Chapter 1
The Aranza Cartel was one of the largest drug trafficking organizations in Mexico, involved in the smuggling and distribution of Asian heroin, Columbian cocaine, and Mexican marijuana into the United States. For some reason, they chose not to traffic methamphetamine, leaving that particular drug to a neighboring cartel.
Their network was vast, employing planes, cargo ships, tractor trailers, buses, automobiles, speedboats, fishing vessels, railroad cars, and God only knew what else to transport their illicit product. Anybody who got in their way was bribed, threatened, or killed in some sort of grotesque manner meant to serve as a warning to others.
Wade Flint should know. He’d dedicated half a decade trying to eradicate the cartel, and had barely survived their attempt to turn him into one of those grotesque warnings.
His partner hadn’t been so fortunate.
It took some effort to mask his impatience as he propped one heavily muscled arm on the scarred wooden countertop and surveyed his surroundings. It was a run-down bar in a run-down town, one of hundreds dotting the region. Neon beer company signs adorned the brightly colored walls. A stuffed macaw sat on a perch near the entrance. On the plus side, the place was relatively clean, though the overhead fans did little to compensate for the lack of air conditioning.
Once upon a time, it had been common for tourists—Americans in particular—to frequent the nearby national park. But drug violence had triggered a rash of bad press and international travel advisories. As a result, the eco-tourism industry had dried up, leaving the area in economic ruin.
Wade retrieved his phone from the pocket of his pale-blue button-down shirt, checked the time, and frowned. All his life, he’d never been much for waiting, not even when he’d worked as an agent for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. His career had ended almost four years ago, but his hunger for justice remained, which was the only reason he’d returned to this godforsaken cesspool.
Hector Bosquez, his friend and former mentor at the DEA, should have been here by now. He’d left two hours ago to meet with a guy who knew a guy who supposedly had information regarding the whereabouts of Roberto Aranza. Rumor had it the drug lord was holed up in a compound in the mountains. But considering this stretch of the Sierra Madre extended for nearly a thousand kilometers, they needed something more specific before they set off after the asshole.
Wade rubbed one hand along the side of his face, the thick black stubble scratchy against his palm. The front door creaked open, and his gaze instinctively flicked up to the mirror behind the bar. But instead of his friend, a woman stepped inside, alone, which struck him as strange. With the high crime rate in the area, it was rare for women to travel unescorted.
Straightening in his seat, he sipped his beer and gave the woman a casual once-over. She was everything he never wanted in a woman: tall, slender, small-breasted, and blonde. Early to mid-thirties, if he had to guess. The manner in which she carried herself led him to believe she was American. Her brown pants and green blouse were streaked with dirt, her shoulder-length hair a tousled mess. The strap of a bulky black bag cut across her chest, accentuating her lack of cleavage. But her hazel eyes glinted with intelligence, and it made him wonder how a woman like her ended up in a place like this.
Not that it was any of his business. He was here for one reason only. And as soon as he killed Roberto Aranza, he was heading back to the States. Of course, that was if he survived. Considering his track record, the odds were fifty-fifty at best.
The blonde stood in the entryway, her face tight with determination as she looked about the room. Then she squared her shoulders, strode to the bar, and sat on the stool next to his.
Ignoring her, Wade kept one hand on his drink and shifted his focus to one of the televisions mounted on the wall. A soccer match was on—Mexico versus Uruguay, if he wasn’t mistaken—and when the team in green scored a goal, the cluster of men seated at a nearby table cheered.
Even now, he felt the weight of the woman’s stare but refused to acknowledge it. He hated it when people stared at him. It made him feel like a freak. Though, in all fairness, that was exactly what he was. He just didn’t appreciate the reminders.
“Excuse me, are you American?” The question came in softly spoken Spanish. Her voice carried a slight Southern accent. North Carolina, or maybe Virginia.
Fuck, she wanted to talk. To him. In a way, he supposed it made sense. He may be a freak, but he was the only gringo in the bar. Hell, the only gringo in town. It was the only possible explanation for why she’d chosen him, of all people. Usually, his size served as a deterrent, and if that didn’t work, the scars on his face did the trick.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t worked today.
Then again, the blonde was seated to his right. Perhaps she simply hadn’t seen them. He twisted his head toward her, making sure the entire left side of his face was in full view when he answered her question with a simple, “Yes.”
Her shoulders slumped on an audible exhale, her expression giving no indication that she’d noticed the cross-shaped scar that went from one side of his cheek to the other and from just below his eye to the edge of his beard. “Oh, thank God. Listen, my name is—”
“No,” he said with a subtle shake of his head. “This isn’t the kind of place where real names are used.”
Her pale eyebrows drew together. “Then what am I supposed to call you?”
He drained the last of his beer and set the empty glass on the bar. “I don’t give a shit. Use whatever floats your boat.”
“Okay, Tiny.”
He pegged her with his best hard look, and she didn’t so much as flinch. Feisty little thing, wasn’t she? Any other time, he might have found it amusing. But right now it just annoyed him.
Clearly, she wasn’t going anywhere until she said whatever was on her mind. Wade held two fingers up to the bartender, and the dark-skinned man in tan pants and red checkered shirt poured two shots of tequila. Wade slid one toward the woman.
She shook her head. “I don’t drink tequila.”
“You do now.” He tipped his head toward the shot glass. “People in bars who don’t drink attract attention. Is that what you want?”
Not waiting for a response, Wade downed his shot, and the burn of cheap tequila scorched a trail down his esophagus. Then he gave the woman an expectant look, and she stared down at the glass as though it contained strychnine.
With obvious dread, she picked up the glass, her nails short and ragged. After a brief hesitation, she tipped back the shot, her throat muscles moving as she swallowed the alcohol.
Eyes watering, she sputtered. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”
Yeah, it was an acquired taste, like raw oysters, black licorice, and conversations with total strangers. “It gets easier with repetition.”
She pushed the glass away. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The front door creaked open again, and this time two police officers stepped into the bar. One was thin, the other stocky. Both appeared to be in their early twenties, which wasn’t surprising considering the short shelf life of cops in this part of the country. They wore midnight-blue uniforms, with old school Berettas and collapsible batons tucked in their weapons belts.
At the sight of them, all conversation stopped; the only sound in the room came from the television. Neither officer spoke; they just looked around as though searching for someone in particular. The thin one looked to the bar, pointed at the blonde, and said, “Señora.”