Crossing the Cartel
Portraying a calm outward demeanor that masked his seething impatience, Carlos sat in the shade at the outdoor cafe, casting glances down the road. A persistent fly circled, dodging the shooing motion of the man’s hand. Across the small table, Rosalita, decked out in finest clothes, jewels and tits that drug money could buy, chattered mindlessly on the edge of his consciousness until a warning look from Carlos throttled her into reluctant silence. A faint dust cloud rose on the horizon, heralding the approach of a black Range Rover. The grime-covered vehicle arrived in the small Mexican town, wide-lug tires crunching in the reddish dirt as it pulled to a stop in the town square near the cafe. Santiago eased from the driver’s door, working kinks from his muscles after the long, bumpy drive. He …