The Rebel of Goza Read online

  “You said the girl went back out through the main entrance?”

  “Yes.” The underling’s eyebrows draw together in concern.

  Good. Fear is the only check against his gang members’ violent tendencies. They know better than to test Volante’s patience.

  “And how many men chased her?”

  “All of them, señor. A dozen, more or less.”

  “And all those men couldn’t locate a single puta?” snaps Volante.

  “No, sir,” replies Ramirez, lowering his eyes to the floor.

  Volante strolls towards the entrance. “Any idea what she was doing in here?”

  “No, sir. She didn’t take anything. But she had a phone. That’s how we knew she was in here. The Hernandez brothers heard it chime when she got a text message.”

  “So she could have taken pictures,” says Volante, eyeing the bags of white powder stacked on top of wooden crates.

  “She wasn’t a cop. Mateo Hernandez said she was wearing workers’ clothes, like she’d come in from the fields.”

  “An agave worker, huh?” says Volante. He rubs his chin and cocks a half smile. “I think I might know who she is.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning, I awake before Papi. Not that I slept much. Stress left me staring at the ceiling most of the night and eradicated any trace of appetite this morning.

  I sit at our tiny table, sipping black coffee and pondering my next move. Shafts of sunlight cut across the floor and spill onto the table’s faded, laminate surface. The first notes of birdsong drift in from the fields outside. If only my mind were as tranquil as this sunrise.

  The narcos must have seen me working the field near their drug stash those first four days before I entered the old distillery. Why didn’t they apprehend me then? The answer appears as quickly as the question: at the time, I didn’t represent a threat to their operation. In fact, my presence probably helped conceal it. Nothing to see here, friends. Just a farmer working the fields, same as everywhere else.

  But now that they have pursued me, how do I make things right? Of course, my top priority is securing the safety of my family. But an idea continues to niggle the back of my mind, an itch I can’t scratch: is there any way, somehow, to revive the family business once the drug dealers have left? But will they leave? Or having set up shop in the distillery—an out-of-the-way building in an out-of-the-way town—will they make it a permanent transit point in their drug pipeline?

  Father’s entrance to the kitchen interrupts my musings.

  “Up already?” he asks.

  “Yes. I have some errands to do before work.” I’m not yet ready to light the fuse on the bomb that Papi will be when he learns of this latest development. I’m better off working this on my own.

  Minutes later, Papi exits the house with me and heads towards his job tending our own fields on behalf of Blanco y Oro, one of the mega-distilleries that needs all the agave it can get.

  Rather than head for El Caballo Negro’s agave fields, I veer the opposite direction, towards the center of town. Eduardo won’t like my late work arrival, but it can’t be helped.

  Twenty minutes of walking puts me on the pueblo’s main thoroughfare.

  I push open the ancient double doors of Capilla de Guadalupe’s police station and step through. The police buildings in the nearby metropolis of Guadalajara are modern structures, but nothing in this one has changed since well before I was born. Spartan floors and walls frame well-worn furniture crafted in a style that fell out of favor decades ago. A layer of fine dust coats everything, including Sergeant Pérez, who sits behind the main desk.

  Pérez, a portly figure who’s worked here so long he’s almost a permanent fixture, glances up from the newspaper spread in front of him. The middle-aged man wipes food particles from his bushy mustache and leers. “Sí, señorita?”

  My news needs to go straight to the top policeman—not that this town has many layers to its tiny force. “I need to speak to the Captain,” I tell him, referring to his boss, Héctor Marin.

  “Captain Marin isn’t here right now,” says Pérez. “What do you need?”

  “I think narcos are using my family’s property to store their product. Captain Marin needs to send someone to investigate.”

  “You think narcos are there? What evidence do you have?”

  “I saw a bunch of men in one of the old buildings on my family’s property last night.”

  “How do you know they were narcos?”

  “They weren’t transients,” I answer. “There were too many. And they were talking about coke and were moving crates around.”

  Pérez shakes his head and produces a condescending smile. “That doesn’t prove they’re drug runners, little lady. That same description fits the guys building the new grocery store down the street.”

  I want to smack his chubby face. “Do those builders use narco slang? Because the guys on my property last night did.”

  The sergeant leans back in his chair. “There’s no proof of illegal activity. Bring me that, and I’ll let the captain know.”

  I fight to maintain a calm voice. Lashing out at the idiot—an action he’d label as “acting hysterical”—will simply reinforce his stereotypical assumption that as a woman, I somehow don’t know what I’m talking about.

  “They were on my property last night without permission,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Last time I checked, that’s considered trespassing, which is against the law.”

  Pérez holds out a placating palm. “Settle down. Good point. Did you see them stealing anything?” The fat slob wouldn’t have dismissed a man’s complaint so readily.

  “No,” I say. “I didn’t stick around after I heard them talking about talco.”

  “So trespassing only,” says Pérez, pulling out a legal pad and scribbling on it. “I’ll let the captain know. Can’t say when we’ll be able to look into something so minor. Honestly, by the time we get out there, your new friends will probably be gone.”

  An epiphany hits me, but I don’t let it change my expression. Instead, I simply nod, turn on my heel, and leave without another word.

  The narcos are infamous for bribing those in power to look the other way. If top government officials and judges can be corrupted, it’s not a stretch to assume that Pérez and perhaps others in Capilla de Guadalupe’s police department have been paid off. If that’s the case, I might have just inadvertently informed the narcos who it was that stumbled across their operation last night.

  Stepping into the bright morning sun, I shake my head. Seems like I have a talent for digging this hole deeper and deeper.

  But I do know someone whose knowledge of my lurking danger won’t put me and my family at greater risk. Time to go seek her out.

  CHAPTER 12

  Looks like I’ll be running even later to work. But it’s the right call. As much as I need the paycheck, my family’s safety comes first.

  I head for my town’s diminutive version of the centro, the downtown. Skirting a flock of white-tipped doves crowding the basilica’s plaza, I make my way towards the rougher part of town, where liquor stores stand shoulder to shoulder and dusty cars line the streets.

  I stop a few buildings shy of the town’s two brothels and catch the eye of a crippled figure sitting underneath the barred window of a tequila store painted a faded yellow.

  No need to make our conversation too obvious. I lean over to inspect the bouquets at the flower stall next to her. I wait until a field worker scurries out of the liquor store on her left, then speak to the cripple without turning her direction.

  “Hi, Lily,” I say.

  “Gaby!” replies the figure. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where’ve you been?”

  “Where else? In the fields.”

  Lily nods. “Of course.”

  The jet-haired brunette is in her thirties but looks ten years older. Life on the streets will do that. While living in the northern state of Coahuila fifteen years ago, she s
urvived a drug cartel’s purge with only the loss of her right hand. She was lucky. After protesting the narcos’ presence, most of the faculty and students in her tiny university disappeared. Four years later, hikers found charred remains in a desert ravine over a hundred kilometers from the school. DNA testing confirmed the body fragments belonged to the missing protesters. Had Lily not been dating one of the drug runners, she would have ended up in that pile of bones herself.

  I’ve known her for years, ever since she moved back to Capilla de Guadalupe to be closer to her parents. We hit it off and have been good friends ever since.

  Not long after Lily’s return, her parents both died of pneumonia, leaving her unable to support herself in a town that values only able-bodied farm workers. So she spends her days in the busiest and seediest shopping district, slouched on the sidewalk with a pitiful sign asking for handouts. That’s how she got her beat-up cellphone: a customer at the shopping cart had just upgraded and didn’t know what to do with her old one until she spotted Lily’s cardboard sign.

  No one notices Lily. But she notices them…notices their comings and goings, their conversations. In all of the town of Capilla de Guadalupe, she’s arguably the best informant—invisible and ignored and therefore able to overhear every conversation without raising the slightest suspicion.

  “How are you, amiga?” I ask.

  “Okay,” she says. “Business is slow.” A tattered donation basket at her feet contains few pesos.

  “I need your help.”

  “Anything, my friend.”

  “There’s an old distillery building at the back of my family’s property. I went in there last night and saw a group of men. When I tried to sneak out, they heard my phone and chased me. One of them was talking about talco, so I think they were narcos. The thing is…I’ve never seen drug runners in Capilla de Guadalupe before. Have you heard anything about that?”

  “Have I heard?” She snorts in disgust.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something big is happening. I don’t know exactly what. But I know El Granjero is in this area and moving men and equipment like I’ve never seen.”

  “El Granjero?” I ask.

  Lily’s voice trembles. “Marcos Volante. He’s co-leader of La Cofradía—The Brotherhood—one of the most violent cartels in all of Mexico. They call Volante El Granjero, the farmer, because he’s planted so many bodies out in the desert.” I steal a glance at my friend. She’s twisting a strand of hair around a forefinger, deep in thought. “One thing I don’t understand…his operations are up north, in Nuevo León. What would he be doing down here?”

  “From what I saw last night, he’s setting up shop in my family’s abandoned building.”

  “It would make sense.” She stops as a toothless pensioner shuffles past and staggers into the liquor store. “The federales are putting more pressure on the gangs. Volante could be looking for a less-traveled route to move his product up north.”

  “Great. So he’s chosen my family’s land for his new drug highway.”

  “Looks that way.”

  I think about my family, living and sleeping so close to hardened criminals. And I remember my dreams of restarting the distillery, dreams that seem to slip further away every minute. “I wonder if their stop here is a long-term plan or a one-time layover. Have you heard anything about that?”

  “No, but if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Thanks! You’re the best.”

  I pick out a bouquet of orchids and hand over the change to pay for it.

  The basilica’s plaza is on my route back to the agave fields, so I swing by to let Abuelo know what has happened. I’m not sure it’s the right call, but at this point, I’m running out of options.

  When I arrive, his spot on the wooden bench is uncharacteristically empty.

  I turn to Josef, one of Abuelo’s oldest friends and frequent bench-mate here in front of the basilica. “Have you seen my abuelo?”

  “No, Gabriela. He hasn’t been here today—at least not since I arrived an hour ago.”

  “Thanks.”

  A knot forms in my stomach. Abuelo is a creature of habit. He’d never miss his bench session unless he has fallen ill. I risk raising Eduardo’s ire even more, but it can’t be helped. I need to make sure Abuelo is well. If he is, I’ll need his advice on my next steps.

  As I stride to his tiny house, my mind whirls. A proposal, a new business, drug runners staking out my family’s property…it’s overwhelming. But I can’t act on impulse. The choices I make in the next day or two will impact the rest of my life. Like never before, I need Abuelo’s sage council to help me navigate this maze.

  I step into his brick house. Everything is dark.

  I switch on the light. The orchids slip from my hand and scatter on the wooden floor as I gasp.

  Abuelo’s body lies sprawled across the kitchen floor, his throat cut ear to ear.

  CHAPTER 13

  Blood forms a sizable pool around his corpse. From the grey pallor of his face and the quantity of blood, there’s no question he has already passed.

  I walk to his side, afraid to make any noise. I lean over and rest my hand on his chest. “Oh, Abuelo.” Tears roll from my eyes and slip off my chin onto his plaid shirt.

  My heart sinks as an epiphany hits me: was he murdered because of me? Perhaps as a warning? After all, how likely is it that someone randomly decided to murder a retired farmer with few worldly possessions less than a day after my surprise discovery?

  It feels wrong to leave Abuelo’s body like this, but at the moment, I have to look after the living.

  I bolt through the door and race towards home. A surge of adrenaline gives wings to my feet, and before long, a kilometer has disappeared behind me.

  Fatigue begins to set in. I push through it, willing my body to continue its headlong flight. My lungs are ready to burst, and my pounding heart threatens to erupt through my chest any second.

  At last, I turn onto the side road leading to our house. I push through the last few hundred meters and pile through the front door, fearing the worst.

  Nothing.

  No sound…no movement…no lights.

  Today is Saturday, Oscar’s day off. And he never fails to take advantage of it by sleeping in. Usually, he’d be up by now.

  I scurry to his bedroom and crack the door.

  A scene of utter chaos greets me.

  Unlike most teens, Oscar keeps his room neat and tidy. But now it looks like a bomb detonated inside it. His only chair lies on its side, and the battered nightstand has been bumped a meter away from his bed, resting at an angle in almost the center of the room. The 1980s clock radio that normally rests on it lies sideways on the floor, shattered. And the covers on his bed have been thrown back and hang down to the floor.

  The nightstand grabs my attention. Judging from the scuff marks, it looks like Oscar dragged it over to the door to barricade it against the attackers. The intruders must have thrust open the door, knocking the nightstand back to the center of the room.

  After that…? Oscar is nowhere to be seen.

  I dash through the house, confirming Oscar’s body doesn’t lie in a corner somewhere.

  Nothing.

  With a sigh of relief, I return to the kitchen. My eyes land on a scribbled note laying on the counter. I snatch it up and read it.

  We know you visited our operation in the old building last night. If you don’t want more family members to die, keep your mouth shut, especially to the police.

  My brother has been kidnapped—by a gang that almost never leaves its victims alive.

  CHAPTER 14

  Volante watches his men stack the last of the crates in the old distillery. The piles reach halfway to the ceiling and measure ten meters across, forming an immense, wooden mound.

  Coke, weed, and most of all, South America’s best heroin—this shipment has it all. Even for a major player like Volante, this delivery represents merchandise on an unp
recedented scale, more product than he’s ever moved before—quantities far too high to use children to transport the drugs as he normally would.

  But that’s why he’s succeeded where others have failed. He has followed the mantra of all the successful military commanders he has studied: don’t let the past limit the scope of your vision for the future. You only rise as high as your dreams allow. If obstacles get in your way, you do what you have to do to eliminate them.

  Speaking of that…what to do about the boy? Normally, he’d make a point to kill anyone with potential knowledge of his operation without a second thought.

  But with the operation only days from completion, anything that would draw unwanted attention to the pueblo should be avoided. Sure, Volante’s men paid off the town’s police, but a murder in this hick town could prompt some local to call the federales. That would be trouble. Even someone with Volante’s pull can’t bribe everyone. Plus, in this case, the execution itself could be trickier than usual.

  El Granjero rubs his chin. Maybe best to sit tight, at least until the operation is complete. After that, he can always follow his usual process: a murder, followed by hacking the corpse to bits, burning the pieces in a gasoline drum, and burying the remains in the desert.

  CHAPTER 15

  I release the kidnapping note, sending it fluttering back onto the kitchen counter.

  It’s clear what must be done. And I thought a conversation with my father would be tough before. This will take some serious explaining.

  I head for the plume of dust kicked up by the Blanco y Oro pickup truck in the fields.

  Father has just finished helping the jimadores fill the back of the company pickup with freshly cut agave pineapples, the plants trimmed of their spiky leaves, and has taken a seat behind the wheel. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his soiled glove. His eyebrows rise in surprise as he sees me approaching. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  I lean in close. “We need to talk.”