Vera made the decision—AFI would launch a surprise dawn raid on Los Elijos.

Further satellite intel narrowed Barrera’s most likely location down to the largest house in the village, at the end of a dirt road, a single-story limestone structure with a tiled roof and a low wall around the periphery.

“I hope that the beauty queen is with him,” Vera said. “I would like to lay eyes on that specimen.”

Keller looked at the satellite photos of the house in Los Elijos and said, “I’m going on the raid.”

“We cannot run the risk of a North American agent being killed on Mexican soil,” Aguilar said, although Keller suspected that what he really meant was that they couldn’t run the risk of a North American agent killing a Mexican citizen on Mexican soil. Barrera’s capture would be an exclusively Mexican operation, Aguilar asserted. No mention would be made of the DEA intelligence.

Advise and assist, Keller thought. “If anything happens to me, just bury me in the mountains.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” Aguilar said, “I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

“It was my intel that made this possible,” Keller agued.

“How is that relevant?”

“Collegiality,” Vera answered. “We owe him the courtesy as comrades-in-arms.”

“If you’re willing to take the responsibility,” Aguilar huffed.

They were on a military flight to El Salto, Durango, that afternoon, and from there the AFI troopers got into trucks and SUVs and headed for the mountains. After driving all night, they arrived at the ridge above Los Elijos.

Now Keller sits shivering beside Aguilar.

Vera is in another vehicle with five of his troopers. The tactical plan is simple. At first light, Vera will give the word over the radio and the eight vehicles will race down the road into the village but drive straight through and then surround the large house at the end of the road and go in.

Hopefully, Barrera will be inside. If not, if he’s somewhere else in the village, they’ll have him isolated in the countryside and then can run him down.

That’s the plan, anyway.

Aguilar’s not buying it.

“This whole idea that Barrera has found sanctuary in Cabray’s village is a romantic conceit,” he said on the tortuous drive through the mountains, which aggravated his stomach as well as his psyche. Now he chews an antacid and looks down at the village.

With nothing else to do but wait, they actually start to talk, if only to break the tension and monotony. Keller learns things about the taciturn lawyer that he hadn’t known, or maybe, he considers, never bothered to find out.

Aguilar has a wife and two teenage daughters, he attended Harvard as an undergraduate and thought it overrated, he’s an ex-smoker, a devout Catholic, and almost as devout a fan of the Águilas de América fútbol team.

“You?” Aguilar asks.

“Soccer? No.”

“Family, I meant.”

“Divorced,” Keller answers. “Two kids—boy and a girl—grown up now.”

“This job,” Aguilar says, “is hard on family life. The hours, the secrecy…”

Keller knows that this is Aguilar trying to be kind and to find common ground. It’s almost friendly, so he responds, “They say that DEA issues you a gun and a badge, not a wife and kids.”

“I couldn’t live without my family,” Aguilar says, and then quickly adds, “I’m sorry, that was unkind, and I didn’t mean it to be.”

“No, I get it.”

They’re quiet for a while and then Aguilar ventures, “I’ve heard the stories about you and Barrera.”

“Well, there are a lot of them.”

“I think,” Aguilar says, “that it is important to distinguish between revenge and justice.”

Just when I was beginning to like you, Keller thinks, you have to get sanctimonious on me. “Have you ever been in a firefight before?”

“No,” Aguilar answers. “Nor am I likely to now.”

“I just wondered if you were nervous,” Keller says. “It’s understandable.”

“All my previous combats have been in court,” Aguilar says. “But, no, I’m not nervous. I’m merely irritated at this monumental waste of time and resources, neither of which we have to spare.”

“Okay.”

Aguilar glances at the Sig Sauer. “You are not to discharge that weapon, except in the most extreme exigency of self-defense.”

“Where did you learn your English?” Keller asks.

“Harvard.”

“Makes sense.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I know.”

Aguilar might not be nervous, Keller thinks, but I am. Barrera is in that village. I know it for a reason that Aguilar would contemptuously dismiss—I can just feel it. I’ve been hunting Adán Barrera in one form or another for over thirty years—we’re connected by the psychic hip—and I can feel him there.

In twenty minutes, thirty minutes, this could be over. And then what? Keller wonders. What do you do with your life then?

You’re getting ahead of yourself.

First get Barrera.

Keller nervously fingers the trigger.

Then there’s crackle of the radio signal open and he hears Vera order, “Stand by.”

“Are you ready?” Aguilar asks.

Fuckin’ A, Keller thinks.

—

Vera gives the signal and the car lurches ahead and pitches down the steep grade. The AFI driver makes no concession to the sharp curves and sudden edges that could send the vehicle somersaulting hundreds of feet down.

But they make it into the village and race down the main and only street. A few early risers stare at them in shock and Keller hears one or two raise the alarm “Juras! Juras!”

Police! Police!

But it’s too late, Keller thinks as the car speeds past the new well, the new school, the new clinic, and races toward the house at the end of the road. If you’re here, Adán—and you are here—we’ve got you.

The car comes to a stop in front of the house while other vehicles circle it like Indians in a bad western and then form a circle. The AFI troopers in their dark blue uniforms and baseball caps spill from the cars with American-made AR-15s and .45 pistols, bulletproof vests and heavy back combat boots.

With Vera in the lead, they storm the house.

Keller jumps out of the car and trots toward the back door. Aguilar keeps up with him, looking awkward with a .38 in his hand. Keller goes through the door, his Sig Sauer out in front of him.

It’s the kitchen, and a terrified cook raises his hands over his head.

“Where is Adán Barrera?!” Keller shouts. “Where is the señor?!”

“No sé.”

“But he was here, wasn’t he?” Keller presses. “When did he leave?”

“No sé.”

“Was a woman with him?” Aguilar asks.

“No sé.”

“What was her name, ‘no sé’?” Vera walks in, pulls his pistol, and jams it against the cook’s cheek. “Do you know now?”

“He’s terrified,” Aguilar says. “Leave him alone.”

“I’ll put you and your whole family in jail,” Vera growls at the cook as he pushes him away.

“There is no criminal statute that I’m aware of that prohibits making black bean soup,” Aguilar says, looking at the stove. “What do you think—that Barrera told his cook where he was going?”

Keller goes through the house.

The bedrooms, the bathrooms, the sitting room, anywhere. He looks under beds, in closets. In one bedroom he thinks he smells the scent of expensive perfume. The AFI troopers rip up bathtubs and floor tiles, looking for tunnels.

There isn’t one.

They sweep the house for cell phones and computers and find nothing. Walking back to the vehicles, Aguilar mutters to Keller, “I told you so.”

As they drive back through the village, Keller sees that the troopers are going through each house, tossing the people out into the road, smashing windows and furniture.

He gets out of the car.

“I’ll burn this shithole to the ground!” Vera yells, his face flushed with fury.

The same mistakes, Keller thinks. Vietnam in the ’60s, Sinaloa in the ’70s, we make the same dumbass mistakes. No wonder these people shelter the narcos—Barrera builds schools and we wreck houses.