Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
They came in a fleet of black SUVs, like a flock of cuervos, and he did not know if they were Los Hermanos Serrano, or Secretaría de Marina, or federales, or all three. They drove out of the shadows of an old barn, churning up dust as they came, and the first SUV’s windows were down so that Juan Abrego could see sunlight winking on and off the barrel of a gun—many guns—like pesos flipped end over end in the air. Those guns spat fire, and glass shattered and two of the tires blew out in the car behind him. It lifted up, up, and then rolled over and over along the packed earth of the road, throwing gravel and broken glass high into the air where it seemed to hang forever. The car behind tried to swerve away, but clipped the rear of the rolling car before it came to a stop, setting it spinning again like una tapa.
One of the other dark SUVs, and there were so many Juan Abrego lost count, pulled alongside the wrecked vehicle and men in even darker clothes got out and approached it in a crouch, leading with more gunfire. Someone tried to crawl out of the twisted metal and a line of bullets stitched his body, making him jerk and shake.
Juan Abrego grabbed Zita and pulled her close to him as heavy rounds punched into his van. Bulletproof plates had been welded onto the frame, making it heavy and slow, and his driver—a young man Juan Abrego did not know—fought the wheel and talked on a handheld radio at the same time. Over the screams of Luisa, who’d squeezed flat into the floorboards at his feet, Gualterio was calmly giving the remaining cars in their caravan instructions.
Over the open radio channel, there was the echo of more gunfire.
Metal on metal and men yelling.
The man in the front passenger seat of the van had foolishly rolled down the window, firing his AK-47 out of it, so that the spent shells—a sound like wooden castañuelas—clattered back into his lap and on the dashboard and all over Juan Abrego and Luisa and Zita. Juan Abrego reached out and pulled two of them out of Zita’s hair, still hot to the touch, and kissed her and told her it was okay. Then the man with the AK-47 was shot through the mouth and the temple, one right after the other—sudden, harsh sunlight appearing above his right eye—and he fell completely apart in the seat around them and sprayed them all with his hot, pumping sangre.
Crazy with fear, Luisa screamed louder, raised up, and tried to crawl out of the open window of the moving van, and a bullet caressed her throat. She reached for it, surprised, as her sangre spouted into her face and her eyes rolled back in her skull.