"Metelitsa," Steph introduces me, and I'm surprised by the pride I hear in his voice. "My wife."
At some point, we should probably let go of the husband-wife charade, but for the time being, we both enjoy it a bit too much.
Ettoro's eyes widen as he takes me in, and I return his gaze with the same expression I've used to send men to their graves. He doesn't pale, but he looks… satisfyingly wary.
"Pleasure," he manages. Steph pounds him on the back, and we move toward a canopy that has been pitched inthe middle of the desert. Inside, a map is spread on a table; no, that's not entirely true, the tableisa giant tablet, projecting a map. Alright. Color me impressed. Steph grins at me, and I nod appreciatively, granting him the moment.
The desert presses at the tent like a thing that wants to be let in. Heat bleeds through the canvas; the sun is a clean fist. A table with a bowl of fruit and ice-cold water sits like an apology in the middle of the shade. The water beads and slides; the fruit smells like summer.
No fans. Not a single one is humming against the heat. Steph hasn’t furnished us with comforts he doesn’t expect his people to have. He stands with them in the same dust and the same sun, sleeves rolled, shirt the same as the men by the cars. It’s small, but it lands. Respect is not a thing he hands out like candy. I nod to the man who brought the water; his nod goes back like a currency. I like him more for it.
We cluster around the table. Ettoro is rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to press the buzz out of his skull. Steph studies the tablet, a projection of the Sierra Madre blooming in holographic relief: peaks, hairline roads, a pin where the last transponder ping died. I don’t need it to know the geography; Miguel’s fuel trail already told me the story. Still, the map helps.
I step closer to the map and Steph, shading my eyes with one palm even under the tent. The projection casts the Sierra Madre in fat ridges, light and shadow, where menlike to hide. A Mexican man enters, and Ettoro introduces him as Ramón, a local Coyote—this area is like his backyard. His English is a bit broken, but clean enough to understand.
"Here," he says, tapping a ragged line that looks like a scar on the map. "This is an old ranch. It's been abandoned for decades, but it’s in good condition. We use it sometimes to regroup. It's a good spot."
Ettoro leans over. "How far from Creel?"
"Depends where you measure from." Ramón’s fingers slide, slow and sure. "From the runway? Two hours if the roads are good. From Batopilas? Less if someone moves fast at night. This," he taps a cluster of grey squares half-hidden in a fold of terrain, "is close to the city. People go to trade there sometimes, but they don’t stay."
Steph points at a series of linear blocks further in, a strip with the geometry of concrete, rectilinear, unnatural.
"An old military base," Ramón explains. "Shells of hangars. Barracks. Easy to defend."
Ettoro whistles softly. "If the Mexicans wanted deniability, a place like that is perfect. Fix the gate, bring generators, and you have a camp that looks like a ruin."
I move my thumb over the map until my finger hovers above a narrow valley. "They took Nico somewhere that's off the tourist maps. Either one of these places," I indicate the ranch and the base, "would be a good spot."
Ettoro taps a point near a ribbon of river. "What about this? That spur—there’s an access road, two arroyo crossings. If someone knows how to move at night, they use that. Nobody watches it."
Ramón nods. "People with no papers, no faces, they like the arroyo. You can drag a body without being seen. But if you need to keep someone alive, you pick a house with a cook and a lock."
Steph folds his arms and studies us like we’re machinery he’s about to start. "We need eyes. I don’t want to guess which ruin, then walk into an ambush."
"Drones?" Ettoro suggests.
"Drones," I echo, nodding. "And satellite imagery. Nighttime recon with heat signatures might show generators, fresh tire tracks, and gatherings." I look at the men. "We can use my brother's satellite."
The tent goes quiet like someone dropped a glass. Ramón’s eyebrows lift. Ettoro’s face says what all men’s faces say when they try to file surprise away, curiosity with a hint of respect. Steph inclines his head in a fraction of a motion that’s almost a salute. "You're telling me your brother has a satellite," he says, not a question. "Up there?" He points at the sky.
"Not in your backyard," I deadpan. "You act like it's a big deal."
He’s smiling, part disbelief, part amusement. "Yes. It’s a very big deal."
Ettoro laughs, a short bark of approval. "Boss with stars in his pockets. Nice." He taps the tablet where the ridge narrows. "If we can get satellite passes and overlay drone runs, we can narrow from a dozen ruins to three. Then we send boots for reconnaissance, make it light and fast. Ramón knows the local people. He’ll get runners in at dusk."
Ramón nods. "Creel is our closest cover town. If you want information, you two should go; many Americans visit Creel."
The look on Steph's face tells me how much he dislikes the idea of him and me going there. I hook my arm through his elbow. "Come on,husband, it could be our honeymoon."
"Guards?" Steph turns to Ettoro, who shakes his head.
"Not if you want to blend in."
I grin. "Come on, honey, it'll be fun."
He looks more than dubious. "Margaritas?" I tempt. "No? How about Enchiladas? Mexican beer? Or Tequila. Tequila, right?"
