No Way Back. Andrew Gross

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СКАЧАТЬ over spring break. Only a twenty-hour-drive away. Ned’s dad had brought up all the trouble they were having down there, but then things seemed to have quieted down recently. Anyway, where they were going, Aguazula, was just a sleepy town along the coast with not much more than a beach, a thatched-roof cantina, and maybe a little blow-away weed. Sam’s buddy George lived there, teaching English. He said it was paradise.

       Aguazula.

      Blue waters.

      At the last minute, Ned’s girlfriend, Ana, decided to come along, lured by the promise of some first-rate photo ops for her photography project. The three of them were seniors at the University of Denver. And it would probably be the last real fun they’d have, at least for a long time, since they were all graduating in a couple of months and then it was out into the world. The only things he’d have on his résumé: two years of lacrosse, a 3.2 GPA, and a business degree. If there would even be a job out there by the time he graduated. The last two summers Sam had interned back east at this boutique fixed-income shop. But now even Wall Street wasn’t hiring anymore, and in truth, Sam wasn’t even sure finance was his thing. He really didn’t know what he wanted to do. Other than, right now, a swan dive off a rocky ledge into a grotto of warm, blue water.

      Ned was sleeping in the passenger seat of the Acura SUV, having driven most of the night once they hit New Mexico, all the way to the Mexican border. Culiacán was only ten minutes ahead, according to the AAA map they had. Aguazula was still a three-hour-drive away.

       Paradise.

      In the hazy light, Sam saw a car coming up from behind him. Once dawn had broken, Sunday morning, he had begun to enjoy the drive, drinking in the amazing countryside. He’d never been in rural Mexico before. Flat stone houses hugging the hills; farmers with goats and chickens along the side of the road. Spindly jacaranda trees. He’d been to Cabo once, with the family. But that was just about fancy resorts with PGA golf courses and deep-sea fishing. And he’d also been to Cancún once, on spring break, but that was such a party freak show, they hardly left the hotel. This was the real thing. An old woman sat behind a stand on the roadside selling melons and dried chiles. Sam waved to her as they passed by.

      On the outskirts of town, the car caught up and went by them on the two-lane highway. A white Jeep with Texas plates. A man and a woman inside. In Culiacán they’d have to fill up. Maybe grab some breakfast. The road seemed to bring them right into the center of town. They passed a school, Escuela Autonomous de Centro Sinaloa. Just a flat-topped, one-level building with a droopy flag and what looked like a rutted soccer field.

      There was a backup of some kind, as the road wound down into the center of town. It all seemed pretty quiet this time of the morning. Everyone must be getting ready for church. He was struck by all the crosses. A virtual sea of them—white, shimmering—atop the roofs. It was one of the most beautiful sights he’d even seen.

      Next to him, Ned finally stirred. “Where are we?”

      “Culiacán. Couple of more hours. Dude, check it out.”

      Ned sat up and gazed around. “Whoa!” His eyes growing startlingly wide. “What is this, like a spawning ground for churches?”

      Sam nodded. “The mother ship.”

      The narrow street that led into Culiacán’s central square was momentarily backed up. Some old farmer seemed to be stuck, trying to drag his cart across the cobblestone road. Sam pulled up behind the same white Jeep that had passed them a few minutes ago.

      In the back, Ana sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Hey, where are we, guys?”

      “Paradise,” Sam declared, looking at the sea of white crosses. “At least, only a couple of more hours away.”

      Ana groaned. “Right now, my idea of paradise is a place we can grab some coffee and take a pee.”

      “I can go for that myself,” Ned chimed in approvingly.

      “Okay.” Sam feathered the clutch. “Soon as this dude goes by, let’s see what we can do.”

      Lupe stood on the roof, with its view of the town square, his AR-15 ready. It was quiet on a Sunday morning. A few food stalls were setting up to do business after Mass. A handful of unemployed men were already drinking in the cantina. A church bell rang. La ciudad de cruzes. The City of Crosses, it was called. Lupe knew the names and could count ten of them from right here.

      He was nineteen, the son of a baker. He had dropped out of school in the fifth grade and come under the influence of his uncle, Oscar, who took out a wad of American hundred-dollar bills and asked Lupe if this was what he wanted in life. And he answered, yes, it was. He’d seen the American movies. It was always the rich men who got the girls, who knew how to enjoy life. He started by doing simple things, like being a lookout and delivering packages. He knew exactly what the packages contained. Then, a few months back, they needed a local policeman to disappear. It was easy to do these jobs; these magistrados were fat and bought and sold themselves to the highest bidder. They lined their own pockets and did nothing for the poor. The man Lupe worked for had built schools and soccer fields. He had provided food for those who needed it. The policeman disappeared; only his hands and feet were ever found. And his badge. Which sent the message You do not fuck with the Z’s. Or we’ll paste you. Now, nervously, Lupe manned his own crew for the first time.

      The white SUV would come down the road into town at a little after 10:00 A.M., he was told. Two Anglos would be inside. A man and a woman. Do it in the open, he was instructed. Let the whole world see.

      Lupe didn’t like killing people. He would rather play football and impress the girls. With his sandy-colored hair and bright blue eyes, he was always popular. Except he knew this was the way to climb up the ladder. And they were all part of the same corrupt game, no matter which side they were on. Govermentales, politicians, the police. Even the priests. No one was innocent. Even he knew that much.

      Someone shouted, one of the lookouts from the rooftops up ahead. “They are coming!” Then: “Hay dos!” he heard. There are two.

      “Dos persones?” Lupe called. Just as told.

      “No. Dos coches.” Two cars.

      No one had told Lupe that.

      He quickly radioed back. His uncle, who was having coffee at his hacienda, asked him, “Are you sure?’

      “Sí. Two white wagons. Anglos. They are passing the school now.”

      That meant they would be in the square in a matter of seconds. Lupe gave the signal to the old man, who brought the cart across the narrow stone street, instructing the burro to stop. Coming down the hill, Lupe did see two white vehicles making their way down Calle Lachrimas, named for the Holy Mother’s tears.

      “There are two!” he radioed Oscar, and looked up to the verandah across the square. “Both Anglos. Which one is it? Do you know the plate number?”

      His uncle’s voice came back. “No. Let me check.”

      The front car honked at the cart. The old man appeared to do his best, moving as slowly as possible, but he couldn’t block the road all day. The joke was, he’d probably had a hand in more killings than all of them!

      “What do you want me to do?” Lupe asked again, as the old man cleared the road. “It must be done now?”

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