Herrera saw them from a distance, three Range Rovers, all black and bulletproof, ripping along in a lopsided V formation, kicking up plumes of dust that stretched for half a mile behind them like long, billowing snakes.
El Vio might have been in any of the three. Or none. You never knew for sure.
You never knew anything with El Vio.
As the vehicles closed in, their windshields glinting in the bright sun, Herrera could already hear the General’s voice barking orders in excited, high-pitched Spanish. The General was chief of security for the cartel. He did not sound very secure.
These inspections were never announced. Nor did they conform to any pattern, at least not that Herrera was aware of. There might be three in one month, nothing for an entire year, then two on consecutive days.
Be unpredictable. That was El Vio’s first rule, both for his generals and for himself. Change everything, all the time: the places you stay, the restaurants you frequent, the women you sleep with. It was impossible to ambush a man who never kept a set schedule.
Rule number two: Don’t drink, take drugs, or do anything to dull your wits. Even for a moment. Because that could be the moment you’d miss something that could cost you your life—whether it was the drone flying overhead, the snick of a safety coming off a gun, or the subtle shift in a man’s eyes as he lied to you.
Three, be daring—atrevido, in Spanish. Atrevido was one of El Vio’s favorite words. Timidity was for shy woodland creatures. Running a cartel required bold action. Hit your enemies hard enough, fast enough, and they’ll be too stunned to hit back.
Four, and most important, make sure the Americans never had anything concrete on you. Mexican police could be bribed or intimidated into not arresting you. Mexican judges could be bribed or intimidated into not convicting you. Mexican jailors could be bribed or intimidated into letting you go free. Not so with the United States. Therefore, extradition was the worst of all possible outcomes. El Vio dreaded extradition more than death.
Four rules. Followed with unerring constancy. Herrera had been told El Vio developed them by studying those who had come before him, from El Patrón to El Padrino, from El Lazca to El Chapo. He had learned from their rise and, more important, their fall.
Herrera had heard the General say that El Vio needed to relax more. Surely, El Vio—who had become the richest, most feared man in Mexico, the master of an empire forged by his cunning and brutality—could relax and enjoy what his labors had brought him.
But as far Herrera knew, El Vio never let up. That was part of his legend. El Vio, the fifth son of a poor avocado farmer. El Vio, who spent his teens learning the trade from the original Colima cartel. El Vio, who taught himself three languages by watching foreign television shows. El Vio, who rose to become chief enforcer for the Sinaloa cartel before deciding he could do better on his own.
And now look at him. As Sinaloa stumbled, he surged. He commanded an army of five thousand, roughly equal to the entire US Drug Enforcement Administration. He had entrenched supply lines to the wealthiest markets in North America, Europe, and Asia.
All this, and the Americans still had virtually nothing on him. They couldn’t directly tie him to a single ounce of methamphetamine, much less the tons he shipped across their border every year.
El Vio had only one vulnerability, and that was the banker.
Herrera had heard all about this from the General, usually when he was drunk. There was a banker in America who had helped launder a portion of El Vio’s vast fortune. He was caught, but before El Vio could get rid of him, the banker made it known he had hidden documents. They could be used to implicate at least a dozen top leaders, including El Vio himself. He would be extradited for sure.
If anything happened to the banker or his family, these documents would be turned over to American authorities. It was a gaping liability. The General, as chief of security, had not yet found a way to close it.
Which was the main reason Herrera heard panic in the General’s voice when those speeding vehicles were spotted.
The compound the General commanded was known as Rosario No. 2. There was no point in giving it a more clever or inspiring name. There were others like it. El Vio would insist it be dismantled and moved elsewhere soon enough. It consisted of seven buildings, surrounded by a twelve-foot razor-wire fence that kept workers in as much as it kept intruders out.
Five of the buildings were flimsy metal warehouses with ventilation fans on both ends. They were spaced out, because methamphetamine had an unfortunate propensity to explode during production. But that was really the only downside of it. Whereas cocaine and heroin required huge acreage for growing plants—which could be spotted by the Americans with their satellites—meth was easy to hide.
The sixth building was a barracks for the General and his lieutenants, who were expected to watch over Rosario No. 2 and protect it from attacks by the Mexican authorities or, just as likely, rival cartels.
Still, it was the seventh building that mattered most. They called it “the bunker,” because it was made of double-reinforced concrete. It contained a stockpile of weapons and enough ammunition to hold off a Mexican Army battalion for a month. It also served as a nerve center for monitoring a number of highly sensitive security operations.
Including the one watching the banker.
The General was outside the bunker when the Range Rovers arrived. He had ordered several of the lieutenants, Herrera among them, to join him.
“Stand up straight,” the General barked. “El Vio doesn’t like slouching.”
Herrera straightened. The vehicles stopped.
El Vio climbed out of the first one. He was five foot seven and built like a welterweight. His thick dark hair was combed back from his forehead and held in place by gel. His face was partially covered by mirrored sunglasses, which he kept on even when indoors, so people wouldn’t be able to stare at his right eye, the one that was said to have been injured in a childhood accident.
He wore black cargo pants with a gray T-shirt made of some kind of breathable material. His utility belt contained, among other things, a knife and a pistol.
“Vio,” the General said, taking a few tentative steps forward. “How good to see you.”
El Vio froze the General’s momentum with one glance. There was no exchange of handshakes. Herrera had never actually seen El Vio touch anyone.
“Do you have news for me regarding our friend in West Virginia?” El Vio asked.
“Our friend.” That’s how they referred to the banker.
“Not yet,” the General said. “We’re working on it.”
“That’s what you told me last time.”
“Soon. Very soon. I am confident. We have an excellent operation in place.”
“Also what you told me last time.”
“I’m doing everything I can,” the General said. His voice trembled.
“Are you?” El Vio said.
The way he posed the question did not invite an answer.
“I just need more time,” the General pleaded. “This will soon be resolved.”
El Vio received this promise with little emotion.
“Come closer,” he said softly.
The General took a few steps.
“Closer,” El Vio said again.
The General complied. Now the rest of him was trembling.
“Closer.”
The General took another step. Behind him, Herrera had also moved forward. But without fear. Something in him wanted to be nearer to El Vio.
“That’s good,” El Vio said.
“The Americans are having no more success than I am,” the General said. “They are—”
The words stopped when, in one swift motion, El Vio removed his knife from its sheath and plunged it into the General’s eye. The right one.
The General crumpled, bringing both hands to his ruined face, howling as the blood gushed. El Vio watched his agony with mild interest, like he was considering a beetle that had landed on its back and was struggling to right itself. Herrera could see a smaller version of the General’s prostrate shape reflected in the mirrors of El Vio’s sunglasses.
Then El Vio turned to the uneven line of lieutenants.
“Who will finish this?” he said.
None of them moved. Not even Herrera. He wasn’t sure what El Vio meant. Finish the banker? Or finish—
Then El Vio spoke louder: “Who will finish this?”
That’s when Herrera understood. And he was ready. Atrevido. Be daring. He straightened. El Vio didn’t like slouching.
The General had grasped the knife handle. He was trying to remove the blade, which had gotten stuck in his eye socket. Herrera walked up, drew his weapon, and shot the General behind the ear. The General collapsed. Herrera fired three more rounds.
He was repulsed yet thrilled.
El Vio walked up to the corpse, turning the body over and pressing his boot against what was left of the General’s skull to get the leverage needed to extract the blade. El Vio wiped each side of the knife on his pants, resheathed it, and then looked at Herrera.
“Congratulations,” El Vio said. “You’ve just been promoted.”