His name was Scott Howard. What would a solar-panel businessman do, a guy whose most dangerous moments came on the golf course, not the mean streets of Juárez?
He thought a moment more, then shouted in Spanish to the men from the Range Rover. “I’m an American. Here on business! I was kidnapped!”
“Yeah, you were kidnapped by us,” answered a man who was definitely not Fitzpatrick. Moore peeked around the car.
A leather-clad gangster with a hoop in his nose kept tight to the back door of the Range Rover and tugged free an empty magazine from his pistol.
“Those guys shot at us. Killed the guy in my backseat,” Moore explained.
Another voice now: “We know. Come out here!”
As Moore slowly rose with his hands in the air, the gun in his right hand clearly visible, two men with shaved heads broke off from the group near the Range Rover. They carried the bodies of the two punks back into the Toyota with the red panel, then one guy jumped behind the wheel and drove off. Moore watched this as three other men surrounded him, including the tattooed guy with the nose ring. Fitzpatrick was with them and would not meet his gaze. Good. Another guy got in Moore’s car, backed out, and vanished.
The fat driver of the SUV weighed in at four hundred pounds, Moore estimated, with a belly that shifted in great waves, even as he breathed. Here was the infamous Luis Torres, leader of the Sinaloa Cartel’s enforcer gang and Fitzpatrick’s “boss.” He wore a black baseball cap turned backward, and a lavish pattern of lightning-bolt tattoos seemed to crackle up and down his massive arms. On one biceps he sported the intricate likeness of a skeleton dressed in flowing religious robes. This was Santa Muerte, the saint of death worshipped by drug traffickers. On a stranger note, his eyelids had been tattooed with pictures of another set of eyes, so when he blinked, it still appeared he was staring at you. The image was nearly as unnerving as the man’s face — so thick, so round, so cherubic that he strained to see past the folds of fat framing his eyes. And the teeth …the rotting and yellowed teeth, destroyed by a junk-food diet, no doubt, were enough to make Moore grimace.
But he didn’t. He sighed …At least they’d stopped shooting. For now.
Okay. He’d been captured by the Sinaloa Cartel. Check.
Don’t get yourself killed, he thought. And don’t let them see you shaking.
Torres pursed his lips and frowned at Moore’s gun, the long hairs on his chin sweeping forward like a broom. “What’re you doing with this?” His nostrils flared as he now spoke in English.
“I told you, I’m an American here on business.”
“So am I.”
“Really?”
Torres snorted. “I was born in South Central L.A.”
“I’m from Colorado,” Moore said.
“So you’re on business? What kind of business?”
“Solar panels.”
“And you’re carrying a gun?”
“I took it from the guy in the backseat.”
Torres’s gaze grew harder, and he snickered. “And you always wear a shoulder holster just in case you find a gun?”
Moore realized only then that his hoodie was still unzipped.
“You’re already dead. You know that? You’re already dead.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you guys saved my life. I’ll pay you for that.”
Torres shook his head. “You’re full of shit.”
A couple of blocks over, a police siren resounded. Ah, the local guys Moore’s pal back at Langley had called in, but neither Torres nor his cronies reacted to the sound.
“I’m sorry you don’t believe me. Maybe I can talk to somebody else?”
Torres swore under his breath. “Take this prick inside.”
Moore was ushered into a second-story office over the club’s dance floor, and he sat there in a metal folding chair, frowning at the 1970s brown paneling on the walls and the heavy steel desk positioned near the window. A bookshelf behind the desk buckled from the weight of dozens of binders, and harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The only thing modern about the room was the iPad glowing on the desk. Fitzpatrick, two other thugs, and Torres remained in the room, and Torres lowered himself into the desk chair like an old walrus testing the water before sliding into the surf. In his case, the fat man was making sure said chair did not collapse under his imposing girth.
“What are we doing now?” Moore asked, drawing the grin of every man in the room.
“Listen, motherfucker, you start talking, otherwise, el guiso for you. Do you understand?”
Moore swallowed and nodded.
El guiso, or “the stew,” was a well-known execution method employed by the cartels. They put you in a fifty-five-gallon drum, poured gasoline or diesel fuel all over you, then burned you alive in a human stew. The drum made the cleanup and disposing of your body nice and tidy.
Torres folded his arms over his chest. “Are you working with the Federal Police?”
“No.”
“Local?”
“No.”
“Then why the hell are you poking around those old properties?”
“I was hoping to meet the owner. So you sent that guy to kidnap me?”
“Yeah, I did,” said Torres. “Talk about a botched job.”
“Not really. I still wound up here,” said Moore.
“Who are you?”
“All right. Here’s the deal. I’m someone who can help your boss. I need to sit down and talk with him, mano a mano.”
Torres chuckled under his breath. “Not in your lifetime.”
“Luis, listen to me very carefully.”
His gaze tightened. “How do you know my name?”
“We know a lot more than that, but I’ll cut to the chase. I work for a group of international investors. We’re based in Pakistan, and we were doing some very lucrative opium business with the Juárez Cartel until we were screwed over. My employers want the Juárez Cartel out of business. Period.”
“So why do we care?”
“Because I’ve been sent here to assassinate the leaders of that cartel. And you’re going to help me.”
Torres cracked a huge grin and addressed the others in Spanish: “Do you hear what this gringo is saying? Do you believe it?”
“They should believe it. Give me my phone. I’ll show you some pictures.”
Torres turned to Fitzpatrick, who’d been the one to confiscate Moore’s smartphone. He tossed it to Moore, and Torres leaned in toward him.
“If you make a call or send out some warning,” Torres began, “we’ll shoot you now.”
“You don’t want to kill me. I’m going to be your new best buddy.” Moore thumbed through screens on the phone and arrived at his photo gallery. He scrolled to a pic of Dante Corrales. “Is this one of the fuckers you want dead?”
“Corrales …” Torres breathed.
“I need to talk to your boss. I’ll pay fifty grand for the opportunity.”
“Fifty grand?” Torres was taken aback. “You’re not here alone, are you?”
Moore almost looked in Fitzpatrick’s direction. Almost. “We don’t care about you guys. We might even strike up a new deal with you. But first, it’s el guiso for Corrales and all his friends …”
Torres leaned back, the desk chair creaking loudly. And then, after a tremendous breath, he began to nod. “Where do you have the money? At the hotel?”
“Electronic transfer.”
“I’m sorry, gringo. Cash only.”
“I understand. I’ll get you the cash. You get me the meeting with your boss. And you’re right. I’m not here alone.”