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Authors: Don Winslow
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him. “Two birds!”
Art recognizes the reference: You take two birds up. One flies, the other sings.
“No!” Art says. He jabs a thumb toward Adán. “That guy is mine!”
“Fuck you, Keller!”
Yeah, fuck me, Art thinks. He looks in the back of the chopper, where Parada is already tending to the campesino with the broken leg. The priest turns to Art with a look that is both question and demand.
Art shakes his head, then pulls his .45, cocks it and sticks it in Hansen’s face. “You’re not taking off, Phil.”
Art can hear federales lift their rifles and chamber rounds.
DEA guys come running out of the mess tent.
Taylor yells, “Keller, what the hell you think you’re doing?!”
“This what we do now, Tim?” Art asks. “We toss people out of choppers?”
“You’re no virgin, Keller,” Taylor says. “You’ve jumped into the backseat lots of times.”
I can’t say anything to that, Art thinks. It’s the truth.
“You’re done now, Keller,” Taylor says. “You’re finished this time. I’ll have your goddamn job. I’ll have you thrown in jail.”
He sounds happy.
Art keeps his pistol trained on Hansen’s face.
“This is a Mexican matter,” Navarres says. “Stay out of it. This is not your country.”
“It’s my country!” Parada yells. “And I’ll excommunicate your ass so fast—”
“Such language, Father,” Navarres says.
“You’ll hear worse in a minute.”
“We are trying to find Don Pedro Áviles,” Navarres explains to Art. He points to Adán. “This little piece of shit knows where he is, and he’s going to tell us.”
“You want Don Pedro?” Art asks. He walks back to his Jeep and unrolls the poncho. Don Pedro’s body spills onto the ground, raising little puffs of dust. “You got him.”
Taylor looks down at the bullet-riddled corpse.
“What happened?”
“We tried to arrest him and five of his men,” Art says. “They resisted. They’re all dead.”
“All of them,” Taylor says, staring at Art.
“Yeah.”
“No wounded?”
“No.”
Taylor smirks. But he’s pissed, and Art knows it. Art has just brought in the Big Trophy and now there’s nothing Taylor can do to him. Nothing at fucking all. Still, it’s time to make a peace offering. Art nods his chin toward Adán and the injured campesino and says softly, “I guess we both have things to keep quiet about, Tim.”
“Yeah.”
Art climbs into the back of the helicopter and starts to untie Adán. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” Adán says. He turns to Parada. “How’s his leg, Father Juan?”
“You know each other?” Art asks.
“I christened him,” Parada says. “Gave him his First Communion. And this man will be fine.”
But he gives Adán and Art a look that says something different.
Art yells to the front, “You can take off now, Phil! Culiacán hospital, and step on it!”
The chopper lifts off.
“Arturo,” Parada says.
“Yeah?”
The priest is smiling at him.
“Congratulations,” Parada says. “You’re a madman.”
Art looks down at the ruined fields, the burned villages, the refugees already forming a line on the dirt road out.
The landscape is scorched and charred as far as he can see.
Fields of black flowers.
Yeah, Art thinks, I’m a madman.
Ninety minutes later, Adán lies between the clean white sheets of Culiacán’s best hospital. The wound on his face from Navarres’s pistol barrel has been cleaned and treated and he’s been shot up with antibiotics, but he’s refused the proffered painkillers.
Adán wants to feel the pain.
He gets out of bed and walks the corridors until he finds the room where, at his insistence, they have taken Manuel Sánchez.
The campesino opens his eyes and sees Adán.
“My leg
Art recognizes the reference: You take two birds up. One flies, the other sings.
“No!” Art says. He jabs a thumb toward Adán. “That guy is mine!”
“Fuck you, Keller!”
Yeah, fuck me, Art thinks. He looks in the back of the chopper, where Parada is already tending to the campesino with the broken leg. The priest turns to Art with a look that is both question and demand.
Art shakes his head, then pulls his .45, cocks it and sticks it in Hansen’s face. “You’re not taking off, Phil.”
Art can hear federales lift their rifles and chamber rounds.
DEA guys come running out of the mess tent.
Taylor yells, “Keller, what the hell you think you’re doing?!”
“This what we do now, Tim?” Art asks. “We toss people out of choppers?”
“You’re no virgin, Keller,” Taylor says. “You’ve jumped into the backseat lots of times.”
I can’t say anything to that, Art thinks. It’s the truth.
“You’re done now, Keller,” Taylor says. “You’re finished this time. I’ll have your goddamn job. I’ll have you thrown in jail.”
He sounds happy.
Art keeps his pistol trained on Hansen’s face.
“This is a Mexican matter,” Navarres says. “Stay out of it. This is not your country.”
“It’s my country!” Parada yells. “And I’ll excommunicate your ass so fast—”
“Such language, Father,” Navarres says.
“You’ll hear worse in a minute.”
“We are trying to find Don Pedro Áviles,” Navarres explains to Art. He points to Adán. “This little piece of shit knows where he is, and he’s going to tell us.”
“You want Don Pedro?” Art asks. He walks back to his Jeep and unrolls the poncho. Don Pedro’s body spills onto the ground, raising little puffs of dust. “You got him.”
Taylor looks down at the bullet-riddled corpse.
“What happened?”
“We tried to arrest him and five of his men,” Art says. “They resisted. They’re all dead.”
“All of them,” Taylor says, staring at Art.
“Yeah.”
“No wounded?”
“No.”
Taylor smirks. But he’s pissed, and Art knows it. Art has just brought in the Big Trophy and now there’s nothing Taylor can do to him. Nothing at fucking all. Still, it’s time to make a peace offering. Art nods his chin toward Adán and the injured campesino and says softly, “I guess we both have things to keep quiet about, Tim.”
“Yeah.”
Art climbs into the back of the helicopter and starts to untie Adán. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” Adán says. He turns to Parada. “How’s his leg, Father Juan?”
“You know each other?” Art asks.
“I christened him,” Parada says. “Gave him his First Communion. And this man will be fine.”
But he gives Adán and Art a look that says something different.
Art yells to the front, “You can take off now, Phil! Culiacán hospital, and step on it!”
The chopper lifts off.
“Arturo,” Parada says.
“Yeah?”
The priest is smiling at him.
“Congratulations,” Parada says. “You’re a madman.”
Art looks down at the ruined fields, the burned villages, the refugees already forming a line on the dirt road out.
The landscape is scorched and charred as far as he can see.
Fields of black flowers.
Yeah, Art thinks, I’m a madman.
Ninety minutes later, Adán lies between the clean white sheets of Culiacán’s best hospital. The wound on his face from Navarres’s pistol barrel has been cleaned and treated and he’s been shot up with antibiotics, but he’s refused the proffered painkillers.
Adán wants to feel the pain.
He gets out of bed and walks the corridors until he finds the room where, at his insistence, they have taken Manuel Sánchez.
The campesino opens his eyes and sees Adán.
“My leg
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