Gualterio was big, solid. His chest pushed against the pearl buttons of his shirt and his stomach hung handsomely over his jeans. He remained as strong as ever, his size alone menacing, though there was some gray in the thick hair at his temples that Juan Abrego suspected his friend was thinking about coloring. It was in the way his hands went unconsciously to his hair all the time now, continually pushing his fingers through it, as if he could rub the signs of his age away. Juan Abrego would say nothing about it, having learned long ago that a man’s vanity was a dangerous thing better left unchallenged, even between old friends. He was ten years Gualterio’s senior and they had known each other their whole lives. Gualterio had always liked his rich food and his women and his beer—it showed in his florid face and stomach—and on Juan Abrego’s orders had killed more men than either of them could count. There was no one he knew better, and after the death of his own brother Rafael—who everyone had called Nemesio—no one he trusted more, and that included his five remaining half brothers and one sister and his own son.

It was sometimes hard to remember that Nemesio had died thirty years ago.

But here, now, in front of the other men with guns, even Gualterio knew to stand silent until he’d been addressed.

“Is this the bus driver?” Juan Abrego asked the darkness gathered in the barn, although only Gualterio would dare answer.

“Sí,” Gualterio said. “It was all done as you asked.” Gualterio paused to light a cigarette; again, the only man who had the license to do so in Juan Abrego’s presence. “There are others. We will find them.” Gualterio ended with a shrug. It was both a statement and a threat. Una promesa.

So many had made promises in the dark in front of Juan Abrego Carrión. Men had died trying to keep them. More had died failing.

The bus driver.

Two nights ago there had been an attack on two buses of normalistas in Ojinaga. It was still unclear how many had been killed or injured, although a few seconds of cell phone video had already surfaced and now the whole world was watching, listening, waiting. Hundreds of federales had flown in from Mexico City, as well as forces from the Secretaría de Marina. Children had been shot in the street, so el presidente was constantly on TV promising that something would be done this time, and perhaps, this time, he thought he spoke the truth, although promises would not make this thing go away. No threats would ever make those videos disappear or return those children who had vanished.

No one knew who had ordered the attack, but Juan Abrego suspected who was supposed to answer for it.