Don Winslow - The Power of the Dog

Fabian hears the little girl’s voice ask, “Is this where Mommy’s meeting us?”

“Yes,” Fabian says.

“Where is she? Is she with those people?” Claudia asks, pointing to the car on the other side of the bridge, from which the Orejuelas are just now getting out.

“I think so, yes,” Fabian says.

“I want to go there!”

“You have to wait a few minutes,” Fabian says.

“I want to go now!”

“We have to talk with those men first.”

Adan walks toward the center of the bridge, as agreed. His legs feel wooden from fear. If they have a sniper in the hills, I am dead, that’s all, he tells himself. But they could have killed me anytime I was in Colombia, so they must want to hear what I have to say.

He gets to the middle of the bridge and waits as the Orejuelas walk toward him. Two brothers, Manuel and Gilberto, short, dark and squat. They all shake hands and then Adan asks, “Shall we get to business?”

“It’s why we’re here,” Gilberto says.

“You asked for this meeting,” says Manuel.

Brusquely, Adan thinks. Rudely. And he doesn’t care. So the dynamic appears to be that Gilberto is leaning toward making the deal, and Manuel is resisting. All right, then. Let’s get started.

“I will be taking our pasador out of the Federacion,” Adan says. “I want to ensure that we will nevertheless have a relationship here in Colombia.”

“Our relationship is with Abrego,” says Manuel, “and the Federacion.”

“Just so,” Adan says, “but for every kilo of your cocaine the Federacion handles, it handles five kilos from Medellin.”

He can see he’s hit a chord, especially with Gilberto. The brothers are jealous of their bigger Medellin rivals, and ambitious. And with the American DEA pounding so hard on the Medellin cartel and its Florida outlets, there is opportunity here for the Orejuelas to make a move.

Gilberto asks, “And you’re offering us an exclusive arrangement?”

“If you agree to allow me to handle your cocaine,” Adan says, “we would handle only product from Cali.”

“That would be a very generous offer,” Manuel says, “except that Don Abrego would resent our keeping you in business, and deny us his.”

But Gilberto is looking for an answer to that, Adan thinks. He’s tempted.

“Don Abrego is the past-we’re the future,” Adan says.

“That’s hard to believe,” says Manuel, “when the head of your pasador sits in prison. It would appear that the powers-that-be in Mexico think that Abrego is their future. And after him… Mendez.”

“We’ll beat Mendez.”

“What makes you think you can?” asks Manuel. “You will have to fight Mendez for it, and Abrego will line up behind Mendez, as will all the other pasadores. And the federales. Truly, no offense, Adan Barrera, but I think I am looking at a dead man, standing here offering me an exclusive, if I dump my business with the living to do business with the dead. How much cocaine can you handle from your grave?”

“We are the Barrera pasador,” Adan says. “We’ve won before, we will-”

“No,” Manuel says. “Again, pardon me, but you are not the Barrera pasador anymore. Your uncle, I agree, could have beaten Abrego and Mendez and the whole Mexican government, but you are not your uncle. You are very smart, but brains alone are not enough. How tough are you? I will tell you the truth, Adan-you look soft to me. I do not think that you are a hard enough man to do what you say you will do, what you will have to do.”

Adan nods, then asks permission to open the suitcase at his feet. He gets their okay, then bends over, flips open the lid, shows them the money inside and says, “Five million of Guero Mendez’s money. We fucked his wife in the ass and made her give us his money. Now, if you still think we can’t beat him, take this money, shoot me, toss my body off the bridge and keep collecting your tip money from the Federacion. If you decide that we can beat Mendez, then please accept this as our goodwill gesture and a down payment on the many millions we’re going to make together.”

He puts a look of calm on his face, but he can tell from their expressions that this could go either way.

So can Fabian.

And El Tiburon’s instructions in this case are clear. Orders from Raul that came straight down from the legendary M-1.

“Vengan,” Fabian says to the kids. “Come on.”

“Are we going to see Mommy now?” Claudia asks.

“Si.” Fabian takes her hand and hefts Guerito to his shoulder and starts walking back to the middle of the bridge. ?Mi esposa, mi esposa linda!

Guero’s cries echo through the large, empty house.

The servants are hiding. The bodyguards outside are lying low, as Guero staggers through the house, throws furniture, smashes glass, throws himself on the cowhide sofa and buries his face in a pillow as he sobs.

He has found her simple note: I DON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE. I HAVE LEFT WITH FABIAN AND TAKEN THE CHILDREN. THEY ARE ALL RIGHT.

His heart is broken. He’d do anything to get her back. Would take her back, too, and make it up to her. He tells all this to the pillow. Then lifts his head and wails, “?Mi esposa, mi esposa linda!”

The bodyguards, the dozen sicarios manning the estancia walls and gates, can hear him from outside. It spooks them, and they were already on edge, ever since the arrest of Don Miguel Angel Barrera, knowing that a war might be coming. Certainly a shake-out, and that is usually accompanied by the shedding of blood.

And now the jefe is in his house bawling like a woman for everyone to hear.

It is inquietante-unsettling.

And it’s been going on all day.

A FedEx truck comes down the road.

A dozen AK-47s train on it.

The guards stop the truck well short of the gate. One holds a machine gun on the driver as the other looks in the back of the truck. Asks the shaken driver, “What do you want?”

“A package for Senor Mendez.”

“Who from?”

The driver points to the return address on the label. “His wife.”

Now the guard is worried-Don Guero said he was not to be disturbed, but if this is from Senora Mendez he had better take it in.

“I’ll take it to him,” the guard says.

“I have to have his signature.”

The guard points the gun barrel at the driver’s face and says, “I can sign for him, yes?”

“Certainly. Of course.”

The guard signs, carries the package to the house and rings the bell. A maid comes to the door. “Don Guero is not to be-”

“A package from the senora. Federal Express.”

Guero appears behind the maid. His eyes are swollen, his face red, his nose running.

“What is it?” he snaps. “Goddamnit, I said-”

“A package from the senora.”

Guero takes it and slams the door shut.

Guero tears the box open.

After all, it is from her.

So he rips the box open and inside is the little cooler. He unlatches it and flips the lid open and sees her shiny black hair.

Her dead eyes.

Mouth open.

And in her teeth, a card.

He screams and screams.

The panicked guards kick the door in.

Burst into the room, and there is el jefe, standing back from a box, screaming and screaming. The guard who brought the package looks inside the box, then leans over and vomits. Pilar’s severed head sits on a bed of dried blood, her teeth clenched on a calling card.

Two other guards take Guero by the arms and try to pull him away, but he digs in his feet and just keeps screaming. The other guard wipes his mouth, recovers himself and takes the note from Pilar’s mouth.

The message makes no sense:

The other guards try to lead Guero to the sofa but he snatches the note, reads it, turns, if possible, even paler and then yells, “?Dios mio, mis nenes!??Donde estan mis nenes?!”