The Polaris Protocol Read Online Free PDF Page B

He’d done his research and knew it would be at least a two-hour wait. While the bridge operated twenty-four hours a day, he’d decided to cross when traffic was heaviest, giving the men working border control less of an incentive to focus on him.
    Inching forward every few minutes, surrounded by all manner of cars, some seemingly held together by duct tape, he reflected on his future. Or more precisely, his lack of one.
    From the beginning, the cartels had led a Darwinian existence of dog-eat-dog, with only the strong surviving. Even Osiel Cárdenas, the man who had created the original Zetas enforcement arm, had the nickname El Mata Amigos—the Friend Killer—because he had executed his partner to seize control of the Gulf cartel. Back then, though, there were lines. Reasons for the violence, with a degree of logic, because random killing was counterproductive for business. The
sicario
had seen that change.
    The leadership of Los Zetas had become paranoid. Or maybe they were simply crazy, with the calculated thinking of the original members lost to the savagery of the animals who took over from below. It really didn’t matter why. In the past the
sicario
had killed for a purpose. Sending a signal to the authorities, getting revenge for transgressions, or simply showing the consequences should someone interfere with cartel business—it had all been designed to retain control. The killings were thought out before they were ordered, with potential repercussions discussed at least as much as the operation itself. Now Los Zetas butchered anyone suspected of working against them based on rumor alone, with no thought given to the fallout.
    The man the
sicario
had boiled was one such target. Two days ago, he’d been a valued member of Los Zetas. Yesterday, he had become a target, simply because his boss, El Comandante, had heard he might be turning informant.
    The
sicario
was sure El Comandante was crazy. He was like a dog that had been whipped, beaten, and thrown into fights to the death for so long he had lost all sense of what constituted reality. Sooner or later, it would be the
sicario
’s turn. Of that he was absolutely positive. The only reason it hadn’t happened yet was because he had never once shown anything but loyalty and had never indicated an interest in greater riches or power.
    That, and because the
sicario
had been Los Zetas far longer than anyone else. Longer even than El Comandante. He was one of the few members of Los Zetas still alive from when they were the pipe swingers for the Gulf cartel. One of the original
sicarios
—and that fact, along with his reputation for brutality, held some importance.
    He wondered if he himself was crazy. He thought he could discern it in others but wasn’t sure about himself. He didn’t believe he was, but in his heart he couldn’t see how anyone who executed such heinous deeds couldn’t be. He should have been eaten up with remorse or fearful of the afterlife. But he wasn’t. The acts, like the one earlier today, never bothered him. Didn’t that make him loco?
    There was only one action that haunted him. Made him worry about where he would spend eternity. During the latter stages of the Guatemalan civil war, his Kaibil unit had been sent to “pacify” a village. They had slaughtered every man, woman, and child. After everything he had done since in the name of Los Zetas, this was the one event that haunted his dreams. Made him sweat when the memories surfaced. The
campesinos
running left and right like rabbits. The machetes falling. The blood. The stench of spilled intestines and chopped meat. It all returned at night while he slept.
    The aftereffects of that operation had driven him into the arms of Los Zetas. He told himself it was because they paid infinitely more than the Guatemalan army, but in reality, he had decided that if he was going to kill, he wanted to kill someone who wasn’t innocent. As if Los Zetas knew the difference.
    Loco thoughts
. He