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for a response and then called out to the guards manning the gate. A stocky man with the build of a brick strode to the barricade and raised it as the lead SUV neared, an M16 assault rifle slung across his back as he watched the vehicles close on his position.
    The driver of the SUV gave him a wave that he returned, and then the vehicles were past him, headed for the main house, which was surrounded by smaller buildings – a casita for guests should the nine-bedroom sprawl prove inadequate, a six-car garage, a barn. The truck’s gears ground as its tires crunched on the gravel of the circular drive. A fountain bubbled in the middle of the centerpiece atop an elevated mound with stone steps leading to two curved stone benches that rested on the impeccably groomed landscaping.
    The truck rolled to a stop in front of the house. A dark-skinned man wearing white slacks and a white short-sleeved button up shirt came through the front door and moved down the stairs to where the vehicles waited. He pointed toward the barn at the edge of the complex and growled instructions.
    The convoy inched along the drive toward the barn, where three men stood deep in conversation next to a chestnut mare. The tallest, an older man with ramrod posture and hair the color of brushed steel, looked over at the new arrivals before returning to his discussion. His companions, their jeans and flannel shirts a marked contrast to the older man’s cream slacks and burgundy silk shirt, bobbed their heads in agreement, and one led the horse to an adjacent pasture enclosed with rustic wooden fencing while the other disappeared into the barn.
    The older man watched the mare’s gait as she pranced alongside her jogging escort, and his tanned face cracked with the beginning of a smile. He fished a pair of sunglasses from his breast pocket and slid them on, and then turned from the pasture to regard the newcomers.
    Four men descended from the two SUVs, shoulder holsters over their obviously expensive shirts. The truck driver killed the engine as they approached the older man and the area grew still, the only sounds the songs of birds in the tall trees that surrounded the clearing and the hum of a distant tractor somewhere in the valley.
    “ Don Mosises. We have taken care of the problem and brought the others, as you requested,” one of the four said.
    “Good. Any complications?” Mosises asked, his rough voice the result of a lifelong addiction to Cuban cigars.
    “No. Everything went as planned, other than losing a few soldiers,” the man reported with a shrug. “Nobody you knew.”
    “So the cockroaches put up a fight, eh? Well, they’re gone now. Time to finish this so I can return to more pleasant pursuits.” Mosises motioned to the truck.
    The driver hopped down from the cab and moved to the rear cargo door as Mosises and the four gunmen approached. With a grunt, the driver pulled up the rolling door, revealing a dark interior with five figures lying on the wooden truck bed, their hands tied behind their backs.
    Mosises glanced at his men. “Get them out.”
    The five captives were dragged from the truck and dumped unceremoniously on the gravel. Mosises paced nearby as he studied them with a scowl.
    “So. You set up a deal to cut me out, eh? How did that work out for you? Your friends in San Cristóbal are now a stain in the mud, and any profit you made cost them their lives.” Mosises shook his head. “And soon, your lives as well.”
    One of them spit at Mosises with a sneer, but didn’t speak. Mosises turned to his men.
    “I see the farmers are burning their fields. It always makes me sad for some reason, but it’s regeneration. The cycle of life.” He regarded the captives a final time. “Take them away and light them up. I’m sick of looking at their ugly faces. When you’re done, bury them in a ditch down by the dump. I’ll be along shortly.”
    The men dragged the captives behind the barn, where tires would be slid over the