Mike Maden - Drone

Antonio leaned forward. “Why do you think there will be a peace now? Won’t the Bravos come after us?”

“Why should they, if we leave them alone? Accommodations can be made, just like we had with the Castillo Syndicate.”

“With the Americans still breathing down our necks? We can’t suddenly stop enforcing all of our drug agreements with them.”

“We can put pressure on the little guys on the margins who aren’t falling in line with Bravo yet. Break up a few of their shipments. The Americans won’t know the difference, but Bravo will appreciate it. He won’t mess with us if we don’t mess with him. Still…” Hernán frowned with concern.

“What?”

“You might want to give Bravo something more. A token of friendship. An offering.”

“Like what?”

“Cruzalta and his Marinas have been harassing the Bravos for a long time. Pull all of their operations off of the east coast away from Bravo territory and let them go chase Chinese smugglers along Baja. And sack Cruzalta. He needs to retire anyway. That should make Bravo happy.”

“How do you know all of these things?” Antonio was genuinely curious.

“It’s my job to know them. I’ve already set up a phone call with Victor Bravo to see if we can work out some sort of an equitable arrangement. With your permission, of course.”

“Yes, of course. As you think best.” He drained his glass. “How about another round?”

Hernán nodded and picked up his brother’s glass to fetch a refill, adding, “And I have one more idea.”

Chichén Itzá, Mexico

Ali trudged up the steps of the Temple of Warriors. There seemed to be no end to the climb beneath the searing sky. He had read that the more famous Pyramid of Kukulkan had 365 steps cut out of the stone, one for each day of the year. But he had no idea how many steps this one had and he’d lost count. In the gross humidity of the day, it felt like it was taking a whole year to make the climb to the top. With each step he uttered silent prayers of protection to Allah against the foreign djinn he was certain inhabited this pagan shrine.

Ali was surrounded by a casual but nevertheless armed escort of Bravo’s most loyal sicarios , all of them former military men—defectors, mostly, from Mexican, Guatemalan, and Salvadoran units—who had swarmed to Victor Bravo’s organization a dozen years ago at the prospect of untold wealth. And they were loyal, Ali noted. In fact, more than loyal. Devoted to the man was more like it. Like religious disciples. Greed may have first drawn them to him, but Bravo’s revolutionary charisma was what kept them bound to him. Bravo valued them highly, but they lacked actual combat experience against Western armies. The kind Ali had in spades.

Victor Bravo was a few steps above Ali, cresting the top of the temple mount first. None of the tourists or guards had to be told to stay clear of this group of terrifying men, not even the dim-witted gringos fresh off of the cruise-liner buses swarming the compound below. As a precaution, Bravo closed the temple to tourists that day.

When Ali and Bravo’s men reached the top, the escort fanned out in a loose semicircle. The actual temple on top of the pyramid stood behind them. The black shade beneath its stone roof looked cool and inviting, but Ali shuddered. He imagined himself as a captured warrior standing in this very spot five hundred years ago, staring into that same temple mouth, soon to be led to slaughter on the reclining Chac-Mool idol looming in the dark like a demon from hell.

“Do you know why I brought you up here?” Victor asked. He was staring out over the compound through a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. Today he wore his typical uniform: black shirt, black jeans, black cowboy boots with silver tips, and a giant silver belt buckle, topped off with a blazingly white straw cowboy hat, fresh out of the box.

All in all, though, he was modestly dressed for a man of his position. Most narcotraficantes wasted money on the trappings of wealth—expensive clothes, jewelry, palatial homes. Not Bravo. Most of his wealth went to his people. He’d built and maintained dozens of private schools, orphanages, and health clinics all over Mexico.

Bravo had once confided to Ali that he had modeled his organization along Hezbollah lines: a military faction to fight his enemies and a humanitarian faction to win the hearts of his people, whom he genuinely cared for. It was one of the many reasons Ali had secretly allied with Bravo even when he was supposedly working for Castillo.

“No, Señor Bravo. Why have you brought me here?”

Victor wiped his long, dripping face with a handkerchief. He was mostly indio , shorter and darker than the Mexicans up north, with no facial hair. Ali wasn’t sure how old Bravo was. Forties? Fifties? Sixties? No wrinkles in his mahogany-colored flesh or silver strands of hair betrayed his age. He wore his thick black hair long and tucked behind his ears. His melodic Spanish accent was definitely Yucatecan.

“This is the place of my people. Warriors, scientists, poets. We formed a great empire on this continent. We studied the stars, conquered our enemies, contemplated zero.”

Ali understood his pride. He was the son of a great world empire, too, but one far more vast and advanced than anything the Mayans had accomplished, and a thousand years older than the one that had mysteriously vanished from the jungle surrounding them. Iran now stood on the doorstep of greatness again, thanks to its nuclear program. Only the Great Satan stood in their way.

“This place is, indeed, the seventh wonder of the world.”

“You are truly a religious man, Ali?”

“I am an imperfect servant of the Most High, yes.”

“Then you understand me when I say that God has given me a mission and I will fulfill it. You have a mission, too, and you have already fulfilled it by helping me get rid of Castillo and his brood of thieves.”

“I am a humble soldier and I obey my orders, nothing more, jefe . The master does not thank the slave for doing his work.” Ali had said the same thing to César, of course.

“You may be a lot of things, but you are no slave. You set up Castillo’s idiot sons on the El Paso hit and you engineered his family’s slaughter by the Americans. You’re either a magician or a genius, but either way, you’ve handed me Mexico on a sliver platter.”

Bravo snapped his fingers and one of his guards approached with a backpack. “Most of the surviving Castillo captains have already started calling me jefe ,” Bravo said.

“Do you trust them?” Ali asked.

“I trust their fear.”

“And Barraza?”

Bravo chuckled. “I spoke with his brother last night. Are you sure you aren’t a white wizard?”

Ali shook his head. “No, jefe . I am neither a jaguar nor a prophet. Only humble flesh and blood, like you.” Ali had provided all of the ELINT security for Bravo’s organization, including his encrypted cell phones. However, Ali’s technicians had put backdoors on all of Bravo’s equipment, so Ali was privy to all of Bravo’s communications. He had listened to the conversation with Hernán just an hour ago.

Bravo reached into the backpack and pulled out a black lacquered wooden box, then opened it. There was a pistol inside, nestled in crushed blue velvet. A .45 caliber 1911 Colt semiauto. It was solid gold with a mother-of-pearl handle. He pulled it out.

Ali’s eyes narrowed. Maybe today he was going to be a sacrifice after all. He calculated strike points on Bravo first, then on the nearest bodyguard. If he could secure the guard’s weapon—

Bravo turned the pistol in his hand and held the butt out toward Ali. He smiled. “Take it. It’s yours.”