“This is—or was—Felipe González, otherwise known as El Patrón. He was the head of La Frontera, a key narco-cartel responsible for Chihuahua, including the key narco crossing point at Juárez. González was killed three years ago, taken out by—we think—one of the rival cartels that was looking to take over his routes. The cartel was in a mess after his death, and La Bruja made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. They would merge their operations—El Centro would handle production and La Frontera would handle distribution. But it was just a temporary arrangement, at least as far as she was concerned. She found out everything she needed to know, and then she proposed a change—she would be in charge of everything, from the farmers growing the plants to the preparation to the smuggling networks the Mexicans had been running for years. She made the same offer that Escobar made thirty years ago: plata o plomo. Silver or lead. She told La Frontera she’d make them more money if they went along with what she was proposing, and it turns out she was right about that. The enlightened beaners have done very well. And those who didn’t drink the Kool-Aid? They got the plomo. The whole thing has been masterful from start to finish. That’s why they call her La Bruja. She does things other people can’t do. Like magic. They say she can do miracles.”

Ellie stood up again and took over. “The Colombians have agreed to put everything into finding her. We have been talking about a joint operation in Medellín, using their soldiers and our intel to shake the trees so we can see what falls out.”

“‘We have been?’” Flynn said. “Past tense? Something’s changed?”

“The DEA had a walk-in last week. A man. We haven’t been able to confirm his story yet, but he says that he’s reasonably senior and that he has intelligence on where we can find La Bruja. It has been decided that we don’t need the Colombians for this. More than that—we don’t trust them. If the intel holds up, we go in hard and nail her and anyone else with her. We take her out before anyone knows what’s happened.”

McKibbin tapped his finger against the table. “We know what an operation might look like?”

“We do,” Ellie said. “Commander?”

McSweeney nodded. “I have a Special Mission Unit transiting to Medellín now. Thirty SEALs. They’ll be in Medellín by this evening. We have an advance team looking at a safe house and fixing up the transport we’ll need to get into the jungle. Once we have that arranged, they’ll be ready to move on an hour’s notice.”

“We’re definitely not telling the Colombians?” Schmidt said.