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Scottsdale, Arizona, United States, 1993

THE MAN CALLED Luis Roberts—known to his friends and post office coworkers as Lou, even though his real name was Jose Aguilar Gonzales—pushed through the glass doors of the Robinsons-May department store in Arizona’s Scottsdale Fashion Square. His hands were laden with shopping bags. He had gone to the mall to do his Christmas shopping, taking advantage of the sales on the day after Thanksgiving.

Lou’s habit of generosity had been developed during an earlier phase of his life, when his income had far exceeded what he made now, sorting mail in the back of the post office. He liked giving presents. His colleagues and the neighborhood kids had come to expect them, thinking of Lou as a kind of Santa Claus figure. But with his diminished income, shopping during sales had become a necessity.

His red Ford Escort—another step down from the old days—was parked in the lot that faced onto Camelback Road, outside Robinsons-May. He’d been lucky to get a spot close by; the parking lot was jammed, and vehicles circled like vultures, trying to nab any space that opened up. As he waited on the curb for a chance to cross into the lot, a black Mitsubishi Montero with tinted windows rolled slowly past. Inside, the driver and passenger—both Hispanic men—eyed him. He didn’t recognize either one, but that meant nothing. From their expressions, as far as he could tell through the darkened glass, he believed they recognized him.

He dropped the bags where he stood, spun, and hurtled toward the department store. A woman was coming out as he reached the doors; he shoved past her, causing her to drop something that landed with the crash of breaking glass. He kept going. Weaving through the crowded aisles at something less than a full-on sprint but more than a jog, he made it through the store and out into the main area of the mall in a couple of minutes. All the way, his right hand was tucked inside the zipper of his leather jacket, close to his gun.

The wide corridors were jammed with holiday shoppers. Lou’s gaze darted this way and that, seeking an escape route and scanning for enemies. Most of the shoppers were white, many with families, children. Of course, anyone could be an assassin, but he had always believed that when they came, they would be Latinos. Colombians, most likely. Possibly even people he knew.

Not seeing anyone who seemed to pose an immediate threat, he started toward another exit, walking quickly but no longer running. He didn’t want to attract undue attention to himself. He kept his gun hand inside his jacket, close to his holster, just in case.

The shoppers he passed were largely cheerful; he heard laughter and uplifted voices. Gloria Estefan’s “Christmas Through Your Eyes” was playing over the P.A. system. Lou was glad for her success in the U.S.; he hated Miami, but as long as he could think of her as Cuban, he could ignore her Miami connections. A few minutes earlier, he might have been humming along, smiling like so many of the people around him. Instead, he was sweating, fighting back panic—the price of years of paranoia, of living on the run, always watching over his shoulder.

A Hispanic-looking man shifted course, as if to block his path. Lou cut across to the far side of the walkway. A woman reached suddenly into her purse. For a gun? Lou tightened his grip on his, and moved so that a family was between him and the woman.

Ahead, he spotted a hallway leading to restrooms. They would offer some degree of privacy; he could fight back, if necessary. He started toward them, but before he’d made it halfway down, the hall started to look like a dead end. In there, he would be trapped, with no escape possible. He whirled around and sprinted out, made for the nearest escalator. On the way, he saw a man by himself, carrying a small bag, looking his way. When Lou hit the escalator, he took the steps two at a time, pushing past people standing still and letting it carry them up.

On the upper floor, he no longer worried about discretion. He raced full tilt for the bridge that passed over Camelback Road. Inside Nordstrom, he slowed once again, eyeing everyone around him as he rode the escalator back to ground level. His fingers rested against the butt of his pistol, ready to yank it from its holster.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his cheeks, stung his eyes. The escalator seemed to crawl.

Finally on the ground floor, he quickly walked toward the exit and outside, across a small parking lot facing Goldwater Boulevard. If the attack came, it would be here. His head swiveled this way and that, seeking out potential threats. Across Goldwater was a bus stop, and a bus huffed its way toward it, less than a block away. At a break in traffic, he raced across the street, arriving just in time to board the bus. He found a seat in the back and rode, no particular destination in mind, watching every passenger who boarded while keeping an eye on the street.

Luis Roberts had to die, so that Jose Aguilar Gonzales could live for another day. Cheerful Lou, beloved by customers and coworkers alike, generous Lou who gave Christmas presents to the neighborhood children and handed out the best candy at Halloween, could exist no more. He would have to leave Arizona; too close to Mexico, which he had always known but tried to ignore.

Where to go, though? Someplace north. Chicago? Minneapolis? Maybe Detroit? Somewhere far from the southern border.

But did distance really matter? According to the news from Colombia, Pablo Escobar was a fugitive in his own land. But El Patrón’s reach was long, his memory longer still. Forgiveness was not in his vocabulary.

Lou—Aguilar—rode the bus, and watched, and pondered his next steps.