The Girl with the Golden Gun. Ann Major

the boy moaned, whirling around. “I didn’t do anything! I swear!”

      Chito’s savage, gloating smile was a blur of white and gold that matched his necklace. Tavio wished he was enjoying this half as much as Chito, but he felt sorry for the boy. And even sorrier for his father.

      He thought of Marco. Then he reminded himself that this was business. Killing Julio was but the tiniest piece in their game plan for revenge.

      Four

      Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

      Terence Collins pitched his cigarette into a dank gutter. The squalid backstreet that stank of cheap whores, garbage and sewage wasn’t far from Ciudad Juarez’s Avenida Juarez.

      So far and yet so near.

      Collins’s gaze turned heavenward. Ominous black clouds hung low over El Paso.

      Rain? Not likely. But rain was always welcome in Juarez.

      He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and shook out another cigarette. When a white, bulletproof limousine followed by two armored black SUVs crammed with armed bodyguards whipped past him, he put the cigarette back in his shirt pocket.

      The convoy made a sharp u-turn, and the limo pulled up in a swirl of dust.

      Tinted windows rolled down, and Collins stiffened as a dozen bodyguards inspected him coldly.

      Valdez was on time—as usual. The bastard!

      A burly man in a brown uniform carrying an assault weapon leapt out of the passenger side of the limo to open the door for him.

      When there are no rules at the playground, the bullies rule.

      “Do you mind if I smoke?” Terence asked in a mild tone as he pulled his cigarette out again and climbed inside, knowing the answer full well.

      “I’m allergic,” Federico Valdez snapped, his lip curling as he stared at a yellow stain on the cuff of Terence’s shirt. Federico fastened his seatbelt.

      “Thanks for continuing to allow your newspapers over here to translate and publish my pieces on Morales.”

      “My pleasure. After all, you did get yourself nominated for a Pulitzer once.”

      “Ever since Pete Cantú got gunned down last year, my boss, Juan Ramos…You may know him—”

      “I’ve heard of him, yes. Good things.”

      “Well, he’s got less backbone than a squid. A few months back he told us to censor everything we write about the drug cartels.”

      “Pete Cantú?” Valdez looked puzzled. “Oh, right,” he murmured. “That journalist in El Paso, who wrote about the Morales-Garza cartel and then got shot in his driveway when he was playing with his kids.”

      “Ramos says we’ve lost the war, so why should we risk our necks—”

      “Smart guy. But you’re too stubborn to stop—like always.”

      “My mother said I was born with a death wish. And you? You’re not one for causes. I’m surprised you give a damn about Morales.”

      Valdez looked bored. “People are full of contradictions. That’s what makes them interesting.”

      “With your factories, you’re exposed. Why risk such an enemy?”

      On the surface Valdez appeared unruffled, and yet there was something hard in his eyes. “It’s personal.”

      Without bothering to fasten his seat belt, Terence sank wearily into the plush leather and stared out the tinted window at the decaying buildings. He fought to ignore the bodyguard leering at the girls, whose smiles were glossy as they waved to him, halving their prices. The baby-faced hookers in their boots and miniskirts were hard up to sell themselves at this hour since the American teenagers, who paid for their services on Friday and Saturday nights, were soundly asleep in their suburban homes in El Paso.

      The seat felt too good. Terence was glad the windows were tinted. Once this city had inspired him to write prize-winning journalistic pieces. Today he needed blinders against the daily brutalities of Ciudad Juarez. If he closed his eyes, Terence would be asleep and snoring in seconds. With a tight smile, he placed the forbidden cigarette between his lips.

      When Federico frowned at his idiotic show of defiance, Terence scowled back just for good measure. Normally he didn’t give a damn how tired or shaggy he looked. Nor did he worry about making a good impression on assholes like Federico, who were part of a big problem that had millions fleeing from this country to el norte in search of decent jobs.

      For some strange reason Terence felt at a disadvantage today. He yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Maybe he was getting old. Or maybe he felt off balance because Valdez, who’d once been his brother-in-law, had set up this little family reunion.

      Valdez was using him to piss off Morales. Why?

      That Valdez had tracked him down was no easy feat, but then he probably had spies everywhere. For various reasons, Collins moved around a lot. One was money. Another was that he’d made a lot of enemies and didn’t want to be easy to find when his eyes were shut. Right now he was bunking in with three newly divorced guys, who were such slobs they disgusted even him.

      Behind his scowl Collins hoped like hell he didn’t appear as tense and unsure as he really was as they were whisked through the garbage-strewn streets while being tailgated by the black SUVs.

      Rich bastards like Federico, who stank of money, ran the developing world, or at least this dusty stretch of it, and there wasn’t much one loud-mouthed journalist, who was growing old before his time, could do to make things right.

      Leaning back against the leather, Valdez stretched his long legs. Valdez’s short hair was as black as outer space. The bastard probably dyed it. But even without his talented barber and the accoutrements of wealth, he would still have been handsome in that unfair way.

      Terence studied his carved profile and realized he reminded him of somebody he’d seen in a photo recently. Who?

      Valdez was as tall and aristocratic in his gray Armani suit as Collins was rough and unkempt in his wrinkled shirt and khakis that he’d lived and slept in for the past two days on the road in his ancient van with his camera crews, boom mikes and photographers.

      Partly because he hadn’t been able to find his comb or his razor in the debris of his beer-can strewn apartment, Collins hadn’t bothered to shave his craggy jaw or comb his too-long, salt-and-pepper mop, either.

      What the hell? Other than some junk food he’d grabbed at gas stations he hadn’t even been bothering to eat lately. He’d been too busy rushing around with his motley crew filming a low-budget documentary about the contaminants in the Rio Grande.

      At fifty Valdez looked as vibrant and arrogantly full of himself as he had at thirty. Collins was a battle-worn forty-nine. He had lines beneath his eyes and grooves on either side of his mouth. His skin was as dark and leathery as a shrunken head’s. Dora had divorced him long before she’d died, but once, long ago, she’d been the beautiful, younger sister of Valdez’s American-born wife, Anita. Valdez men always went for fair-skinned Americans.

      The border was a hellish place. Smugglers were taking over the border towns at a rapid clip. They bought off the authorities or killed the ones who couldn’t be bribed. Then they trafficked in drugs and people at their will. Corporate bandits like Valdez worked the poor like slaves and polluted without restraint. Thousands of people ate garbage, literally, from the dumps in northern Mexico. Nobody cared that millions of kids got almost no schooling because their parents couldn’t afford books and had to put them to work. Thus, generation after generation grew up to be unskilled and were sentenced to lifetimes of manual labor. There were lots of kidnappings both for money and to make people disappear. Ordinary women were their husbands’ chattel. Most people