the smell of fresh tortillas, machaca, chorizo, and fat, sweet oranges.
Now the morning smells of ash and poison.
Soldiers are storming through the village, lighting thatched roofs on fire and smashing adobe walls with their rifle butts.
Federale Lieutenant Navarres is in a very bad mood. The American DEA agents are unhappy—they are tired of busting the “little guys”; they want to go up the chain and they’re giving him a hard time about it, implying that he knows where the “big guys” are and that he’s deliberately leading them away.
They’ve captured a lot of small-fry, but not the big fish. Now they want García Abrego, Chalino Guzmán, aka El Verde, Jaime Herrera and Rafael Caro, all of whom have so far slipped the net.
Mostly they want Don Pedro.
El Patrón.
“We’re not on a ‘search-and-avoid’ mission here, are we?” one of the DEA men in his blue baseball cap actually asked him. It made Navarres furious, this endless Yanqui slander that every Mexican cop takes la mordida, the bribe, or, as the Americans say, is “on the arm.”
So Navarres is angry, and humiliated, and that makes a proud man a dangerous man.
Then he sees Adán.
One look at the designer jeans and Nike running shoes tells the lieutenant that the short young man, with his city haircut and his fancy clothes, is no campesino. He looks exactly like some mid-level young gomero punk from Culiacán.
The lieutenant strides over and looks down at Adán.
“I am Lieutenant Navarres,” the officer says, “of the Municipal Judicial Federal Police. Where is Don Pedro Áviles?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Adán says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m a college student.”
Navarres smirks. “What do you study?”
“Business,” Adán answers. “Accounting.”
“An accountant,” Navarres is saying. “And what do you count? Kilos?”
“No,” Adán says.
“You just happen to be here.”
“My brother and I came up for a party,” Adán says. “Look, this is all a mistake. If you will talk to my uncle, he will—”
Navarres draws his pistol and backhands Adán across the face. The federales toss the unconscious Adán and the campesino who hid him into the back of a truck and drive away.
This time Adán wakes to darkness.
He realizes that it’s not night, but that a black hood is tied over his head. It’s hard to breathe and he starts to panic. His hands are tied tightly behind his back and he can hear sounds—motors running, helicopter rotors. We must be at some kind of base, Adán thinks. Then he hears something worse—a man’s moans, the solid thunks of rubber and the sharp crack of metal on flesh and bone. He can smell the man’s piss, his shit, his blood, and he can smell the disgusting stink of his own fear.
He hears Navarres’s smooth, aristocratic voice say, “Tell me where Don Pedro is.”
Navarres looks down at the peasant, a sweating, bleeding, quivering mess curled up on the tent floor, lying between the feet of two large federale troopers, one holding a length of heavy rubber hose, the other clutching a short iron rod. The DEA men are sitting outside, waiting for him to produce. They just want their information; they don’t want to know the process that produces it.
The Americans, Navarres thinks, do not like to see how sausages are made.
He nods to one of his federales.
Adán hears the whoosh of the rubber hose and a scream.
“Stop beating him!” Adán yells.
“Ah, you’ve joined us,” Navarres says to Adán. He stoops over, and Adán can smell his breath. It smells like mint. “So you tell me, where is Don Pedro?”
The campesino yells, “Don’t tell them!”
“Break his leg,” Navarres says.
A terrible sound as the federale smashes the bar down on the campesino’s shin.
Like an ax on wood.
Then
Now the morning smells of ash and poison.
Soldiers are storming through the village, lighting thatched roofs on fire and smashing adobe walls with their rifle butts.
Federale Lieutenant Navarres is in a very bad mood. The American DEA agents are unhappy—they are tired of busting the “little guys”; they want to go up the chain and they’re giving him a hard time about it, implying that he knows where the “big guys” are and that he’s deliberately leading them away.
They’ve captured a lot of small-fry, but not the big fish. Now they want García Abrego, Chalino Guzmán, aka El Verde, Jaime Herrera and Rafael Caro, all of whom have so far slipped the net.
Mostly they want Don Pedro.
El Patrón.
“We’re not on a ‘search-and-avoid’ mission here, are we?” one of the DEA men in his blue baseball cap actually asked him. It made Navarres furious, this endless Yanqui slander that every Mexican cop takes la mordida, the bribe, or, as the Americans say, is “on the arm.”
So Navarres is angry, and humiliated, and that makes a proud man a dangerous man.
Then he sees Adán.
One look at the designer jeans and Nike running shoes tells the lieutenant that the short young man, with his city haircut and his fancy clothes, is no campesino. He looks exactly like some mid-level young gomero punk from Culiacán.
The lieutenant strides over and looks down at Adán.
“I am Lieutenant Navarres,” the officer says, “of the Municipal Judicial Federal Police. Where is Don Pedro Áviles?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Adán says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m a college student.”
Navarres smirks. “What do you study?”
“Business,” Adán answers. “Accounting.”
“An accountant,” Navarres is saying. “And what do you count? Kilos?”
“No,” Adán says.
“You just happen to be here.”
“My brother and I came up for a party,” Adán says. “Look, this is all a mistake. If you will talk to my uncle, he will—”
Navarres draws his pistol and backhands Adán across the face. The federales toss the unconscious Adán and the campesino who hid him into the back of a truck and drive away.
This time Adán wakes to darkness.
He realizes that it’s not night, but that a black hood is tied over his head. It’s hard to breathe and he starts to panic. His hands are tied tightly behind his back and he can hear sounds—motors running, helicopter rotors. We must be at some kind of base, Adán thinks. Then he hears something worse—a man’s moans, the solid thunks of rubber and the sharp crack of metal on flesh and bone. He can smell the man’s piss, his shit, his blood, and he can smell the disgusting stink of his own fear.
He hears Navarres’s smooth, aristocratic voice say, “Tell me where Don Pedro is.”
Navarres looks down at the peasant, a sweating, bleeding, quivering mess curled up on the tent floor, lying between the feet of two large federale troopers, one holding a length of heavy rubber hose, the other clutching a short iron rod. The DEA men are sitting outside, waiting for him to produce. They just want their information; they don’t want to know the process that produces it.
The Americans, Navarres thinks, do not like to see how sausages are made.
He nods to one of his federales.
Adán hears the whoosh of the rubber hose and a scream.
“Stop beating him!” Adán yells.
“Ah, you’ve joined us,” Navarres says to Adán. He stoops over, and Adán can smell his breath. It smells like mint. “So you tell me, where is Don Pedro?”
The campesino yells, “Don’t tell them!”
“Break his leg,” Navarres says.
A terrible sound as the federale smashes the bar down on the campesino’s shin.
Like an ax on wood.
Then
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