To wherever Fox Uno was hiding.

If there was any advantage to Martino not having been at Manuel Benavides, it was that his father did not yet know the extent of his betrayal. There was still the very real chance his father might reach out to him, seek his help, so Martino had to do everything in his power to keep that possibility alive. It was his best chance of finding him, maybe his only chance now, much better than turning over every rock. If he tried to talk to his father directly—too soon—after everything that had happened, El Patrón would get rightfully suspicious, but if Martino could just stay patient, hold on until every other avenue of escape was closed off, Fox Uno might run right into his waiting arms.

If Martino was patient enough . . . if he had enough time.

Of course, it was his impatience that had put him in this predicament. He’d grown frustrated at his father’s slights and thousand small insults, tired of waiting for the old man to either die or hand over Nemesio. And he’d worried, too, that he might choose Gualterio over him—another loose end he’d eventually have to tie off. Fortunately, Martino had listened to enough of his father’s old narco stories to know that violent succession was commonplace, almost encouraged. It was a rite of passage, and Martino had decided his time had come.

If anything, it was past due.

Now he just needed a little more time.

Martino was done with Abrahán Sierra’s video. He deleted the file, although the laptop itself would be destroyed in under an hour, only to be replaced by another. When that one arrived, he was going to take a few moments to review some lengthy e-mails from some new associates in Spain and Romania.

Martino only wanted to be a businessman, but it was a damn bloody business.

TWENTY-NINE

CHAYO & NEVA

Amador drove them away from Ojinaga hidden in the trunk of his car.

The federales were still manning checkpoints all around the city and the surrounding roads. The news said they were there to maintain the peace, to keep the narcos from shooting one another and to protect the citizens. But Amador told Chayo that people were whispering how they were really there looking for any last survivors . . . eyewitnesses.

Amador had a friend who had seen black-clad men calling themselves federales at the Hospital Integral de Ojinaga. They had searched every room, grim-faced, and had refused to answer questions.

They had shown badges that had meant nothing.

Similar stories came in from Unidad Médica Familiar No. 54 and Hospital General de Guadalupe y Calvo. As the days went by, although few expected anyone to find the nineteen missing students alive, some hoped there were no survivors at all.