He’s the image of his old man.
When Hugo Hidalgo walks through the door, it takes Keller back almost thirty years.
To himself and Ernie Hidalgo in Guadalajara.
Same jet-black hair.
Same handsome face.
Same smile.
“Hugo, how long has it been?” Keller walks out from behind the desk and hugs him. “Come on, sit down, sit down.”
He leads Hugo to a chair in a little alcove by the window and takes the seat across from him. His receptionist and a number of secretaries had wondered how a junior field agent had managed to get an appointment with the administrator, especially on a day when Keller had canceled everything else and basically locked himself in his office.
Keller has been in there all day, watching Mexican news shows and satellite feeds covering the announcement of Adán Barrera’s death. Univision broadcast footage of the funeral cortege—scores of vehicles—as it snaked its way down from the mountains toward Culiacán. In villages and towns along the way, people lined the road and tossed flowers, ran up to the hearse weeping, pressing their hands against the glass. Makeshift shrines had been constructed with photos of Barrera, candles and signs that read ¡ADÁN VIVE!
All for the little piece of shit who murdered the father of the young man who now sits across from him, who used to call him Tío Arturo. Hugo must be, what, thirty now? A little older?
“How are you?” Keller asks. “How’s the family?”
“Mom’s good,” Hugo says. “She’s living in Houston now. Ernesto is with Austin PD. One of those hippie cops on a bicycle. Married, three kids.”
Keller feels guilty that he’s lost touch.
Feels guilty about a lot of things involving Ernie Hidalgo. It was his fault that Ernie got killed when Hugo was just a little boy. Keller had spent his entire career trying to make it right—had tracked down everyone involved and put them behind bars.
Devoted his life to taking down Adán Barrera.
And finally did.
“How about you?” Keller asks. “Married? Kids?”
“Neither,” Hugo says. “Yet. Look, sir, I know you’re very busy, I appreciate you taking the time—”
“Of course.”
“You once told me if there was anything you could ever do, not to hesitate.”
“I meant it.”
“Thank you,” Hugo says. “I haven’t wanted to take advantage of that, of our relationship, it’s not that I think I’m owed anything …”
Keller has followed Hugo’s career from afar.
The kid has done it the right way.
Military. Good service with the US Marines in Iraq.
Then he went back and finished college, degree in criminal justice from UT, and then caught on with Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. Put up a good record there and kept applying to DEA until he was finally hired.
He could have done it differently, Keller knows. Could simply have walked in and said he was the son of a fallen DEA hero, and they would have given him a job right away.
But he didn’t do that.
He earned it, and Keller respects that.
His father would have, too.
“What can I do for you, Hugo?”
“I’ve been on the job for three years now,” Hugo says, “and I’m still investigating marijuana buys in suburban Seattle.”
“You don’t like Seattle?”
“It’s about as far as you can get from Mexico,” Hugo says. “But maybe that’s the idea.”
“What do you mean?”
Hugo looks uncomfortable, but then sets his jaw and looks straight at Keller.
Just like Ernie would have done, Keller thinks.
“Are you keeping me out of danger, sir?” Hugo asks. “If you are—”
“I’m not.”
“Well, someone is,” Hugo says. “I’ve put in for FAST assignments five times and haven’t gotten one of them. It doesn’t make any sense. I speak fluent Spanish, I look Mexican, I have all the weapons qualifications.”
“Why do you want FAST?”
FAST is an acronym for Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Team, but Keller knows they do a lot more than advise and support. They’re basically the DEA’s special forces.
“Because that’s where it’s happening,” Hugo says. “I see kids dying of overdoses. I want in on that fight. On the front lines.”
“Is that the only reason?” Keller asks.
“Isn’t it enough?”
“Can I be honest with you, Hugo?”
“I wish someone would,” Hugo says.
“You can’t spend your life getting revenge for your father,” Keller says.
“With all respect, sir,” Hugo says. “You did.”
“Which is how I know.” Keller leans forward in his chair. “The men who killed your father are all dead. Two died in prison, one was killed in a gunfight on a bridge in San Diego. I was there. The last one … they’re about to hold his wake. The job is finished, son. You don’t have to take it up.”
“I want my father to have been proud of me,” Hugo says.
“I’m sure he is.”
“I don’t want to be advanced because of who my father was,” Hugo says, “but I don’t want to be held back, either.”
“That’s fair,” Keller says. “I tell you what, if someone is blocking your transfer to FAST, I’ll unblock it. You pass the test, you get through training—only half do—I’ll oil the wheels for assignment to Afghanistan. Front lines.”
“I speak Spanish, not Urdu.”
“Be realistic, Hugo,” Keller says. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to let you go into Mexico. Or Guatemala, or El Salvador, or Costa Rica or Colombia. DEA is simply not going to risk those headlines, if something happened to you. And something would—you’d be a marked man.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“I won’t.” I had to tell Teresa Hidalgo her husband was dead, Keller thinks. I’m not going to tell her that her son has been killed. He makes a mental note to find out who has been keeping Hugo out of harm’s way and thank him. It was solid thinking. “You don’t want Kabul, name me something you would want. Europe—Spain, France, Italy?”
“Don’t dangle shiny objects in front of me, sir,” Hugo says. “Either I get moved to the front lines or I leave DEA. And you know I’ll catch on with a border-state police force and you also know they’ll put me UC. I’ll be making drug buys from Sinaloa before you take my name off the Christmas card list.”
You are your father’s son, Keller thinks. You’ll do exactly what you said, and you’ll get yourself killed, and I owe your dad more than that.
“You want to take down the cartel?” Keller asks.
“Yes, sir.”