dead and riddled with too many bullets to have come from one or two guns. Second, the other girls had gotten into the truck this alleged commando had been driving under the promise he was going to “take them home.” That most definitely smelled of serious trouble. The only thing Salto wondered was if the trouble was coming from the cops, Los Zetas, or a freelance troublemaker looking to score some action.
“Okay…okay, chica. I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to the boss and see if he’ll meet with you. But I’m telling you, girl, if you’re pulling my leg just to score some money for smack, you’re going to get a smack. And it won’t be the kind you’re thinking.”
“Fine,” Pacorbo said, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder with smug indifference. She folded her arms and added, “You go talk to Hector.”
Salto shot her a dirty look before turning to head inside. The cool air felt good against his face. Barely morning out there and it was already muggy and hot. Salto wasn’t much for the heat, a surprising twist of fate for a native-born Mexican raised near Juárez on the American-Mexican border. Before joining Los Negros, Salto had trained quite a while in the Sonoran Desert and resided for some time in Hermosillo. Eventually, like so many of his Los Negros brothers, Salto entered the U.S. illegally for the sole purpose of working in the employ of Hector Casco.
The honor was all Salto’s, no doubts there. Casco turned out to be one who ruled with a firm but fair hand, and while he didn’t pay that well, he treated each man with dignity. In fact, most wouldn’t have looked at a guy like Casco and marked him as the second ranking overseer of the Sinaloa cartel. Casco was known among certain circles as a man of distinct tastes who prepossessed a classic air of style and dignity. Additionally, Casco donated to a number of worthwhile charities—anonymously, of course, since it wouldn’t do for his enemies to know his true identity—while rubbing elbows with the social elite in Scottsdale under an assumed identity.
It was Casco’s ability to continue his charade of identity that amazed Salto most. The fact nobody had yet betrayed him spoke to his skill in this area. Actually no one, with the exception of the heads of the Sinaloa cartel, even knew the details of Casco’s alternate alias. They were not allowed to accompany him to the various social events in which he engaged, save for his driver, And neither Salto nor any of the house protection team were permitted to leave the grounds except when off duty.
Salto had once considered following Casco but decided against it as too risky. If he were discovered they would most certainly mark him as a cop or a traitor, and a traitor’s mark was not something he wanted to acquire while inside Los Negros. Not only could it mean death, but even if he were to explain it as mere curiosity he would also be ostracized and no longer enjoy the freedoms and protection of the organization. Salto had worked too hard, come too far, to ever let that happen.
Salto rapped on the slightly ajar door to Casco’s study, and then poked his head through the opening at a grunt of acknowledgement. Casco sat at his desk scribbling furiously on a notepad. There wasn’t a phone or computer in sight; Casco didn’t believe in such things as they could be traced back to him. There was a house phone but that was all. Any correspondence was either handwritten, output via a thermal typewriter or delivered in-person between Casco’s couriers.
A courier had been Salto’s first job after coming into Casco’s employ. The job was tough and extremely dangerous given the list of Casco’s innumerable enemies. A courier was nothing more than an information mule. He carried nothing of material value, but the knowledge a courier possessed was priceless to rival gangs, and particularly to Los Zetas. None of Casco’s enemies had ever caught a courier, which is probably why Casco continued to operate with the freedom he did. Still, he knew that luck wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, they’d get to a courier and the guy would spill his guts, and then Salto would have to start earning his money for real.
“What is it, Maldo?” Casco demanded, using a shortened form of Salto’s name. Nobody else but Hector called him that.
“Boss, the Pacorbo chick demands to see you.”
“I’m busy,” Casco snapped. “And I’m not about to give that bitch any more money. You tell her to go suck it off Julio or one of the clubbers. She ain’t going to get change from me. I know what a gold-hopping whore she is.”
“Uh, sure, boss…but—”
Casco had returned to his work as if he hadn’t heard Salto. Nearly a full minute passed before he looked up and noticed his house boss still standing there and pinned him with an icy stare.
Salto took a deep breath and blurted it out before he got in trouble. “She showed up here looking pretty hard, Hector. And she claims that what happened to our boys last night was not the doing of Los Zetas.”
“Bullshit.”
“That’s what I told her and she insisted.”
“And you believed her?”
“When she tells me to basically go fuck myself if I don’t let her see you, yeah, that gets me to start wondering. And then she tells me about this dude, the guy that she claims took them out, dressed all in black like some kind of commando, shooting this chatter gun and stuff. And she claims he took out all three of our guys from quite a distance, almost like a sniper or something.”
Casco’s pallor went a noticeable gray, and something flickered in his eyes. “Did you say he was dressed all in black?”
When Salto nodded, Casco’s mouth dropped open as if he wanted to say something.
“What is it, boss?”
“If that’s true, then that is a problem…a very serious fucking problem.”
It wasn’t often that Casco got excitable, but Salto could tell this had his boss on edge. He talked as if his mouth was dry as cotton, and some beads of sweat were visible as they glimmered in the light. Casco had a reputation of being a tough, fearless son of a bitch who didn’t worry about nothing or nobody. Yet every day the guy had to worry his enemies would track him down and kill him. He had to worry about underlings who might betray him, and rivals who might try to undercut his operations.
“You know who this guy is?”
“Maybe,” Casco said, clearing his throat. “Maybe I do. You remember Jose Carillo?”
“Panchos Carillo?”
When Casco slowly nodded, Salto felt a stabbing sensation to his chest. The very name conjured a cornucopia of memories. Most of it had been before Salto’s time, but he couldn’t imagine too many guys his age not hearing the legend of Jose “Panchos” Carillo. The deceased Mexican mob leader had brokered a deal with the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia to provide protection for his massive drug-smuggling operations after the collapse of his only rival’s empire. Unfortunately, an equally determined faction of a Chinese triad known as the Kung Lok had set their sights on the American Southwest, as well.
As the story went, one man was credited with bringing down both sides in a bloodbath that lasted a couple of weeks and went from Las Vegas, Los Angeles and El Paso to Canada. It was even rumored that this same bastard—who dressed in black and used military tactics—took the fight to Hong Kong and closed the attempted Kung Lok operation into utter chaos. Carillo and his closest advisors were eliminated, along with some high-ranking officials in the American government, and this individual was credited with racking up a body count so great on both sides that they never recovered.
“You don’t think—”
Casco lifted a hand to cut him off. “We won’t make any assumptions. The first thing we must do is verify this. Go get the bitch.”
Salto turned and immediately retrieved Pacorbo. As they entered Casco’s study, Salto caught the strong odor of cigar smoke. This surprised him, since his boss didn’t typically smoke in his home. He chose to go outside to enjoy his cigars, and the fact he’d fired up inside the house—in his study, no less—told Salto all he needed to know about how his boss was taking this news.
“Have a