The Lotus Eaters

Santa Fe, Santander, Terra Nova

Of the roughly one dozen drug lords attacked, all had been killed or, more commonly, captured, along with sundry accountants, assistants, wives and mistresses. No one in Santander actually knew how many of each there had been. In any case, the losses did not, by any means, mean the end of the cartels. The money to be made was a magnet, one that pulled in greed as a normal magnet attracted iron. There were always new people to step up, nor had all of the old been targeted. At best, one could say that the efficiency of the remainder and the replacements might be somewhat less than that of those lost.

Or might not have, too.

That remainder, and the replacements, met with Guzman in one of the ornate to the point of tacky palaces which had been spared assault.

Guzman contemplatively held a golden crucifix on a golden chain. "This," he whispered, "is proof positive of who was behind the attacks. The Balboan, Carrera, gave it to me. I gave it to Escobedo. It has returned to me again via the Balboan Embassy."

"Having gone to all the trouble of pinning this on the gringos, why should they let us know who really did it?" asked one of the remaining drug lords, Señor Ochoa.

"So we learn the lesson," Guzman answered.

"Lesson?"

"Yes . . . don't fuck with them. They gave me a more explicit message along with the cross. They want me, and one of you gentlemen, to go to Balboa. They promise safe conduct."

Ochoa attempted a sneer, but found he didn't have the heart to pull it off. "Or what?" he asked.

"Or else the attacks continue until we are all dead. Along with our families. I was told we have a week, no more."