Señora Escalera was working in the garden when they arrived and hurried out to embrace her only child. “Martina! You’re so thin… We’ll work on that. And this is the man you told us about. The one they call El Soldado. Welcome home, Nick.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señora. Martina talks about you all the time.”

  “Please, call me Rosa,” Señora Escalera replied. “Bring your things inside. That’s where Juan is, watching a football game.”

  When the visitors appeared, Juan turned the TV off, stood, and came forward to shake hands. Serrano noticed that the bricklayer’s hands were callused, his skin was a deep brown color from years in the sun, and his eyes were bright with intelligence.

  “I see that you’re heavily armed. That makes sense in Lugar de Paz. But not here. Juan Aldama is relatively peaceful.”

  Serrano took the hint, removed the rig, and hung it on a peg. “I’m glad to hear that. We have problems, but thanks to Martina and her fighters, the situation is better than it would be otherwise.”

  “There will be no talk about bad things while you’re here,” Rosa insisted.

  “Juan, take Nick to the playhouse. It’s out back,” Rosa explained. “Juan built it for Martina. It’s small, but it has a perfectly good bed, and you’ll be comfortable there.”

  Martina had warned Serrano about how devout her parents were, so he knew they wouldn’t be sleeping together. The playhouse was well crafted but small.

  Serrano had to bend over to pass through the door, and the bed was no more than five feet long, which meant that his lower legs and feet would protrude beyond the homemade mattress. The solution was obvious. Serrano would sleep the way he usually did. On the floor.

  The rest of the day was spent on the well-shaded veranda drinking cold Coronas, nibbling on the seemingly endless antojitos that Rosa brought from her kitchen, and reviewing Martina’s many accomplishments. Those included being the first member of the family to earn a college degree, a dozen awards for singing, and giving birth to the perfect child who, according to Rosa, was overdue for a visit.

  What was missing from the list—to Serrano’s way of thinking—was Martina’s bravery, and her leadership in fighting Los Caribes, the cartel responsible for her husband’s death.

  But according to what Martina had told him, those were forbidden subjects, because her parents disapproved of her role as a guerilla fighter.

  So, the day passed pleasantly. Rosa prepared a wonderful dinner, and Serrano did his best to entertain his hosts with Marine Corps stories. The funny kind rather than anything related to combat.

  Bedtime came early in the Escalera house, and that was just fine with Serrano, who was tired. Martina kissed him on the lips in front of her parents, winked at him, and withdrew to what had once been her bedroom.

  After a round of “Good nights,” Serrano made his way out to the playhouse where he moved the bedding to the floor. It was chilly, so Serrano went to bed with his clothes on.

  Sleep came quickly, and Serrano was dead to the world when Martina burst into the room sobbing. She immediately sat down on the bed, head bowed, shoulders heaving.

  Serrano hurried to exit the mummy bag before going to sit next to her. One arm went around her shoulders. “What’s wrong, cariño?”

  “Everything,” Martina said between sobs. “Carmen called me. El Cuchillo’s narcos attacked Lugar de Paz. Our guerillas fought them off, but three were killed. Paco’s paternal grandmother Yaya was one of them. She tried to keep the bastardas out of my house, but they broke in, and shot her. Then they took Paco and left. I’m going to kill Ramirez.”

  Serrano felt all sorts of emotions. Sorrow regarding Yaya. Fear for Paco. And a deep abiding anger. “I get that, baby, but El Cuchillo’s pistoleros would kill you long before you could get anywhere near the bastard. And what happens to Paco then?

  “Let’s stall, and if we’re going to go in with guns blazing, let’s bring some help.”

  Martina nodded, but Serrano could tell that she wasn’t convinced.

  They packed quickly and hit the road. Rosa was crying, and Juan was trying to comfort her, as Martina and Serrano departed.

  They were clear of Juan Aldama when Martina’s phone chimed. The call was from Martina’s friend Carmen.

  Martina listened, glanced at Serrano, and switched to speakerphone. “Nick is here beside me. Tell him what you told me.”

  “The narcos left a note,” Carmen said. “It says that El Cuchillo will slit Paco’s throat unless you come to see him. And it says that you should leave your guns behind.”

  “It sounds as if El Cuchillo knows how I feel about Paco,” Serrano said. “And he thinks I have more money than Martina does. If that’s the case, I’ll pay every peso I have to get our boy back.”

  Martina reached over to squeeze Serrano’s thigh. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  The rest of the trip was spent discussing what ifs, and wondering about Paco. Had he been injured? Were the narcos feeding the boy? Was he scared?

  It was wasted energy for the most part, but Serrano knew it was a process that Martina had to go through, even if it was fruitless.

  Damage from the narco attack was clear to see as Serrano and Martina drove through town. Windows had been shattered by gunfire, the truck that had been used to rob the local Savings & Loan was still half buried in the lobby, and the municipal building had been fire bombed.

  Martina’s home was largely untouched, as was Serrano’s, and Macho was there to greet him. Even though the Chihuahua had only three legs, he was just as aggressive as he’d been before, and Serrano paused to pet him.

  Serrano and Martina had agreed that it didn’t make sense to try and meet with Ramirez with night coming on. It would be better to do so in the morning.

  Serrano spent a sleepless night tossing and turning rather than sleeping and arose feeling tired. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but forced himself to eat a piece of toast before leaving.

  The Rancho del Sol was about thirty miles away. Serrano felt a horrible emptiness in the pit of his stomach. What if El Cuchillo demanded more money than he had? What would he do then? And what if the drug lord wanted to kill him?

  Then I’ll be dead, Serrano concluded. End of story.

  The first layer of security was the roofed guard station located at the point where the two-lane highway intersected with a gravel road. A man wearing a cowboy hat and western gear flagged Serrano down. He was armed with an AR-15.

  “Señor Ramirez is expecting you, but we’re under orders to search the car. Get out.” Serrano had no choice but to obey.

  There were two guards and they spent a full fifteen minutes searching the car and Serrano. Finally, after inspecting the underside of the Taurus with a mirror mounted on a pole, they allowed Serrano to proceed.

  It didn’t take Serrano long to realize that Rancho del Sol was a real working ranch rather than a plot of ground with a pretentious name.

  Cattle were visible on the left, with horses to the right. Well maintained fences kept both from straying.

  The second security stop was less stringent than the first, but a guard entered the car, and sat in the passenger seat as Serrano passed the blackened remains of a helicopter.

  And, further on, the burned wreckage of what had been a sprawling house could be seen. Serrano was ordered to stop in front of what looked like a new motorhome.

  It was obvious to Serrano’s trained eye that a substantial battle had been fought at Rancho del Sol, and that El Cuchillo was the loser.

  Serrano was ordered out of the car, told to “Assume the position,” so he could be searched yet again. He stood with feet spread, and his hands on the Taurus.

  “My name is Balasco,” a man with a mustache said. “You will follow me.”

  Balasco led Serrano to an open-sided tent that had been erected next to the motorhome. A man was seated inside. He was wearing a black cowboy hat with a silver band. His eyes were little more than slits. And he exuded authority. “I’m Pablo Ramirez,” the drug lord said, without getting up. “Have a seat.”

  It was an order rather than a suggestion. Serrano obeyed.

  “So,” Ramirez said. “You’re the man they call El Soldado.”

  Serrano shrugged. “I’ve been called a lot of things.”

  Ramirez smiled. His teeth were even and very white. “Haven’t we all. Let’s get down to business. I have the boy. And, according to what I’ve been told, you’re close to Paco and his mother.”

  “I am,” Serrano agreed. “And I want to see him. Otherwise, this conversation is over.”

  Ramirez placed a revolver on the table. “I could kill you.”

  “You could,” Serrano said. “But you won’t. You summoned me for a reason.”

  “Balasco,” Ramirez said conversationally. “Get the boy.”

  “Do you smoke?” Ramirez inquired conversationally, as Balasco left.

  “No,” Serrano replied. “It’s bad for your health.”

  “Well, I do,” Ramirez said as he lit a cigar. “Tell me something, El Soldado, why do so many people want to kill you?”

  “A lot of people ask me that,” Serrano replied. “And the answer is simple. I have a tendency to piss people off.”

  “Nick!” Paco exclaimed, as he ran forward. “You came! Can we leave now? I don’t like it here.”

  Serrano wrapped the boy in his arms and hugged him. “It’s good to see you, son. Are you okay? Do they feed you?”

  Paco nodded. “Yes, but I want Mamá.”

  “And she wants you,” Serrano replied. “We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can.”

  Paco burst into tears as Balasco led him away.

  “So,” Ramirez said. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “You’ve seen what?”

  “How much you care about the boy.”

  “Let’s dispense with the bullshit,” Serrano replied. “You took Paco. What will it cost to get him back?”

  “This isn’t about money,” El Cuchillo responded, as he blew a smoke ring.

  “Then what’s it about?”

  “If you want to free Paco, all you have to do is kill Elena Isabella Ayo, otherwise known as La Roja. It’s a simple matter for El Soldado,” Ramirez said. “Bang. She’s dead.”

  It was not a simple matter. Because, if it was, Ramirez would have ordered one of his narcos to do it. Serrano remembered the charred remains of a house. “Ayo burned your house down.”

  Ramirez nodded. “Yes, she did. So, kill her and the boy goes free.”

  “How do I know you’ll keep your word?”

  “Because I’m an honest man. Ask anyone.”

  El Cuchillo was anything but an honest man. But somehow, in this case, Serrano thought he would be. “And if I kill Ayo, and I’m killed in the process, then what?”

  “Paco will be returned to his mother. Who I will kill later on.”

  “And if I try, but fail?” Serrano inquired.

  “Then Martina Blanco’s son will arrive home in a coffin,” Ramirez said coldly.

  There was a long moment of silence, followed by Serrano’s answer. “Okay, I’ll do it. But don’t expect overnight results. This will take time.”

  Ramirez nodded. “I understand. This meeting is over. Feel free to leave.”

  How the hell will you do it? That was the thought that dominated Serrano’s thoughts, as Serrano returned to Martina’s home. He gave it to her straight, and Martina burst into tears. “No! I won’t hear of it. I don’t want that. And Paco wouldn’t want that.”

  Serrano took Martina into his arms. “Paco is eight years old. And what he wants is his mamá. Don’t worry. This is my skill. It’s the only thing I’m good for. I’ll find a way. And I’ll set Paco free.”

  Serrano went from Martina’s house to the church, where he found Father Colon mopping a floor. The priest stopped. “How much? How much money will we have to raise?”

  “None, Father. All I have to do is kill someone and El Cuchillo will set Paco free.”

  “Kill someone? That’s a mortal sin.”

  “Yes,” Serrano agreed. “But remember when I confessed? And my penance? You ordered me to protect Lugar la Paz from evil. And that’s what I plan to do.”

  Colon made the sign of the cross. “I say foolish things sometimes. Who is it?”

  “Elena Isabella Ayo. La Roja.”

  Colon crossed himself again. “I will forgive you if you survive. And, I will pray for you when you die.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Serrano said. “I need your help.”

  “Anything,” Colon said. “Name it.”

  “I know you’re in touch with dozens of priests and lay people. Tap into your network for me. Find a narco who used to work for La Roja and is willing to brief me about her operation. I’ll pay a thousand U.S. dollars.”

  After a moment, Serrano cautioned, “This person will have to be under lock and key until my mission is over however. Otherwise, he might go to Ayo and get me killed.”

  Colon put the mop aside. “I’ll get to work. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to take a trip to Agua Frio,” Serrano answered. “That’s where the Ayo family lives, right?”

  “That’s the closest town to La Roja’s hacienda,” Colon agreed. “Be careful. Ayo owns Agua Frio and everyone in it.”

  It was a 50-mile drive to Agua Frio. Serrano spent the first 40 worrying. Then, as he drew closer, Serrano forced himself to focus. The first thing that caught his attention was a roadside billboard with the smiling countenance of Elena Isabella Ayo on it.

  Ayo had reddish hair, appeared to be forty something, and was urging motorists to stop in the town of Agua Frio, “Where the water is cool, and our hearts are warm.”

  What a load of bullshit. But Serrano knew that some people would buy it. And the supersized La Roja was a reminder of the task in front of him. Ayo was a big deal. Killing her would be tough.

  Serrano felt a stab of fear when he was about five miles from town, and a gun truck appeared in his rearview mirror. Did the narcos know? Were they after him?

  A horn blared as the fully loaded truck passed and a narco flipped him off.

  What was notable, to Serrano anyway, was the light machine gun mounted over the cab. That would never fly in an area where the Federales were active. Clear evidence that Father Colon was correct. Ayo did own everyone in the area.

  One pass through Agua Frio. That was all Serrano could allow himself. He might be noticed otherwise. And, worse yet, remembered.

  Agua Frio was a storybook town. It wasn’t what Serrano expected after the encounter with the gun truck. The buildings were painted in alternating tropical colors. The signs were in the same font. Flower baskets dangled from retro street lamps. And the main drag was scrupulously clean. That said a lot about Ayo.

  She’s an idealist, Serrano decided. And a control freak. Not to mention a very ambitious person. The attack on Rancho del Sol is proof of that.

  As Serrano left town, he passed a cyclone fence. It was topped with razor wire and hung with a sign that read: Carcel de Agua Frio.

  Identical tents were visible beyond, all neat and tidy, with only a few inmates in sight. Where are the rest of them? Serrano wondered. And that’s a whole lot of tents for such a small community.

  From there Serrano followed the highway along the bottom of a dry hill. And, when a turnoff appeared, he took it. The one lane, gravel road zigzagged upward to a cell tower and a stone equipment shed.

  Broken glass glittered in the sun as Serrano got out of the car. There were condoms too, which suggested that the hilltop was used for parties. By highschoolers? Narcos? Or both?

  Serrano brought Papá’s binoculars up to his eyes. He was looking at the Ayo family’s hacienda. It was a sight to see. There were green fields, orchards, and roads on a grid. And in the far distance, a sprawling house was visible.

  A water tank and the corrals were located next to a private airstrip where a helicopter and two planes were parked. The whole thing was very impressive.

  But what worried Serrano most were the white blimps that hovered over the hacienda. They were tethered to masts and sure to be loaded with automated cameras and sensors.

  So, could he hike in or crawl in without being detected? No.

  Could he shoot Aya from the hilltop he was standing on? No. The range was too great. What did that leave?

  Serrano lowered the glasses. He was stumped. But, come hell or highwater, he’d find a way.

  Chapter Ten

  Near San Luis Potosí, Mexico

  Serrano was halfway to Lugar de Paz when Father Colon called. “I found the person you’re looking for,” Colon said. “Meet me at Saint Anthony’s in Valle de Oro.”

  Serrano pulled over in order to check the nav app on his phone. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Martina. But time was of the essence.

  So, he was forced to go back. Ten miles down the road Serrano saw the Valle de Oro sign, slowed, and made the necessary turn.

  The sun was in Serrano’s eyes as he followed the two-lane highway through foothills, across a bone-dry flat, and through a narrow pass into a valley. The Valley of Gold. But that was more than a hundred years ago.

  Since then, many of the buildings along main street had been remodeled, and in some cases repurposed, like the bank which had been converted to a restaurant.

  Saint Anthony’s sat at the end of the main drag, at the intersection where main street split into First and Second Avenues. The church was an imposing structure with a tiled roof, a spire, and a cross on top.

  The sun was setting as Serrano placed the rig in the trunk of the car, locked the doors, and made his way over to the entrance of the church.

  As Serrano entered, he saw Colon. The priest was watching a mass and turned to look. Serrano went forward to greet him. They embraced. “Father Olmo gave us the use of his study,” Colon announced.

  “Your source is a novice, who was employed by the Ayo family before being raped by Benito, La Roja’s youngest son. A vicious animal known as El Niño. He’s Ayo’s favorite and can do no wrong.