Chapter 17

At breakfast, Toby was protesting that he could continue on. He insisted he was fine. Mac was skeptical since Toby had needed help to get into the shower and to get dressed. And just getting to the breakfast table had left him in pain and sweating over it. Mac wasn’t going to argue with him, however.

Paulo was exasperated. It was obvious to him, at least, that Toby had no business going on to Patzcuaro. Mac sighed finally. “Move a bed in the back of that delivery truck,” he said. “An hour from now, when he is in too much pain to continue, we’ll douse him with painkiller and let him sleep it off in the back of the truck.”

There was silence as they all considered that. Finally Mateo shrugged. “Do it,” he agreed.

By 10 a.m. they were on the highway to Guadalajara. Mac let Mateo drive out of the city. He’d take a turn later. Eight more hours of travel. It was eye-opening just how far the distances were in Mexico. Beautiful country, but you could drive all day to get to the next city of any size. He couldn’t think of anywhere in the U.S. like that — not to this extent, and the western U.S. had some remote areas. West Texas might come close, he admitted. And he’d never been to the Dakotas. But this was coastline. And in the U.S., the coasts were packed.

Mac leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He’d had a good time at the club, but they’d been there until 4 a.m., staggered home and slept for a few hours before coming down to breakfast. The cigarette smoke had gotten to him. But man, the music was something else. He could still hear the beats in his head.

“So you went to San Diego State?” Mac asked, not looking at Mateo. He had a mental list of questions he wanted to ask. He thought he had most of it figured out finally. “After you got out of the service?”

“History, can you believe it?” Mateo said with a laugh. “B.A. and an M.A. I would have stayed on, but....” He shrugged.

Mac nodded. “Mateo? Talk to me,” he said quietly. “You’re not Hector’s son, the ages don’t work. Hector’s brother? Half-brother? Why aren’t you the next in line to run the cartel? You’re running it now, if I’m reading things right.”

Mateo was silent, and Mac was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer. “My mother is indigenous, Purépecha,” he said finally. “She was a housekeeper at the Del Toro family hacienda. Senor Del Toro’s wife had died, and she was available, I guess. By some definitions of available.”

Mac didn’t say anything, and after a glance in his direction, Mateo went on, “When she turned up pregnant, she was banished from the hacienda. After your father came back, he heard the story — a Del Toro son living in poverty in the village? He insisted that I be educated and that my mother have enough money to raise me.”

“Ten,” he said. “So I got my first pair of shoes, and I was forced to learn to read. Turned out I liked it. I ran errands for the family and the cartel in my teens, and then I enlisted. I could see I wasn’t going to go anywhere in the cartel, and that was the only thing there was to do in the Michoacán. Unless I wanted to become some craftsman selling my things to tourists.”

Mac shrugged. Maybe with practice he would get it down. “Took a history class that focused on history of the West Coast from the perspective of the groups who were already here when the westward movement happened. The prof called it the westward expansion — or sometimes the westward invasion. It made history a lot more interesting: Native Americans, Mexicans, Chinese, Russians — all kinds of groups were already here in the west before the Anglos of the eastern seaboard headed this way. And one of the case studies was those villages and how one Spanish priest was determined that the indigenous would survive.”

“More complex than that,” Mateo said. “Yes, he preserved the indigenous communities, and they survive still today through tourism, but it was still a form of colonialism, of imperialism. And because the villages weren’t forced to merge with the Spanish culture they remain a backwater — a curiosity. Neither indigenous, nor Mexican. And they’re poor, Mac. Many of them don’t even speak Spanish. Most of them are illiterate.”

Mac nodded. His professor had said something similar. “No good solutions,” he said now. “But why hasn’t Del Toro turned the cartel over to you? Men respect you. You have the skills it takes. The ruthlessness it takes. Why aren’t you the next in line? Why Chuy?”

Mateo snorted. “Remember that first day, when we talked about Hector’s wife? About her pure heritage? Brown vs. white?”

“Senor Del Toro won’t recognize me, because I’m brown, Mac,” Mateo said flatly. “And because I’m brown, I’m not in line to run things. It would be different in other cartels. But in Del Toro, it’s still all about family — and the family of the pure lineage. And yet, when things got dicey a decade or so ago, they called me home — just as they had called Hector home a decade before that. Rather, they made my mother call me and tell me I had to come home. Come home and work for them. Come home and be Chuy’s nanny, as you call me. But not be considered a heir.”

“A history professor, or go to work for the government,” Mateo said with a laugh. There wasn’t much amusement in the sound. “I envisioned a job as a diplomat, actually. I guess I became that. A diplomat for the cartel.”

Mac didn’t let his wince show. The man wouldn’t welcome pity, or even sympathy. “Your mom did their bidding?” Mac asked.

“She had no choice,” Mateo said wearily. “I had ignored the summons. I didn’t feel I owed the Del Toro family anything. I even said I would reimburse them for my education if necessary. I’m not the first offshoot of the family to seek government service. Or the priesthood, or whatever. It is the nature of things in Mexico. We are all connected through this weave of family. And when the head of the family calls, you come. I did not come.”

Mateo nodded shortly. “They beat her badly, put her in the hospital,” he said with difficulty. “And then they told her to call me home. She refused. The nurse did it for her. I am forever grateful that the nurse did this, or my mother would have died, and it would have been my fault — my stubborn, foolish fault.” He smiled briefly. “The nurse and I now have three children,” he added. “I wasn’t going to let a smart woman like that get away.”

Mac smiled. “I hope to meet her,” he said. “I’ve become quite attached to smart women myself.”

“Perhaps you will,” Mateo said. “But you should think about that story, Mac. Defy the cartel, and they will go after the person you love too. My wife knows. As my mother knows. As I know — their lives depend upon my usefulness to the cartel. I do my job. And then I go home. And as long as I do my job, I have a home to go to.”

Mateo hesitated, and then he shook his head. He had more to say, Mac thought. He’d get the rest of the story eventually.

Mateo nodded. “And truthfully? I am OK with that. I don’t want to be the capo of a drug cartel. Hell, I didn’t want to be a part of the cartel at all!”

“Must go hard, though, to think that Chuy will take it over, and lose it in months.”

“Chuy thinks they left me with my mother, let me grow up the way I did because it would make me tough,” Mac continued. “Not like him, the soft and pampered heir.”

“And that now they need someone. And they think I’ll step in and take over,” Mac continued.

“I won’t do it,” Mac said. “They waited too long. Even two years ago? My hunger for a family might have lured me down here, and into the cartel. But I’ve made a family for myself, now, Mateo. I have a job that I like. A boss I respect. I have friends who have my back. And I have a woman I love. They waited too long.”

“You sound like you think you have a choice,” Mateo said. “You don’t. Why do you think Toby was brought along? If they need to make the point, his life is forfeit. If that’s not enough? You think the cartel doesn’t reach to Seattle? It does. Your woman? We probably know more about her than you do.”

“And how long will the cartel survive?” Mac asked coldly. “How long do you think it will survive if I decide to tear it apart from the inside, piece by piece, because they threaten the people I love? You do know what I used to do, right? In the Marines? And afterwards for Toby? I wasn’t a history teacher, Mateo.”

“Mac, check it out,” Mateo said persuasively. “Meet your father. Hector Del Toro is a gracious, intelligent man. Meet your half-siblings. Hell, meet your grandfather. Take a look around. The cartel is more than drug dealers. It is the business that supports hundreds of people. It’s the power that runs the government, the police. And that’s what you stand to inherit. At least know what you stand to gain here.”

Mac wondered how long Mateo had rehearsed that speech in his head. He suspected it was a speech he had been ordered to make. “Of course,” Mac said. “It is why I came after all — to meet the family that abandoned me. Right?”

Mac snorted and looked out the window to watch the scenery. They were still heading south, but he thought they were veering away from the coast, heading inland now.

He was right on the money about how long Toby could last. In a small village just about an hour out of Mazatlán, the bigger truck pulled around them, and then pulled over. Mateo parked behind them, and they watched as Pedro helped Toby out of the cab and around back of the truck. Mac considered the disparate sizes of the two men and sighed. “Be right back.”

He got out and helped Pedro ease Toby into the back. “You take enough meds?” he asked his cousin.

“I thought so,” Toby said, and he was sweating again. Maybe he should have made Toby stay behind. But he didn’t like Toby’s chances there — not with those DEA clowns gunning for him. And it wouldn’t have protected him from the cartel either. If they wanted to make an example of him, they would — whether he was in Patzcuaro or Mazatlán.

Pedro handed Toby a bottle of water and a vial of pills. “Take enough to knock yourself out,” Pedro advised. “Sleep through the trip, my friend. You will heal faster if you do not stress your body with pain now.”

Mac nodded in agreement. Toby didn’t argue. He really was hurting, Mac worried. Eight more hours. And then they’d be in all the luxury ill-gotten riches could buy. Surely that would include medical treatment for a stab wound.

Mac came around to the driver’s side of his pickup. “My turn for a while,” he said. “Until Guadalajara. I’m not up to maneuvering through city traffic yet, I don’t think.”

Mateo nodded and got out of the pickup and walked around to the other side and got in. “We’ll eat lunch in Guadalajara,” he said. “Toby OK?”

“He’s got a stab wound in his side,” Mac said tersely. He waited until the other truck pulled away from the curb, and then he followed. “And he was too stubborn to stay behind for a couple of days. How do you think he feels?”

Mac stilled. Sounded like he wasn’t the only one who had a list of questions for this car ride.

“I thought at first Del Toro might be involved,” Mac said slowly. “But that doesn’t make sense — we talked about that. One of the other cartels? Still doesn’t make sense. Then that guy showed up last night. Made some threats. I think it’s DEA — could be some other alphabet agency, but mostly likely DEA. Why they’d want Toby dead? I have no clue.”

Mateo was silent. “The first two attempts were to grab him, it seemed like,” he said finally. “Does he know something they don’t want us to know?”

“If so, he doesn’t know what it is. And yes, I asked,” Mac said. “Paranoia is my guess. After that botched task force raid, Vallejo is all in a tizzy. So anything out of the ordinary — like him disappearing for a few days, and now heading down here — gets everyone hot and bothered. Got you riled up, didn’t it?”

“Not me personally, but yeah, it got noticed,” Mateo agreed. He considered that. “Your reaction last night was fast and over the top.”

“I have a high startle reflex,” Mac agreed. Mateo snorted. Mac grinned at him. “I warn my girlfriends not to kiss me awake, even.”

Mac laughed. It was true, however. Don’t shake him awake. Call his name — preferably from a distance.

“Why did you agree to come down here?” Mateo asked. “I hear you — curiosity. And yeah, we didn’t leave you a lot of choice. Although by day two, I was skeptical about that part.”

“And Toby’s presence keeps you in line,” Mateo continued. “You aren’t going to leave him behind. So Del Toro is right — Rollings is a hostage to your good behavior. But....” He trailed off. Mac watched him carefully. “Chuy picked up a rumor last night — that you’re DEA.”

“What?” Mac said, startled. “Oh hell, no. I served my time. Uncle Sam’s Marines is all the government time I’ll ever do. No. Just no.”

Mac grunted. “His source wasn’t the same guy I threw up against a wall was it?” he asked dryly. “Because if DEA wants Toby and/or me out of the game, that’s a rumor that would do it. A cartel bullet to the brain.”

“I might ask Chuy that,” Mateo agreed. “Although he’s actually good at soft intelligence work. People like him. They talk to him. And he has the sense to know what’s important.”

“Someone would have to be a better capo than the two we’ve got to see that,” Mateo said. “They see family. Heritage.”

“Just like any family-run business,” Mac agreed, then added from his earlier thought about this, “Or the Queen of England for that matter.”

Mateo laughed. He looked at Mac, and then laughed again. “Yeah, Senor Del Toro and the Queen of England. I see the resemblance.”

“So you’re actually Mateo del Toro yourself?” Mac asked. “I just realized I’ve never heard anyone use a last name for you. It is known who you are, right?”

“It’s known,” he agreed. “But I’m not formally recognized. No, my name is Mateo Tariaran. My mother’s name. And it’s Purépecha.”

Mac thought that was cool actually. But he did know what it meant to not have your father’s name. Not as obvious for a white kid in the States as it would be down here. The Latinos he had known had both parents names, although they usually used just one of them in American bureaucracy.

“So you won’t add del Toro to your name, but you keep adding it to mine,” Mac said neutrally.

Mateo shrugged. “A suggestion from Hector Del Toro,” he admitted. “And common sense once I saw how much trouble you could find. Best if people knew messing with you meant messing with Del Toro.”

Mac laughed about finding trouble. “Not sure that’s a help or makes me a bigger target.”

“You seem to be able to take care of yourself. That security guard last night was shaken by how fast and harshly you reacted to that guy,” Mateo said.

Mac focused on the road, and the scenery, and relaxed into the trip. Mateo seemed focused on his own thoughts. And that was fine. Mac had some thinking to do too.

It was mid-afternoon when they pulled off the highway at Guadalajara. Chuy had a restaurant in mind. Mateo wanted something quicker, but Chuy just shrugged. “It’s just four hours to home,” Chuy said. “We’ll make it before dark without a problem. We can relax over lunch.” Mateo didn’t argue further, and they all headed toward the restaurant — a pub, really, a taberna, the sign said. Mac figured that meant tavern. A lot of words were like that, if he could see them.

“Freaks me out how strong you are,” Toby muttered. “I mean, I work out. I’m strong. But it’s like you know how to use your strength.”

Interesting observation, Mac thought. “Marines,” he said. “It’s not about lifting 230, it’s about packing out a wounded squad member. And that’s quite a different project.” He jumped out of the truck, and Pedro was there to help Toby down to the ground.

Evidently the place was known to all of them, because Pedro herded Toby toward the back, while the others found a table. The waiter greeted them and seemed to know them.

Mac ordered enchiladas verdes. He liked them from his time in El Paso, and Seattle just didn’t get it right, in his opinion. These were really good. As he ate, he listened to the banter around the table. Chuy chatted with the waiter in Spanish. Pedro, Nacho and Toby were arguing about some soccer game. Mateo was watching them all with an amused smile on his face.

He liked them. They were crooks. Drug dealers. They could all kill a man without blinking, and probably had. Well, so had he. He fit in with them. He didn’t like it, but he did. Probably better than he fit in with Rodriguez and the rest of them at some cop bar. Talk about trying to be something you weren’t?

Stan Warren knew his past — he’d done a background investigation of him when they first met. Rodriguez probably had read it. Dunbar? Rand Nickerson? They thought they were being tolerant to allow a reporter in their midst.

No that wasn’t fair, he acknowledged. Teasing was fine. He joked about being around cops and they didn’t even have to cuff him to get him there. But he was always wary. Always careful to not let things slip that they shouldn’t know.

Even more so with Angie. He wanted her respect, and her trust, as much as he wanted her love. Would she, if she knew what kind of man he really was?

But with these men, he could fully relax. How could they judge him? Not for the ugly things he’d done. They might think the cop reporter part was weird.

They all made trips to the bathroom, and then Mac and Pedro got Toby back into bed. Toby protested that he wanted to sit up for a while, and it was true, he did look better. “Sleep for another four hours,” Pedro said. “Then we will stop, and let you ride into town like an adult up front.”

Toby laughed and agreed. Mac hopped out of the bed and looked at Pedro. “The two of you really are friends, not just associates,” Mac observed.

Pedro shrugged. “We go way back,” he said. “Twelve years? That’s a long time. He saved my life once. I was at his wedding. I am his oldest daughter’s godfather.”

Mateo was seated behind the wheel, so Mac got in the other side. “He’s doing better.”

Mac was looking out the window as Mateo drove. He liked it here. It reminded him of El Paso in some ways. He liked the warmth. They’d been climbing up a mountain range since they left Mazatlán, and it was much less humid now.

That was as high as Denver! The terrain was rockier but also had pine trees, shrubs, out there. A completely different climate than Mazatlán with its palm trees and humid weather.

Mateo shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “A dusting? Friends in San Diego took me up Mount Laguna to see the snow. It is amazing. But not here.”

Snow, damp, cold were all over-rated in Mac’s view. He thought about his trip into the North Cascades and the rain and then late snow that damn near killed him.

All in all, he was having a good time, he thought with a laugh. He felt like he was being wooed by some big corporation, really. Of course, if they were doing it right, they’d have just flown him and Angie down. He wondered why they hadn’t.

Mateo shook his head when he asked. “You seem to think this was planned,” he said dryly. “It’s been one ad hoc decision after another. We didn’t expect to see you in Vallejo in the first place. But once you’d seen Chuy, there’s no mistaking the relationship. And you’d already spotted him on television? So Chuy called for instructions. ‘Bring him,’ Don Del Toro says. ‘And Toby, too.’ But we can’t find Toby. Then we have the two of you, and rather than put you on a plane, like a sensible plan, Del Toro says, ‘drive down.’ So here we are. Chuy makes some decisions. But Don Del Toro, and for all I know Senor Del Toro, as well, are also giving instructions. And they conflict. Of course they do! What is the saying? Too many cooks spoil the broth?”

Mac was laughing hard at that, and Mateo rolled his eyes. “The military can be like that,” Mac said. “I was Chuy — I was never afraid to use my initiative.”

“El Paso,” Mateo said with amusement. “No one expected that. But yes, this is much like that actually. Someone told you all to do a search. You did the search and found something you weren’t supposed to find. Do you call in for instructions? No, they’re shooting at you! Of course not. You blow the place up.”

Mac laughed. “You know more about that incident than you should,” he managed.

Mateo snorted. “Your father was proud,” he said. “You destroyed a joint cartel-U.S. government operation practically single-handed. And that cartel never recovered. It has no significance these days, and other cartels including us swooped in.”

Mac had never thought about what impact that mission had south of the border, not even when he’d worked the Parker story three years ago. Interesting. Interesting too that the cartel didn’t feel any loyalty to another cartel, even under attack in the States. They were competitors, period. “Does the cartel feel any loyalty to Mexico or the Mexican government?”

“You think of the cartel as bandits, hiding out in the hills with a secret drug-processing plant — like the one you busted,” Mateo said with amusement. “It’s not like that, Mac. We’re Mexico’s major industry. We have clout. We aren’t loyal to the government. We are the government.”

Was that true? Mac wondered. Possibly to some extent, he conceded. If the government wanted to put an end to the cartels, it probably could. But there was too much money to be had — both on an individual level, and in larger sense. It would be a losing battle against the amount of money the cartels had — the amount of weapons, the men.... Corrupt politicians, corrupt police. Corrupt military probably. Which reminded him of Cherán, the village that had fought back.

And the village that was fighting back now. “Will we go by the village that burned the Del Toro warehouse?” Mac asked.

“Yes,” Mateo said. “It is just down the road from the Del Toro hacienda. That is why it has been so embarrassing for Del Toro. He can’t even control the people in his own back yard!”

“Do members of the cartel have family in that village?” Mac asked. He didn’t look at Mateo, but there was something in Mateo’s voice when he answered that last question. He was getting close to the remaining secret Mateo was hiding.

“There were,” Mateo said after a pause. “Most have relocated by now. That film was months ago, you understand.”

“What happened to the reporter?” Mac asked, diverted down a different path. But he noted the ‘most.’ Most was not the same as all. And Mac suddenly wondered where Mateo’s wife and children were. And his mother?

Dear God, Mac thought suddenly. What a fucking situation to be in. He wasn’t going to pursue that question. But he knew. Mateo’s family was in the village. And he’d bet dollars to donuts that his mother was one of the village leaders.

“The reporter?” Mateo repeated. “He disappeared. No, we didn’t do it,” he added hastily. “When we made inquiries to the station, he was gone.”

They would have, though, Mac thought. Mexico was one of the most dangerous countries in the world for journalists. Most of those that were worse were war zones. Well, in some ways Mexico was a war zone too. He wondered if someone had gotten him, or if he’d left the country. Probably left the country, Mac realized. Or that documentary wouldn’t have gotten made.

“Point out the villages to me?” Mac asked, as if it wasn’t important. “If we have time, I’d like to explore some of the craft villages.”

“We’ll go by Laguna,” Mateo said absently. “That’s a big one. They’re famous for the black pottery. Then we’ll turn south along the Lake to the hacienda. Many of the villages are on the other side of the lake.”

“No, it’s Purépecha,” he replied. “The village elders rejected the Spanish name in the 1970s and returned to the Purépecha name. It means near the lake.”

“Appropriate, I gather,” Mac said, and he returned to looking out the window.

“It is,” Mateo said. “You can actually walk down the main street of town and end up at the lake.”

Mateo shrugged. “Fewer than 20,000? It’s not known for anything. It wasn’t one of the original craft villages. It never developed a tourist base, even though it does have lake access — it’s on the wrong side of the lake for tourism. People fish, mostly. They have their chickens and their pigs, and they raise gardens.” He stopped.

“More of a clinic by your standards,” he said. “Señor Del Toro invested a lot in the medical facility, it is state of the art really. And Don Del Toro invested in the schools. Both necessary if the employees of the cartel would have the services the cartel needed them to have.”

“A company town,” Mac observed. “Like coal mining towns?” he added when Mateo looked at him questioningly.

“Ah, yes,” Mateo said. “That is a very good analogy. There is a song, is there not? I owe my soul to the company store?”

Mac nodded. It had been one Danny’s favorite songs. Mac used to yell at him to shut up with that shit. But he wished Danny was around to sing it. Although he would probably still yell at him to shut up. That man could talk. He sang the words softly:

“Some people say a man is made outta mud

A poor man's made outta muscle and blood

Muscle and blood and skin and bones

A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong

... You load 16 tons, what do you get?

Another day older and deeper in debt

St. Peter, don't you call me 'cause I can't go

I owe my soul to the company store

They turned off the highway at the Zacapu turnoff, just as the sun was setting — 7 p.m., earlier than Seattle. Of course it was hard to tell in Seattle in February — the days were gray and rainy. Yes it was a bit lighter gray during so-called daylight hours. But Mac had been driving with his headlights on 24/7 for months. They stopped briefly at Zacapu, and Pedro came around the back, and helped Toby out. Toby raised his hand to tell Mac he was fine, and then he got in the back seat of the truck and they started off again.

Zacapu — another town that didn’t sound like a Spanish name, although Mac conceded he knew nothing about Spanish place names. Mateo would know, but Mac didn’t ask. Mateo was silent, his knuckles on the steering wheel were white. Whatever was to come, Mateo was dreading this, Mac thought. This was more of a country road. A lot of small villages came and went.

Mateo pointed at the sign for the turnoff to Santa Fe de la Laguna, and Mac nodded. He should remember to shop for gifts. For Lindy. For Angie and their house. Maybe for the Rodriguezes, Moores, and Joe Dunbar’s housewarming parties this spring. And Janet — she’d be having a housewarming sometime. He had faith. He grinned briefly, and then marveled at all the people he could buy gifts for. Don’t forget Shorty.... He’d have to make a list. He shook his head. Things had changed.

“There is Japunda,” Mateo said abruptly, nodding toward the east. A small paved road lead toward the lake. There was a barricade across it.

Mac nodded. Was this the only road in? So how did the cartel employees get home, if the road is barricaded?

They didn’t, he realized. Not if the village had thrown the cartel out. Had Mateo not been home in months?

“There,” Mateo said, and he slowed down. “This is the best time of the day to see the hacienda.”

Mac stared. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. The place was huge. It must have four floors, stair-stepping up to a small penthouse layer at the top. It was made of deep red stucco with red tile roofs. There were lights on, welcoming them. The ground floor had a porch that circled around the two sides he could see, and the arches that supported it framed the lighted windows.

“It is,” Mateo agreed. “The other side overlooks Lake Patzcuaro below. A patio stretches from the house to the edge of the cliff, and there’s a swimming pool there.” He smiled briefly at Mac. “The Del Toros live well.”

“How many people does it take to run a place of this size?” Mac asked as he stared at it.

Mateo snorted. “I’ve never asked. A hundred maybe? But everyone but the very poor have servants here, Mac. It is very different than what you’re used to.”

Mac nodded. Many countries were like that. Afghanistan was. Not for troops like him, of course, but even the officers who had their own places, had someone to clean for them. Often there was a cook as well, and maybe a butler — was that the right term? A man servant, anyway.

The bigger truck pulled into a circular driveway and off to one side. “Mac,” Mateo began. Then he just stopped and shook his head.

“Don’t worry,” Mac said. “I promise not to pick a fight the first day I’m here.”

Mac considered it, staring at the house, and the people who were coming out the door toward them. He shrugged, and he thought it was almost as good as one of Mateo’s. “Give it to day five. Then all bets are off.”

Mateo turned off the truck, and Mac held out his hand for the keys. “Someone will be around to park it,” Mateo warned.

Mac shrugged again. “He’ll have to come find me then, won’t he?” He got out of the truck and walked around to join Mateo. Mateo escorted him toward a tall man waiting for them at the portico entrance. Mac could feel Chuy, Pedro, Nacho and Toby arrayed at their backs. He knew he couldn’t count on them — well Toby, maybe, and only maybe — but it felt good. Like he had a squad standing with him.

Like he’d once had a squad to stand with him when they’d cleared Taliban hideouts.

“Don Del Toro, may I introduce to you Mackensie Davis?” Mateo said formally, and Mac noted he left off the Del Toro now. “Mac? This is Hector Del Toro, your father.”

Del Toro stepped forward, and Mac could see the resemblance. So this is what I will look like at 55, he thought. And then Del Toro pulled him into a hug. “Welcome home,” he said quietly. “Welcome home, Mackensie Davis Del Toro.”

Mac felt his eyes fill with tears. He blinked furiously. The man is 25 years late, he told himself. You will not show emotion here. You will not be moved by his welcome.