned, he could see her. She was wearing a black hat with a flat rim, a red bolero jacket, and standing in front of a high-backed chair.

  Was he looking at La Roja? Hell yes, he was! And Benito was seated next to her.

  “Behold!” Elena Ayo said. “Justice will be done! Release One Ton.”

  That was the moment when Serrano accepted the sword, ran the blade through the narco’s neck, and jerked it free. Blood began to spurt. Then, as the narco raised both hands to stem the flow, Serrano snatched his Glock.

  Did the narco keep one up the spout? Serrano was praying that he did, as he turned and aimed at La Roja. Time seemed to slow as Serrano squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Eleven

  La Hacienda Roja, south of Paso del Toro, Mexico

  Serrano felt the recoil, and heard the report, as the nine-millimeter slug struck La Roja’s chest. The impact threw her back against the throne-like chair. A woman screamed.

  Serrano experienced a momentary sense of satisfaction knowing that Paco and Martina would be reunited. Then all hell broke loose.

  Visitors hadn’t been allowed to bring weapons to the hacienda. But the guards had guns, as did La Roja’s sons, and all of them started to fire.

  Some of the bullets struck One Ton. None were fatal. But the pain was enough to enrage the beast, which thundered across the arena, determined to kill the only human it could access.

  Serrano had two choices: He could run or he could shoot. And Serrano chose option two. A head shot wasn’t just preferable, it was absolutely necessary, if Serrano hoped to stop the 2,000-pound bull.

  One Ton lowered his head, intent on impaling the human on his horns. Serrano waited until the bull was twenty feet away before he fired. Serrano only had chance to kill the bull before he was impaled. His shot was on target. The bullet struck the top of One Ton’s head, killing him.

  That didn’t stop the thundering mountain of meat, however. Inertia carried the carcass forward. Serrano had to jump to avoid One Ton’s potentially lethal horns.

  And when Serrano’s boots landed on the uneven surface of the bull’s back, he lost his balance and nearly fell. Gotta run… Gotta find a way out… Fifteen bullets left, Serrano thought, as a bullet snapped past his head. The gate through which One Ton had entered was still open.

  Cowboy boots weren’t the right footgear, but would have to do, as a guard appeared. He was armed with a black market M27 rifle, which was coming up into position.

  Serrano fired, missed, and fired again. The second bullet was low. But it hit a knee. That was better than nothing, and enough to put the narco down.

  Serrano shot the narco again, took charge of the Infantry Automatic Rifle, and turned a corner as a hail of bullets struck all around.

  The fence consisted of thick planks secured to posts. That meant it was sturdy enough to stop at least some pistol rounds. Serrano stuck the nine down the back of his pants and scuttled along the fence, looking for an opportunity to fight back.

  Serrano’s chance came when he encountered what seemed like a mountain of hay bales with a roof above. He hurried to climb partway up, found a good spot, and snuggled in. You have thirty rounds, Serrano told himself. Thin them out. And run before they surround you.

  Serrano had been a sniper. And a good one. That, plus the M27’s excellent sighting system, meant that he had the upper hand. A narco charged the hay bales. Serrano put him down.

  Mateo Ayo appeared with three narcos following behind. Serrano killed them: one, two, three, and four. “Mateo’s down!” someone yelled. And that was enough to momentarily stall the attack. Haul ass, Serrano thought. Before reinforcements arrive.

  Serrano left the protection of the bales, made for the sunlight shining beyond, and emerged from the hay barn undetected. But for how long? A small blimp was floating above, looking down on that part of the hacienda.

  Serrano eyed it. What was the range anyway? The maximum firing range for an M27 was around 3,900 yards. A bit over two miles. It was worth a try. Serrano raised the rifle, took aim, and fired three shots. Then he ran.

  Transpo, Serrano thought. A car, a motorcycle, anything.

  Serrano was circling the corrals and arena by that time, heading toward the house. That’s when he saw two horses. They were tied to a hitching post. Both were saddled.

  Serrano knew how to ride, or had known, before he entered the Marine Corps. But that was ten years earlier. He hurried to sling the M27 and mount a horse, which sidestepped. He pulled the animal’s head around and kicked its flanks. Would the narcos spot him?

  Serrano looked up to see that the mostly deflated surveillance balloon was falling, and would soon hit the ground. That offered a sense of safety which quickly disappeared as a helicopter roared overhead.

  Serrano was in among the fruit trees by then, and no more than a flitting shadow, as a narco fired an automatic weapon at him from fifty feet above. The downdraft from the rotors caused leaves to fall and raised a dust cloud. Get ready, Serrano told himself. The flying asshole will need to switch magazines soon.

  Serrano’s prophecy came true seconds later. That was his cue to dismount. His horse galloped away. Serrano brought the M27 around and ducked out of the sling.

  The helo had turned by then, the gunner was ready, and opened fire. Though protected by a tree trunk, Serrano was woefully conscious of how slender it was, as he waited for the helo to fill his sight. Aim for the pilot, Serrano thought. That’s the way to end this.

  The aircraft was coming straight at Serrano, so there was no need to lead it. The canopy appeared, Serrano fired a burst, and had the satisfaction of seeing the machine tilt before crashing, and exploding into flames. A dozen trees caught on fire.

  Run, Serrano thought. Run like your life depends upon it. Cause it sure as hell does.

  *

  Lugar de Paz, Mexico

  Martina had gone to work as a way to fill the day and to mask the desperation she felt, but Paco’s absence plagued her. As did Nick Serrano’s. What if she lost both? As one died in a futile attempt to save the other? Dark thoughts beckoned.

  No, Martina told herself. They’re alive. I know they are. And where there’s life, there’s hope.

  After the final bell rang and her students were gone, Martina cleared her desk and left. There were errands to run. A trip to the grocery store came first. Followed by a visit to La Casa Bonita to pet Macho and feed him.

  Then Martina went home, made dinner, and did a load of a laundry. TV was boring. She fell asleep.

  When the knock came, it frightened her. Martina stood and paused to grab her assault rifle before standing next to the door. “Who is it?”

  The voice was faint. “It’s me, Mamá. Let me in.”

  Martina hurried to turn the lock and open the door. And there, wearing clothes she didn’t recognize, was Paco. “¡Madre de Dios! It’s you! It’s really you!”

  They hugged and Martina cried. Paco tried to comfort her. “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

  Martina looked for a vehicle but didn’t see one. So, she brought her boy inside, checked for injuries, and couldn’t find any. “Are you hungry?” Paco nodded.

  Even though Martina’s heart was full, she continued to worry.

  La Roja was dead. Paco’s presence was proof of that. Did Ramirez have a spy inside the Ayo family compound? Otherwise, how else would El Cuchillo know?

  But what about Nick? Was he alive? Martina prayed that he was.

  *

  Near Agua Frio, Mexico

  Once the sun went down, it was cold. But Serrano had been able to rip three holes in an Ayo farm burlap bag, which he wore like a poncho. That helped some, but it was still chilly.

  The good news was that he was free, possessed two weapons, and one of the surveillance balloons was down. The bad news was that the narcos were patrolling the hacienda in trucks, on dirt bikes, and horses. So how to escape?

  Serrano had graduated from the Marine Corps’ Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape school. One of the instructors liked to talk about opportunities. “You may not have a plan,” he liked to say. “But you’ll have opportunities. The challenge is to recognize them for what they are.”

  So, Serrano thought. What are my opportunities? He couldn’t think of any. That left him with his only option—to travel west, toward the highway which bordered the farm. Once across the ribbon of concrete, Serrano hoped the danger level would decrease.

  But, when he arrived at the western edge of the apple orchard, Serrano discovered that narco vehicles were passing so frequently that it would be risky to cross. Especially given the open areas on both sides of the highway.

  However, thanks to time spent digging drainage ditches, Serrano knew that a large culvert ran under the road. Was that the opportunity he was looking for? Perhaps so.

  Serrano remained in among the trees until he came to a major ditch. An ankle-deep flow of water was running west, and as a motorcycle approached, Serrano had to elbow his way forward.

  Cold water soaked the burlap bag and the front of his pants. But it couldn’t be helped. The M27 was resting across his arms while he elbowed his way forward.

  Serrano heard the growl of an engine, as he belly-crawled into the culvert. The inside diameter was large enough to accommodate him, although the top of his head scraped concrete at times. At least I don’t have to worry about snakes, Serrano thought. They aren’t likely to linger in moving water.

  Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, Serrano emerged from the west end of the culvert. He could see a scattering of lights up ahead.

  After finding his way up and out of the ditch, Serrano dashed from shadow to shadow before arriving in what appeared to be a barrio pobre.

  From what Serrano could see the homes were small, frequently constructed using found materials, and almost always surrounded by piles of junk. Old cars lurked in the shadows, a man was shouting at someone, and pop music leaked out of a decrepit camp trailer.

  Who were the people living there? Serrano wondered. Narcos? And their families? That was likely. The Ayo family’s foot soldiers had to sleep somewhere.

  A dog barked and jerked on its chain as Serrano passed a shack. But no one came out to investigate. An opportunity, Serrano thought. I need another opportunity.

  Headlights swept across a graffiti-covered freight container which, judging from the collection of children’s toys scattered about, was somebody’s home. And there, leaning against the container, was a dirt bike! Was it operable? What about fuel?

  Serrano dashed from one shadow to another, took a look around, and sidled up to the bike. He could be spotted at any time. So, rather than inspect his prize then and there, Serrano chose to grab the motorcycle’s handlebars and walk it away.

  The fact that he could suggested that the steering lock was off, or had been disabled. Did that mean the bike had been stolen? Serrano hoped so.

  Once in the shadows, Serrano felt for an ignition key and was pleased to find one. And, by sticking a dry twig down into the tank, he confirmed that there was at least some gas in it.

  Footpaths branched every which way. Serrano followed one that looked like it would intersect the highway, soon learned that it didn’t, and had to start over again. But eventually, after two misses, he scored.

  A dirt track led out of the scrub and down an incline to the highway. Could Serrano pose as a searcher? He thought so. The long gun would reinforce that assumption.

  So, Serrano swung a leg over the seat, checked to ensure that the motorcycle was in neutral, and turned the key. The engine sputtered and died. He tried again. Success! The motor chattering loudly, Serrano engaged the clutch and shifted into first gear. A blob of light led the way.

  Serrano didn’t have his phone so he couldn’t summon a ride. And since the dirt bike’s top speed was 30mph, it had to ride on the shoulder, which was dangerous. Never mind the fact that he would run out of gas long before he arrived in Lugar de Paz.

  That forced Serrano to take a side trip to Valle de Oro and Father Olmo, where he put in a call to Father Colon and confirmed that Paco was free. He felt a huge sense of relief.

  Serrano was then free to shower, have his sutures removed, and don the clothes Father Olmo provided. Next, after a hearty breakfast, Serrano lay down on Olmo’s guest cot and went to sleep. And that’s where he was, in a world free of conflict, when something soft brushed his cheek. Serrano opened his eyes to find that Martina was looking down at him. She kissed him again. “I’m so glad that you survived, mi amor.”

  Serrano smiled. “You took a day off from school.”

  “It’s Saturday,” Martina replied pragmatically. “Paco is with Carmen… And can’t wait to see you.”

  Serrano swung his feet over onto the floor. “The feeling is mutual. He’s a good boy,” Serrano added, while he stood up. “And he’ll grow up to be a good man.”

  “Thanks to you,” Martina said, as she looked up at him. They kissed.

  The drive to Lugar de Paz was spent talking. Martina wanted to know everything there was to know about the assassination, and when Serrano described La Roja’s death, she cried. “God guided your bullet… There’s no other explanation.”

  Serrano didn’t think so. If God took sides, there wouldn’t be any evil in the world. But he kept that opinion to himself.

  Later that evening, when Paco was asleep, they snuggled in bed. “So,” Martina said, after they made love. “What’s next for you? Gardening?”

  Serrano laughed. “I had lots of time to think while I was digging ditches, and decided that I need to visit the United States.”

  Martina stared at him. “Why?”

  “Because,” Serrano replied, “I thought Mr. Yankovic would get tired of sending people to kill me and give up. But I was wrong. And it’s only a matter of time before Yankovic’s thugs hurt people here in Lugar de Paz while trying to cap me. And the Ayo family might come looking for me as well.”

  Serrano had been honest with Martina all along about Yankovic and the theft. “No,” she said emphatically. “The people of Luga de Paz owe you! We’ll defend you.”

  Serrano kissed her. “I know you mean that. But what about Paco? And his classmates? Any one of them could get killed during a gun battle.”

  It was, Serrano knew, the right argument for the right person. After all, Martina was both a teacher and a mother. Tears began to flow. “When will the waiting stop?” Martina demanded. “Please. Please make it stop.”

  “I will,” Serrano promised. “And then I’ll plant some flowers.”

  Chapter Twelve

  San Antonio, Texas

  The airport nearest to Lugar de Paz was in Torreón, which had plenty of flights to San Antonio. Serrano was seated just aft of the starboard wing in the window seat, where he could see the scenery pass below.

  But Serrano’s thoughts were mainly focused on the mission ahead. His first task was to locate his ex-wife, and find out if she still had some of his belongings. Mementoes mostly, photos taken while in the Corps, and other odds and ends.

  Then Serrano planned to dig up intel on Mr. Yankovic. He was tempted to contact Cory Dalton—the guy responsible for hooking him up with Yankovic—and try to obtain some info that way. But, linking Dalton to Yankovic’s death would be a shit-assed thing to do.

  Plus, even though the two of them had been tight in the Marine Corps, there was the possibility that Dalton would rat him out. Some people change over time.

  Serrano’s thoughts were interrupted by the usual pre-landing blah-blah. The plane touched down shortly afterwards. There was a fifteen-minute wait before they reached the gate.

  After waiting for passengers in the forward part of the plane to file out, Serrano removed his knapsack from the overhead bin, and followed along behind them.

  The jet bridge led to the terminal which, like most terminals, was very busy. The crowd swirled, and Serrano was about to head for baggage claim when two men grabbed his arms. One flashed a badge. “Nick Serrano?”