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Thursday, Feb. 19, 2015, Mexico
Mac expected more trouble, and it felt like they were gearing up for it. They had breakfast at the hotel buffet. Mexicans did breakfast right, in Mac’s opinion — it was traditionally the heaviest meal of the day. Eggs, sausage and tortillas in various combinations — he had huevos rancheros. And then he went back to sample some of the other dishes. He noticed the others were eating big plates of food as well.
“We will not stop for lunch,” Pedro said quietly from behind him in line. “We will gas up here, and we will not stop until Mazatlán, and it is 14 hours away. Nacho is making arrangements for tortas to go with us. We always do this, but Mateo says today is going to be more dangerous than usual.” He looked at Mac questioningly. Mac shook his head; he did not know.
Well, he had heard what Luis had said, but he still didn’t understand what he’d heard.
So apparently others were expecting more trouble too.
They were on the road at sunup. Mac got the feeling the hotel staff was relieved to see them go — relieved enough to fix breakfast for them earlier than the stated hours. Happy to fix the sandwiches Nacho requested.
Toby was quiet. Wary and watchful. Well, he had good instincts. Had he made this trip before?
“Once,” Toby said quietly, when Mac asked him. “My second year as a distributor, when it was clear we were developing a partnership for the long haul. Don Del Toro requested that I come for a visit. The older Don Del Toro, not Hector. And it was a grueling drive, no lie. But it wasn’t like this. The harassment last night? No, that is not normal. It sounds like Sonora cartel is closing its doors to Del Toro. And that usually means a takeover attempt is coming. Del Toro appears vulnerable. I’m not sure why. But Mac, about...?” he began, and Mac shook his head.
“Not here,” Mac said quickly. “And I have no clue.”
Toby grunted and changed the subject. “So I have flown down; I brought Keisha down once. It is a very gracious hacienda — you feel as if you’re living in a high-end hotel. A very high-end hotel. There are servants everywhere. Fresh flowers. Baskets of fruit. Lavish meals. Del Toro lives like a king.”
Mac glanced at Toby at that description. Did he want that too? Toby, however, flicked glances around him. They were being observed. Got it.
“An all-expenses paid vacation?” Mac said lightly. “Man, I do wish they’d sent plane tickets. I could have brought Angie.”
“I’d like to meet her,” Toby said. “You seem committed. I didn’t think I’d ever see that.”
Mac laughed. He hadn’t either. Not to the point of moving in together. But here he was — and he missed her, something fierce. Wasn’t that amazing?
It was Mateo who swung himself up into Mac’s truck as they headed out. Mac hadn’t been sure he would. Mateo saw Mac’s surprise.
“You have questions,” he said, a bit sour. Mac grinned, amused. Well yes, he did. “And it is better you ask them of me than of someone else. Not that I have many answers for you. But at least I will not be rattled by the questions.”
Mac snorted. “I got the impression last night that little rattles you,” he said as he followed the delivery truck through town and back onto the highway. The Mexican government had done a lot of improvement to the roads here lately, he had heard, to encourage tourism to this northern Pacific coast. To his pleasure, their route would travel along the coast all the way to Mazatlán. It made for a slower trip, he supposed, but the Pacific Coast was supposed to be beautiful.
“Digame,” Mac said. He supposed it was telling that one of the few phrases he did know in Spanish was the command to talk to me.
“Del Toro is landlocked,” Mateo said, and frowned. “Is that the right word? Anyway, it doesn’t have territorial access to the border. Some of our product is flown out, of course, but most is driven across. For all of the interdiction of drugs at the border, and for all of the flashy drug busts, small trucks like this one cross the border every day. Americans have an insatiable appetite for drugs.”
He stopped to think about that, and he shrugged.
Mac didn’t know an answer either. Americans were the major market for drugs from all over the world. And whole economies — like Afghanistan, like Mexico — had been reorganized to take advantage of that market. As Toby said, there was demand, and so there was supply — and suppliers like Toby Rollings. And cartels like Del Toro.
“So that was Sonora cartel last night?” Mac asked.
Mateo nodded. “And we’re now headed into Sinaloa territory, and they’re violent and ruthless. Sonora are pussy cats compared to them. Perhaps we should have come in through El Paso.” He stopped to consider that but shook his head. “Smaller cartels can be more violent and unpredictable,” he said. “They change leadership rapidly. At least on this route the cartels are stable. And this is the route we normally use.”
“So why is Del Toro vulnerable?” Mac asked. They’d get to the personal part later. He knew how to do an interview and starting with what the man had on his mind and wanted to talk about worked most of the time. What was that old saying? Easier to steer a car once it was in motion?
Mateo was silent; Mac just let him think it over. Final Mateo sighed. “Cat is out of the bag,” he said. “In more ways than one. Hector Del Toro is a fine man. He wanted to be a literature professor, verdad? That is why he was at the university when he met your mother. His family thought that would be a fine thing — to have a university professor in the family. But when his older brother was gunned down in Mazatlán, he was called home. And his father ordered Hector to take up the reins.”
“Was his father too old to do it himself?” Mac asked puzzled. “Toby said he was invited down once to meet the older Don Del Toro. That was just a few years ago, right? Well a decade, I guess.”
Mateo was silent. “It is hard to explain,” he said at last. “Señor Del Toro is harsh and erratic. He would have burned the town for the behavior of those men last night. He might have had regrets later, but the town would still be burning. And if anything, he has mellowed with age. It is interesting, however. He knows what he is, and that it would not be good for business. Those out-of-control outbursts of rage? No, those would not be good. Business requires a calm head.”
Mac started at the description of Señor Del Toro’s outbursts. Was that where he got his own rage? He had always figured it was more a product of abuse and neglect. He focused on Mateo.
“So he relied on his sons to be calmer?” Mac asked.
“Si,” Mateo said. “And so Hector Del Toro picks up the reins. It turns out he is an astute businessman. We’ve added more connections like Rollings who also treats this as a business. His market focus is on the wealthy. And we have replicated that elsewhere. Houston. Los Angeles. It has been very profitable.”
“But?” Mac prompted. “It sounds like there is a ‘but’ coming.”
Mateo laughed. “Yes,” he agreed. “There is a but. Hector Del Toro is respected as a prosperous business man. But this is a harsh and violent business. And he is perceived as too... civilized? Is that the word? A man who would spend his time reading, not at the gun range. It is odd,” he mused. “Because he is a good shot. I have seen him fight, and he is good, and he will put you down. He has the skills, but not the... heart for it.”
Mac nodded that he understood what he was trying to say. “And so the warehouse blowing up confirmed everyone’s instincts — this is a man who cannot defend us.”
“Exactly,” Mateo said with approval that he understood. “And public perception matters. So now Del Toro cartel is perceived as weak. There have been some thefts of product — highway robbery — and you heard Luis last night. We are perceived as vulnerable.”
“And Chuy?” Mac asked. “He has the capacity for violence.”
“Yes,” Mateo said. “And Señor Del Toro has — had — great hopes that Chuy would one day step in to the shoes of capo. He pushed Hector into giving Chuy more responsibility. And that blew up in their faces, as you saw. And the fact that it spread that far — all the way to Seattle — will infuriate them both even more.”
“Perhaps best not to tell them,” Mac suggested absently. Mateo glanced at him but didn’t respond.
They drove in silence for almost an hour while Mac thought over the dilemmas of succession. It was no different than any hereditary post. Any family-run business. He’d covered one of those stories, actually. The old man developed dementia and wasn’t willing to let go of his power in the family business. And he finally killed to keep it.
The queen of England had the same problem when you came right down to it, he observed, suddenly amused by his train of thought.
Well, not his problem.
“So you used my name last night,” Mac said. “I have to tell you I’m not happy about it. I really don’t want a public link to a drug cartel, Mateo. I’m here, because....” Mac frowned. Yes, why was he here? Curiosity about his father. But he hadn’t really been given a choice — he’d been basically kidnapped. And once they had Toby, he was going whether they wanted him or not. But the question that needed to be asked was why did they want him, not the other way around.
“Why am I being kidnapped like this?” Mac asked. “I know why I’m going. I’m curious about my father. But why did you all kidnap me? You were on orders — what were the orders, Mateo?”
Mateo nodded reluctantly. “Good questions,” he approved. “And perhaps you should add who ordered it, as well.”
“And will you give me answers?” Mac muttered. And then the puzzle pieces finally clicked together. “Hell no,” he blurted involuntarily. “That’s not going to happen, Mateo. I am not the heir to a drug cartel.”
Mateo shrugged. “Well, you are, actually,” he pointed out. “You are Mackensie Davis Del Toro, the son of the capo, Don Hector Del Toro, and grandson of Señor Del Toro. And partly why you are being brought down here by motor vehicle instead of given a plane ticket, as you framed it, is so that you can be judged. Are you a man who can lead men? Can you fight? Can you think? And the answers to those questions are clear, and so I named you to Luis. You are who you are, Mac. You may think this is nothing you want, you may even be right. But you are Mackensie Davis Del Toro, the heir of the Del Toro cartel.”
Well, shit, Mac thought.
“We will stay over a day in Mazatlán,” Mateo said later. “It is a beautiful city. Its beaches are amazing. We need the rest after the days of travel. And it’s a safe place. It’s in the Sinaloa cartel territory, but it is too important to Mexico’s tourism to put it at risk. So it is somewhat of a safe place for everyone to enjoy. Doesn’t mean there isn’t danger — there is danger everywhere. Hector’s older brother was killed here, after all. But that was 30 years ago, before tourism became such a powerful economic force. Now Mazatlán is safe to stay and play.”
“Good,” Mac said. “I wish I could have brought Angie, though.”
Mateo grinned at him. “The woman you say I love you to?”
Mac grunted. “Her,” he said. “And you? Do you have a woman you say I love you to?”
Mateo was silent. “We do not talk much about our families,” he said at last. “In some ways, they are hostages to our continued commitment to the cartel and to our jobs. There is always the knowledge that someone could reach my family. The cartel protects them — as long as I am in good standing with the cartel. The question, of course, remains — who protects them from the cartel?”
Mac shook his head. “Not a good way to live,” he said frankly.
Mateo shrugged. “Is it any different than how Rollings lives?” he asked. “For that matter, how you live? I read the stories you wrote last fall, Mac. Your father tracks your career closely. And what did you do? You gathered the people you care about, and the people who look to you for protection, and you made them safe. And then you could venture out and wage war. Is it any different?”
Mac thought about that for a long while. They were on a stretch of road that looked out to the beach and the ocean. The sand was almost blindingly white. The ocean was brilliantly blue with white caps here and there, and the sky was a lighter, clear blue, and they both merged at the horizon. This stretch was apparently remote enough that there were no tourists. He’d lived in San Diego during training. This reminded him of that area — but there, a beach like this would be packed with people.
He said as much to Mateo, who accepted the change of subject without comment. “We have the packed beaches as well,” he said. “Surfing is a big industry farther south. And fishing? A lot of boats put out of Mazatlán. Wind-surfing? Have you tried that?”
Mac laughed and shook his head. “No, I’ve not had much time in my life to be a tourist,” he admitted. “Either it’s no time or no money. Some R&R in the Marines — I’ve been to Cancún, for example. But I am not used to having time with nothing to do.”
Mateo shook his head. “I was glad to get out of the Army for that reason. For four years, I never had a moment to call my own. Even with the cartel? It is mostly a job. I go home to my family. I can take a vacation and come to Mazatlán and go fishing. Or lie on the beach and watch the girls in their bikinis.” He grinned at Mac. “Mexican women look very fine in their bikinis.”
“All women do,” Mac said with a laugh.
“So they do,” Mateo said, smiling.
It was an insight that Mac had never considered — he really had never had time to call his own. He would barely know what to do with it. Marines, college, journalism — and journalists were some of the worst workaholics in the world. There was always another story that drew their attention. Drew his attention, he admitted. What would he do on vacation, anyway?
Well, he’d used vacation days to do this.... He snorted. He used his vacation days to cover him because he was being kidnapped by his father, the drug lord? Well shit.
Around 2 p.m. Mateo dug out the tortas and handed him one. “Let me know if you want to switch out drivers,” he said. Mac nodded. He’d been driving for six hours. A break would be good soon.
He was still eating the sandwich when Mateo’s phone rang. Mac could sense Mateo shift into the same mode he’d been in last night. A phone call wasn’t good news. He answered the call. Whoever it was, was speaking Spanish — rapid, adrenaline-fueled Spanish. Mac didn’t have to know the language to hear that.
“OK,” Mateo said, then continued in English for Mac’s sake. “Are we spotted? Is it too late to switch drivers?” He listened. “Can you handle this?” he asked bluntly. “Do you want to let us go around you? With me as driver? It is no shame, Chuy, to do so. You must consider what is best for the mission. I have more experience. But you handled things well last night. You kept your temper, even when Mac was sparring with you. I was impressed. It is up to you. I trust your judgment.”
Mac glanced at Mateo, reading the tension in his body. He said the words, and he made them believable, but he really wanted to be the lead on this — whatever this was. A roadblock, he would guess. The question was whether it was cartel or police — and which one of those was more problematic.
“Very good,” Mateo said at last. “I will change drivers with Mac, and then we will pull in front. You know the routine — answer any question. Be polite. We have nothing to hide. Well, make sure there is nothing visible that they would question first, verdad?”
He laughed at Chuy’s response and ended the call. For a moment he just sat there, with his eyes closed and slowed his breathing — and his heart rate, Mac suspected.
“Roadblock?” Mac asked. He slowed down, preparing to stop.
“Yes,” Mateo said. “A police checkpoint. Let me drive, if you would.”
“No problem,” Mac said. He stopped in the middle of the road so that they were hidden behind the larger truck that was still moving forward. He got out, leaving the truck running, and they switched seats. Mateo had the car moving forward before Mac had his seatbelt fastened. They caught up with the truck, and then Miguel moved in front.
Mac looked around the cab to make sure no weapons were visible. He pulled his passport out of his backpack so that he didn’t have to rummage around in it — and expose the weapon there. Same with insurance and registration from the glove box. Mateo watched him out of the corner of his eye. He moved the gun in his pocket to the glove box. If they patted him down for any reason, he didn’t want a weapon on him.
“How many weapons do you have in this truck?” Mateo asked incredulously. “You do know it is illegal to bring weapons into the country? To carry without a permit?”
“And I suppose you have permits for the ones you’re carrying?” Mac countered, ignoring the first question. A question Mateo ignored as well.
“Is this because you came to Toby’s aid?” he asked instead.
Mac shook his head. “This is normal. My friends roll their eyes about my gun fetish,” he admitted with a laugh. “But I haven’t been without a gun in reach since I was 12.”
Mateo grimaced. “The incident that sent you to Rollings?”
Mac nodded shortly. His mother’s boyfriend had tried to force Mac to give him a blow job. Mac had come up fighting, with a knife in hand — a knife he’d started carrying years before in an ankle sheath. They’d lived in some rough neighborhoods. The man had backed off. His mother sent him to Michael the next morning on the bus. And Mac swore he’d never be without a gun after that. He would have killed the man without remorse.
Even with just a knife, Mac had planned to gut him — and the man knew it.
Mateo was now the lead vehicle, and he drove slowly and smoothly.
“Tell me what to expect,” Mac said.
“If it is legitimate, we will answer questions. You will show your documents, and they will wave us through,” he said. “If they are on the take? They may try to shake us down. And I will pay them without protest. They will be heavily armed.”
“And if they aren’t who Chuy said they were?” Mac asked.
“Then we will be very glad to have the weapons you have stashed in this truck,” Mateo said. “But we will use them to bluff. We do not want to leave dead bodies — most certainly not ones who are in police uniforms.”
Mac nodded. “I don’t speak Spanish,” he said. “And that will be my answer to any question they pose — unless it’s in English, I guess.”
“Short and simple answers,” Mateo said. “I’m assuming you’re not going to scream ‘I’m being kidnapped!’”
Mac snorted. “No,” he said. “The time for that has passed.”
Mateo grinned.
They were approaching the checkpoint now. It was quite a structure for what Mac had assumed was a temporary checkpoint. A center station with arms that dropped down across both lanes controlled the road. Yes, he could see as they got closer it wasn’t cemented in. “This wasn’t here when you all headed north a week ago?” he asked.
Mateo shook his head no. “They can set them up pretty fast,” he said. He sounded tense. And for good reason, Mac thought, because the real control wasn’t the station, but the two armed vehicles on either side of the road. He’d been in those as a Marine — not quite a tank, they had wheels, not treads — military transport vehicles with gun slots. They were impenetrable. He had to assume there was serious weaponry aimed in their direction.
Mac forced himself to relax. Gringo, he reminded himself. Just a traffic check. Happens all the time. Mateo glanced at him and nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said. “Do not give them any reason to be suspicious.”
“Back at you, my friend,” Mac murmured. “Your tension can be felt 10 feet away.”
“Ah, but I’m supposed to be tense,” he countered. “That is their intention. You, on the other hand, are a clueless American, Chuy’s relative come for a visit, with your Black cousin.”
“Got it,” Mac said. He let out a deep breath and forced his shoulders to relax.
Mateo rolled to a stop and waited for the officer. He rolled down the window, only when the man reached them and tapped on it. Mateo’s hands returned to the steering wheel — keeping them in plain sight. Mac made sure his hands were visible as well. He held his papers in his left hand, though, just in case.
The police officer was pleasant, professional. Mateo was courteous. And Mac wished learning a second language came naturally for him — he should have learned Spanish a long time ago.
Mac kept his expression pleasant, if curious, and he waited.
“He wants to see your passport,” Mateo said. Mac handed it to him, and Mateo passed it on. The officer looked at every page. Mac tried to think what might be in there. Not much, he conceded. He’d gotten one when he mustered out in Germany. He’d wanted to explore Europe a bit before catching a ride home. That had been seven years ago. So none of his military destinations were on it.
“Insurance and registration?” Mateo asked him. Mac handed that over too. It made him nervous that the officer — if he was an officer — didn’t return his passport.
“Do you have any other ID on you?” Mateo asked.
Mac pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and found his driver’s license. The officer compared all of them, and then nodded his head. He said something — it sounded like an order.
“He wants you to get out of the truck,” Mateo said.
“Just me?”
“So far,” Mateo said. He glanced in his sideview mirror — “It looks like Toby is getting the same welcome.”
Mac grunted and opened the door and stepped out. He stretched a bit. An officer came around and ran a wand over his body — similar to the wands used at airports. Grateful that he had stashed his pistol in his truck, he didn’t flinch. He glanced back at Toby who had two officers talking to him. Pedro was translating, it appeared. Well Toby had been in Mexico before — and his passport would show it. Maybe that was why.
Maybe.
His officer nodded his approval, however, and said in perfectly good English, “You may get back in the truck. Thank you for your patience. We want to make our country as safe as possible — so that tourists like you will come back!”
Mac grinned at him. “I saw that beach, and it’s beautiful,” he said. “I’m looking forward to our stay in Mazatlán. I hear the beaches are beautiful, and the women are even more so.”
The man laughed. “That is true,” he agreed. He sobered. “You travel with men who are not usually welcoming to strangers. Do you do so by choice?”
Mac forced himself to look puzzled. “Yes? My cousin has known Pedro back there for a long time. I am finally on vacation for the first time since I left the military and he says let’s go to Mexico with my friend. And here we are. My cousin has an import shop that handles Talavera pottery.”
The officer nodded. He handed Mac his papers back. “Then you should go and enjoy the beach,” he said. “How long do you expect to be in Mexico?”
“I have 10 days of vacation time. We’re going to Lake Patzcuaro next,” Mac said. “I understand the arts and crafts communities there are amazing. My cousin wants to see if he can broaden his inventory.”
The officer snorted. “I see,” he said dryly. And Mac figured he probably did. “You’re free to go.”
Mac smiled his thanks, stuffed his papers in his pockets to keep his hands free, and got back in the 4-Runner. He watched what was happening behind him. Chuy was out of his vehicle now and was arguing with another officer — hand gestures, the works — and Mac’s officer walked back to see what was going on.
“Mateo,” Mac said in warning.
“I see,” he said grimly.
Nacho was now the only one in the truck, and he was the driver, and he stayed there.
Mac chewed on his lip. “Let’s see if my genial tourist persona will work,” he muttered, and when Mateo said nothing, he got back out of the truck, and walked slowly back to the other men. He kept his hands visible and his walk loose. It wasn’t easy with those two armed transports sitting there.
“Toby, are you causing trouble for Chuy?” Mac asked. “Time is a wasting, and I’d like to see the sun set over the ocean in Mazatlán.”
“Me?” Toby protested, falling into his role as the troublemaker. “I didn’t do anything!”
Mac looked at the officer who talked to him in English. “Can you tell your officers that my lamebrain cousin meant no harm? He never does. But he is a clumsy person. When we were kids, we teased him about being a thunderfoot — he splashed in every mud puddle. Fell through the dock. Broke the front step. He is the same with people. Just ask his wife.”
There was laughter now, and the officers were relaxing. Pedro was still translating as well.
“And what will you do with your thunderfoot cousin in Mazatlán?” his officer asked.
“Probably rescue him from every bar we go to,” Mac said. “I had to rescue him twice in Puerto Peñasco.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Toby whined, on cue.
The men laughed. “It never is, is it?” the officer said.
“No,” Mac said. “Not even when they ask a woman to dance and ignore the ring on her finger and that the man standing next to her is even bigger than he is.”
More laughter. “All right,” the officer said. “But try to keep your thunderfoot out of trouble, will you?”
“It is my lot in life,” Mac agreed.
The officer gestured, and of the other officers handed Toby his papers back and told Toby he could go. Pedro and Chuy climbed into the back seat.
Mac nodded his thanks to the officer and walked back to the 4-Runner. Mateo was standing at the driver’s side door watching. He waited until Mac reached his own door before getting back inside.
“What was that about?” Mateo asked.
Mac shook his head. “No clue,” he admitted.
“You use that humor well,” Mateo observed. He put the 4-Runner into gear and eased slowly toward the checkpoint arm. It raised.
Mac closed his eyes briefly in relief. So many undercurrents.
“I learned to do that in the Marines,” Mac said, finally answering Mateo’s observation. “Humor works a lot of the time. And if it fails?” Mac shrugged. “Then you can resort to other measures.”
“Measures like what you’ve done for Rollings in the past?” Mateo asked.
Mac looked at him in cold silence. “You ask a lot of questions, my friend,” Mac said softly. “Too many questions. Questions that you shouldn’t even know to ask.”
“I told you,” Mateo said, undisturbed by Mac’s menace. “Your father kept a close watch on you.”
“And yet he let me nearly starve as a child?” Mac said bitterly. He watched through his sideview mirror to make sure the truck cleared the checkpoint as well.
“I believe he did not know,” Mateo said after a brief pause. “Your mother lied and hid from him. You would have been 8 years old when she contacted him. He didn’t know what life was like for you before that. And I don’t think we truly knew what life was like for you after that. He knew about the gangs.”
Mac grimaced at that.
“He was proud of your record in the Marines — skeptical about your choice of majors in college, however. He considered journalists to be...,” Mateo trailed off with a frown as if he didn’t know the right way to describe it.
“He was in a literature master’s program?” Mac said raising one eyebrow in amusement. “He probably thinks journalists are hacks. They aren’t real writers. They have sold out.”
Mateo laughed. “This is a common opinion then?”
“Too common,” Mac said, grumbling a bit for effect. “But journalists think literature majors have no skills to make a living. They have a short story they’ve been working on for years, and plan to write the next Great American Novel as soon as they get some life experience in seedy bars and transient housing. Or go to Cuba.”
Mateo was laughing hard. “Do not say that to your father,” he advised. He laughed some more. “Or if you do, make sure I’m there to hear. I believe he might have such a novel in progress — Mexico’s next Gabriel García Márquez.”
Mac snorted. “Chuy says I will piss him off, and he can’t wait to watch.”
Mateo laughed some more. “This is probably true,” he agreed. He sobered. “But Mac? Don’t piss of Señor Del Toro. That would be a very different thing.”
Mac glanced at him, and then back out his window, seeking glimpses of the beach. “I may be more like him than he’ll find comfortable,” Mac said. He didn’t look at Mateo as he said it. “And if he rages? Will you send me on my way? Point me to the nearest highway?”
Mateo paused so long, Mac didn’t think he was going to answer.
“Dead men don’t need highways, Mac.”