Night kills

18

Mexico City, two months earlier

Maria Sanchez lay next to her husband, Jorge, in a circular bed in the honeymoon suite of the plush Hotel Casa Grande on the busy Paseo de la Reforma. They were on the twelfth floor, far above the noise and bustle in the streets below.

The only sound in the room was Jorge's even breathing, but Maria knew he wasn't asleep. He'd seldom slept at all the last few weeks because of the pressure. Political winds had shifted, and Jorge Sanchez, once an almost invincible drug lord and master of cocaine, was now vulnerable. New drug money, in larger amounts, had found its way to Jorge's friends in the government and made him dispensable. Over the past few months, routes into the United States had closed or become too dangerous. Just last week a sleek cruiser running drugs into southern Florida had been intercepted at sea, actually boarded after two of its crew had been gunned down from another, faster boat. After the cargo was transferred, the surviving members of the crew were allowed to live. They, along with the boat, might prove useful to Jorge's successor.

The alarm by the bed began to buzz, and Jorge sat up immediately and turned it off. He was a lean, muscular man, dark and with a black, carefully trimmed beard and mustache. The fierce downward trim of the mustache was overmatched by the liquid softness of his brown eyes.

In the silence after the alarm, he lay back down and drew Maria to him. Both were nude, and sexually satiated after last night, but for a moment Maria thought he might want to make love again.

Unlike her husband, Maria had a light complexion, though her long, straight hair was auburn, like his. Her features were symmetrical and well sculpted, and her body was trim and athletic. Maria was the daughter of staid Midwesterners and had met Jorge three years ago when she was an art student at UCLA and he was studying business. Supposedly. What Jorge was really doing in the United States was establishing a drug distribution network.

With Jorge's help, Maria's basic grasp of Spanish soon improved, and their friendship quickly developed into a love that transcended any cultural differences. In fact, it gained the momentum of a freight train, and there was no leaving the rails without a fatal smashup.

When Maria learned from one of his friends that Jorge was a major drug dealer, she was thrilled rather than repelled. She confided this to him, and their love affair became even more heated. The friend who'd told her about Jorge disappeared. Maria never asked why or where to.

She regretted nothing of the life that had led to them being here in this room at the Hotel Casa Grande. Her family considered it sinful, and they didn't know the half of it. With Jorge, boundaries fell one after another, and behavior changed, along with what was unacceptable. Life was something to be seized. If it was selfish to live it to the fullest, so be it. People might not approve. Screw them, Maria thought.

Jorge didn't want to make love again. He leaned back away from her and rested his head on his pillow. The air conditioner kicked in with a soft rushing sound, almost like water flowing, sending a cooling breeze like a benediction down from the vent near the bed. It might not have been so pleasant lying here under different circumstances.

"A sad day for us," Jorge said. "After this morning, we won't be able to see each other for quite a while."

Maria scooted nearer to him on the bed and kissed him on the lips. "I understand," she said.

And he knew she did. And she accepted. He smiled. "You are unlike any other woman."

"So is every other woman, but no other woman is yours."

His smile widened. "That is because you would cut off my testicles."

"You are so right. And I love you so much."

"And I you."

They kissed again and she moved away from him and climbed out of bed. She didn't see any point in drawing out what for both of them was going to be a painful but necessary parting.

Raising her arms high, she stretched the length of her sleek body. "I'll shower first."

"Perhaps I'll join you. Save the hotel some water."

She paused and grinned at him. "Yes, you've always been interested in hotel water conservation."

"If it involves you, I find it a fascinating subject."

An hour later, Maria left the room first. She rode the elevator down to the lobby, walked to an archway beyond the reservation desk, and found a table in the coffee shop.

She ordered an espresso and sat calmly sipping it, waiting for Jorge to finish dressing and come downstairs.

As she sipped her espresso and gazed out the coffee shop's wide window that provided a view of the street, she noticed two identical black Volkswagen Jettas parked at the curb near the hotel's entrance. Though they were in the way of taxis, and a shuttle bus, if one were to arrive, the uniformed doorman was obviously ignoring them.

He also ignored the three men in dark suits who hurried past him, walking side by side. From her table, Maria could see beyond the entrance arch as the three men entered the lobby and strode across the terrazzo floor toward the elevators.

Only there were four of them now, all walking in step. One suddenly veered off and stood leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, staying well out of the way of guests and bellhops scurrying past. Through the window, Maria saw a third black Jetta. A van peeled away from the traffic and parked directly across the street. Several men emerged from it and began to cross.

Maria's heart was hammering as she drew her cell phone from her purse and called upstairs.

After breaking the brief connection, she kept her eyes trained on the lobby, and a few minutes later there was Jorge. He must have passed the men in the elevators, descending in a different car as they were going up. He was hurriedly making his way through the lobby, his shirt untucked, his hair uncombed. He didn't glance toward her as he passed the coffee shop entrance and walked faster toward the street exit.

Quickly he passed from her sight.

Almost immediately she heard gunshots and screaming. She watched through the window as the figure with the half-tucked shirt came into view and began to run. His pace faltered, and red splotches appeared on the broad back of his white shirt.

Then he stopped, raised both hands, and collapsed dying on the sidewalk.

People in the hotel and out in the street were rising from where they'd sought shelter and moving around now. Some of them were running. People were hurrying from across the street, weaving between the stopped cars. All were moving faster and faster toward the scene of the shooting.

Maria rose from her table, hurried to the lobby, and joined the throng of people rushing to see what had happened. Car horns were honking. There was much shouting. The wailing of sirens drifted over the city.

Like banshees, she thought. They sound like banshees mourning for Jorge.

But she knew the sirens meant only more police closing in to help establish and maintain order.

Out on the sidewalk, she avoided elbows and shoulders, pushed her way against the flow of the crowd, and slipped away.