“Tell her to calm down.”

“You don’t think I did? She wants us to talk to him.”

“To say what? Just fix it.”

“Obviously. If she gives us the time.”

“What can she tell them?”

“Who knows what she knows?”

“Silly bitch. What about the kid?”

“He’s his father’s son.”

“The man loves him.”

“Then we should tell him.”

Keller feels a jolt shoot through his body. The men on the phone call are about to contact Adán.

The next minutes are agony.

Aguilar orders an underling, “Get Vera in here.”

The AFI chief shows up twenty minutes later, disheveled, in a tracksuit and sweatshirt. “This had better be good. I’ve been seducing this woman for weeks.”

Aguilar briefed him.

They sit in silence, watching the phone monitor.

Hoping, praying.

Then it lights up.

“Cuernavaca” is on the phone.

“Jesus,” Vera says. “It’s 555—a Mexico City number. Barrera’s here.”

Here, Keller thinks, in Mexico City. He’s so goddamn smart, Barrera, he flies under the radar by getting under the radar’s shell. You have to hand it to the son of a bitch, it’s as clever as it is arrogant.

Classic Adán Barrera.

Keller listens as “Cuernevaca” says, “It’s me.”

“What is it?”

“Is that Barrera?” Aguilar asks.

“Can’t tell,” Keller answers.

They listen as “Cuernavaca” describes the problem with Sondra Barrera. Then the recipient of the call says, “The pendejos, why do they have to interfere with families?”

Keller nods. It’s him.

“What do you want to do?” “Cuernavaca” asks.

“Just tell her you spoke with me and we’re fixing it. Send them on vacation or something.”

“Atizapán,” the technician says, naming a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, “5871 Calle Revolución.”

“Cuernavaca” says, “Do you think…we should…”

“She’s my brother’s wife.”

The call goes off. Vera grins. “Did we just hear ‘Cuernavaca’ suggest killing Barrera’s sister-in-law?”

Keller is already on the horn to DEA to request a satellite run.

By early morning they have a hit.

“Look at this,” Keller said.

He shows them a grainy video image of Adán Barrera standing on the roof of the house, gazing out over the neighborhood, a cup of coffee in his hand. He only stayed a minute, and then went in.

“It’s him,” Keller says.

“Are you sure?” Aguilar asks.

Keller has come to learn that the head of SEIDO is a cautious man, constantly checking and rechecking the “facts” to make certain that they are indeed facts, and not rumors or deliberate misinformation. The image is grainy but Keller is reasonably sure it’s Adán—the short stature, the shock of black hair across the forehead…

“Put a percentage on it,” Aguilar presses.

“Eighty-five,” Keller says.

“Eighty-five is good,” Vera comments.

Keller wants to go in right away. He requests and receives another satellite flyover with mega-audio capability and sits listening to what he believes is Adán’s voice inside the house.

Talking to a woman.

“Do you want red or white?”

“Red tonight, I think.”

“Is that her?” Keller asks. “Magda Beltrán?”

The beauty queen.

Aguilar shrugs. “Narcos have a lot of women.”

“Not Adán,” Keller says. “He’s more of a serial monogamist.”

They run the audio against DEA recordings of Adán and come up with a close match.

“We know that he’s inside the house now,” Keller says. “Let’s do it now.”

“It’s too risky,” Aguilar says.

Vera—usually the more aggressive—agrees. “Too much chance of my men hitting each other in a crossfire.”

“Or a civilian,” Aguilar says.

It’s frustrating—the AFI troopers are good, more and more of them have received training at Quantico, but Keller yearns for American special forces, with their high level of training and equipment. He knows it will never happen—D.C. would never send, nor would Los Pinos ever accept, American troops on Mexican soil—but Keller would give a lot right then for special operators who preferred to fight at night.

But this is the Mexicans’ call to make, and they decide to wait until dawn. Aguilar puts his best surveillance team on the scene, and Vera sends an AFI plainclothes team in case Barrera tries to leave the house.

“We have him penned in,” Vera reassures Keller. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be there in the morning.”

Keller hopes so.

Adán hasn’t stayed free this long by being careless, and he doubtless has men watching from the house, as well as halcones—“falcons,” lookouts—on the street. Not to mention an average, misguided citizen who sees Barrera as some kind of Robin Hood and who could get very rich very quickly by warning the patrón about strangers in the neighborhood.

But now the “strangers” are in place—four armored vehicles filled with AFI troopers with black hoods and Kevlar vests—parked blocks away from the building. The troopers are armed with automatic rifles, flash-bang grenades, and tear-gas canisters. Two helicopters stand by to take off as soon as the raid starts, and they’ll drop more AFI troopers onto the roof.

Keller urges the sun to hurry the hell up.

The house will be full of sicarios, and, sleepy or not, they’ll fight to protect Barrera, and there will be gunfire. And when the shooting starts, Keller thinks, the distinction between justice and revenge tends to get blurred.

Then Vera’s voice comes over the radio.

“Two minutes.”

The plan is straightforward, perhaps too much so, Keller thinks. At the “go” command, the vehicles will charge up to the building and AFI troopers will get out, bludgeon open the door, and go in while others guard the back entrance and seal off the streets. The SEIDO agents will follow to make arrests and gather intelligence and evidence—cell phones, computers, cash, and weapons.

Aguilar checks the load on his service revolver, and tightens his Kevlar vest. Then he turns to Keller and says, “You will remain in the vehicle. We will bring Barrera out and you will identify him. Is that clear?”

“I heard you the fifteenth time.”

They sit in silence for an interminable ninety seconds, until they hear Vera say, “Go.”

Aguilar starts to follow his men out of the car.

Keller watches him go down the block, then pulls his gun and follows.

“Juras! Juras!”

Keller hears the halcones shout that the cops are coming, but the lookouts—most of them kids—run away as the AFI troopers pour out of the vehicles.

Gunfire blasts from the windows and the roof.

Vera seems oblivious to the bullets zipping around him. Pistol in hand, he urges the men with the battering ram to hit the door. More afraid of him than the bullets, the troopers pick up the ram and run it into the door.

The door comes off its hinges, pulling the trip wires on the grenades attached waist high to the sill.

Keller sees the red blast as two troopers fly back.

“Muévanse!” Vera yells at the stunned survivors.

Move!

They balk as bullets zip out through the doorway and they look at their two comrades lying in the street, limp as puppets.

“Rajados! Cowards!” Vera yells. “I’ll go!”

He runs in.

His men follow him.

So does Keller, who trots toward the house, remembering Vietnam and his Quantico training—don’t run to your death—and saves his oxygen for the firefight.

And, like ’Nam, he hears the choppers coming in.

—

The house is a bedlam.

The power out, faint light comes through the few windows—screams of pain and bursts of automatic weapons fire cut through the darkness. The carnage is horrific, although it’s hard to make out the narcos from the AFI troopers. Keller hears Vera’s voice in front of him, toward the back of the house, shouting orders.