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A picture of an elegant woman comes on the screen.
“Elena Sánchez Barrera,” Blair says, “Adán’s sister, once ran his Baja plaza but retired years ago, yielding the territory to Iván. She has two sons: Rudolfo, who did time here in the US for cocaine trafficking, and Luis. Elena is reputed to be out of the drug business now, as are her two sons. Most of the family money is now invested in legitimate businesses, but both Rudolfo and Luis occasionally run with Los Hijos, and as Adán’s blood nephews, they have to be considered potential heirs to the throne.”
A photo of Ricardo Núñez comes up.
“Núñez has the wealth and the power to take over the cartel,” Blair says, “but he’s a natural born number two, born to stand behind the throne, not to sit in it. He’s a lawyer at heart, a cautious, persnickety legalist without the taste or tolerance for blood that a move for the top demands.”
Another picture of a young man goes up on the screen.
Keller recognizes Ric Núñez.
“Núñez has a son,” Blair says, “also Ricardo, twenty-five, with the ridiculous sobriquet of ‘Mini-Ric.’ He’s only on the list because he’s Barrera’s godson.”
More pictures go up of Mini-Ric.
Drinking beer.
Driving a Porsche.
Holding a monogrammed pistol.
Pulling a cheetah on a leash.
“Ric lacks his father’s seriousness,” Blair says. “He’s another Hijo, a playboy burning through money he never earned through his own sweat or blood. When he isn’t high, he’s drunk. He can’t control himself, never mind the cartel.”
Keller sees a photo of Ric and Iván drinking together, raising glasses in a toast to the camera. Their free hands are tossed over each other’s shoulders.
“Iván Esparza and Ric Núñez are best friends,” Blair says. “Iván is probably closer to Ric than to his own brothers. But Ric is a beta wolf in the pack that Iván leads. Iván is ambitious, Ric is almost antiambitious.”
Keller already knows all this, but he asked Blair to give a briefing to the DEA and Justice personnel in the wake of the discovery of Adán’s body. Denton Howard is in the front row—finally educating himself, Keller thinks.
“There are a few other Hijos,” Blair says. “Rubén Ascensión’s father, Tito, was Nacho Esparza’s bodyguard, but now has his own organization, the Jalisco cartel, which primarily makes its money from methamphetamine.
“This kid—”
He shows another picture of a young man—short black hair, black shirt, staring angrily into the camera.
“—Damien Tapia,” Blair says, “aka ‘The Young Wolf.’ Age twenty-two, son of the late Diego Tapia, another one of Adán’s former partners. Was a member of Los Hijos until his dad ran afoul of Barrera back in 2007, touching off a major civil war in the cartel, which Barrera won. Used to be very tight with Ric and Iván, but Damien doesn’t hang with them anymore, as he blames their fathers for his father’s killing.”
Los Hijos, Keller thinks, are sort of the Brat Pack of the Mexican drug trade, the third generation of traffickers. The first was Miguel Ángel Barrera—“M-1”—and his associates; the second was Adán Barrera, Nacho Esparza, Diego Tapia, and their various rivals and enemies—Heriberto Ochoa, Hugo Garza, Rafael Caro.
Now it’s Los Hijos.
But unlike the previous generation, Los Hijos never worked the poppy fields, never got their hands dirty in the soil or bloody in the wars that their fathers and uncles fought. They talk a good game, they wave around gold-plated pistols and AKs, but they’ve never walked the walk. Spoiled, entitled and vacuous, they think they’re just owed the money and the power. They have no idea what comes with it.
Iván Esparza’s assumption of power is at least ten years premature. He doesn’t have the maturity or experience required to run this thing. If he’s smart, he’ll use Ricardo Núñez as a sort of consigliere, but the word on Iván is that he’s not smart—he’s arrogant, short-tempered and showy, qualities that his buttoned-down father had only contempt for.
But the son is not the father.
“It’s a new day,” Keller says. “Barrera’s death didn’t slow down the flow for even a week. There’s more coming in now than ever. So there’s a continuity and stability there. The cartel is a corporation that lost its CEO. It still has a board of directors that will eventually appoint a new chief executive. Let’s make sure we’re privy to that conversation.”
He’s the image of his old man.
When Hugo Hidalgo walks through the door, it takes Keller back almost thirty years.
To himself and Ernie Hidalgo in Guadalajara.
Same jet-black hair.
Same handsome face.
Same smile.
“Hugo, how long has it been?” Keller walks out from behind the desk and hugs him. “Come on, sit down, sit down.”
He leads Hugo to a chair in a little alcove by the window and takes the seat across from him. His receptionist and a number of secretaries had wondered how a junior field agent had managed to get an appointment with the administrator, especially on a day when Keller had canceled everything else and basically locked himself in his office.
Keller has been in there all day, watching Mexican news shows and satellite feeds covering the announcement of Adán Barrera’s death. Univision broadcast footage of the funeral cortege—scores of vehicles—as it snaked its way down from the mountains toward Culiacán. In villages and towns along the way, people lined the road and tossed flowers, ran up to the hearse weeping, pressing their hands against the glass. Makeshift shrines had been constructed with photos of Barrera, candles and signs that read ¡ADÁN VIVE!
All for the little piece of shit who murdered the father of the young man who now sits across from him, who used to call him Tío Arturo. Hugo must be, what, thirty now? A little older?
“How are you?” Keller asks. “How’s the family?”
“Mom’s good,” Hugo says. “She’s living in Houston now. Ernesto is with Austin PD. One of those hippie cops on a bicycle. Married, three kids.”
Keller feels guilty that he’s lost touch.
Feels guilty about a lot of things involving Ernie Hidalgo. It was his fault that Ernie got killed when Hugo was just a little boy. Keller had spent his entire career trying to make it right—had tracked down everyone involved and put them behind bars.
Devoted his life to taking down Adán Barrera.
And finally did.
“How about you?” Keller asks. “Married? Kids?”
“Neither,” Hugo says. “Yet. Look, sir, I know you’re very busy, I appreciate you taking the time—”
“Of course.”
“You once told me if there was anything you could ever do, not to hesitate.”
“I meant it.”
“Thank you,” Hugo says. “I haven’t wanted to take advantage of that, of our relationship, it’s not that I think I’m owed anything …”
Keller has followed Hugo’s career from afar.
The kid has done it the right way.
Military. Good service with the US Marines in Iraq.
Then he went back and finished college, degree in criminal justice from UT, and then caught on with Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. Put up a good record there and kept applying to DEA until he was finally hired.
He could have done it differently, Keller knows. Could simply have walked in and said he was the son of a fallen DEA hero, and they would have given him a job right away.
But he didn’t do that.
He earned it, and Keller respects that.
His father would have, too.
“What can I do for you, Hugo?”
“I’ve been on the job for three years now,” Hugo says, “and I’m still investigating marijuana buys in suburban Seattle.”
“You don’t like Seattle?”
“It’s about as far as you can get from Mexico,” Hugo says. “But maybe that’s the idea.”
“What do you mean?”
Hugo looks uncomfortable, but then sets his jaw and looks straight at Keller.
Just like Ernie would have done, Keller thinks.
“Are you keeping me out of danger, sir?” Hugo asks. “If you are—”
“I’m not.”
“Well, someone is,” Hugo says. “I’ve put in for FAST assignments five times and haven’t gotten one of them. It doesn’t make any sense. I speak fluent Spanish, I look Mexican, I have all the weapons qualifications.”
“Why do you want FAST?”
FAST is an acronym for Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Team, but Keller knows they do a lot more than advise and support. They’re basically the DEA’s special forces.
“Because that’s where it’s happening,” Hugo says. “I see kids dying of overdoses. I want in on that fight. On the front lines.”
“Is that the only reason?” Keller asks.
“Isn’t it enough?”
“Can I be honest with you, Hugo?”
“I wish someone would,” Hugo says.
“You can’t spend your life getting revenge for your father,” Keller says.
“With all respect, sir,” Hugo says. “You did.”
“Which is how I know.” Keller leans forward in his chair. “The men who killed your father are all dead. Two died in prison, one was killed in a gunfight on a bridge in San Diego. I was there. The last one … they’re about to hold his wake. The job is finished, son. You don’t have to take it up.”
“I want my father to have been proud of me,” Hugo says.
“I’m sure he is.”
“I don’t want to be advanced because of who my father was,” Hugo says, “but I don’t want to be held back, either.”
“That’s fair,” Keller says. “I tell you what, if someone is blocking your transfer to FAST, I’ll unblock it. You pass the test, you get through training—only half do—I’ll oil the wheels for assignment to Afghanistan. Front lines.”
“I speak Spanish, not Urdu.”
“Be realistic, Hugo,” Keller says. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to let you go into Mexico. Or Guatemala, or El Salvador, or Costa Rica or Colombia. DEA is simply not going to risk those headlines, if something happened to you. And something would—you’d be a marked man.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“I won’t.” I had to tell Teresa Hidalgo her husband was dead, Keller thinks. I’m not going to tell her that her son has been killed. He makes a mental note to find out who has been keeping Hugo out of harm’s way and thank him. It was solid thinking. “You don’t want Kabul, name me something you would want. Europe—Spain, France, Italy?”
“Don’t dangle shiny objects in front of me, sir,” Hugo says. “Either I get moved to the front lines or I leave DEA. And you know I’ll catch on with a border-state police force and you also know they’ll put me UC. I’ll be making drug buys from Sinaloa before you take my name off the Christmas card list.”
You are your father’s son, Keller thinks. You’ll do exactly what you said, and you’ll get yourself killed, and I owe your dad more than that.
“You want to take down the cartel?” Keller asks.
“Yes, sir.”
“I might have a job for you right here,” Keller says. “As my aide.”
“Pushing paper,” Hugo says.
“You think you’re going to take down the cartel by buying a few keys of coke in El Paso or gunning down a few sicarios in El Salvador, you might be too stupid to work here,” Keller says. “But if you want to be in the real war, fly back to Seattle, pack your things, and be here ready to work first thing Monday morning. It’s the best offer you’re going to get, son. I’d take it if I were you.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Good. See you Monday.”
He walks Hugo to the door and thinks, Shit, I just got stood down by Ernie Hidalgo’s kid.
He goes back to the television.
They’ve brought Adán’s body back to Culiacán.
If Ric has to sit there five more minutes, he will blow his brains out.
For sure, this time.
Death would be preferable to sitting on this wooden folding chair staring at a closed coffin full of Adán Barrera’s bones, pretending to be grieving, pretending to be contemplating fond memories of his godfather that he really didn’t have.
The whole thing is gross.
