And calls had to go out to the politicians, too, reminding them of their obligations, of the liabilities that were now on them, as well. They would have to choose sides, and they should choose the side that is obviously going to win.

Some, no doubt, think that will be the Tapias.

After all, they’re the larger organization, have more money, more sicarios. Diego and Martín are still at large, and Ochoa isn’t taking Adán’s calls, which is not a good sign—the probability is that the Zetas will align with the Tapias.

That leaves me with what?

“I need you to go to Michoacán,” Adán says.

“I can’t leave Carla right now.”

“She’s your mistress, not your wife.”

“I know who she is, Adán, thank you.”

“Just for a day,” Adán says. “Meet with Nazario, renew the alliance with La Familia. We need more men, he can provide them.”

“Nazario considers you a traitor,” Nacho says. “The devil, actually.”

“He’d make a deal with the devil if it meant beating the Zetas,” Adán says. If Nazario could separate his emotions from his best interest, Adán thinks, he’d join with the rest of them until they’ve sucked all the marrow out of my bones, and then pursue his vendetta against the Zetas. But he can’t—he believes he’s waging some kind of holy war against the Zetas, so he’ll side with me again.

El Más Loco, indeed.

Adán convinces Nacho to go to Morelia and then goes upstairs to talk to Eva. His young wife is understandably confused over how to feel about the murder of her father’s mistress’s son, but unabashedly grieving over Salvador.

She’s known what her father’s business is, but this is the first time any of it has really touched her directly, and now he has to tell her that they need to leave the finca, only the second home she’s ever known, to go to another house in another part of the state.

Diego obviously knows where this house is, he knows the security system, he hired half the guards, although Adán has already replaced them with Gente Nueva. But it’s not safe here, and now he walks into the bedroom to tell her so. She’s been crying. Her eyes are red and puffy.

“For how long?” she asks when he tells her that they have to leave.

“I don’t know.”

“Days? Weeks?”

“I said I don’t know,” Adán snaps, and then regrets his tone when he sees the hurt look on her face. He’s never spoken sharply to her before, and he has to remember that she’s eighteen and this is all new to her. “I just want to make sure that you’re safe.”

He’s tired. What he wants is a hot shower and a weak scotch and then to go to bed, because they have to be up and out very early. A caravan of state police is going to escort them to the next finca, one that Diego has no knowledge of. What he doesn’t want to do is explain to his wife the realities of the life that she was born into.

Adán pours himself the drink, shucks off his clothes, gets into the shower, and sits on the tiled bench. He sips his scotch and enjoys the buildup of steam loosening his tight muscles.

Finishing his drink, he stands under the spray.

When he gets out and goes into the bedroom, he sees that Eva has completely misunderstood his mood, his need, and is lying in bed in a blue negligee, ready to give him sexual comfort.

He can’t help thinking that Magda would have read him better.

She would have had the scotch poured and pretended to be asleep when I got out of the shower. But Magda isn’t here—she’s based herself in Mexico City now. Wealthy, independent, stubbornly insisting on paying him the piso to move tons of cocaine through Laredo, a long way from the traumatized girl he met in Puente Grande. She’s come to Culiacán twice, and they met in a house for afternoon trysts, but he misses her.

Now Eva will feel hurt and inadequate if we don’t make love, and the fact is that it’s been more of a chore lately. She’s so desperate to get pregnant, and the effort feels like just one more thing he has to do in his day.

“Eva, darling, we have to be up before the sun.”

“I just thought you were stressed…”

I am, he thinks. God, I am.

“…and that this would help,” Eva says.

“I’m sad,” he says, “and in mourning.”

Which was stupid and cruel, he thinks, because now she’s not only embarrassed but also ashamed.

Eva quickly turns her back.

Adán turns off the lights and gets in bed beside her. “It’s all right,” he says, holding her. “I love you and everything will be all right.”

He’s not sure he believes any of it.

God damn Salvador, he thinks.

Betraying the Tapias for Sal’s freedom was a huge—and ultimately futile—mistake. Now Salvador is dead anyway, my oldest friend has become my worst enemy, I’m at war with the entire world and very likely to lose. It all hangs on a thread—if Mexico City goes against me…

Was I duped, he wonders? Did Nacho use me to get rid of what he perceived as a rival? And who told the Tapias about the deal? Who tipped them off?

Aguilar?

Vera?

Then it hits him like a punch to the stomach.

Of course.

Adán curses himself for his stupidity, his lack of foresight.

I handed it to him, he thinks.

I handed it to Keller on a silver platter.

—

Keller watches the honor guard flank the three flag-draped caskets of the slain police officers.

The AFI troopers wear their blue uniforms, flak jackets stenciled in white with POLICÍA FEDERAL, dark blue baseball caps, and black combat boots as if they were on duty, ready for battle.

Behind them stand the president, the secretary of the interior, the secretaries of the navy and defense, the attorney general, and Gerardo Vera, in his full dress uniform.

The three officers were his friends, men he appointed to their jobs, and he’s personally leading the investigations into their murders, with support from SEIDO and liaison with Keller.

Aguilar is heading up the Salvador Barrera investigation. Now he stands beside Keller. Without taking his eyes off the coffins, Aguilar says, quietly from the side of his mouth, “Whoever leaked the information to the Tapias has blood on his hands.”

“What are you getting at?” Keller asks, even though he knows what Aguilar’s getting at, and that he’s right. I leaked it, Keller thinks, and it’s something I have to live with.

Three dead cops.

He doesn’t give a shit about Sal Barrera.

The media haven’t tripped to the deal that started it, their take is that Adán Barrera and Diego Tapia have fallen out over the latter’s murder of four policemen in retaliation for his brother’s death.

It would be funny, Keller thinks, if it weren’t—this view of Adán Barrera as the morally outraged supporter of law and order, whose poor nephew has paid the price for his uncle’s principled stand.

The Sinaloa cartel has broken into civil war, with Nacho Esparza siding with his son-in-law Adán. The Tapias will seek out alliances, but with whom? The Zetas and the Gulf? The Fuentes in Juárez? La Familia? Teo Solorzano?

Barrera will be looking for allies, too. Solorzano is out, but the Zetas, CDG, and Juárez could be on the table, as could La Familia.

Some of the shabbier papers are running odds as if it’s a horse race, with the smart money saying that if all the other organizations side with the Tapias, or even stay neutral, we could finally be looking at the end of Adán Barrera.

That would be fine, Keller thinks, but that’s not his bet, not even the game he’s playing.

He’s playing a much deeper game.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Aguilar asks. “You couldn’t get to Barrera yourself, so you set the Tapias to do it for you.”

Keller doesn’t answer. Let him come, let him press, let him make a mistake.

“Was it you,” Aguilar asks directly, “who leaked our arrangement to the Tapias?”

“Is that a question or an accusation?” Keller asks. And now he knows that Aguilar wasn’t on the Tapia payroll.