Drone

Bravo had once confided to Ali that he had modeled his organization along Hezbollah lines: a military faction to fight his enemies and a humanitarian faction to win the hearts of his people, whom he genuinely cared for. It was one of the many reasons Ali had secretly allied with Bravo even when he was supposedly working for Castillo.

“No, Señor Bravo. Why have you brought me here?”

Victor wiped his long, dripping face with a handkerchief. He was mostly indio, shorter and darker than the Mexicans up north, with no facial hair. Ali wasn’t sure how old Bravo was. Forties? Fifties? Sixties? No wrinkles in his mahogany-colored flesh or silver strands of hair betrayed his age. He wore his thick black hair long and tucked behind his ears. His melodic Spanish accent was definitely Yucatecan.

“This is the place of my people. Warriors, scientists, poets. We formed a great empire on this continent. We studied the stars, conquered our enemies, contemplated zero.”

Ali understood his pride. He was the son of a great world empire, too, but one far more vast and advanced than anything the Mayans had accomplished, and a thousand years older than the one that had mysteriously vanished from the jungle surrounding them. Iran now stood on the doorstep of greatness again, thanks to its nuclear program. Only the Great Satan stood in their way.

“This place is, indeed, the seventh wonder of the world.”

“You are truly a religious man, Ali?”

“I am an imperfect servant of the Most High, yes.”

“Then you understand me when I say that God has given me a mission and I will fulfill it. You have a mission, too, and you have already fulfilled it by helping me get rid of Castillo and his brood of thieves.”

“I am a humble soldier and I obey my orders, nothing more, jefe. The master does not thank the slave for doing his work.” Ali had said the same thing to César, of course.

“You may be a lot of things, but you are no slave. You set up Castillo’s idiot sons on the El Paso hit and you engineered his family’s slaughter by the Americans. You’re either a magician or a genius, but either way, you’ve handed me Mexico on a sliver platter.”

Bravo snapped his fingers and one of his guards approached with a backpack. “Most of the surviving Castillo captains have already started calling me jefe,” Bravo said.

“Do you trust them?” Ali asked.

“I trust their fear.”

“And Barraza?”

Bravo chuckled. “I spoke with his brother last night. Are you sure you aren’t a white wizard?”

Ali shook his head. “No, jefe. I am neither a jaguar nor a prophet. Only humble flesh and blood, like you.” Ali had provided all of the ELINT security for Bravo’s organization, including his encrypted cell phones. However, Ali’s technicians had put backdoors on all of Bravo’s equipment, so Ali was privy to all of Bravo’s communications. He had listened to the conversation with Hernán just an hour ago.

Bravo reached into the backpack and pulled out a black lacquered wooden box, then opened it. There was a pistol inside, nestled in crushed blue velvet. A .45 caliber 1911 Colt semiauto. It was solid gold with a mother-of-pearl handle. He pulled it out.

Ali’s eyes narrowed. Maybe today he was going to be a sacrifice after all. He calculated strike points on Bravo first, then on the nearest bodyguard. If he could secure the guard’s weapon—

Bravo turned the pistol in his hand and held the butt out toward Ali. He smiled. “Take it. It’s yours.”

Ali frowned. Was this a trick?

He picked up the gun. It was much heavier than an ordinary one made of steel. He clicked the magazine release. The magazine was gold-plated, too. He nicked the top bullet with his thumbnail. The bullets were solid gold, too.

“It belonged to Saddam Hussein. I won’t tell you how I acquired it, or how much it cost, because it is far less valuable to me than our friendship.” Bravo had taken the credit for the destruction of the Castillo Syndicate, and his reputation in the international underworld as an omnipotent force in Mexico had been sealed thanks to the Iranian’s scheme.

Ali gazed at the weapon in wonder. His uncles had died as young men in the catastrophic war with Iraq thirty years ago. His whole family cheered the day the filthy Sunni dictator was hanged by his own people, and they laughed with pride when they read that he had cursed his Iraqi executioners by calling them “Persians.”

And now I hold the bastard’s golden gun in my hands. Ali was genuinely touched.

“I am honored and humbled by this lavish gift, Señor Bravo.”

“It is offered with my gratitude for the work you have done.”

“But there is still much more to be done. Your newest recruits are being trained even as we speak.”

“How are they doing?”

“Very well. I have my best men preparing them. I’ll be returning to the camp soon to oversee the last three weeks of their training.”