“There is nothing you can say, Mr. DEA Man, that will get me to help you. And leaving this church alive is going to cost you yet another fifty thousand.”
Moore smiled. “I don’t work for the DEA, but you’re right. I’m not interested in your properties, only your enemies, and I can promise you that the group I work for will not only pay you well, but we can establish a new joint venture for opium transport — just like the Juárez Cartel is doing now. Let’s be honest. People are not lining up in this church, reaching out a hand to help you — and it’s clear to us that you need help.”
“You tempt me with your lies, you really do, but I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, because neither your group nor I will ever bring down the Juárez Cartel.”
Moore frowned deeply. “Why do you say that?”
“I thought your people knew everything.”
“If we did, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Very well.” Zúñiga gathered his breath, and what he said next sounded somewhat rehearsed, as though he’d given this speech to his men to put their actions into perspective. “I’ll tell you a story about a man who grew up very poor, a man who watched his brother die before his eyes, a man who saved up enough money and went to America for his education, then returned to Mexico to start many businesses. This is a man who used drug trafficking to help support and finance those businesses, a man who over the years became one of the richest men in the world. This is the man you want to bring down, the Caesar you want to overthrow, but his resources are endless, and all we can do now is fight small battles in a war we lose.”
“What’s his name?”
Zúñiga began to chuckle. “Are you serious? If your group is so powerful, they should already know.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t.”
Zúñiga made a face. “Jorge Rojas.”
Moore nearly fell out of the pew. He knew the name well. “Rojas is the leader of the Juárez Cartel? He’s always been a person of interest to us, but there’s never been any real evidence to pin on him. How can you be sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure. He’s threatened me personally. And he’s buried himself behind a wall of beautiful lies so that no one can ever touch him. He has the audacity of Pablo Escobar and the resources of Bill Gates. He is the smartest and most powerful drug trafficker in the history of the world.”
“Do your men know this? Are they aware of how powerful their enemy is?”
Zúñiga shook his head. “They don’t need to know that. It’s too depressing to discuss with them, so we don’t talk about it …”
Moore slowly nodded. That explained why Fitzpatrick hadn’t come to the joint task force earlier with the knowledge that Rojas was the cartel leader. “If he’s got so much money, why would he continue to run a drug cartel?”
Zúñiga’s eyes widened. “Why not? People have questioned why during such tough economic times his businesses never fail. It’s because they are helped by drug money, always helped. This is all Rojas knows, but now he is far removed from the daily operation and his lieutenants do all the work. I really believe he is living in denial now. Truly living in denial. He puts his name on schools and calls himself a saint, while he employs demons to do all his dirty work.”
“Dante Corrales.”
Zúñiga recoiled at the sound of the name. “Yes. How do you know that name?”
“I told you we know a lot — but not everything.”
“What else do you know?”
“We know they control the border tunnels, and they rip off your guys. We’ve heard they disrupt and steal your shipments, and use the Federal Police to kill your men while their boys are left alone. We know the Guatemalans are hunting you now. I can get you access back to the tunnels and get the police and the Guatemalans off your back. We can work together, and we’ll find a way to bring down Rojas.”
Zúñiga’s lips curled in a dubious grin. “A ridiculous dream. I’m sorry, Mr. Howard. Luis is going to take you to the bank. And you’re going to give him another fifty thousand dollars. Then we’ll decide whether you live or die.”
Moore’s voice turned softer, more emphatic. “Ernesto, I didn’t come here alone. You don’t need any more enemies. You have enough already. Let me go, and I will earn your trust. I promise you. Give me a number that you and I can use to talk directly.”
“No.”
“You have nothing to lose. In fact, you’ll have more to lose if you don’t do something soon. Even if you don’t believe who I say I am — and you still think I’m DEA, what’s the difference? I’m telling you, we won’t touch you. We want the Juárez Cartel. We want Rojas.”
“You’re a very persuasive man, Mr. Howard. You seem almost too comfortable, as though you have done this many times before.”
Zúñiga was very observant and certainly correct, although the last time Moore had been in a house of worship it had been a chapel, and he’d dismissed the Navy chaplain with a wave of his hand.
“You cannot abandon your faith,” the chaplain had said. “Not at a time like this, when your faith is what will carry you through. You will overcome.”
“I want to believe that, Father. I really do…”
Moore narrowed his gaze on Zúñiga. “I’ll give you the money. You let me go, and while you consider my offer, I’ll see what I can do to help your business. I think you might be very surprised.”
“They’re going to say I’m crazy for trusting you.”
“No need to trust me yet. I told you I will earn it. Will you give me that opportunity?”
Zúñiga frowned. “I didn’t get where I am by taking the easy or the safe road. I told my dear wife to take a chance on me, and she did. And now I know how she feels.”
“Thank you, señor.” Moore proffered his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Zúñiga took it—
And then he squeezed the hand firmly and tugged Moore toward him. “Do the right thing.”
Moore’s voice did not waver. “I will.”
It was nearly ten p.m., and Johnny Sanchez was alone in his hotel room, typing furiously on his notebook computer after having just inhaled two cheeseburgers and a large order of fries, the grease-stained wrappers and containers lying on the desk near his mouse. The city’s lights were gleaming, and the U.S. Consulate was just five hundred yards off and clearly visible through his window. He pushed back his desk chair and reread what he’d just written:
EXT. BURNING HOTEL — NIGHT
As Corrales falls to his knees in the street, the fires raging skyward: an inferno of an old life turning to ashes. The boy looks skyward, the flames reflected in his tear-filled eyes, and he rages aloud against the heavens. We cry with him …
“That is fucking beautiful,” Johnny shouted at the computer screen. “Fucking beautiful! Who’s the man? You the man, Johnny! This bitch is going to sell big-time!”
A slight click came from the hallway, and as Johnny looked up, the front door opened. Johnny bolted from his chair and gasped at a man dressed in dark slacks, a black shirt, and a leather jacket. The man was over six feet, with a closely cropped beard, an earring, and long hair pulled back into a ponytail. He appeared either Arabic or Hispanic, Johnny wasn’t sure, but he felt pretty certain about the make of the pistol in the man’s hand. It was a Glock, all right, most certainly loaded, and pointed at Johnny’s head. Attached silencer. Johnny’s pistol was in the nightstand drawer, out of reach, damn it.
“What the fuck is this?” Johnny asked in Spanish.
The man answered in English. “This is me saying, ‘Hi, Johnny. I read your article. Good stuff. You’re a good writer.’”
“Who the fuck are you?”