And I’m trying to destroy yours, Keller thinks, the guilt coming back.

“Have a real drink with me,” Vera says. “We’ll toast to fighting the good fight. Then, if you’re still here tomorrow, I’ll have you arrested and deported. It’s for your own good.”

He orders two whiskeys and they drink to the good fight.

—

Keller goes back to the embassy and waits.

Eats a lunch that he can barely taste at his desk, leaves early, takes a walk through Parque México, and finally wanders over to the bar at Las Alcobas, where he nurses a beer before going up to Room 417.

Aguilar is already there with a Model G1416 body wire and a roll of medical tape.

Palacios is due in twenty minutes.

—

Chido Palacios sits at his usual table, sipping his usual espresso and watching women in their short summer dresses walk by.

They’re beautiful—sleek and stylish with long, tan legs fit from the gym, and he’s sorry that this is the last time he’ll have this particular pleasure, but he knows that there are sidewalk cafés in Scottsdale, and, if not there, in Paris, and that there are beautiful women everywhere.

He’s admiring a particularly stunning brunette when a man walks up to the fence, and, before the bodyguards can react, empties a .380 Cobra into his face and runs away.

The espresso spills on his lap as Palacios slumps in his chair, his dead eyes looking up at the blue sky, sightless.

—

Aguilar clicks the phone off.

“That was Vera,” he says. “Palacios is dead. They killed him.”

Things are on the move, Keller thinks.

They had started to worry when Palacios didn’t show at the hotel, didn’t answer his phone. Keller supposed that he was having second thoughts or had just decided to run on his own, but—

Gabriela didn’t show up either.

They were trying to track her down when Vera called.

“They’re already blaming the Tapias,” Aguilar says. “Same MO, same weapon.”

He gets up from the couch and carefully puts the recording equipment back in its case. “That’s it. It’s over.”

“Gabriela—”

“Was the leak,” Aguilar says.

“She’s either dead or on her way to a country with which we have no extradition arrangements. Face it, Arturo, they beat us. It’s over.”

He’s right, Keller thinks.

It is over.

For now.

“What are you going to do?” Keller asks.

“Go ride horses with my daughters,” Aguilar says. “Talk to my wife and decide what career I want next. I know it’s not this one.”

He picks up the case and walks out of the room.

—

Keller is walking down Presidente Masaryk when his phone rings.

“It wasn’t us.”

Yvette sounds urgent, almost frantic.

“Please, Arturo, meet me.”

—

Gerardo Vera opens the door of his condo to see Luis Aguilar standing there.

“How did you find me here?” Vera asks.

“Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

—

They meet outside the Palacio de Cortés in Cuernavaca, one of the oldest structures in the Western world.

Cortés built it on the ruins of an Aztec temple.

“I thought you were out of the country,” Keller says.

“I was. Martín is. We didn’t kill Palacios.”

“I know,” Keller says. “Vera did.”

“I gave you the tape weeks ago,” Yvette says. “You haven’t done a thing with it.”

“Without Palacios, it’s worthless.”

“How can that be?” She’s agitated, scared. “They’ll never stop now. They’ll track us down and kill us.”

“If Martín wants to come in,” Keller says, “and testify, I can guarantee his safety. And yours.”

“And how many years in jail?” Yvette asks.

“A short time. Maybe none at all.”

“He’d have to testify against his brother,” Yvette says, “and he would never do that.”

“This only ends one other way, and you know that,” Keller says. “I can have you on a flight to the States tonight, Yvette. There are no charges against you there. Just tell us what we need to know and—”

“You’ll extradite me back to Mexico,” Yvette says. “I’m not going to Puente Grande, Arturo. I hoped you would help us.”

“I’m trying.”

She smiles bitterly. “They always win, don’t they?”

“Who?”

“The polo crowd.”

“They usually do.”

“Laura Amaro doesn’t know me anymore,” Yvette says. “None of them do. We thought we were them. We’re not, and they’ll never let us be.”

“Bring Martín in.”

Yvette stares at him. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? You split Adán’s organization in half so you can destroy it one piece at a time. And you don’t care how many people get hurt, how many people get killed, as long as you get Adán. God save us from men of integrity.”

She walks away.

—

His phone rings.

“I have it.”

It’s Aguilar.

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”

Aguilar’s voice is tight and excited. “I have tape of Gerardo incriminating himself.”

“Luis, what did you do? What did you do?”

“Where are you?”

“Cuernavaca, headed back.”

“Come to the airport. Hurry.”

“Luis, what did you do?!”

“Just come. We can’t wait long.”

“Luis, go. Don’t wait for me. Just go.”

—

Keller drives 95 North back toward Mexico City.

The route takes him through El Tepozteco National Park, a winding road across the mountain, past lakes and meadows, now metallic in the moonlight.

What did you do, Luis? Keller asks himself. Then it hits him—Aguilar left the hotel room, miked himself up, and made the meeting with Vera himself. He must have solicited him, Vera agreed, and Aguilar got it on tape.

And he can testify to its authenticity.

But Vera is too smart to fall for that. He would have placated Aguilar to buy himself time to act.

But he’ll act.

Headlights flash in his rearview mirror and Keller sees a car coming up behind him.

Fast.

The car starts tailgating him, dangerous on this winding road. Then it flashes its lights—it wants to pass.

“Hold on a second,” Keller mumbles.

He finds a place to pull over and the car roars around him.

“Asshole,” Keller says.

But then the car gets directly in front of him and slows down. At first Keller thinks the driver is just trying to teach him a lesson, get back at him, but then another pair of headlights appears behind him.

It comes up fast and then gets right on his bumper.

They have him boxed in.

Keller tries to pass the front car, but it slides out into the oncoming lane and blocks him and then the little parade races through a chicane, with steep slopes on either side, which opens onto a straightaway.

The car in front slows down.

The car in back—a Jeep Wrangler—pulls into the passing lane and comes even with Keller. He throws himself down on the seat as the muzzle flashes crackle red and bullets shatter his window.

Keller cranks the wheel to the left and hits the Wrangler, which flies off the road and crashes into the opposite slope.

The car in front slides sideways, stops, and blocks the road.

The natural instinct is to hit the brakes, but the natural instinct is only going to get him killed. He can already see the gun barrels pointed at him.

Keller hits the gas.

He aims straight for the driver’s door.

The crash is horrific.

Keller’s face slams into the airbag and his neck snaps back.

Dizzy, he reaches into the console and grabs his Sig Sauer. His right arm is weak, tingling, and he can barely grip the handle. With his left hand, he unhooks his seat belt and then pushes the door handle down.

To his relief, the door opens and he gets out.

Blood gushes out of his broken nose.

He can see that the driver of the other car is dead, his neck snapped. The passenger is getting out on his side. Seeing Keller, he rests the barrel of his shotgun on the roof of the smoking car and aims.