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bullets.
    â€œYes,” Mendoza continued, switching back to Spanish, “I understand, but the PFM would very much appreciate your help in this operation. We feel it’s time you gave something back to Mexico in exchange for the unfettered privacy you have enjoyed as a guest in our country.”
    Crosswhite glanced at Paolina, who now looked like she wanted to claw out Mendoza’s eyeballs. Then he looked back at the PFM agent and laughed. “Yeah, okay, sure. I’d love a chance to give back.”
    â€œExcellent,” Mendoza said, rubbing his palms on his knees. “Mexico is grateful for your generosity.”
    Vaught snickered, leaning across the coffee table to offer Crosswhite his hand. “Welcome to the team, champ .”
    Paolina jerked the stun gun from between the sofa cushions andleapt over the table after him. Crosswhite grabbed her around the waist as Vaught shoved himself over backward in the equipal , only narrowly avoiding the outstretched weapon, its cruel blue arc of electricity snapping and crackling in the air as Crosswhite swung her around with a “Whoa!” and lifted her off the floor, setting her down safely on the far side of the room and blocking her path. “Easy, baby.”

9
    MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
    10:30 HOURS
    The next morning, Lazaro Serrano was eating breakfast on the patio behind his expansive home. A young woman in a green-and-red ­bikini swam in the pool, pushing around a Chihuahua on a small rubber raft. The little dog was barking at her and wagging its tail, and she was laughing and calling for Serrano to look. He smiled and waved and went on eating. He was fifty years old with a belly and thinning hair, bushy eyebrows, and a thick black mustache.
    Oscar Martinez, his chief assistant and confidant, came onto the patio with the morning edition of El Universal and sat down across from Serrano; one of the servants had already set a place for him. He was a slender man in his midforties, with a head of thick, dark hair and a boyish face that easily shaved ten years off his age. “The body of the American DSS agent has been found,” he said, sipping from a porcelain coffee cup.
    Serrano looked up from his breakfast with a measure of surprise. “So soon? What did those fools do with it?”
    Oscar rubbed his hands together before reaching to put a spoonful of sugar into the coffee. “Well, it seems they did not do anything with it. The body was found in the same building where you last saw him, along with the bodies of six of Ruvalcaba’s people.” Hector Ruvalcaba was a powerful narcotics trafficker—a narcotraficante , also referred to as a narco . The year before, with Serrano’s help, Ruvalcaba had escaped from a maximum security prison via a three-quarter-mile-long tunnel dug from beyond the facility’s walls to directly beneath his cell. Serrano had since helped him take over the southern narcotics trade, leaving Antonio Castañeda as his only competitor. Castañeda controlled the North. “They were all killed by a grenade blast. It seems to have been accidental.”
    Serrano went back to eating. “One of those idiots must have dropped it and blown them all up.” He shook his head in disgust. “Why am I surrounded by fools, Oscar? Tell me that.”
    Oscar smiled and sipped his coffee. “I do not know.”
    â€œYou’re sure the American is dead?”
    The younger man set the cup down on the saucer, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “His name was Chance Vaught, a US Army veteran.”
    â€œAre you sure it’s the same man? The agent I saw on the floor was Hispanic.”
    Oscar nodded confidently. “Yes, it’s him. His father is a gringo, but his mother is Mexican. They’re shipping the remains back to the United States this week.”
    â€œGood,” Serrano said, taking a sip of freshly made