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?
“You are very brave, Abrahán Sierra,” Juan Abrego said. “You are going to die now.”
The driver laughed. “I am very, very foolish.” Then: “They promised me so many things, but I was dead anyway. I see that now.”
Then the boy named Abrahán Sierra jumped out and pulled open the van’s back door, dented and scarred with bullet holes, and took the crying Zita out of Juan Abrego’s arms and carried her out into the light and dust.
—
JUAN ABREGO WAS NO ONE.
But the man called Fox Uno still had friends, all throughout Manuel Benavides, even though the sicarios and contrabandistas of Los Hermanos Serrano crawled everywhere, like hormigas.
So Juan Abrego was left behind, one piece at a time.
He left his bulletproof vest in the desert about two miles from the van, the last time he saw Abrahán Sierra.
He left behind two gold rings and a Patek Philippe watch in Escobillas de Abajo, and those things bought him and Zita food and some used clothes. They also bought them time, and that was almost priceless.
He left behind most of his pesos in Nuevo Lajitas, and that bought them another two nights’ rest and a ride to the crossing.
He left behind one of the three cell phones, crushed beneath his boot under a mesquite near the river. He wanted to believe Gualterio was still alive, but it was unclear how many of their men had been compromised. Everyone was on the run—dead or dying or captured.
Maybe not everyone.
They promised me so many things, but I was dead anyway . . .
And then before he and Zita crossed over the river near Santa Elena in their borrowed clothes, he left behind the silver-plated Ruger.
He tossed it in the water and watched it sink.
—
NOW THERE WAS NOTHING to be done except to watch Zita sleep, and wait for his sobrina to come home and decide what to do with them. She might decide to send the one she called Danny, alone, with his gun. Or more policía. Or Las Tres Letras, the DEA. Did his sobrina believe him, trust him? Could she?
Could he trust her?
He still had his two remaining cellular phones, secure for a handful more days, because if they weren’t, he was dead already, as he would be if he tried to return now to Ojinaga. America and the one named Danny had eyed them all morning, expecting one or the other to ring at any moment—to give them answers, to help them decide whether he was telling the truth for her familia—although only he knew those phones would never ring on their own, and whatever answers and secrets were on the other end could never satisfy them. There were no answers . . . no easy way to describe his life and the man he was.
Yo soy la Muerte, mi amigo . . .