The 7-piece pick and hook set was kept ready in a pocket and, thanks to Vicky’s expertise, it took less than a minute to open Serrano’s front door.

  Was it alarmed? No, not as far as Vicky could tell. Vicky is a lucky ducky, the hired killer thought. Fifty large. That’s the amount Mr. Yankovic is going to pay Vicky. And Vicky’s going to Disneyland.

  The lights were off except for the soft glow emanating from what Vicky assumed to be a bathroom. The door to the adjacent bedroom was slightly ajar. Vicky nudged it open. Thanks to the night vision goggles Vicky could see that someone was lying in bed.

  But she could also see what looked like a human form stretched out on the floor beside the bed. One of them was a fake. But which? The solution was obvious: Shoot both.

  *

  Serrano was asleep on the steel plate that Emillio and he had laid across the rafters, when Macho limped into the bedroom on three legs, and began to yap.

  Vicky was firing into the form on the bed, as Serrano rolled off the sleeping platform, and landed on top of her. The impact drove the killer to the floor and her weapon went flying. There was no mistaking the pressure against the base of Vicky’s skull. “Are you alone?”

  Vicky considered telling a lie, but knew Serrano would see through it. If she had sides, they would have entered the bedroom. “Yes, I am.”

  “Did Mr. Yankovic send you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t let you live, because you’ll try again.”

  “Vicky knows that.”

  “How do you want it?”

  Weird Vicky was lying on a sheet of plastic. She knew why. “The back of Vicky’s head is fine.”

  “Vaya con Dios.”

  Chapter Eight

  East of La Antigua, Mexico

  It was dark, the Gulf of Mexico was calm, and the bulk carrier Celene was creeping along at four knots—less than half of the freighter’s top speed. Her running lights were off, lest someone report her presence to authorities, although that was unlikely.

  The people who lived along that stretch of coast were used to seeing strange lights at night, hearing the roar of powerful engines, and knew it was best to ignore the contrabandistas.

  But Captain Nels Andersen wasn’t one to leave things to chance. The stakes were too high for that. The Celene was carrying two cargos: concrete and fentanyl.

  Of the two cargoes, the fentanyl was the more profitable. So much so, that Andersen and the members of his six-man crew were going to make $100,000 each by dropping a “train” of six water-tight barrels over the side. But $600,000 was nothing. Each container would be worth millions to the Los Ceros cartel.

  A light flashed to starboard. Three longs, followed by two blips. Andersen turned to the first mate, a Nigerian named Umar Obi. “Give them the counter signal. And tell the boatswain to lower the ladder. One, and only one, visitor will be permitted to come aboard. If there’s more, order the crew to open fire on them, and we’ll head out to sea.”

  Obi had served in the Nigerian navy and liked a bit of formality. “Sir! Yes, sir!”

  Andersen grinned, as his number two made his way out onto the starboard bridge wing, and triggered a powerful flashlight.

  It wasn’t long before powerful engines were heard, and a thirty-five-foot launch came alongside. The boatswain was at the foot of the accommodation ladder, ready to receive a line or repel boarders. Whichever the occasion demanded.

  Fortunately, there was no need for gunfire as a young man sporting a backwards ballcap and a black satin jacket ran up the ladder. He was carrying an aluminum overnight case.

  Obi took command as Andersen went down to meet their visitor. Neither of them had met before, and neither was interested in social niceties. “Are you ready?” the narco demanded.

  “We are,” Andersen replied. “The canisters are here, lids off, ready for testing.”

  “Let’s do it,” the narco replied, as a large drone appeared overhead. The threat was obvious.

  It took less than ten minutes to take samples and test them. All were satisfactory. “Muy bueno,” the youngster said, as he gestured to the suitcase. “Revísalo.”

  Andersen’s heart was beating faster as he knelt and opened the case. His headlamp was enough to illuminate the contents.

  The trick was to dive deep and make sure the neat stacks of twenties went all the way down. After three spot checks, Andersen was satisfied. “Let’s seal the cannisters. It’s important to screw the lids on tight.”

  Though half empty—in order to float—the barrels were heavy. The containers had been roped together to form a “train.” One of the ship’s derricks was used to hoist up the cargo net full of barrels, swing them out over the port side, and let them go. A beacon attached to the lead “car” flashed on and off. Once the kid was back on the launch, he took the train in tow, and headed for shore. The Celene disappeared into the night.

  *

  Los Ceros had a fleet of armored Mercedes G-Class SUVs, costing $200,000 each. Five of them were parked on the sand-drifted parking lot behind the old Albacore Cannery. The vehicles were a reward for those who met their targets, an enticement for street kids, and some flash for everyone else. The Federales included. They were also dead giveaways. With the emphasis on dead.

  That was what Elena Isabella Ayo, head of the Las Rojas cartel, thought as she took a final look around. Most of them are looking out to sea, Ayo thought, rather than west. Es un regalo de Dios.

  Like all of her soldados, Ayo was wearing a voice-activated headset. “You have your targets, muchachos . Take them down.”

  The lookout was invisible except for the glow of his carrujo . Ayo drew her compound bow back, took aim, and let go.

  The high-tech carbon arrow hissed through the air, struck its target, and killed him instantly. The carrujo landed on the ground.

  Ayo hurried forward to stand over the body. Other sentries went down—some sprouting two, or even three, deadly shafts.

  La Roja was beginning to believe that her Reds were going to overrun the old cannery when a beam of light shot down through holes in the roof to illuminate all but a few hiding places. Then a 500-pound military grade bomb fell on the complex. The resulting explosion destroyed what remained of the cannery and killed three Reds. The blast wave knocked Ayo off her feet. A drone! That’s what the cartel leader thought, as she struggled to her feet. A fucking zumbido.

  How many bombs could the machine carry? One, Ayo guessed. So now, unless the machine is armed with rockets, it’s nothing more than a flying turd.

  But that wasn’t true as Ayo soon learned. Thanks to what the drone could “see” from above, the Zeros could target the surviving Reds with sniper fire. A fact that forced them to take cover rather than advance.

  Meanwhile, owing to the reports that were coming in, Ayo knew that a launch was approaching shore and that Zs were wading out into the surf. Why? Because they were going to get the fármacos and drag them up onto the beach.

  Mateo was a capataz and one of Ayo’s most trusted men. “Mateo,” Ayo said. “Kill the men in the surf.”

  The Kawasaki jet skis were waiting half a mile north of the cannery, loitering under a pier. Each machine had a driver and a gunner armed with an HK MP7 machine pistol.

  Once Mateo gave the order it was a simple matter to start engines, jettison anchor cords, and head south. There were three machines in all. And there was no way to disguise the combined roar that their engines made. Which meant that the Zeros knew there was some sort of water craft about to arrive.

  But even the drone operator had a hard time spotting the jet skis until they neared the cannery, and by then it was too late. Suddenly the machines were in among the Zeros, guns firing, as the drivers uttered personal war cries.

  Some of the Zs tried to swim out to sea. Others attempted to reach the beach. But regardless of which way they went, the unique penetrators that the HKs fired found them.

  And it wasn’t long before the incoming waves were red. And that, La Roja decided, was how it should be.

  *

  La Hacienda Roja, south of Paso del Toro, Mexico

  Three days had passed since the battle with Los Ceros. Bodies had been buried. Significant sums of money had been paid to bereaved families, assorted Federales, and members of the local judiciary. And the fentanyl was being processed for distribution.

  In order to celebrate what Las Rojas called a new beginning, a party was being held at the Ayo family’s sprawling hacienda. There was non-stop music from two mariachi bands, pony rides for the children, and plenty of refreshments for their parents.

  But in spite of the gaiety there were somber notes, too. Like the tethered spy balloons which floated above, the snipers stationed on lookout towers, and the empty-eyed servants—prisoners “on loan” from José Coro—the district court judge for that area.

  And there to make sure that the prisoners behaved themselves, was Señora Flores, a strict disciplinarian who had the power to administer corporal punishment if needed.

  Guests danced, the bands played, and Ayo was everywhere. She thanked people, told stories, and kissed babies. All of which was part of her effort to foster what she called nuestra familia. That is, an organization held together by more than money.

  Finally, as guests began to depart, Ayo brought the most important members of the “family” together in what had been her husband’s spacious study. It was a room replete with family photos, antique ranching paraphernalia, and shelves of leather-bound books. Because the study was located in the oldest part of the house, there were no windows. Only rifle slits.

  Ayo’s sons Ricardo, Mateo, and Benito—often referred to as El Niño—were there. As were the hacienda’s foremen Mateo and Camilo.

  La Raja raised a glass of wine pressed from the family’s vineyard. “To all of my boys, living and dead. God bless you!” There was a pause while the men nodded and sipped their drinks.

  “Now,” Ayo said. “A great victory has been won. The leaders of Los Ceros were killed. And, under Ricardo’s leadership, their territory will merge with ours. No small accomplishment.

  “But is that enough? No! Of course not. What your father envisioned was a full-fledged country within a country. What some might call a narco state. But I reject that label because of the negative connotations associated with it.” All those present had heard versions of the speech before, but did their best to look interested.

  “So,” Ayo continued. “We can’t rest. We must grow. And do it quickly before the pendejos in Mexico City realize what’s taking place and send the Marines in.

  “So that, my darlings, is why we are going to attack Los Caribes, kill El Cuchillo, and add his territory to ours.”

  That was new. And very, very dangerous. The brothers exchanged glances but remained silent. It was Mateo who raised his glass. “A la victoria!”

  *

  Rancho del Sol, Mexico

  It was dark and a powerful flashlight lit the scene. The calf’s forelegs were sticking straight out. But its hindquarters had collapsed. It mooed pitifully.

  The veterinarian shook his head sadly. No one liked to deliver bad news to El Cuchillo. “I’m sorry, Señor Ramierz, but we’ll have to put her down.”

  Ramirez had heard of mad cow disease. And read about it. So, he knew that bovine spongiform encephalopathy was a fatal neurologic disease. Furthermore, Ramirez was aware that the condition was transmitted by an abnormal prion protein found in contaminated feed.

  And since Ramierz purchased all his feed from Héctor Delgado in the nearby town of Llera, he was seething with anger and struggled to hide it from the vet. “So, all the calves will have to be put down?”

  “Yes, unless you know which cow gave birth to it.”

  Unfortunately, Ramirez didn’t know because his stock ran free. And he was about to say as much when the clatter of helicopter rotors was heard. At least two but maybe three.

  The helos passed overhead and made straight for the well-lit house in the distance. Ramirez felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach. La Roja. It had to be her. She was the only cartel leader who had a small air force.

  Ramirez brought the radio up to his lips. “Code Red. Destroy the incoming aircraft. Prepare to engage enemy troops on the ground.”

  Then Ramirez turned to his driver. “Bruno, get me to the house, and step on it.”

  The Range Rover drove away. The vet and sick cow were left behind.

  *

  As her helicopters attacked El Cuchillo’s house, Elena Ayo was inbound, aboard her family’s aging Cessna 208B Grand Caravan plane.

  The 208 had a high wing, large door, and two benches for skydivers to sit on. The port cargo hatch had been converted into a roll-up door for skydiving. And fourteen armed jumpers followed Ayo as she threw herself out of the plane.

  The Cessna was at 5,000 feet, which was low by normal standards, so the Rojas would be able to reach the ground quickly. Even so, Ayo had a brief moment in which to enjoy the instant when one of her helicopters dropped an incendiary device on El Cuchillo’s house. It exploded into flames that quickly spread.

  Ayo flinched as a surface-to-air missile fired from a man-portable air-defense system struck the helo and destroyed it.

  But the ground was coming up fast, and she had to focus on that rather than the loss of a helicopter and two pilots.

  The light thrown by the burning house was enough to see by. Ayo took aim at the green astroturf in front of El Cuchillo’s home and, by making use of the parachute’s control toggles, was able to flare in. After Ayo’s boots made contact, she was forced to take three steps forward, before coming to a full stop.

  Thanks to practice and quick release fasteners, La Roja shed the chute quickly, and spoke into her mike. “Form on me. Remember, our goal is to find El Cuchillo and kill him, so stay focused. Let’s go.”

  *

  “Skydivers have landed,” a member of Ramirez’s team announced. “And they’re closing in on the house. Over.”

  This is an assassination attempt, not a raid, Ramirez reasoned. And there’s no way to save the house. So, it’s time to use plan D.

  “Pull back,” Ramirez ordered. “You have thirty seconds to clear zone A. Start the countdown, Balasco. Over.”

  *

  Ayo could tell that something was wrong. Rather than engage her Reds, the Knives were pulling back away from the fiery inferno. Why?

  Because she and her men were in a trap, that’s why. Ayo turned her back to the blaze and yelled, “Run!”

  The narcos ran. And were still running when the command-detonated mines began to explode. They’d been planted two years earlier for use as a last-stand defensive screen. And, while the explosions destroyed the house, the tradeoff was worth it.

  Ayo and three of her fastest runners escaped, as dozens of deafening blasts circled the fully engulfed mansion—and tore the slower Rojas asunder. Body parts were hurled in every direction. Some disappeared into the pyre, others landed on the grounds, waiting to be discovered the following morning.

  Ayo had one card left to play, and that was helo two, which was still aloft. The cartel leader was running full tilt as she ordered the helicopter to land near the ranch’s water tower. It, ironically, was crowned with a flashing beacon to prevent low-flying aircraft from hitting it.

  The little helo wasn’t designed to carry four people, but they entered nevertheless, and the pilot managed to lift. Not far, only a hundred feet or so, but enough to flee the area.

  *

  In the meantime, there was nothing Ramirez could do except light a cigar from one of the burning splinters that littered his cactus garden. The fire crackled and a host of sparks spiraled up into the night sky. What was the old proverb? Revenge is best served cold?

  Yes, Ramirez decided. But how?

  Chapter Nine

  Highway 49, headed for Juan Aldama, Mexico

  Serrano was happy. Or, as happy as he could be. The weather was good. Martina was next to him, her head on a pillow, taking a nap. And, after hassling Serrano about the hitwoman’s death, the Federales had cleared him.

  The issue from their perspectives was the nature of her head wound. Serrano’s bullet had entered the back of the Americana’s skull from only inches away. That was obvious. So, how could Serrano claim self-defense?

  “She was firing at what she thought was my body,” Serrano explained, “as I rolled off my elevated sleeping platform and landed on top of her.

  “She fell facedown, my pistol discharged accidentally, and the bullet struck the back of her head. That was unfortunate, but I can’t say that I’m sorry.”

  “Alright,” a sergeant named Otero said wearily. “She was trying to kill you. That’s true. But why do so many people want you dead?”

  Serrano frowned and shook his head. “I wish I knew.” And that was the end of it as far as Otero was concerned.

  But not for Mr. Yankovic. Serrano had miscalculated. Originally, after stealing Yankovic’s money, Serrano figured the bastard would give up attempting to recover it after a couple of tries. But he was still at it. Maybe he’ll give up now, Serrano thought. I hope so.

  Martina stirred, sat up, and rubbed her eyes. “Where are we?”

  “About halfway there,” Serrano answered.

  Martina smiled. “I love you.”

  “And I love you,” Serrano replied.

  Serrano had been the first to use the L-word a few days earlier, and had no regrets about doing so. But now, in keeping with the new stage in their relationship, Martina was taking him home to meet her parents. A trial Serrano wasn’t looking forward to, but understood the need for, since the possibility of marriage loomed ahead. They hadn’t discussed it yet, but Serrano knew it would come up soon.

  Juan Aldama was nestled among some dry hills, and was comprised of low one- and two-story buildings, some of which bore tropical hues.

  The town struck Serrano as a sleepy place, even if it was named after a famous insurgent and served as the local seat of government.

  The Escalera home was modest but well maintained. A three-foot-high wire mesh fence served to protect a lush vegetable garden from free range dogs, rambunctious children, and wandering farm animals. Especially goats.