“The Tijuana plaza,” Nacho whispers.

“It’s my sister’s,” Adán says.

“She can’t hold it,” Nacho answers. “And I want it for my son.”

Then Adán hears a tremendous roar in the sky.

—

Keller looks up to see a Mexican air force fighter fly directly over the ranch.

Low.

“God damn it!” Keller yells.

Lights come on in the finca.

“Go!” Vera yells.

They rush forward.

Keller goes with him, Aguilar’s prohibition forgotten in the rush to get there before Barrera can get away. It’s still possible, Keller thinks as he runs across the pasture. There’s only one road out and we have it covered.

—

Adán looks up and sees a fighter jet zooming in low.

Nacho’s eyes widen. He pushes Adán away and runs back toward his helicopter. Stumbling on a rock, he falls and stains the knee of his linen slacks. A bodyguard picks him up and leads him into the chopper.

The rotors start.

Diego unslings his AK and looks for something to shoot at.

Adán sees men moving across the pasture toward him. He runs for the helicopter, which hovers just a couple of feet above the ground. Nacho looks out at Adán and then signals the pilot to take off.

“Nacho, please!”

“Let him in,” Esparza says.

One of his guards hauls Adán up, and Diego jumps in behind.

The helicopter takes off.

As it circles the finca, Adán sees the troopers moving in below. He isn’t sure—it must be his imagination—but for a second, he thinks he sees Art Keller. He leans across and, over the throb of the rotors, shouts to Nacho, “Tijuana is yours, if you can take it from Teo!”

—

Keller sees a helicopter come up from the mist.

It circles the compound once and then takes off in the other direction.

Barrera has slipped the noose again.

—

“That was deliberate!” Keller yells at Aguilar when they get back to the plane.

“It was an unfortunate mistake,” Aguilar answers. “It was supposed to be a high-level reconnaissance flight…”

An “unfortunate mistake,” my ass, Keller thinks. It was deliberate, the only way of warning Barrera that someone could think of.

But who?

—

Four federal agents are waiting when the helicopter lands at a ranch farther down in Nayarit.

Adán looks at Nacho. “I guess you’ll take Tijuana on your own. And the rest of it.”

“Come on,” Nacho says.

They get out of the helicopter and follow the agents into the house.

Four million dollars later, the helicopter takes off again, with Nacho Esparza, Diego Tapia, and Adán Barrera on board.

—

Keller has a cup of coffee in a Condesa café, and then does a little shopping at El Pendulo bookstore. He picks up an Elmer Mendoza novel, then walks along Avenida Amsterdam, which used to be part of the old racetrack, and stops in at Parilladas Bariloche for a reasonably inexpensive dinner of papas con amor and arrachera. Sitting there perusing the Mendoza, he knows that he’s the image of the lonely, middle-aged divorced man—reading alone at a table for one.

Maybe, Keller thinks, I’ve become too used to solitude.

Maybe I like it too much.

He finishes dinner and then walks over to the Parque México.

Barrera has gone radio silent—no calls, no e-mails, no sightings, not even any rumors.

The trail is cold and dead.

The next meeting of the Barrera Coordinating Committee has the feel of a postmortem. Keller looks at his colleagues and wonders which, if either of them, has been tipping off Barrera.

He’s also aware that he’s been told to keep his big mouth shut about it—Mexican law enforcement has its shiny new soul—and Art Keller is not going to besmirch it. And the truth is that he doesn’t have anything solid, just his suspicions.

And his gut feeling that both of these men are about to throw in the towel.

Aguilar is actually right when he points out to Keller that the search for Barrera is only one part of a multifaceted effort, and that neither SEIDO nor AFI can commit all their time and resources for what seems to be an increasingly quixotic quest.

Keller hears the subtext—we’re going to get you the hell out of here—and he’s too smart to hasten the process of his own demise by making noise about corruption.

“Let me tilt at one more windmill,” he says.

—

Keller and Vera watch from behind the one-way glass as Aguilar interviews Sondra Barrera.

She looks like hell, Keller thinks.

The Black Widow.

“You were present at the Christmas party in El Puente prison,” Aguilar says.

“I don’t know anything about that,” Sondra answers.

“Well, you were there,” Aguilar says. “We have witnesses.”

Sondra doesn’t respond.

“You were there with your son Salvador and other members of the family,” Aguilar says.

“I don’t know—”

“Where is Adán Barrera?”

Sondra laughs.

“Did I say something funny?” Aguilar asks.

“Do you think Adán would tell me where he is?” Sondra asks. “Do you think I would tell you if I knew?”

“Do you know?”

Sondra Barrera has no love for her brother-in-law, Keller knows, but she’s not going to give him up, even if she could. He’s her paycheck, her pension, her social security.

“My husband is dead,” Sondra says.

“I’m aware of that,” Aguilar answers. “What are you getting at?”

“That Adán has an instinct for survival,” Sondra says. “Other people die for him. You’ll never find him.”

“Is he in touch with your son, Salvador?”

“Leave my son alone.”

Keller sees the alarm in her eyes. Aguilar must have seen it, too, because he presses, “Tell me where Adán is and I won’t have to speak to your son.”

“He’s good,” Vera says to Keller. “Whatever else you can say about the persnickety bastard, you have to admit he’s good.”

“Please leave my son alone,” Sondra says, on the verge of tears.

“I wish I could.”

“You’re bastards, all of you.”

“You’re hardly in a morally superior position, Señora Barrera,” Aguilar says. “Do you know how many people your late husband killed?”

Sondra doesn’t answer.

“Would you like to know? Does it matter to you? No, I thought not.” He hands her his card. “This is my number. If Adán contacts you, I hope you will call me. And please have Salvador make an appointment. I don’t want to pick him up on campus and embarrass him.”

After Sondra and her lawyer leave, Aguilar comes into the room and sits with Keller and Vera. “Well, that was useful.”

“It was,” Keller says. “I know Sondra—she’ll panic.”

“Do we have a trace on her phones?” Vera asks.

“Of course,” Aguilar answers. “And her son’s.”

“Luis is getting into the game,” Vera says, getting up to leave.

“I’ve been in the game,” Aguilar answers.

But Vera is already out the door.

Aguilar turns to Keller and says defensively, “I’ve been in the game.”

—

Sondra calls a number in Culiacán. “…they’re talking about obstruction charges.”

“They’re bluffing.”

“It’s not Adán’s voice,” Keller says.

“No,” Aguilar agrees.

“I will not go to prison. I will not have my son go to prison.”

“Relax. We’ll fix it.”

“What does that mean?” Keller asks.

“I don’t know,” Aguilar snaps.

“Call him.”

“That’s not necessary. We can take care of it.”

“He’s not leaving us hanging out there.”

“You know he wouldn’t do that.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Sondra—”

She hangs up.

“Who was she talking to?” Keller asks.

“Esparza?” Aguilar asks. “Tapia? I don’t know.”

But now they have the number she called, and it’s a simple matter of technology to tap its calls.

They sit through a long night. Finally the man in Culiacán, now code-named “Fixer,” makes a call to the 777 area code—Cuernavaca. “Sondra’s panicking.”