The Gentlemen's Hour

6

AK-47 rounds shatter the window.

Cruz Iglesias dives for the floor. Shards of glass and hunks of plaster cover him as he reaches back for his 9mm and starts to fire onto the street. He might as well not bother; the machine-gun fire from his own gunmen dwarfs his efforts.

One of his men throws himself on top of his boss.

“Get off me, pendejo,” Iglesias snaps. “You’re too late anyway.

Dios mío, if my life depended on you . . .”

He rolls out from under the sweaty sicario and makes a mental note to require the use of deodorant for all his employees. It’s disgusting.

Within the hour he’s concluded that Tijuana is just too dangerous during his turf war with the Ortegas over the lucrative drug market. Times are hard—the pie is shrinking, and there’s no room for compromise, especially with his recent losses. Three hours later he’s in a car crossing into the U.S.A. at San Ysidro. It’s not a problem; Iglesias has dual citizenship.

The car takes him to one of his safe houses.

Actually, it’s not too bad a thing to be in San Diego—if you can tolerate the inferior cuisine. He has business there that needs his attention.