For Day 26 of @narcosfandomdiscord's July Smut Alphabet: zipper
Warnings: 18+, language, smoking, smut
Word Count: 2k
A/N: Idk what came over my brain tonight but it decided that we needed to get weird about someone new in the docs. And Danilo was the lucky winner. It was an experience! It was a time! I'm not upset about it!
Narcos Mexico Taglist: @ashlingnarcos @narcolini @cositapreciosa @hausofmamadas @artemiseamoon @garbinge @southotheborder (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)
The two of you were sitting in the car. The battery was on but the ignition was off. The shitty little light above the rearview mirror was barely enough to let you get a good look at Danilo’s face. The upside, though, was that he also couldn’t get a good look at yours.
“If you’ve got something to say,” he leaned back in the driver’s seat and looked over at you, “then just fucking say it.”
You shook your head, reaching for the glove compartment where you knew he kept a pack of cigarettes. “I don’t have anything to say.”
He scoffed, shaking his head as he watched you spark up a cigarette and toss the pack back into the glove compartment without even bothering to offer him one in the process of it. He didn’t want one anyway, but he still noticed it.
“You think I didn’t see the look on your face?”
You shrugged, exhaling a stream of smoke. The haze you created in the low light of the car only made it even harder to see. “I missed the part when you started giving a shit about my opinion about anything that you do. Or anyone’s opinion on it, to be honest.”
“I thought you were better than that.”
Your brows came together. “Than what?”
“I didn’t think that you’d lie about things like that.”
About things like that. You turned those words over and over in your head. Those four little words were qualifiers that would’ve been insulting coming from anyone else. Being called a liar by anyone outside your crew stung. But you were all liars in some way, at least a little bit. Most of it was lying by omission, some of it was much more malicious than that. At least you were all in good company.
Danilo was a liar too, in much the same way that you were. You didn’t know anything about his life outside of what you were all doing for the op with Walt. You didn’t know anything about it and you didn’t want to. If all of you started getting too honest about everything, it was only going to get messy. Everyone was in enough danger as it was without all of their personal business being common knowledge. Everyone’s lives were divulged on a need-to-know basis, and no one really needed to know much.
No one wore wedding bands, even though you knew for a fact that at least a few of the men in the crew were married. Again, it was just safer that way. You knew that some of them must’ve had wives, families at home, but you didn’t know which ones and you didn’t know how deep any of those roots went. You didn’t want to know. The thought had crossed your mind a couple times with Danilo, wondering if he had someone waiting for him at home. A nice girl who left the kitchen light on for him just in case. Kids who hadn’t been tucked in for bed by their father in far too long. You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know either, so you didn’t ask. Danilo also never asked if you had anyone at home waiting for you.
You lied about plenty. You were sure that he did too. Everyone lied when it was more important than the truth. But not about things like what had happened at the safehouse. The truth was more important then. You didn’t lie about things like that.
Tapping the ashes from the end of your cigarette out the window, you brought yourself back from the brief mental spiral you’d gone down at Danilo’s clipped words. “I’m not lying.” You saw the disbelief on his face. “What? You think I feel bad for him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what the fuck are you saying?” You shook your head. “Since when are you anything but fucking direct about what you’re thinking?”
“You flinched.”
You scoffed. “Yea. An unexpected gunshot does that to people sometimes.”
“That wasn’t why you flinched.”
“You just got me all figured out like that then, hm?” you asked with a roll of your eyes. You saw the way he opened his mouth to keep arguing at you and you cut him off before he even got started. You gestured at him with your hand that was holding the cigarette. “Don’t fucking patronize me, Danilo. Don’t act like I’ve never been knee-deep in the shit before.” Your eyes were locked on the dashboard as you thought about all of the years, the ops, the injuries and deaths. “I’ve seen people do much worse for much less.” Finally, you peeled your gaze back over to him. “I’m not that easily swayed.”
His eyes locked onto yours. Even in the shitty lighting, even through the haze of cigarette smoke, you could tell that he was piecing you apart. There was a trace of smugness in his expression, the look that was there more often than not, usually trading out places with anger. You wanted to reach over and smack the look clean off his face but you didn’t. You weren’t going to give him that kind of satisfaction.
“Alright,” he finally said, apparently seeing whatever it was that he wanted to see in your eyes.
You nodded, tossing the butt of your cigarette out the window, slipping it through the narrow opening at the top. “Alright.”
You didn’t think that there was much more for you to say other than that. You still couldn’t tell if he had something more that he wanted to say to you, something more that he wanted from you. Very rarely did the two of you find yourselves parked in his car off a dark side-street just for the sake of talking. Maybe he was just wondering if he’d effectively ended the unspoken, grossly undefined arrangement between the two of you when he pulled the trigger. He hadn’t. You thought no differently of him now than you had when you’d woken up that morning. Maybe that said more about you than it did about him, anyway.
“Am I free to go now?” you asked, head dropping back against the rest of the seat behind you.
“Unless you want to stay.”
You saw the pull at the end of his mouth, the smirk creeping into his expression. You hated how easily seeing that made you mirror the same look back to him. He was absolutely insufferable when he got like this but when he got like this is was practically impossible for you to pull yourself away from him. Of course. It always had to be some guy with a bit of an attitude problem. That just had to be your type.
“I’ll stay,” you told him with a nod, “but only because you owe me an apology for doubting me and this is the closest thing I’ll get to one.”
He chuckled at that, a crooked grin flashing across his face. He didn’t try to argue it because he knew that you were right. Even without an argument, it was clear that he didn’t think that there was anything else to be said between you. In a flash he was shifting over, leaning enough so that he could pull you towards him and into a kiss. His lips crashed into yours, the action expected but still taking your breath away for a moment. Your hands settled on the collar of his shirt, gripping tightly and pulling him closer to you as much as you could with the console between you. All the weeks that had gone by and the two of you still found yourselves clamoring in the front seats from time to time like a couple of teenagers who didn’t know any better. Should’ve just cut out the middle man and hopped right into the back when the conversation started.
You were about to make a comment to that effect, or at least suggest getting back there now before things got carried away too much farther and it would be even more frustrating and inconvenient to switch locations than it already was. You pulled your lips off of his, went to make your suggestion, but apparently Danilo had no intentions of adding extra steps to the process now. The second you pulled away from him, his eyes shifted, his hand dropping to work the button and zipper on your jeans. The sound of him sliding the zipper down seemed obscenely loud in the otherwise silent car.
He didn’t even waste the time of trying to pull your jeans down off of your hips. The second your pants were unfastened and open, his lips were right back on yours again, blind to the rest of it but it didn’t matter because he could still feel you. The callouses on his fingers grazed across the strip of skin above the waistband of your underwear, fresh territory exposed now that hadn’t been before. Goosebumps broke out over your skin at the sensation even though it was hardly new to you anymore.
Then you felt the pull of the fabric, the way the waistband stretched to accommodate his hand that was slipping beneath the fabric of your panties. At least he knew not to expect frills and lace. If he was looking for that he could go find some girl in town who gave a shit about those types of details. You both had other priorities, though. It never seemed to be a problem before, and it still wasn’t now as his hand crept lower, just slow enough for you to be able to lift and adjust your hips, letting the pull of his hand shift your jeans down just enough for him to get the access he was looking for.
His fingers slipped into you with no resistance, the sound of your moans filling the small space the two of you were in. Danilo didn’t comment on it, how wet and ready you were for him despite what the last few hours had held for the two of you and everyone else. He wasn’t much of a talker, which you were exceedingly thankful for especially in moments like that when he could’ve dressed you all the way down with his words, and deservingly so. But he also didn’t talk much because he didn’t have to. Even as he kissed you, you could feel the smug grin on his face in between each reconnection of your lips. Bastard. But you couldn’t stop. Or rather, you could’ve, but you sure as hell didn’t want to.
You were bucking desperately against his hand as he fell into the rhythm that made your legs shake even when you were sitting down. The string of curses that fell from your lips were all the encouragement he needed to keep going. Your head went back, eyes shut tight as you soaked in the feeling of him. His lips dragged along your jaw, teeth grazing as he continued to work you over.
Before you could even think to say something about it, your walls tightened around him, arousal spilling over his fingers and into the rest of his hand as you came. Your fingernails were digging into his arm even though the thin denim of his shirt, but he didn’t utter even a syllable of a complaint.
“Fuck.” It was the only thing you could manage to get out.
You practically melted back into the seat behind you as he pulled his hand out from your jeans. You caught him in your peripheral, cleaning off his fingers in the most sinful way known to mankind. You were glad you weren’t facing him head-on as he did it, or you’d be reduced to a mess all over again.
“Anything to say now?” he asked, his tone and his self-satisfied expression saying much more than those four words ever could.
You huffed, something between humor and exasperation. “Fuck you.”
He laughed, shrugging as he refused to look away from you. “We’re already here.”
You rolled your eyes, tongue darting out across your bottom lip. Leaning over to him, you kissed him hard, your hand instantly working at his belt buckle. “Yea,” you undid it, the sound of his jeans coming undone filling the car now, “we are.”
TO THE SMASH N GRAB CREW | RIP to the homies and this Cece x Kenny meet cute
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Pairing: Cecelia “Cece” Garza x Kenny and The Smash-And-Grab Crew gif dump
For @narcosfandomdiscord NarcOctober - Day 16
Prompt: Day of Surprises - create a fanwork that focuses on dreams, literal or metaphorical
Okay so, you guys, I have no idea if this even works for the prompt dreams, bc it’s not really a dream one of the characters is having but rather, a dream of mine, and specifically a dream of whatever this was or could’ve been???? That we were categorically deprived of thanks to the Narcos’ writers’ tendency to just drop narrative grenades lil hints of things and then never pick them back up again.
So idk if yall remember that one time Operation Leyenda actually didn’t entirely fuck some shit up but there was One Time n I’m lowkey convinced it was thanks to the involvement of some estrogen no one will convince me that GOAT Secretary Susie wasn’t the strength of Jaime and Kiki’s operation, mmkay in the form of this baddie, named Cece aka Danilo’s way-too-foxy cousin.
What exactly did this bonafide mothafucking G short for goddess do that made the mission so successful? Idk, maybe just being the sassiest, most could-not-be-fucking-bothered, beyond not-having-any-of-your-shit to political scumbag and all around general skidmark, Ruben Zuno Árce okay we don’t even have time to get into how legitimately want to light this man on fire whilst painting💅🏽her💅🏽fucking💅🏽nails💅🏽 I MEANSJSHWH it truly doesn’t get better than this
I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE SATISFIED WATCHING TBIS FUCKINFSKWJHW W SHOW except that one time Barrón broke my brain by spending the whole time being some random and then very sudddnly stealing the whole gotdamn show out of nowhere in ten mins but shhhhhhsjshshs we’re not talking about that right now like they fucking did it. They got this bitch on US soil, homie was shitting in his skivvies right there on the runway also ngl I’m convinced that Walt dressing respectably in that torturously sexy red shirt was another crucial key to the success of this plan but it was mostly Cece
Okay okay okay so then after the plan goes down like gang busters, they all meet up for lunch and we get this random little exchange between enemies-to-lovers Danilo and Kenny before Kenny cried weeweewee all the way back home to the US bc he could not handle big swinging dick Calderoni and like tbh, fair where Danilo makes a point to introduce Kenny to his cousin, The Real MVP Cece, who, like the rest of the women on this show is infuriatingly hot and stunning bc they cannot for just one moment pipe down with that shit
Almost as though he’s like been, on the low, talking to Cece about Kenny and promised to introduce them as like!???????? A blind date or somethinggghdhe like some kind of setup!??????
And it’s not like Danilo does this and Kenny’s like uhhhhhh, ‘scuse me, tf? Kenny’s literally justlikesjejsjwjsusuebehsh like, okay check this shit, look at Kenny’s fucjinfjdjsd face in that gif, like if he were wearing a suit or a tux, mans would be straightening his little bow tie, all checking himself in the mirror, picking at his teeth, breathing into the palm of his hand, asking bestie Daryl, heygorl, be honest, does this silk cravat make my neck look fat? To which Daryl is like, sorry, what the actual fuck is a silk cravat? Also idk when this became Victorian England where ppl wear silk cravats and it kinda seems like it’s setting that shit up to go somewhere except all we get is what?
A BIG. FAT. NOTHING. BURGERRRRRJDJDJHE
We literally NEVER FUCKING SEE Cece again and Kenny cries weeweewee all the way home in like the next episode, and the rest of the team gets mowed down on another airport tarmac, except sweet bby angels Sal
And Daryl and Walt but as much as I love him, he’s far too much of a glutton for punishment to be considered a sweet bby angel
I mean if blue balls existed, this show would be The Fucking King Kahuna of Blue Ballers. Why??????? I MEAN LOOK AT TBJS WOMANNNNNNNNNN OKAY????????
And as if we weren’t suffering from our blue balls enough already, the show literally pushes us to the ground and pummels us in the metaphorical dick with titanium baseball bats yes more than one by giving us this👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽one and only moment of joy, this👇🏽👇🏽👇🏽 👇🏽 one single, solitary victory
…….
…………….
………………………..
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand then they went ahead and straight-up just Game-of-Thrones-Red-Wedding massacred like seventy five percent of the motherfucking cast by like episode 9
Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoool. Fine.
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For the giiiiiiiifs: @narcosfandomdiscord @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc @narcolini @artemiseamoon
Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of sexism, mention of communism, mentions of food, smoking, alcohol, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!
Notes: As always, apologies for taking so long to update. This chapter’s lighter than the previous ones, but I hope y’all still enjoy it. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.
Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my darlings @cleastrnge 💜 and @qoedameron 💓 for the Mexican Spanish translations!
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MARCH 6, 1986
GUADALAJARA, MEXICO
Obscure fun fact: sometimes, the DEA experience involved sneaking barefoot out of a parking lot, at 1 a.m. Completely sober, too. Holding her shoes in one hand and her lit cigarette in the other, Magnussen sauntered towards her apartment building, accompanied by the sound of crickets. Against her better judgement, she stopped near a streetlamp to finish her cigarette. Bugs had flown around the top, drawn to its light. The current state of affairs did have a reasonable explanation. Barely two hours into her six-hour drive from Mexico City to Guadalajara, Magnussen’s feet had begun to hurt, so she had taken off her heels. In hindsight, it had been a shitty decision. The temperature had dropped significantly – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – and the rough surface of the sidewalk underneath her feet created a slight discomfort. Magnussen took a drag from her cigarette, relishing in the view. The night sky served as a canvas for the shy, gleaming stars. A couple of blocks away, a dog barked as a car quietly drove by.
Magnussen remembered a similar evening, sitting on the fence of the Consulate with Kiki and smoking, after he and his team had failed to lure Gallardo across the border into the U.S. and arrest him. Kiki had been so adamant about Gallardo knowing his name. He had felt exhausted, demoralized, defeated. That operation had been the closest they had ever gotten to capturing the Godfather, and he had slipped through their fingers… again. Kiki had longed to go home. It had seemed like he had finally been willing to abandon the hunt… and he should have. Back then, Gallardo had been wanted for being a notorious narco-trafficker. Now, he was also wanted for Kiki’s torture and murder. A sour reminder that a flame can transform into a wildfire.
Worse, the men tasked with bringing Gallardo to justice didn’t even give a shit about Camarena. Magnussen gritted her teeth in frustration. She had taken Leyenda’s pulse, and she had been left rather disappointed. How was she supposed to work with them? Petski was auditioning to be a mime, Mejía was an arrogant toe, Méndez and Álvarez were yes-minions, Orozco was Breslin’s mustached parrot, Garza’s favorite hobby was waterboarding – or spitting on puppies – Palacios hadn’t developed a personality yet, and Breslin was a narrow-minded redneck. He probably wouldn’t budge on the Azul situation. Typical Yankee; loved to hear himself speak, rejected anyone else’s input. Whatever. Magnussen was too woman for her opinion to matter. Morales had been the only one whom she had genuinely liked. At least he had had the decency to introduce himself and welcome her to the team… although, as far as Magnussen was concerned, he must have had ulterior motives, too. Severe lack of trust among coworkers. Off to a great start…
Give it time, she reasoned. Loosen some of that Eastern European pessimism. Magnussen dropped her cigarette on the ground, instinctively moving her foot to put it out before pausing in realization. Dodged a burn. She crouched and used the heel of one of the shoes that she was holding to extinguish the cigarette, mumbling “ridiculous” to herself, then headed into the complex. Magnussen peered to distinguish shapes in the dark in an attempt to not trip and fall flat on her mug as she tiptoed up the oddly dirty and sticky stairs. She cringed internally at the mere idea of navigating her apartment in this condition, already tired. Throw in hunger and an agonizing need to pee, and you could guess Magnussen’s general disposition.
Maybe contemplating building her own network within the operation would serve as a distraction and cheer her up a bit. She couldn’t depend on her colleagues forever. In fact, she didn’t fancy relying on them at all. Administrator Lawn had gotten one thing right. Magnussen was no team player. She refused to let Calderoni off the hook, too. She demanded answers, and she was certain that the Commander was in possession of one or two of them. Calderoni had potentially upgraded to triple agent, bumping elbows with the Mexican government, the U.S. government, and the Guadalajara cartel. When Magnussen had told Breslin that Leyenda required somebody on the inside, she had meant it. Commander Calderoni was the perfect candidate for the job. Her plans didn’t end there, either. She also wanted to set up surveillance on Tómas Morlet – a DFS agent who had actually been placed at the scene of Camarena’s abduction and the man responsible for Kiki’s neighbor’s execution – and the low-ranking assholes who just so happened to be on Leyenda’s hit list. Happy coincidence.
Magnussen curled her fingers around the handrail, for support, the sound of her rings clinking against the metal echoing. Apologies, neighbors. Unfortunately, they will have to adapt. You never knew what you were going to get, with Magnussen. Judging by the crusty sensation in the corners of her eyes, her makeup had betrayed her as well, becoming smudged. Magnussen was eager to eat, sleep… definitely drink… and wash her feet. She made it past the second floor. Almost there. So close, yet so far away. Magnussen even entertained the idea of crawling on all fours to avoid smearing the floor and carpets in her apartment. Who was she kidding? She would undoubtedly pass out immediately. Anything else belonged to the realm of speculation.
Fuck.
Magnussen froze in her spot, startled by a door swinging open, nearly clutching her shoes to her chest.
‘¡Oh, mierda!’, exclaimed the intruder, equally stunned, ‘Me espantaste.’ (Oh, shit! You scared me.)
You and me both, honey. The apartment’s light flooded the hallway, further confusing Magnussen’s fragile state of mind.
‘Pérdon,’ she mumbled, discreetly studying the woman in front of her. (Sorry.)
Big, dark eyes stared at Magnussen with concern. Her turquoise nails contrasted her smooth, brown skin, and her thick eyebrows were darker than her lengthy curls. She wore a beige cardigan over a white undershirt, her voluptuous chest distracting Magnussen only a little… as did her plump lips and curvy hips.
‘¿Estás bien?’, inquired the woman, visibly worried. (Are you okay?)
Poor soul. Magnussen couldn’t blame her. She was roaming the hallway, barefoot, at one in the morning. Don’t sweat it, she could’ve seen worse.
‘Totalmente,’ assured Magnussen, calmly, ‘Solo tratando de llegar a mi departamento.’ (Totally. Just trying to get to my apartment.)
‘¿Vives aquí?’, asked the woman, surprised, perking up, ‘No te he visto antes.’ (You live here? I haven’t seen you before.)
You shouldn’t exactly be seeing me now, either. That’s a story for… never. If you’re fortunate, you won’t run into me in the future.
‘Me mudé ayer,’ clarified Magnussen, hesitantly, regarding the current time, ‘O hace dos días. ¿Porqué estás sacando la basura a esta hora?’, she interrogated, referring to the trash bag that the woman was holding. (I moved in yesterday… or two days ago. Why are you taking out the trash at this hour?)
Forget about my suspicious behavior. What about yours? The woman’s demeanor did not suggest that she was deceiving Magnussen. Alas, her investigative skills after midnight should be deemed dubious, at best.
‘Estaba afuera con unos amigos,’ explained the neighbor, the memory fond, ‘Ah, tú eres la que pone Judas Priest a todo volúmen.’ (I was out with some friends. Ah, you’re the one who plays Judas Priest loudly.)
‘Sí,’ confirmed Magnussen, unsure how to feel about the label, ‘Esa soy yo.’ (Yeah. That’s me.)
Spotted on day one, and already effortlessly built a reputation for herself. How long would laying low have lasted, anyway? She couldn’t not talk with sentient beings.
‘Soy Guadalupe,’ introduced the woman, friendly, extending her free hand, ‘Llámame Lupita.’ (I’m Guadalupe. Call me Lupita.)
‘Bonito nombre,’ complimented Magnussen, shaking her hand, mindful of her shoulder holster peeking out from her jacket, ‘Santo. Soy Antonia. Llámame Toni.’ (Beautiful name. Holy. I’m Antonia. Call me Toni.)
Another lie that she would have to maintain. I gotta put them on paper, eventually.
‘Gusto en conocerte,’ commented Lupita, offering a small smile, ‘¿De dónde eres?’ (Nice to meet you. Where are you from?)
Shit.
‘Es un poco complicado,’ excused Magnussen, awkwardly, grimacing, ‘Vivo en Nueva Zelanda... pero nací en Rumanía.’ (That’s a bit complicated. I live in New Zealand… but I was born in Romania.)
‘No sé mucho de Rumanía,’ admitted Guadalupe, sounding disheartened, ‘Nunca he estado ahí.’ (I don’t know much about Romania. Never been.)
‘No te preocupes,’ enunciated Magnussen, waving dismissively, ‘No te pierdes mucho.’ (Don’t worry. You didn’t miss out on much.)
Unless you count communist repression, minimum respect for human rights, secrecy, propaganda, occasionally hideous infrastructure.
‘¿Cómo es que estás en Guadalajara?’, questioned Lupita, politely curious. (How come you’re all the way in Guadalajara?)
Attempting to bring justice to my deceased friend, who was tortured and murdered by a drug cartel, in collaboration with the Mexican government – allegedly. So, the usual.
‘Yo, uh, tengo un internado,’ disclosed Magnussen, mentally congratulating herself for her duplicitous reflexes, ‘En el consulado de Estados Unidos.’ (I, uh, have an internship… at the U.S. Consulate.)
It’s a classified internship. Please, don’t press the issue. It’s a difficult period for me.
‘Que elegante,’ noted Guadalupe, half impressed, tugging her sweater over her chest, to keep warm, ‘Yo estoy intentando tener un título de Artes. Trabajo en un salón de uñas.’ (Fancy. I’m trying to get an Arts degree. I work at a nail salon.)
Glancing down at her feet, Magnussen curled her toes, to prevent them from falling victim to frostbite. “Fancy” is not a word I would use to describe my “internship.” Arts are always approved of. Artists are the soul of society.
‘Buena suerte,’ she replied, unable to omit the most precious fact, ‘¿Salón de uñas, huh? Que suerte la mía.’ (Good luck. Nail salon, huh? Lucky me.)
‘Eres bienvenida cuando quieras,’ asserted Lupita, leaning against the doorframe, ‘¿Estás libre este fin de semana? Deberíamos salir.’ (You are welcome anytime. Are you free this weekend? We should hang out.)
Despite her initial cynicism, Magnussen gradually realized that she would need to interact with people outside of her Leyenda circle, otherwise she would lose it and commit atrocities.
‘Aún no lo sé,’ began Magnussen before interrupting herself to address the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that emerged from Guadalupe’s apartment, ‘Oh, hola.’ (I don’t know yet – Oh, hello.)
Lupita quickly moved her foot to block the dog’s path. Its round, black eyes watched Magnussen with a sweet, gentle expression, and its lengthy, fluffy ears framed its face. The dog sported a silky, classical Blenheim coat – rich chestnut markings on a clear, pearly white ground.
‘Esta es Taquito,’ revealed Guadalupe, evidently not having anticipated the dog’s presence, ‘Debería estar dormida.’ (This is Taquito. She should be asleep.)
Taquito – excellent name, by the way – can do whatever she wants.
‘Es un amor,’ countered Magnussen, affectionately, crouching to scratch the dog behind its ears, ‘Tráela contigo cuando salgamos.’ (She’s a darling. Bring her with you when we go out.)
‘Los perros no están permitidos en bares, Toni,’ reminded Lupita, playfully. (Dogs aren’t allowed in bars, Toni.)
‘Que se jodan,’ declared Magnussen, adamantly, petting Taquito’s head, ‘Iremos a un parque.’ (Fuck them. We’ll go to a park.)
Taquito showed her endorsement by wagging her tail, excitedly.
‘Le encantará eso,’ chuckled Guadalupe, weakly pushing the dog back into her apartment, ‘Di buenas noches, Taquito.’ (She’ll love that. Say good night, Taquito.)
‘Buenas noches,’ said Magnussen, standing up and waving to Taquito. (Good night.)
‘Realmente tengo que tirar la basura,’ recalled Guadalupe, cautiously shutting the door once the dog was inside, ‘Nos vemos luego.’ (I really have to throw away the trash. See you around.)
‘Cuídate,’ quipped Magnussen, amused, observing her depart down the stairs. (Take care.)
Alright. Scram, Scout. Forth, on to your lair.
Magnussen kicked off her slippers and leaned back against the couch – mindful of her filled wine glass – stretching her legs before resting her feet on the edge of the coffee table. Fleetwood Mac’s Spare Me a Little of Your Love started to play quietly on the stereo. She sipped her beverage, the spice inundating her taste buds, urging her nerves and muscles to finally relax, since the immediate burdens had been lifted off her chest; she had relieved her bladder, washed her feet, removed her makeup, changed into her pyjamas, and eaten… dinner? What meal do people have at two a.m.?
Her eyes lingered on the telephone laying on the table, conflicted. She should have dealt with this yesterday… or two days ago. She itched for another cigarette, but that would require getting up, walking into the bedroom, retrieving the pack, and cracking a window to get rid of the smell and smoke. Open windows at night were a no-go. Magnussen was on her own. She downed her wine – setting the glass aside – and grabbed the telephone. Magnussen checked her wrist watch as she dialed the number, estimating that it must have been eight in the morning in New Zealand. Here we go.
A few seconds passed, and the prolonged dial tone seemed to be in sync with her heartbeat. Magnussen absentmindedly pulled on the loose thread of one of her fuzzy socks, hoping that the noise would cease – though she was unsure about her preferred outcome. One where I don’t get shamed for suffering from chronic hesitancy.
When the dial tone abruptly stopped, the words died on her tongue, her throat dry. A funny feeling settled in her stomach. Anxiety butterflies.
Any trace of thoughts vacated Magnussen’s mind. She glanced around the living room, fixating on nothing in particular.
‘Uh, hey,’ she greeted, stiffly, scratching the nape of her neck, ‘It’s me.’
‘Well, well, well,’ articulated Maia, and Magnussen braced herself for the upcoming snark, ‘La Llorona didn’t find you yet. I hear you’re serenading me.’
Magnussen involuntarily looked at the stereo. The song neared its end.
Spare me a little,
Spare me a little,
Spare me a little of your love.
‘Compensating for my silence,’ she huffed, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards, ‘Sorry about that, by the way. What’re you up to?’
‘In the kitchen,’ informed a grumpy Maia, ‘Drinking coffee before work.’
‘First cup?’, inquired Magnussen, smugly proving that she knew Maia’s morning routine.
‘Second,’ corrected Maia, apparently fumbling with cutlery in the background.
‘Oh, so, I caught you at a good time,’ joked Magnussen, leaning over the couch arm to turn off the stereo.
‘That depends,’ teased Maia, flirtatiously, ‘What’ve you got for me?’
‘I just got back to Guadalajara,’ droned Magnussen, the reminder causing her to feel tired again.
‘Isn’t it late there?’, checked Maia, confused, the frown in her tone palpable.
‘Early, according to some,’ countered Magnussen, humorously, producing a small piece of paper from the pocket of her pyjama pants, ‘I had a meeting with the team.’
Morales’ note. She scanned the neatly written names and numbers, barely paying attention.
‘And how was it?’, interrogated Maia, evidently curious.
‘I’m not,’ began Magnussen, carefully, searching for the appropriate term, ‘Too impressed. They seem like a bunch of yes-men. In it for a medal and a few bucks. Only Morales talked to me afterwards. Genuine or not…’
‘There’s that pessimism, alive and well,’ observed Maia, fondly.
‘It’s not that,’ grumbled Magnussen, shoving the note in her pocket, ‘Breslin’s already stepping on my tail.’
Romanian saying. Maia would get it. She always does.
‘Who could’ve anticipated that?’, falsely lamented an amused Maia.
‘He has ego cramps because of the airport thing,’ dismissed Magnussen, sinking into the couch.
‘Do tell,’ encouraged Maia, interested.
An opportunity to complain? She would be a fool not to seize it. Maia proceeded to sip her coffee, loudly, forcing Magnussen to briefly remove the telephone from her ear, annoyed by the noise. Maia was doing it on purpose.
‘I randomly saw him struggling to light his cigarette,’ explained Magnussen, feigning innocence, ‘So, I offered him my lighter. Made small talk.’
‘You didn’t tell him who you were,’ concluded Maia, incredulously.
‘Of course, I didn’t,’ scoffed Magnussen, offended by the implication, ‘Said my name’s Sofia, faked an accent. He was probably suspicious, but I doubt he figured out what was really wrong. We met a second time in Heath’s office.’
‘Gross,’ deadpanned Maia.
Magnussen wholeheartedly agreed.
‘I didn’t know Breslin was gonna show,’ she clarified, placing the telephone between her ear and shoulder to reach for the DEA badge on the coffee table, ‘He didn’t know I was gonna show. It was funny. He was so pissed.’
‘Barbie’s boyfriend must have been confused as hell,’ posited Maia, chuckling, ‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing,’ shrugged Magnussen, bitterly, ‘It’s not in his job description. He still pretends to have a spine. He didn’t stay long. I can’t tell if he feels any guilt over what happened.’
She studied the pretentious-looking object, attentively, her nail lightly digging into the eagle – the U.S. – proudly sitting atop the badge’s sunburst-shaped body, grasping an olive branch and arrows – the federal government’s authority over peace and war. Atrocious.
‘It’s not in the job description,’ echoed Maia, somber, ‘He doesn’t have to.’
‘Hopefully, D.C. will be merciful, and I won’t have to deal with Bureaucrat Ken’s existence moving forward,’ claimed Magnussen, gloomy, tossing her badge on the table, ‘Anyway, I bumped into one of my neighbors. Lupita. She has a dog named Taquito.’
‘Congratulations on socializing,’ jested Maia, condescendingly, ‘A reason for you to go out more. Don’t forget to smuggle Taquito into New Zealand when you come back.’
‘If I come back,’ corrected Magnussen, reflexively, then subtly attempted to change the subject, ‘I thought we were getting a cat.’
‘Hey, don’t talk like that,’ scolded Maia, refusing to take the feline bait.
Magnussen provided no response, instead shifting into a more comfortable, apathy-compatible position, lying down on her side, balancing the telephone over her left ear.
‘How’re you holding up, so far?’, murmured Maia, concerned, as if she were reaching out to tenderly squeeze Magnussen’s shoulder.
A lump formed in her throat, preventing the truth from bursting past the surface. I wish things hadn’t been like this. I wish Kiki would still be alive. I wish I had been a child for a little longer. Lying to Maia would be pointless. Magnussen swallowed hard and counted the seconds, pondering when would be the right moment to say something. She sniffed, gradually sobering up.
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Magnussen, at last, voice wavering, ‘It’s strange, being here, not having him around… The city hasn’t changed much, but everything feels different. I’m starting to understand what Jaime meant.’
‘You need time,’ offered Maia, compassionately, ‘Going back was never going to be easy. You’re probably not going to like this, but I think you’re doing this for yourself as much as you’re doing it for Kiki… Take it easy.’
Historically unsustainable for me.
‘You might be creating problems where there aren’t any,’ continued Maia, surprisingly civil, ‘Heath, Breslin, Morales, whoever the fuck. You’ll be fine. You can handle them. They have no idea what’s coming.’
‘The cartel or the DEA?’, quipped Magnussen, managing a smile.
‘Both,’ replied Maia, decisively.
‘Okay, enough about my bullshit,’ interjected Magnussen, her allergy to compliments manifesting, ‘How’s everything on your side of the world?’
‘Long version?’, recited Maia, aggressively setting her mug in the sink, ‘Up to my neck in work. O’Connor is driving me up a fucking wall. I don’t know who hired him, and I don’t know why they won’t fire him… Short version? I can’t wait for the weekend.’
‘Amen, sister,’ yawned Magnussen, stretching her legs that didn’t remotely touch the opposing arm of the couch.
‘Alright, I have to go to work,’ announced Maia, adopting her Mom Tone, ‘And you need to sleep.’
‘Mmmyeah,’ mumbled Magnussen, drowsily, rubbing her eye, ‘I miss you.’
‘I bet you do,’ sassed Maia, readily.
‘Mahuika,’ warned Magnussen, vaguely threatening.
‘I miss you, too,’ reassured a sly Maia, ‘Call me at more decent hours.’
‘Attempts will be made,’ bargained Magnussen, doubtful, ‘Good… morning.’
‘Good night, honey,’ chirped Maia.
Magnussen lazily shifted on her back, allowing the telephone to fall next to her, on the couch cushion. She stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, contemplative, before she realized that the unwashed dishes awaited her, in the kitchen. From the bottom of her being, Magnussen released a deep, heavy sigh.
For @narcosfandomdiscord's "Porque No Los Dos?" Day: create a crossover with the original Narcos and Narcos: Mexico featuring at least one character from each
Warnings: 18+, language, blood/injury, no adherence to canon timelines whatsoever
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: This is a crackfic in the sense that I am just taking elements from both shows and using them how I see fit. They're toys in my sandbox now etcetc. S3 cast of OG Narcos in s2 of NMX? Why not!!!! Also let the record show that this entire fic happened because of one little exchange that happens at the end. So. You know. There's that. 😂
Narcos/NMX Taglist: @garbinge @winchestershiresauce @sizzlingcloudmentality @panagiasikelia @616wilsons @hauntedforsst @mirabee @buckybarneshairpullingkink @boomclapxox @nessamc @southotheborder @supersanelyromantic @padbrookcottage @mysun-n-stars @raincoffeeandfandoms @justreblogginfics @ashlingnarcos @narcolini @proceduralpassion @artemiseamoon @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)
He understood why so many people left after Escobar. A lot of people didn’t survive to even have the opportunity. Hell, after Carrillo, once all of it was said and done, Trujillo would’ve been lying if he said that it hadn’t been a fleeting thought through his mind a time or two as well. But underneath it he always knew that he wasn’t going to be walking away. Maybe he should have. Maybe he should’ve taken the win and gotten the hell out. However, he knew himself enough to know that if he did that, part of him would always be wondering what he was even doing any of it for, then. If he left after one big win, or whatever killing Escobar qualified as after all the destruction wrought to get there, what would that say about him? Stopping with no good, clear reason to?
Then he heard that Javi was getting roped back in and that changed the game as well. Carrillo had been his touchstone for so long and he was someone that Trujillo was never going to get back. He knew that. He knew that there was no one that could really fill those shoes. Javi, though, Javi felt like the last remaining piece of that chapter of their lives. Because Steve was gone too, off to somewhere quieter, less gunfire for his wife and daughter—that made sense at least. Javi coming back meant that he wouldn’t feel quite so alone if he stuck around. It never hurt to have someone close by who had a little bit of shared life experience, especially the bloody painful kind they all had in common.
Days ticked by. Javi did come back, but things were different now—he was different now. Trujillo could see it, feel it, but he never said anything about it. There was no point to it. It wasn’t as though Javi was going to spill his thoughts out because Trujillo asked him nicely. But even though things were different, there was still a strange brand of comfort to be had there. Despite the changes there was still an understanding between the two of them. The rules of engagement were different now that there were new players in the game, but each of them knew what the other had in their back pockets if push came to shove.
Which was why Trujillo couldn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t shocked at Javi’s pitch, the way that the request felt like it was coming seemingly out of left field. “México?” he finally managed to get out.
“It’s not an order,” Javi clarified, knowing that he still didn’t have that kind of pull with the CNP, “but I…” he trailed off for a moment as he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. “We’re going regardless,” he said with a nod towards the glass walls of his office, Feistl and Van Ness bickering on the other side, “and I could use, you know,” he sighed, “someone I can trust.”
The shock still wasn’t gone from Trujillo’s face, but now he was at least smiling as well. He nodded towards the two new agents outside the office. “You don’t trust them?”
Javi scoffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I trust them not to sell me out. I don’t trust them to be fuckin’ subtle.”
Trujillo chuckled, nodding in understanding. “Right.” Taking a deep breath, he really thought about the offer that Javi was extending to him. It hit him that regardless of how much he did or didn’t want to do what Javi was asking, it wasn’t really up to him to decide whether or not he could go. “Did you clear it with—”
“They’re good with it if you are,” Javi cut him off, knowing what the rest of the question was going to be.
“That easy?”
Javi’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “As easy as anything is with them.”
Trujillo smirked at that. He could only imagine what that conversation must have been like between Javi and Martinez. It was nothing short of a miracle that Javi got the okay to ask. Trujillo supposed that maybe he shouldn’t waste the opportunity. “I’ll go.”
Relief crashed over Javi in one big tidal wave. His shoulders relaxed as he let out a quiet sigh. “Good.” He nodded towards his office door. “Go home and pack. We’re outta here first thing tomorrow morning.”
Their travels were quiet, uneventful. For the first time in a long time everything was on-schedule and going according to plan. In the back of Javi and Trujillo’s minds, they were both making a point to enjoy it because if history told them anything, it was that once they touched down in Mexico, things weren’t going to be quite as smooth.
“Agent Breslin,” Javi said, holding out his hand as they walked up to the man who was there to greet them as they got off the plane.
The man returned the gesture, giving Javi’s hand a firm shake. “Agent Peña.”
Trujillo stood back half a step as he watched all of the agents introduce themselves to each other. Even though Agent Breslin was wearing dark tinted sunglasses, Trujillo could still tell where he was looking for the most part. It didn’t take long for the two of them to be looking directly at each other.
Javi stepped in to facilitate their introduction. “Walt, this is Officer Trujillo.”
Trujillo stepped in to shake Walt’s hand. Despite his eyes being covered, the slow rise and fall of his head as he looked him over gave away exactly what he was doing as they shook hands. “Officer,” Walt said, his tone somewhere between a statement and a question. Trujillo only raised his eyebrows, to which Walt responded, “Just a long way from home, that’s all.”
Trujillo broke the handshake, arm dropping back to his side as he gave Walt the same obvious once-over he’d just doled out. “From the looks of it, I’m not the only one.”
The comment got Walt to scoff out something akin to a chuckle. He nodded. “Fair.” Turning back to Javi, he gestured towards the var behind him. “Come on, I’ll get you guys all up to speed.”
Trujillo stayed quiet for most of the drive. He listened to everything that Javi and Walt were talking about. Javi had given him the barest bones of a debrief before the took off, but Trujillo knew enough to know that he was going to be doing a lot of learning on the fly. That’s how it always was with them.
He didn’t know what he had been expecting when Javi told him that Walt had put together his won crew. Trujillo knew what their crew looked like in Colombia—it was essentially whoever Carrillo had any kind of trust in. And Steve. But he had no idea what he was going to be in for when they walked into the safehouse.
Whatever Trujillo thought it was going to be, the group of men staring at them as they all walked in were not who he had been expecting. He knew better than to judge books by their covers, of course, but it was hard not to notice the fact that it seemed like Walt was aiming to be as eclectic as possible with the people he brought into this. Trujillo wondered where the four of them were going to fit into it all.
Walt addressed his group of men first, taking the liberty of introducing everyone in one fell swoop. “This is Agent Peña—the guy I was telling you all about.” He pointed to the other two DEA agents. “Those are agents Feistl and Van Ness.” He turned and looked at the last man left. “And this is Officer Trujillo.” Walt looked at the four of them before gesturing broadly to the entire assembly of men in front of him. “This is the Smash & Grab Crew.” He paused. “You guys are just in time. Got some shit going down tonight.”
“Walt,” Kenny spoke up, cautious and annoyed.
Walt waved him off. “They’re here. They’re not goin’ anywhere. Might as well help—we could use the extra hands.”
After a few seconds of tense silence, everyone caved, nodding in agreement. It was too late to try and take it all back to keep secrets now anyway. Once they had all come to that silent agreement, they showed Javi and his men where they could drop their bags. They were all looking around the space as they made their way through it, scoping it out the same way they did every new environment that they got tossed into.
A man materialized beside Trujillo, and he would later learn that his name was Ossie. He had a cigarette between his lips and an amused smirk on his face as he watched Trujillo watch and process everything happening around them. “Bienvenidos, hm?”
Trujillo chuckled, for some reason feeling a little more at home after the comment. “Algo como eso.”
It’d been a long time since Trujillo felt like he was getting left behind and missing out on the action of things. It was a feeling that he hadn’t missed in the slightest. It wasn’t as though he was the only one left behind at the safehouse while the rest of them went out to snatch Verdín, but he still didn’t care for it. Javi was the only one out of the four of them to go, and while he heard Feistl and Van Ness chalk it up to a seniority thing, Trujillo knew it was much more about trust than it was rank.
His annoyance about the delegation of tasks was put temporarily on-hold when everyone came bursting back into the safehouse. At face value, it seemed like a successful operation. They caught the guy, after all. However, even though that was the case, Trujillo could feel the angst and tension among the men as dragged Verdín in. He was curious as to what happened, but he also knew better than to try and ask. If he needed to know, he’d find out eventually one way or another.
The second that Trujillo heard Verdín say, “I know that you left witnesses alive,” he knew what the initial tension had been about when they got back. He couldn’t help the sigh that escaped him, the way that he dropped his head. That was a problem that would rear its ugly head again at some point. Might be hours, days, or weeks, but it would happen—it always did. He knew why people did. He wasn’t heartless, after all. But it also came down to weighing ethics against the endgame. Means versus ends. For a moment he felt like he was back home, but it was a brief moment.
The lengthy, and fruitless, interrogation made him miss Colombia. More specifically, it made him miss Carrillo. Not to say that Carrillo always made quick work of things. There were plenty of times where it was a slow burn. There were plenty of other times when even if the going wasn’t slow, it certainly wasn’t going right. But even then, at least there was something.
He could only sit there and watch Walt try to beat answers out of the guy for so long. He left Javi and the two agents to play spectator with some of Walt’s other men. Trujillo wasn’t even planning on leaving, not like he had any other place to go. He just needed to look at a different wall for a little while.
He was approaching the doorway of the safehouse when he heard a few of Walt’s crew outside talking. From what he caught, he wished that he could’ve heard the conversation from the start. He got there in time to hear Danilo firmly put Ossie in his place with, “You got into this for a paycheck? Man, don’t be fucking stupid. We’re all in this with our lives.”
No one saw him, and even if they did it wasn’t as though they would’ve really cared for his opinion, but Trujillo was still slowly nodding at the statement anyway. He leaned back against the wall behind him, the murmurs of conversation from outside in one ear, the grunts and dulled thuds of punches in the other. He turned Danilo’s statement over in his head again, hoping that maybe it would drown out some of his frustrations, restore some of the faith. Because even though some of Walt’s men looked like they came from the same farm for Americans that Steve Murphy did, Trujillo had to admit that they were dedicated to everything that they were doing. Kind of like Murphy, he thought silently to himself with a quick grin.
More hours ticked by. More punches thrown. If only any of it had resulted in more information from Verdín, but they were still stuck at square one the same way they had been when they brought him back. Trujillo listened to Walt and Javi going back and forth about it, trying to figure out what the best plan of action was now. Like it or not, they were all on a clock—Verdín was right about that and a lot of other things, unfortunately, so they needed to figure their shit out and quickly.
“We gotta go to Plan B,” Kenny said, sounding a little more desperate than he should’ve.
“I don’t have a Plan B,” Walt responded, as exhausted as Kenny was desperate. “All I got’s a fucking Plan A.”
Trujillo listened to them all descend into bickering about the details of it all. They weighed the pros and cons of staying, of moving him now. Ideas got batted back and forth like ping pong balls, just as many flaws as there were upsides, if not more of the former than the latter. Trujillo watched the divide start to form, two camps, essentially. Plan A and Plan B were both taking shape, and no matter what one they went with people were going to be pissed off. What they couldn’t afford, though, was waiting around and letting Plan C unfold, which was Verdín’s people finding them and putting an end to all of this in the worst way possible. It was the first time in a long time that Trujillo saw Javi airing on the side of caution. The agent he knew a small handful of years earlier wouldn’t have been playing it safe like that. Things change.
Apparently Walt hadn’t grown wary in the way that Javi had, not yet anyway. “Danilo, give me your blade.”
The words had hardly left Walt’s mouth and Danilo was happily obliging. It caused some protests from the group. Kenny tried to stop him with nothing to show for it. Javi spoke up too, but was silenced with a pithy comment about being a guest and not having a say in this one. Trujillo had the vague notion that he should be backing Javi, but he also couldn’t help but to think that maybe this would actually do it. So, instead, he followed Walt back into the next room. He didn’t participate in cutting Verdín’s finger off, wasn’t one of the men holding him down. But he did throw his arm out to stop Feistl who was going to try and put himself in the middle of it. He had to align himself with one half of the team eventually—he wanted to be on the half that got some fucking results.
The only problem was that Verdín held strong even through that. Eventually it was just the four of them in the room: Walt, Danilo, Verdín, and Trujillo. For a while it was silent except for the sound of Verdín’s labored breathing. When the sound shifted, and it seemed like he was going to speak up, the three of them tried not to seem too interested, didn’t want to seem too hopeful.
What came out of Verdín’s mouth next, though, wasn’t what any of them wanted to hear. Trujillo still listened, though, unable to stop himself from comparing what Verdín was saying to what all the criminals back home in Colombia had said to him over the years. There were some similarities, but there were a lot of differences, too. He watched the expression on Walt’s face, the way that it hardly shifted no matter what the man tied to the chair said. He watched Danilo’s face, too. Out of all the people Trujillo thought this man would get a reaction out of, Danilo hadn’t quite been at the top of his list, but he was feeding right into it. Maybe it was a tactic, maybe not. Trujillo didn’t know the man well enough to make that call. Walt wasn’t stepping in though, wasn’t trying to cut the conversation short, so Trujillo opted to just follow suit.
When Danilo stepped out of the room, he figured that was the end of it. Verdín must’ve thought the same because he instantly started to say how Danilo was weak. He only got a few words into his next monologue, though, before Danilo strode back into the room, lifted his gun, and fired one shot right into the man’s stomach.
Walt flinched, but his face almost immediately shifted to acceptance after the fact. Trujillo stood back, not moving one way or the other as everyone else came filing into the room. Danilo was already stepping back, hands up in surrender. Amat took the gun from him without a fight. Trujillo studied everyone’s faces, trying to gauge what was going to happen next based off that alone. One thing he did know, though, was that driving him up to the border was officially out of the question.
Trujillo watched as Walt and Danilo sat by each other, both of them calm despite the slight panic and anger coursing through the rest of their team, which now included Javi and his two agents. Neither Walt nor Danilo seemed fazed by that though. Walt, with a tone as even as anything Trujillo had ever heard, outlined when and how Verdín could choose to die, Danilo sitting by him nodding in agreement.
There was a brief moment when Trujillo thought that Verdín was going to die doing what he thought was protecting his country. It wouldn’t be the first time he saw something like that happen, men dying for nothing claiming that it was for everything. But then he caved. With a gasp and a sputter, he finally gave out a name. It wasn’t a name that Trujillo was familiar with, but other men in the room were which was all that mattered. Trujillo looked on as Walt, with hollow but almost convincingly genuine empathy, said that they were going to get Verdín some help.
He also watched on as Walt strode into the next room and made no move to do any such thing.
It was the one argument of the day that Walt had ended up losing. A few of the guys ended up loading Verdín into the car, piling in after him, and taking off towards the nearest hospital. Trujillo didn’t volunteer to be one of those people, leaving that task for one of the other agents who had more sincerity left in them than he did.
When they were gone, Trujillo made his way out into the alley between their safehouse and the next building over. It was dark, but the streetlamps threw just enough light for him to see and make his way over to where Danilo was standing. He had a fresh cigarette in his hand, the look on his face didn’t hold a single shred of remorse.
Danilo watched as Trujillo approached him, not looking to move or get out of whatever conversation that the officer was looking to have. Whatever he had to say, Danilo was sure it wouldn’t be worse than anything else he’d heard before, anything else he’d hear when the rest of his crew got back.
Trujillo kept his mouth shut. He leaned back against the wall beside Danilo, looking at him for a few more seconds before looking down at the ground beneath their feet. Danilo let out a stream of smoke with his next deep exhale. He gave him another beat or two to speak up, but when he remained silent, Danilo broke the ice for him.
“Did you come out here to scold me like your other men?” Danilo finally asked.
Trujillo chuckled and shook his head. “No.”
Danilo waited another moment for Trujillo to explain himself. The man wasn’t making any move to ask for a cigarette or light one of his own, so he didn’t join Danilo looking for a smoke break. “What, then?”
Trujillo stared hard at the ground beneath his boots for a moment before finally turning and looking Danilo in the eyes. “You remind me of someone I used to know. That’s all.”
Danilo let out a laugh. “That explains it, then.” He saw the expectant look on Trujillo’s face and did him the favor of not making him ask to elaborate. “You were calm compared to your friends in there,” he said with a nod of his head towards the safehouse. “That because of the same someone?”
Trujillo nodded, unsure of what else to say. He wasn’t certain he could get the words out even if he did know what to say anyway.
For @narcosfandomdiscord's Day of Rare Treasures: create a fanwork about a character that only shows up in one (1) season of the show
Warnings: 18+, language
Word Count: 1.7k
A/N: The way I already want to write a novel about these two 😂 I have a problem. ANYWAYYYYYY enjoy this little something-something about a lady we deserved for FAR MORE than one episode.
NMX Taglist: @garbinge @ashlingnarcos @hausofmamadas @narcolini @artemiseamoon @cositapreciosa @proceduralpassion (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)
(rest assured i will come back and add the cece gifs when tumblr starts showing them in the gif search sksksk)
She hadn’t been what anyone was expecting when Danilo said he had a cousin who was willing to help them out. The crew was expecting someone who was more like Danilo himself—quiet, rough around the edges, quick to pull the trigger. But all it took was one look at the loose curls falling around Cecelia’s shoulders and the warm smile on her face to realize that while they might’ve been from the same family tree, they didn’t share all the same personality traits.
Most of the crew didn’t meet her until it was all said and done. Danilo, however, insisted that she at least meet Walt before fully committing to helping them out. It was easy for Danilo to sign himself onto things that might end poorly on Walt’s behalf, but Cece had always had a good head on her shoulders, always had her act together—he wasn’t going to drag her into anything without giving her the option of saying no. So he brought her to meet Walt, and of course wherever Walt went so did Sal. Both of them were on their best behavior when they gave her the pitch, knowing that it could be the make or break thing in getting the ball rolling for their entire plan to work.
The relief he felt when she agreed to help them was enough to get his shoulders to relax, head tilting down for a moment as he smiled and nodded. He knew that at least one thing with this plan was going to go right, especially if Cece had anything to say about it.
Once she agreed, Walt dove right into explaining the entire plan. Cecelia was looking at all their faces as Walt spoke. She kept a close eye on Danilo’s expression—Walt and Sal were too new for her to be confident about reading them, but if Danilo faltered she would be able to tell. They were all aware of the fact that everything had to work out pretty much perfectly, which was hard to come by in their line of work. Cecelia was wizened enough to know that, but she could also tell that even with the potentially longshot stakes they were dealing with, they all seemed confident and committed. That was the best that any of them could hope for at that point.
“I don’t want her alone, though,” Danilo said when the conversation was starting to wind down.
A tiny, knowing smile tugged at the ends of Cecelia’s lips as she cast him a look. “Dani.”
“Cece,” he matched her tone. “Estoy serio.”
She chuckled, nodding. “Sí, sí, puedo ver eso.”
Neither Walt nor Sal spoke up, letting the two of them go back and forth about it. Knowing Danilo, it wasn’t as though their opinions were going to matter all that much anyway. Despite the undertone of severity and warning in Danilo’s tone as he spoke to her, Cecelia’s voice stayed light, easy-going. They had to wonder if she just did that to get under Danilo’s skin, nettle him the way that cousins and siblings always do to each other, or if she just had always been like that despite him.
Finally, she turned to the two of them. “Do you think it’s necessary?”
Sal’s eyebrows rose slightly, immediately turning and looking at Walt. If he could keep himself out of the middle of whatever that mess could turn into, he was going to. Meanwhile, as much as Walt understood Cecelia’s point, he also knew that things for them always seemed to go wrong one way or another. He didn’t want another innocent person getting caught in the middle of it if he could help it.
“Can’t hurt,” he offered up with a shrug.
She chuckled, holding her hands up for a brief moment in surrender. “Okay.”
That was how it ended up being her and Sal sitting in the office together waiting for the phone to ring. She was more of a conversationalist than Danilo was, although admittedly that bar was pretty low. But what could have easily been an awkward afternoon of two people, essentially strangers, being stuck in a tiny room together was anything but that.
“He trusts you,” she said as she rooted around her desk drawers, looking for something Sal couldn’t even try to venture a guess at.
He hadn’t been expecting the statement, not quite processing it. “Hm?”
“My cousin,” she said as she pulled two small bottles of nail polish out of one of the drawers. “He trusts you.”
Sal chuckled and shrugged. “Doesn’t have much of a choice at this point, does he?”
She hummed knowingly, the sound almost coming out like a laugh. “Maybe. But you’re here with me.” She her eyes flicked over to him. “He trusts you.”
Sal smiled and gave a slow nod. “Good to know.”
She shook the bottle of red polish as she spoke. “He told me that if Walt couldn’t be the one here, you were second best.”
He couldn’t help but to laugh at that. “Sounds about right.”
“You two are close?”
“I don’t think anyone but you is close with Danilo.”
She smiled and shook her head as she started to put the red onto her nails. “No. You and Walt.”
His expression shifted, that same look he had a couple days before when Cecelia asked Walt to give a second opinion on what Danilo had said—surprised, a little amused. “Yeah,” he replied with a nod. “Been working together a long time.”
Even though she was looking at her hands, there was still a warm smile on her face at Sal’s answer to her question. “That’s good.”
Their conversation hit a comfortable lull shortly after that. Sal watched her, admittedly a bit bewildered. Perhaps he should’ve known better than to have his assumptions, but he certainly hadn’t expected her to be so at-ease given the situation. The waiting game got to the best of people, even people who spent their entire lives doing the things that Sal and the crew did. But there she was, waiting to help topple an entire drug trafficking organization, painting her goddamn nails. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she started humming a tune or whistling just to cut through the quiet. He couldn’t deny that he found it admirable, the comfort in the face of all of this—must’ve been a Garza thing.
“Can I ask you something?” he posed the question as he watched her blow on her nails.
Carefully placing her hands flat against the top of her desk, she nodded. “Of course.”
Leaning forward, he propped his elbows against his knees. “Is your whole family this relaxed about things like this?”
She hummed in amusement. “Things like this?”
Sal laughed, her unbothered nature manifesting itself differently than Danilo’s, but either way it kept both of them calm. “You remember what we’re doing here, right?”
She nodded as she grabbed the bottle of clear-coat nail polish. “Sí.” She tapped the bottle against her palm. “There’s a reason he asked me to help you instead of anyone else in our family.”
He couldn’t hide the impressed look on his face, a look that Cece was kind enough not to comment on. “Alright.”
As their conversation once more faded into an easy silence, they went back to the waiting game. Sal watched, paying more attention than he realized, as she deftly applied the top coat to her nails. Unbeknownst to them in a completely different building, Rubén Zuno Arce was attempting to call and get through to Miguel Ángel for the umpteenth time.
The phone rang once. Sal’s head snapped to look, expecting Cecelia to reach out and immediately grab the phone. Instead, though, he watched as she calmly dragged the nail polish brush over her nail once, twice more. Another ring. She put the brush back into the bottle. With no shift in her expression at all, she reached and carefully pulled the phone off the receiver and held it up to her ear.
“Hotel Américas, cómo puedo ayudar?”
Sal knew that he should’ve done a better job at keeping a neutral expression, but he couldn’t help it. Like an actor reading off a script in front of her, Cecelia calmly went back and forth with the man on the other end of the line. Except she wasn’t an actor, and there was no script, not really. They’d talked about the general things that she should say to sell it, the big line that she had to be sure to feed him before it was over, but the details were all left up to her.
Sal was trying not to laugh at the easy, extremely convincing tone of her voice as she said, “Ah, Rubén! Hemos estado tratando de localizarlo.”
The moment Sal heard her say that Félix had given her a message to pass on, he found himself moving so that he was sitting on the very edge of his chair. He was still in awe of the way that she didn’t fumble a single word, not even so much as a waver in her voice as she spoke.
“…y los gringos, saben dónde estás.” There it was, the hammer drop, and she did it with the ease of telling someone that their appointment had been rescheduled to a different date. There was a pause, and despite the look of anticipation on Sal’s face, Cecelia simply found herself smiling over at him as she drove the entire conversation home with a simple, “Hola? Bueno?”
Sal knew when Zuno hung up the phone because the smile on Cecelia’s face grew a little wider. Without another word, she simply set the phone back down on the receiver and looked over at Sal. The look on her face didn’t give anything away when she always seemed to have that little bit of a smile playing at her lips. As much as Sal wanted to ask, for whatever reason he just couldn’t get the words out.
She plucked the brush back out of the clear nail polish, intent to finish the few nails she still had left when the phone rang. “So,” she said, no longer looking at Sal, “now we wait, sí?”
He laughed, collapsing back in his chair. “Yeah. Now we wait.”
There was a smirk on her face as she said, “You sound relieved.” Her gaze flickered over to him. “Did you have doubts?”
Sal was still chuckling, mostly to himself at that point, as he shook his head. “Not about you.”
Warnings: politics, mentions of drugs and drug trafficking, mentions of death, mentions of communism, mentions of alcohol, mention of claustrophobia, mention of food, guns, sexism, Magnussen fights a fly, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!
Notes: Firstly, Happy New Year! May 2022 be easier on all of us! Secondly, I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. Life and writer’s block got in the way. But, as always, thank you for your patience! If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.
Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my darling @cleastrnge (to whom this chapter is dedicated in honor of her birthday) for the Mexican Spanish translations 💜
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MARCH 5, 1986
CIUDAD DE MÉXICO, MEXICO
Edward Heath’s clean-shaven face, ironed grey suit, and impeccable posture made him the embodiment of a true bureaucrat. His large, chimpanzee ears prevented Magnussen from taking him seriously, and his bushy eyebrows resembled those hairy caterpillars that she had seen on TV, in nature documentaries. By comparison, Magnussen looked like a hippie student protesting the Vietnam war, in her T-shirt with a cow wearing sunglasses. Not that she cared about any opinion that Heath might have. Her black leather jacket concealed her arm tattoos, watch, and the shoulder holster that carried her Beretta 92. At least Heath had been productive in that regard, handing her the DEA badge, phone, gun, and car keys, shortly after she had arrived. He had even joked that he would offer her a drink if it weren’t so early.
‘That never stopped me,’ Magnussen had commented dryly, no longer interested in the conversation, now that she knew that alcohol wouldn’t be involved.
But Heath couldn’t just leave things there and spare her of a further tête-à-tête. He started rambling about Leyenda, claiming that she would be an appropriate choice for the team. Fucking hell. Admittedly, Magnussen needed a drink. Although her bed had been more than cozy, it hadn’t felt entirely welcoming, and she hadn’t slept well. New place curse. She had woken up at 8 a.m. to catch her flight to Mexico City, dragged her ass out of bed, eaten in a hurry – unable to savor her breakfast – yawned approximately 20 times on the plane, waited in line at the U.S. embassy – where she hadn’t been allowed to smoke – lied about having to renew her tourist visa, and had been escorted by an employee down a set of stairs to the “passport office” – code for Heath’s lair.
The half-closed blinds forced her to squint her eyes in order to study her surroundings as she walked into the claustrophobia-inducing room, her heels clicking against the floor. The smell of cologne was intoxicating, much stronger than the one of coffee. Documents, pens, and staplers decorated the desk in the middle, and a couple of chairs rested on either side of it. To her left, a printer and a computer shared an old table that would probably break if somebody deposited a mug on it. When Heath had invited her to take a seat, Magnussen had declined, opting instead to examine some shelves, on the wall. She gently ran her fingertips over the files marked “August 1975”, “September 1975”, “October 1975”, dust collecting on them. Wonder how many war crimes are in here… They wouldn’t fit in this damn building.
‘That why you recommended me?’, questioned Magnussen, indifferent, tilting her head to peer at Heath, who was peeking out of the window, seemingly avoiding her glare.
Sensing another bullshit speech coming her way, Magnussen took precautions and distracted herself with admiring the agent’s features. She despised almost everything about Heath, yet she had to concede that his prominent jaw must have been sculpted by Greek gods. His piercing, icy blue eyes could put Lake Baikal to shame on a bad day. Magnussen was uncertain whether to call those redeeming qualities. This man has none.
‘You lived in Mexico for two years,’ reminded the agent, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his wedding band glimmering in the light, ‘You know the territory. You worked alongside the team in Guadalajara, so you’re already familiar with the cartel. You’re multilingual.’
Funny. Three years ago, these were the exact reasons why everybody disregarded whatever she had to say. Americans’ beliefs change like piss in the wind. The U.S. was an exhausting toddler – enjoying its toy one minute and discarding it the next. And if shit doesn’t go the way you want it to, throw a nuclear fit… Literally.
‘I also play the piano,’ bragged Magnussen, a hint of irony in her tone, ‘And I’m twenty-four. Old enough to be the granddaughter of most of your agents.’
She was actually fascinated by Heath’s self-control abilities. No matter the number of times she poked him with a stick, he maintained his composure and did his best to act diplomatic. Magnussen repeatedly dangled the bait in front of him and he refused to engage. Hot.
‘We think you could provide a fresh perspective,’ explained Heath, turning to her slightly, shadows dancing across his figure, ‘Modern methods. You received the necessary training–’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Magnussen, irritated, counting on her fingers while she listed, mockingly, ‘Written assessment, panel interview, drug test, medical exam, physical task assessment, polygraph test, psychological screening, full background check–’
‘I’m aware of the DEA’s requirements, Agent Magnussen,’ assured Heath, sounding fatigued, lifting a hand to signal her to stop, ‘I was subjected to them myself. Everything was considered once your candidacy was submitted.’
‘And who submitted my candidacy?’, demanded Magnussen, arching a skeptical eyebrow, moving to casually sit down at the desk.
Sure as hell wasn’t me. Bowen had successfully dodged that question for months, as if her career had depended on it. Maybe it had. Magnussen had a creeping suspicion that it had become classified information. Nevertheless, she had the right to know. Someone had gone through the trouble of bypassing the majority of the DEA’s bureaucratic procedures to get the poor communist girl a job. Heartwarming, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. Magnussen could at least order a bouquet of flowers for the person. She would scribble “(no) thanks” on the note.
Her expression fell, the unexpected answer temporarily disarming her. She averted her gaze, rather ashamed, giving in to the instinctive urge to rub her jacket’s sleeve, inside which the Camarenas’ bracelet safely hid.
‘He always spoke highly of you,’ added the agent, approaching Magnussen, hesitantly, ‘Said you were a good kid. Ambitious. Smart. Thought you had a bright future ahead, so he insisted that we had to persuade you to work for the Administration.’ Heath gestured around, rectifying, ‘I doubt this is what he meant… Camarena saw something in you. You’re telling me he was wrong?’
I wasn’t a good kid. And now, I’m not a good adult. Magnussen’s nails persistently scratched at the table’s edge, unaffected. Wood shreds floated in the air before landing on her thighs. She found the DEA’s sudden interest in hers and Kiki’s relationship disturbing; their bond had never been complicated.
That night, Magnussen had stayed at the Consulate to finish her research. She had decided to read on the floor, since she had the whole room to herself, her peers having deserted hours ago. The place was unusually quiet, leaving Magnussen to conclude that it was past 6 p.m. Late, according to some.
‘You’re still here?’, asked a voice she recognized as Camarena’s.
‘Clearly,’ acknowledged Magnussen, slyly, ‘I’d say I’m almost done, but I’d be lying.’
‘It’s Friday,’ emphasized the agent, bewildered.
‘Exactly,’ she agreed, setting aside a report to look at Camarena, ‘No one to bother me.’
Camarena was in the doorway, coat on, holding a suitcase; undoubtedly itching to go home. He nodded in understanding, a small smile forming on his face. Magnussen hadn’t seen him smile at all. They had barely interacted, yet he appeared to be the antithesis of Kuykendall.
‘Magnussen, no?’, checked the agent, pointing a finger at her, ‘Well, I’m pretty sure your buddies went to the Babel.’
‘You’re telling me to fuck off?’, quipped Magnussen, amused, then corrected, ‘They’re not my buddies.’
‘You do got a roommate, though, right?’, inquired Camarena, tone implying that a “no” would not be accounted for.
‘I guess,’ grumbled Magnussen, beginning to gather her papers.
The base of her spine complained when she tried to reach for the folder, farther away. Shit. Did I age 50 years? Shockingly, chairs had been invented to serve a virtuous purpose.
‘So, you’re on your own tonight?’, speculated the agent, supposedly solving a complex geometry problem in Sumerian.
‘I’m on my own most nights,’ stated Magnussen, nonchalant, ‘I don’t mind it.’
Judging by the prolonged deadly silence that settled while she packed her possessions, Magnussen assumed that Camarena had fucked off. She imagined that the rest of her evening would proceed as it normally did: take the bus, eat supper, shower, call Maia–
‘You could come over for dinner,’ blurted Camarena, surprising them with his suggestion, and startling Magnussen.
‘You sure?’, she muttered, furrowing her brows, scolding herself for genuinely contemplating his proposal.
‘Yeah,’ confirmed the agent, jingling his keys, ‘My wife thinks we don’t socialize enough.’
‘Been told the same bullshit,’ confessed Magnussen, annoyed.
They both chuckled.
Camarena had nicknamed her “Scrooge”, a feat that seldom failed to stir laughter among his sons – Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Mika would often remark that Kiki and Magnussen were “two grumpy peas in a pod.” Magnussen had spent increasingly more time with the family; she assisted Kiki in the hunt for the Guadalajara cartel and Camarena’s insight proved to be useful for her dissertation.
Following Kiki’s demise, the DEA – who had loathed their attachment – did a 180° turn and milked their friendship beyond decency. Magnussen wouldn’t be fooled, despite their shallow attempts to rewrite history and convince her that they had always been on her side. She hadn’t forgotten her curriculum vitae, in the words of the great narc-clowns themselves; Ambassador Gavin had labeled her a child, Administrator Lawn had deemed her “hotheaded” and “not a team player,” and Heath had privately referred to her as a “hormonal teenager” to Jaime.
The busy chatter of people filled the hallway, outside, tearing Magnussen from her spiraling thoughts. Digging up these grudges would achieve nothing. The mission wasn’t about her, nor was it about those who had mistreated her. She had learned long ago to save little hope for herself. Fall in line and you’ll survive.
Magnussen stood up and patted her striped palazzo pants until they were clean of the timber fragments.
‘Why was Kuykendall taken off the case?’, she challenged, masking her festering anger, ‘Seasoned agent. Knew Kiki better than I did.’
Opposite from her, Heath leaned forward, planting his palms on the desk, as if he were in an intense board meeting. I wonder what new flavors Coca Cola will release.
‘Jaime had seen too much and done enough,’ he recited, defensive, out of the blue. He paused and glowered at Magnussen while she propped her ass on the table, her upper body invading his personal space. ‘He was transferred after Camarena was recovered. Mexican authorities launched a homicide investigation. We had no jurisdiction. Our hands were tied… Jaime’s a fine agent and stepping back was what was best for him.’
Heath retreated, fixing his suit jacket as an excuse. Poor dude’s intimidated. Magnussen made herself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other to keep her balance, and absentmindedly rolled a pencil across the desk’s surface.
‘And Calderoni?’, she pressed, twisting the blade deeper into Heath’s exasperation, relishing in pushing his buttons, ‘He was part of the investigation. Did anyone consider contacting the commander who neglected to arrest Félix Gallardo?’
‘We believe the cartel got to him,’ disclosed Heath, progressively sour, ‘Approaching him would be dangerous and might compromise our operation… I expected you to understand the gravity and sensitivity of the issue.’
Bite me, motherfucker. You probably use a different shampoo for your pubic hair.
‘Wasn’t that your job?’, retorted Magnussen, defiance etched into her features.
Heath visibly deflated, letting out a brief sigh, and stroked his forehead. He had been through this before. He was perfectly aware of what she was hinting at; his delayed response to Camarena’s disappearance, which had attracted consequences of its own.
‘We made mistakes,’ admitted Heath, almost regretfully, ‘Underestimated the potential repercussions coming from the drug traffickers… But we’re trying to mend some of these wrongs. That’s why Leyenda was created… My brother was killed in 1973, working undercover. I know what it’s like to want justice. To be incapable of getting it. To feel powerless.’
A couple of knocks on the door halted their discussion, simultaneously causing Magnussen to gladly pull the plug on whatever answer she had devised. In a perverted way, she was relieved. Comforting folks wasn’t her forte. In fact, she sucked at it, and offering consolation was the last thing that she would do to Heath.
‘Come in,’ encouraged the agent, amiably, without bothering to check who the intruder was, drawing Magnussen’s wandering attention.
The door opened and Walt Breslin walked in, evidently not anticipating Heath to have company. He greeted “ma’am”, courteously, nodding once, initially clueless… then he froze, gaze lingering on her impassive face, his suspicion gradually followed by sheer confusion. His expression was priceless; worth framing. The man was so stunned that he didn’t even acknowledge Heath’s presence. Magnussen bestowed upon him a wicked, nearly imperceptible smirk. Yeah, it’s me. PhD in Diplomacy.
‘Walt,’ droned Heath, clearing his throat, gesturing him invitingly to enter the office.
It took Breslin several seconds to snap out of it and reluctantly shut the door behind him. This should be interesting. Magnussen figured that he wouldn’t be particularly delighted with the new kid at the Leyenda playground.
‘This is Agent Magnussen,’ continued Heath, oblivious to – or actively ignoring – the scornful glares being exchanged, ‘Agent Moss’ replacement.’
Heath must’ve expected them to shake hands and be cordial, yet neither moved a muscle, nor showed any intention in that regard. Breslin seemed to be fuming in the subtlest way that Magnussen had ever witnessed somebody fume. He stood a few meters away from Heath, opposite from where she sat on the desk, quietly chewing gum, his thumbs tucked in his brown belt. Cornered by wolves and weighing his options.
‘We’ve met before,’ revealed Breslin, detached – though his gruffy voice gave the impression that he was containing his acidity – addressing Heath, his eyes glued to Magnussen, ‘Yesterday, at Guadalajara Airport.’
Heath’s quizzical look didn’t solidify into further questions on the subject. Meanwhile, Magnussen tried to pick apart Breslin’s cryptic demeanor; she envisioned that he assumed that he was stuck in some elaborate trap designed and set up by her in order to trick him and make him appear like a fool, which was far from the truth. Besides, the guy ought to have a shred of sense of humor, right? Magnussen herself hadn’t predicted Breslin’s arrival, since Heath had failed to notify her. So, Heath summoned both of us here and coincidentally omitted to tell us about each other? Two birds, one stone.
‘Well,’ began Heath, licking his lips, ‘Magnussen’s one of the most gifted women we’ve encountered in our international students’ program… She worked with Camarena and helped obtain valuable intel on the Guadalajara cartel. Magnussen knows the criminal mind like the back of her hand.’
Magnussen whipped her head around, her heart drumming in her chest, when the door violently flung open, interrupting Heath’s speech. Jesus fucking Christ. At least Breslin had knocked.
‘Sorry,’ babbled a tall man in glasses, his fingers squeezing the doorknob, ‘Toft’s on the phone for you, sir.’
Heath’s face mimicked something akin to satisfaction after receiving the news. Magnussen couldn’t determine whether to rejoice over the fact that the agent was put out of his misery. It was getting good. I enjoyed the line about the criminal mind.
‘Thank you, James,’ replied Heath, dexterously buttoning his suit, ‘Apologies. You’ll have to excuse me. I believe you two have a lot to catch up on. Walt, could you brief Magnussen on Belize and the latest lead?’
Belize, huh? That part was excluded from her reports. Heath accompanied James out of the room, leaving Breslin and Magnussen to metaphorically circle one another like birds of prey. If he offered his condolences or dared pity her, she would scream. Breslin tilted his head to the side slightly, his curls falling over the wrinkles on his forehead. The agent’s hawkish stare locked on her in an ineffective attempt to intimidate her. For a long time, they sized each other up, silently. The collar of a T-shirt peeked from underneath the blue checkered flannel that hugged his slim form, similar to the grey one that he had sported the previous day. Magnussen wondered why the hell Breslin wore an additional layer in Mexico’s heat. Self-consciousness? His rolled-up sleeves exposed a silver watch on his left wrist. Magnussen couldn’t help her puzzled frown upon spotting a crumpled rag shoved in the pocket of his dark jeans. The fuck?
‘So, you’re the rookie,’ accused Breslin, at last, bitterly, crossing his hairy arms over his chest, his lower back resting against the computer’s table, ‘You’re younger than I thought.’
Magnussen scoffed shamelessly loudly, already hearing the complaints about her behavior being “grossly unprofessional.” Still, she considered it basic human decency to inform someone whenever they uttered stupid shit. Teach them early or they’ll end up president.
‘Bet you were expecting a toothless fossil,’ she theorized, wryly.
‘Harvard educated, too,’ joked Breslin, the corners of his mouth inching upwards. The fleeting moment passed, and he suffocated Amusement in its cradle, growing condescending, ‘DEA ain’t in the habit of doing favors for people like you.’
What kind would those be? Left-wingers?... And how is recruiting me for the War on Drugs beneficial?... Mental gymnastics.
‘Oh, they’re not doing me any favors,’ corrected Magnussen, brazenly, ‘I think they’re doing Leyenda a favor.’
Her response had clearly struck a nerve, if Breslin’s clenched jaw were any indication. She shifted, adjusting her position on the desk, unfazed. Bring it, cowboy. Magnussen’s reasoning – her being the training wheels on the DEA’s slow, classified bicycle – actually had more plausibility.
‘You’re getting off on the wrong foot with your boss, sweetheart,’ warned Breslin, maintaining his calm, despite the venom dripping from his tone and his darkening glare.
‘Should I try the other foot, then?’, suggested Magnussen, innocently, ‘And you’re not my boss.’ She pushed a pencil, watching it spin on the table’s surface as she calculated her next step. ‘For the record, I didn’t seek you out or anything like that. I recognized you from your photo in the Leyenda documents. Figured I’d say hello.’
‘You lied your ass off,’ contradicted Breslin, immediately, borderline offended, ‘I mean, even your accent’s gone.’
Getting nostalgic, buddy? Magnussen was pleasantly surprised; she hadn’t pegged him as the type to be into accents, let alone treat them with respect. Hell, the guy was from Houston. Fucking Texas.
‘I could keep it for you,’ she teased, flirtatiously, twisting the ring on her middle finger, ‘And I didn’t lie about everything. Out of the Blue is my favorite Electric Light Orchestra album. Sofia’s my middle name. I’m not Italian, but I know the language. I did my Criminology master’s in Mexico–’
‘I’m aware,’ grumbled Breslin, rudely interrupting her enumeration, earning an irked sigh from her, ‘I’ve read your file.’
They mention my music taste in there? Dope. No pun intended. If he were impressed, Breslin didn’t convey it. Tough crowd. Magnussen herself wasn’t faring much better; her bona fide reactions were a breed on the brink of extinction. The DEA doesn’t want authenticity from me… or anyone else.
‘Oh, I love it when a man takes an interest,’ she jested, sardonic, lifting her chin.
‘Cops ain’t allowed to show their tattoos,’ lectured Breslin, implicit expression insinuating that Magnussen had to be in possession of all of the facts, which she absolutely wasn’t.
After she arduously wracked her brain for a clue as to what the hell he was referring to – briefly panicking that he had seen something that he wasn’t meant to – Magnussen deduced that Breslin must have been alluding to yesterday’s interaction. Oh, please.
‘I’m not a cop,’ she pointed out, smiling falsely, ‘And I didn’t show you anything. It’s not my fault that you were looking where you weren’t supposed to.’
The audacity. Magnussen tapped her heel against the floor, petulantly, chewing the inside of her bottom lip – mindful of her lipstick. She paused, suddenly recalling Heath’s instructions, astonished that she had paid attention to his words.
‘What’s in Belize?’, she interrogated, narrowing her eyes suspiciously to regard Breslin, who cocked an equally doubtful eyebrow at her.
For fuck’s sake. He hesitated, understandably distrustful of her. Magnussen didn’t trust him, either. They were mere strangers, forced to collaborate. Sure, she could be demanding sometimes, but if the two of them were to work together, they would have to at least share intel. So, by withholding information, Breslin was actively preventing her from doing her job, and Magnussen would not tolerate that.
‘Amado Carrillo Fuentes,’ provided Breslin, cautiously, ‘He was sent to Juárez to manage Acosta. Bought a bunch of planes at an auction in Belmopan. We put transponders on ‘em so we could track his movements.’
Federation’s expanding. Soon, they’ll purchase the U.S. Air Force… if they haven’t already. Magnussen found the usage of “manage” intriguing. Acosta’s causing trouble in paradise?
‘That’s why you were at the airport yesterday,’ she alleged, solving the mystery.
Magnussen rolled her eyes, a blasé snort escaping her, yet she decided to be merciful and let his insolence slide. She had other urgent businesses to tend to.
‘What about Calderoni?’, she insisted, admiring her black manicured fingernails, ‘He reached out at all?’
Although pressing the issue could prove futile, Magnussen refused to accept that she was beating a dead horse. As they had done in many cases, the Americans had been quick to prematurely dismiss the inconvenience – namely, Calderoni. Magnussen, however, reckoned that there was more to that story and to the commander, and she was willing to clash with the DEA over it. She had to exhaust all of the resources.
‘What for?’, retorted Breslin, with an indifferent shrug, ‘He made his choice. Doesn’t seem like he’s on our side.’
Ugh. Kindergarteners’ Guide to Law Enforcement: Us v. Them.
‘Neither is the United Nations Commission on Human Rights,’ sassed Magnussen before emphasizing, ‘This is Mexico, Agent Breslin. You need somebody on the inside.’
‘We’ve been getting along just fine without him,’ affirmed Breslin, stubbornly.
‘Because illegally kidnapping a gynecologist is so damn difficult,’ argued Magnussen, harshly, nostrils flaring.
‘The fuck d’you know about it?’, deadpanned Breslin.
‘I know that when you start moving furniture around, people stub their toes and get mad,’ she elaborated, matter-of-factly.
That’s what had happened to an ambitious Kiki. Go knocking on enough doors asking for the devil and eventually he may answer. Magnussen wasn’t keen on repeating past mistakes; not with such high stakes.
‘That’s the Leyenda playbook, Rookie,’ explained Breslin, oddly patient, ‘You put guys in custody, use leverage to get them to flip on the next asshole, and you move up the chain.’
The same chain that strangles everyone who makes too much noise? Yeah, right. Breslin’s misplaced optimism was a bit endearing. A bit.
‘You bagged a few shrimps,’ commented Magnussen, smirking triumphantly, ‘How do you plan to bag the barracuda? Pry him from the PRI’s claws?’
Or gets eaten. The system had all kinds of medicine for one’s conditions. Admittedly, the Americans’ naïveté was entertaining; they honestly thought that they could go against a political party that had adapted and stayed in power for decades. Politics chews people alive and spits them out. It takes a special sort of asshole to survive in that environment. Magnussen straightened her spine and stretched, impatient to get the hell out of Heath’s office. Lovely chat, Special Agent Breslin. We disagree on… probably everything.
Oh, one last thing.
‘Why do you carry that rag with you?’, she queried, nodding at the object in question, ‘You got hyperhidrosis, like Nixon?’
It’s been bugging me for a while. Roughly ten minutes.
Breslin released a quiet, amused huff, attempting to conceal what appeared to be a genuine smile, then headed for the door, which he opened with a soft squeak. Once he was in the doorway, he turned to face Magnussen, abruptly.
‘The team’s meeting at five for a surveillance briefing,’ he revealed, fishing in the pocket of his flannel, ‘Derelict building on Paseo de la Reforma, 707, near the indigenous museum.’ He retrieved an item and tossed it at her, adding, ‘Don’t be late, Rookie.’
Magnussen reflexively caught it and studied it, rather curious. Her golden Colibri lighter, its metal cool to the touch. Nice. She checked her watch, to see how long she had left until the gathering. 2:36. Plenty of time to explore the capital. When she glanced back up, Breslin was already gone.
Magnussen smiled to herself, pleased.
Magnussen had not only been the first person to show up at the location, but she had also managed to arrive fifteen minutes earlier, despite taking several lengthy detours. The culprits for her “rush” had been her raging desire to always have the upper hand – even over her soon-to-be-coworkers – and the damn British punctuality, which she could deny all she wanted; Magnussen had grudgingly acquired it while living in London, the same way that one catches the flu.
The hide and seek mission required parking her car farther away from the busy boulevard, sneaking between buildings in order to find the place, and frequently looking over her shoulder to ensure that nobody followed her. Magnussen hesitated at the skeletal complex’s entrance, where the missing door introduced a long, humid hall. As she advanced, the bright, natural light behind her and the darkness ahead began to feel like an ironic metaphor for her return to Mexico.
The eerie appearance initially led Magnussen to suspect that she had landed in the wrong “derelict building.” Must, mold, and cobwebs covered the flakes of orange paint on the walls, bare lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, and the damp cement floor – whose small cracks were an ordeal for her heels – forced Magnussen to crinkle her nose. The cigarette butts on the ground, half a dozen scattered chairs, and a corkboard were the sole indication of human life. Most of the thick pillars looked like they might collapse if somebody stomped their feet. I won’t do that ‘cause it’ll fuck up my shoes. The sounds of cars honking and dogs barking outside slipped in through square windowless holes. Charming. What had Magnussen expected, anyway? Leyenda was a classified operation. They wouldn’t meet in the U.S. consulate’s offices.
Or, Breslin had lied about the gathering and pulled a ridiculously petty prank on her to avenge his injured ego after her daring stunt at the airport. Magnussen wasn’t familiar enough with the man to determine whether he would stoop that low. He works in law enforcement, so… probably. Still, her trip to Mexico City hadn’t been entirely useless. Once she had parted with the embassy, Magnussen had eaten lunch – consisting of grilled octopus with lemons and roasted potatoes – at La Corriente Cevicheria Nais, successfully avoided alcohol, savored her watermelon ice cream from Joe Gelato while she walked around Plaza Washington, and her last stop had been at the Museo de Cera. Magnussen had visited the capital a couple of times before, and she had been eager to explore more of it, especially now that she had a new, albeit temporary vehicle.
Mexico City, aka CDMX, had been the illustrious capital of New Spain; the oldest in the Americas and one of two established by indigenous people. According to legend, the Mexicas’ primary god Huitzilopochtli revealed the site where they would build their home by showing them a golden eagle devouring a rattlesnake, perched on a prickly pear. The Aztecs originally constructed the city on a group of islands in Lake Texcoco as “Tenochtitlan”, in 1325. After the 1521 siege, which almost annihilated it, it was redesigned and rebuilt conforming with Spanish urban standards. And who completed all of the heavy labor? The indigenous people, of course. Tenochtitlan also earned a new name – Mexico – because it was easier for the colonizers to pronounce. In the 19th century, Mexico City became the center-stage of the country’s political disagreements, witnessing countless coups before the victory of the Liberals following the Reform War. The city was the target of one of the two French invasions to Mexico, and it was occupied for a year by U.S. troops during the Mexican-American War. Akin to Jalisco’s Guadalajara, Mexico City thrived under Porfirio Díaz’s rule, developing modern infrastructure – schools, hospitals, factories; Colonia Roma and Reforma Avenue represent the durable results of this period’s transformation. Throughout the Mexican Revolution, the city’s center suffered artillery attacks, causing numerous civilian casualties and the loss of trust in Francisco I. Madero’s government. The Tlatelolco massacre of students ahead of the 1968 Olympic Games took place in the capital. Its landmarks include Ángel de la Independencia, Zócalo, Chapultepec Castle, Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Estadio Azteca, Torre Latinoamericana, and Monumento a la Revolución.
Some folks may have viewed her interest in Mexico’s history and culture as peculiar at best – even inappropriate, considering her current job – but she had actually applied for the DEA’s program largely because she had wanted to see Mexico… and because her professor had nagged her about it. The downsides to her stay in Mexico had been, in no particular order, Maia’s absence, her obnoxious roommate – whom she had made great efforts to tolerate – having to wake up early, and having to deal with American bureaucrats on a daily basis. Alas, Magnussen chose to give Breslin the benefit of the doubt and wait for her beloved colleagues to materialize. Worst case scenario? The display of benevolence would delay her drive to Guadalajara by twenty minutes. Breslin would pay for his imprudence.
Better make myself at home. Magnussen claimed her territory by dragging a chair to one of the columns, cringing internally at the deafening, metallic noise it produced. Elegant. She plopped down, sagging, carefully adjusted her shoulder holster, fished in the pocket of her leather jacket for the solution to all of her problems, and lit a cigarette with her recently returned Colibri. She inhaled deeply, allowing her eyes to fall shut. Finally. Magnussen had been itching for a cigarette for hours. She blew the smoke through her slightly pursed lips, watching it fill the air. She lifted her feet to rest them against the pillar and examined her shoes. Hmm… Should’ve worn sneakers.
Maybe she was just being dramatic, and the situation wasn’t that dire. It’s been known to happen, occasionally. Magnussen had somewhat enjoyed Heath’s compliment-improvisational skills; probably the roughest five minutes of his whole life. Breslin’s intimidation fiasco with his special agent rank, Texan accent, and mustache hadn’t been terrible, either. Magnussen hated to admit that she had contemplated his lesson. You put guys in custody, use leverage to get them to flip on the next asshole, and you move up the chain. His methods evidently diverged from Kiki’s and his partners’ – not that they were an example to follow – and even from Magnussen’s. For one, she preferred to capture criminals alive; it had been scientifically proven that they were much more useful with a pulse… and intel.
Breslin and Camarena weren’t that dissimilar; sharp, stubborn, ambitious, naïve. She had seen where ambition led in this job. Or was death simply an occupational hazard? Magnussen ought to remind herself that she was assessing two different agents. She and Kiki had been close friends. With Breslin, she was barely at an offered-a-lighter level. If things had been complicated before, for the Guadalajara team, then they were worse now, for Leyenda. How could they dismantle a powerful cartel protected by the government and law enforcement agencies? The perfect conspiracy, with Félix Gallardo at the top of the pyramid, untouchable. What guarantee did Leyenda have that they wouldn’t end up like Camarena? Gallardo was as captivating as he was dangerous; distinct from other drug traffickers. In fact, given his intriguing evolution, he wasn’t a typical narco at all. Graduated high school, studied business in college, ex MFJP, former bodyguard for the governor of Sinaloa, godfather to his son, the brains behind the most notorious drug trafficking organization in Mexico, and the last cartel leader standing. Quite the résumé.
Magnussen also had her skepticism about the Mexican cops in the task force. No hard feelings. Mexican police were infamous for their corruption. She was unsure about who had recruited them; her money was on Breslin. Speak of the devil… She and Mejía had passed by one another at the airport; Magnussen wondered whether he would recognize her. She yawned, unnecessarily covering her mouth with her left fist. Oh, well. She wasn’t too preoccupied by the answer to that question. She would sleep fine at night, once the new place curse had vanished. Damn. The homecoming of Magnussen’s cynicism. Positive aspects, positive aspects… She was genuinely keen on meeting Petski, since he had worked with Kiki in Calexico, prior to his transfer to Guadalajara.
Magnussen didn’t have the vaguest idea where to begin. The entire mission seemed like an impossible maze. Her instinct told her to start with the guards that had been present at the 881 Lope de Vega house; they must have seen and heard more than anybody else had. Easier to blackmail, usually underestimated by the capos… Okay, pause. Magnussen needed to hit the brakes and reacquaint herself with Mexico. She was still unclear about the amount of independence that she had within the operation. With Breslin calling the shots? Little chance of her escaping being handcuffed to a desk. Not to mention that she was young, foreign, and inexperienced. Nails in the coffin.
Magnussen quietly hummed the tune of Depeche Mode’s Puppets, longing for her stereo. We’ll be reunited soon, my love. The band was releasing their fifth album in less than two weeks; something to look forward to. My neighbors will despise me… unless they know what good music is. She would not accept any Depeche Mode slander in her atheist household… Well, apartment.
The distant sound of footsteps and the chatter of people caught her feeble attention. She innately tensed, setting her feet down and crossing one leg over the other, and turned towards the source of the noise, eyes fixed on the hall entrance, in anticipation. A group of four individuals emerged, comprised of men she gradually identified as Mejía, Garza, Álvarez, and Méndez. The gang froze in confusion upon noticing her. Magnussen had immediately recognized Mejía; his stupid mustache was hard to miss. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. She concluded that the pictures in the Leyenda file were misleading. The mass of muscles on Álvarez’s body rivaled that of the gel in his hair. Méndez was still bald, yet shorter than she had assumed, and sported the beginning of a beer belly. Garza pointed his prominent nose in her direction, as if to sniff her like a bloodhound. He also had a bit of stubble. Is that on purpose? The ex MFJP cop must have been as dangerous as he appeared – a stark contrast from Mejía, whose cocky attitude radiated like a nuclear powerplant. Jalisco State Police shit.
‘Bienvenidos, chicos,’ greeted Magnussen, dramatically raising her arms in the air, flashing a sarcastic smirk. (Welcome, boys.)
Mejía let out a patronizing chuckle. Judging by the reception, the others didn’t find anything comical. Truthfully, neither did Magnussen.
‘¿Estas pérdida, cariño?’, inquired Mejía, flirtatiously. (Are you lost, sweetheart?)
So, he didn’t recognize her. Kinda embarrassing for a guy in law enforcement. What is it with these dudes and “sweetheart”, anyway? Universal ape brain.
‘Espero que no,’ droned Magnussen, wryly, faking disappointment. (I sure hope not.)
After all of the trouble that she had gone through… That would be unfortunate. She took a drag from her cigarette while Palacios and Morales joined the party, equally confused. Garza subtly moved his hand behind his back, to rest it on the weapon that he undoubtedly had tucked in his jeans.
‘I got one, too,’ informed Magnussen, playfully, opening the lapel of her jacket to show them the gun nestled in her shoulder holster.
Garza’s grip visibly tightened, in warning. Álvarez crossed his burly arms over his chest, on guard, glaring daggers into her. His biceps were the size of her head, and they could probably easily squash it. How macho. Magnussen didn’t flinch.
‘What the fuck is going on?’, demanded an alarmed Palacios, whose innovative contribution to the team was a goatee.
Morales, the second youngest member of Leyenda and the second clean-shaven one, lowered his sunglasses on his nose, to take a better look at her. He was handsome and… wore a light blue shirt with black polka dots? Fascinating. Magnussen calmly concealed her weapon, as a sign of peace, having no intention of shooting anyone… yet.
Breslin’s messianic arrival, followed by Orozco’s and Petski’s, interrupted the ensuing gun measuring contest. Orozco physically resembled a kitten and had a finer mustache than Mejía did. Petski seemed to be the tallest and the only blonde. Breslin walked past the guys, unperturbed, his aviators hanging by the neck of his red T-shirt.
‘I see y’all met the rookie,’ he commented, indignantly, side-eyeing Magnussen.
Someone’s holding a grudge… and nothing else. A wave of incredulous, flabbergasted reactions erupted, and Magnussen felt like she was in middle school.
‘Bullshit!’, dismissed Méndez.
‘This is the new kid?’, checked Mejía.
‘No fucking way!’, protested Palacios.
Breslin remained silent, continuing to pin photographs of drug traffickers to the corkboard. Félix Gallardo, Esparragoza Moreno, Carrillo Fuentes, Acosta, Palma, two Arellano Félix brothers. Interesting choices for foreplay. The Leyenda boys scattered, either occupying chairs or leaning against columns, ingesting the information, and maintaining a reasonable distance from Magnussen.
‘Alright,’ announced Breslin, spinning on his heel to face the audience, fumbling with a lighter.
A fit of jealousy shot through Magnussen at the sight of it. He had replaced her so swiftly and cruelly. She was utterly devastated, so she resumed her favorite unhealthy activity. Wound licking disguised as smoking.
‘Intel was solid,’ he went on, tone rising a quarter of an octave, supposedly to indicate contentment, ‘Carrillo Fuentes bought six 727’s at the auction in Belize. Thanks to our lock-picking artist, we put transponders on all of them. If we’re able to track Fuentes’ movements, it could lead us to the Federation’s distribution hub.’
Petski’s congratulatory slap on Mejía’s shoulder enlightened Magnussen as to the identity of the “lock-picking artist.” In her expert opinion, Breslin didn’t deserve the voice that he possessed. She figured that he had already been kicked out of the curly hair community for exceeding the limit of conservatism accepted.
‘Does this tie into the intel about Gallardo meeting with the Cali cartel in Panama?’, speculated Morales, rubbing his chin, reflective.
Wait, what? Magnussen swatted away an annoying fly, tsking in frustration at the distraction. Fuck off. You traded the smell of shit for the smell of cigarettes?
‘Sure, they could be related,’ conceded Breslin before civilly addressing Álvarez, ‘Mat, you wanna fill us in?’
‘Sorry, chief,’ replied Álvarez, using the privilege of sitting down to stretch his legs, ‘Gallardo’s underground again. No one is keeping the plazas in check. Tijuana and Sinaloa have been executing each other’s men for weeks, but… Esparragoza Moreno, alias El Azul, is allegedly wanted by the DFS.’
Magnussen scanned the room and found herself staring at Morales, who was insistently scribbling on a small piece of paper on his thigh, uncomfortably hunched over. Everybody else was immersed in the details being fed to them. Depressing.
‘No shit,’ chided Breslin, his surprise mirrored by most of the chaps’ expressions.
‘DFS eating one of their own?’, articulated Orozco, suspicious.
A smug Álvarez nodded in confirmation. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s a façade. Magnussen discarded the butt of her cigarette on the ground and crushed it under her shoe, miraculously suppressing the urge to intervene.
‘The Feds can’t get their hands on him,’ declared Breslin, sternly, ‘Moreno’s gotta be taken into American custody and interrogated, same as Zuno.’
Okay, hit the brakes, cowboy. Carrillo Fuentes buying planes, Acosta rebelling in Juárez, tensions between Sinaloa and Tijuana, Gallardo vacationing in Panama… Something’s up. The Thin Man’s scheming right under our fucking noses. Magnussen nervously wiped her sweaty palms on her pants, gathering the courage to speak.
‘My informant says Moreno is going to be in Mexico City next week,’ added Méndez, backed by the team’s murmurs of approval.
‘Good,’ emphasized Breslin, ‘We’re gonna bag the fucking asshole.’
Incapable of restraining her candidness, Magnussen involuntarily snorted at the sheer absurdity of the discussion. She was starting to understand why Leyenda’s progress had been slow and scarce. Planning abductions over lunch in abandoned buildings granted the operation filibuster potential. Forget the corrupt Mexican system. The U.S. had an immense management issue. Alas, her act of defiance didn’t go unnoticed. How could it?
‘Got a problem, Rookie?’, asked Breslin, sounding like a disgruntled teacher.
All eyes turned to her, gazes varying. A sane person would have shut up. Well, not Magnussen. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as she hesitantly glanced at her colleagues. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. I’ll be crucified… but when did that ever stop me?
‘I think you’re overestimating Azul’s role in the Camarena story,’ objected Magnussen, coolly.
‘Oh, really?’, jeered Breslin, impassive.
‘Not a single witness placed him at the scene of the kidnapping,’ she elaborated, adamantly, ‘His voice isn’t on the tapes, either. He is in the DFS, and it’s not the first time the DFS engages in cannibalism. Their former commander Miguel Nazar Haro was corrupt. He’s still at large. Are we just going after everyone associated with the DFS?’
‘Why not?’, retorted Álvarez, snickering.
‘Fine by me,’ decreed Breslin, shrugging, ‘Moreno was arrested twice for drug trafficking in the past, and he’s been linked to the Guadalajara cartel. That’s good enough for me.’
‘Maybe I got the wrong memo,’ reiterated Magnussen, audacious, ‘Leyenda’s purpose is to bring to justice those involved in the Camarena case, not to imprison every drug trafficker in Mexico–’
‘I wasn’t done talking,’ she snapped, harshly, then proceeded, stolid, despite the startled reactions, ‘Azul won’t rat out anybody, especially from the government. If the DFS want to arrest him, let them. Interfering will cause a shitstorm and blow whatever cover we have left… I think subtlety would be wise. He ends up in jail? He’ll probably escape. Díaz-Parada and Sicilia Falcón proved it’s possible… Moreno’s not a gynecologist. He’s an active-duty intelligence officer.’
‘So was Verdin,’ recalled Garza, indifferent, ‘And he talked.’
‘Because you shot him,’ argued a pragmatic Morales, ‘Not one of our best moments. Verdin definitely put us on the cartel’s radar.’
‘Arrive at your point,’ ordered Breslin, impatiently.
Magnussen briefly lost track of the conversation, too stunned by the fact that Morales sided with her. They fucking shot their prisoner? She released a long, exasperated sigh. Here we go. Cops famously respond positively to brutal honesty.
‘Moreno’s a diversion,’ she affirmed, warily, ‘The reports I read mentioned Gallardo paying a visit to Juan Nepomuceno Guerra in Matamoros… That can’t be a coincidence. The Gulf is the only independent cartel in the country. If he lured them into the Federation, Gallardo would have a monopoly on the Mexican route and could outmaneuver the Colombians. He’s not ignoring the conflict between the Tijuana and Sinaloa plazas. He's intentionally focusing on Juárez. That’s why Carrillo Fuentes is buying planes.’
‘Interesting theory, Rookie,’ concluded Breslin, condescendingly, lighting a cigarette.
‘We don’t have sufficient intel to back this up,’ reminded Palacios, skeptical, scratching his goatee, ‘We act, we get burned.’
Inquisition trauma. Bad for business. Although, the Mexicans in the operation were exposed to greater risk than their American counterparts.
‘Gallardo’s not a stupid man,’ stressed Magnussen, stubbornly.
‘He did kill a U.S. federal agent,’ challenged an obnoxious Orozco, earning an eyeroll from her.
Extremely debatable. The Mexican government was a more plausible candidate.
Whoever disagrees is a narrow-minded moron. Some of her coworkers clearly couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
‘What are you proposing?’, taunted Méndez, cutting to the chase, ‘That we go after Guerra, too?’
‘Fuck no,’ scoffed Magnussen, scowling, ‘Guerra’s experienced; been in the opium game since the Prohibition, so… when most of you were born.’ She smirked mischievously at the choir of groans and chuckles. ‘Guerra has political connections on both sides of the border. His brother was head of the state district attorney’s office in Tamaulipas during Balboa’s administration in the 1960s. His nephew is the mayor of Matamoros… Guerra won’t spend a day in prison… However, the ex Interpol chief is currently on the run and he’s been tied to the Camarena case… and there’s extradition rumors for Arturo Durazo Moreno; another former DFS commander.’
Silence finally settled, and Magnussen pondered whether the team was considering her input. She used the opportunity to ruffle her bangs – careful with her brows – and to check her watch. Hurry up, lads. I got a 6-hour drive to Guadalajara.
‘Well, you did your homework, Rookie,’ remarked Breslin, whose tone fueled a creeping impression within Magnussen that her efforts had been in vain, ‘Can’t argue with that. I’ll make sure to write your opinions in the suggestion box.’
Mejía burst into exaggerated laughter, clapping his hands. Easily entertained… or he wants to fuck Breslin.
‘Unless Agent Magnussen has other conspiracies that she would like to share,’ bargained Garza, foxily, flaunting a shit-eating grin that Magnussen desired to scrub away with insecticide.
‘Last one,’ assured Magnussen, feigning gullibility, ‘You get laid regularly.’
Orozco, Morales, Álvarez, and Méndez joined Mejía’s louder and louder laughing fit. Garza’s grin gradually disappeared. Even the corners of Breslin’s mouth inched upwards.
‘Alright, fellas,’ jested Breslin while the chaos steadily died down, ‘Let’s wrap this up. Back to Guadalajara tomorrow. We’ll update you on any developments on the Carrillo Fuentes lead. Mat, stay on Moreno. Esparragoza, that is. Hopefully, we’re gonna bag him soon.’
‘Got it, boss,’ acknowledged Álvarez, obediently.
The gang took that as a sign to start packing. What a bummer of a convention. Magnussen’s expectations hadn’t been high, anyway. As far as first briefings went, this one had been decent. Morales headed directly to Breslin and Petski, who were unpinning pictures and removing the corkboard from the wall. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Classified gossip. Palacios, Garza, and Méndez gathered the chairs – including hers – chatting among themselves.
In less than five minutes, the majority of members vacated the room. Magnussen cocked a curious eyebrow – bracing herself for impact – when Morales walked towards her. Tall and in shape, he had a confident stroll and dimples in his cheeks. His sunglasses now rested atop his wavy, brown hair.
‘Hi, I’m Manny,’ he greeted, friendly, stopping in front of her and extending his hand, ‘Welcome to Leyenda.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Magnussen, reluctantly shaking his warm hand, ‘Did you lose a bet, Manny?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ he chuckled, offering her a walkie and a note, ‘Here’s your station and a list of everybody’s number.’
Oh. That’s what he had been writing earlier. Awfully kind. Magnussen deemed it as youth solidarity.
‘Thanks,’ she droned, gaze softening, ‘Pretty useful.’
‘How has Mexico been treating you?’, inquired Manny, politely.
‘Can’t complain,’ admitted Magnussen, contemplative, her arms half circling her waist, ‘Still adjusting… Indulge me for a second. How the hell did you become part of the operation?’
‘Graduated ITESO,’ he informed, proudly, ‘Networks and Telecommunications Engineering.’
‘You’re overqualified for this job,’ quipped Magnussen, peering at him from underneath her lashes.
‘No, no,’ chortled Manny, evidently flattered, ‘But for what it’s worth, I think you were right about Gallardo. Impressive analysis.’
‘What is it worth?’, she teased, inclining her head.
‘Nothing,’ he stated, sincerely, ‘Walt is in charge. It’s difficult to get him to backtrack… He has good calls, too. The system is tough.’
‘Tell me about it,’ huffed Magnussen, wryly.
‘We should hang out sometime,’ he invited, jovially, ‘Go for a drink.’
‘Hell yeah,’ she approved, nodding eagerly, ‘I like drinking.’
‘That’s the Mexican spirit!’, extolled Manny, grinning, beginning to depart, ‘I’ll see you around, Agent!… Cool T-shirt, by the way!’
The ghost of a genuine smile lingered on Magnussen’s face.
Warnings: politics, Ronald Reagan, Christianity, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of blood, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of guns, mentions of communism, implied nudity, one innuendo, sexism, alcohol, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!
Notes: This chapter totally didn’t take ages ‘cause I had to figure out Magnussen’s apartment on my own. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.
Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my darling @cleastrnge for the Mexican Spanish translations 💜
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MARCH 4, 1986
GUADALAJARA, MEXICO
The trip to Belize had been an unforeseen but welcome win, with Calderoni’s intel on Amado Carrillo Fuentes actually turning out to be useful. Federation’s building its own air fleet. Carrillo Fuentes had bought six Boeing 747s at the auction, and Ossie had successfully planted transponders on all of them. Walt hoped that this would give them a new lead to pursue. Progress had been slow in the past few months, so he expected Heath to be satisfied with the latest achievement. He hadn’t taken it well when Walt had shown him the list of the expensive equipment that their Belize mission would require. The positive aspects pretty much ended there. Calderoni would inevitably come to demand updates and, although Walt didn’t entirely trust the commander, he had to admit that he hadn’t steered them wrong, yet. Besides, Calderoni was the most valuable informant that they had. He wasn’t exactly disposable.
Oh, and on top of that, Heath had notified him that another agent would replace Kenny, which Walt considered suspicious. What the fuck’s that about? He had selected his colleagues himself, but, for some reason, the DEA wouldn’t allow him anywhere near this guy. Walt despised being kept in the dark. He had been assigned to head the operation, and he firmly believed that Leyenda didn’t need an additional team member. Worst case scenario? They would send a rich asshole’s Ivy League prick of a son.
Walt lightly kicked Danilo’s bag with his foot, to move it away, releasing a yawn that he shamelessly didn’t hide. He felt exhausted – having not rested the previous night – and despite his efforts, Walt couldn’t rub the sleep out of his eyes. He put his aviators on his nose, further sinking into his seat before lifting his wrist to check his watch. His partners had abandoned him roughly fifteen minutes ago; Ossie had gone to the bathroom, and Danilo had left to grab food. Based on their prolonged absence, they were both stuck waiting in endless queues. The Guadalajara airport seemed particularly crowded today; people stood in line at counters to purchase tickets, boarded their planes, dozed off in their chairs, and the security personnel supervised everyone like teachers at a playground. If the smell of cheap coffee weren’t overwhelming enough, the place was loud, too – from the chatter of the staff and tourists to the sound of squeaky wheels sliding across the tiles. Occasionally, a woman announced in Spanish the departures and delays on the speakers.
A couple of rows in front of him, a kid insistently tugged on her grandfather’s sleeve, to get his attention. The elderly man continued to read his newspaper, unfazed, causing the girl to cross her arms over her chest and pout. Walt smiled fondly at the sight. Looks like we’ll both be here a while. With napping off the table, the last resort appeared to be indulging in his favorite vice, so he started to fish in the pocket of his jeans for a cigarette.
When he attempted to light it, however, Walt failed spectacularly. Second time, third, fourth, fifth, same result, testing his thinning patience. That kinda day, huh? He eventually gave up on the endeavor with a heavy sigh, running his hand through his curls, in frustration. Maybe he should call Sal and ask him where the fuck he was, since he was supposed to pick them up.
‘Need a light?’, quipped a smooth, feminine voice, next to him.
Fuck. Walt turned towards the intruder, slightly startled. He hadn’t even noticed the woman’s presence until then. Shit. I’m getting old. Or she sneaked up on cops for a living. She held out a lighter, expectantly, and her own already lit cigarette in the other hand.
‘Uh, thanks,’ muttered Walt, accepting the offering, hesitantly.
‘You are welcome,’ she chirped, in a thick European accent.
A passenger plane landed on the tarmac, outside the immense windows, temporarily distracting Walt, but a custodian dutifully mopping the floor blocked his view. Great. He took a drag from his cigarette, pushing his aviators back on his head, to study his companion more meticulously. Her young features attested that she couldn’t have been older than thirty. The sunlight reflected in her eyes – remarkably green – yet Walt found them unsettling. Her dark hair fell in waves, framing her oval face, ending above her shoulders, and her bangs revealed her full, arched eyebrows. She tittered, averting her gaze, shyly, fiddling with the key ring attached to the luggage trapped between her knees. Walt glanced at the dark red lipstick stains on her cigarette.
‘You are staring,’ she commented, practically murmuring, leaning a bit closer.
Walt remained silent, unsure what to add. What can I say? Guilty as charged. To his knowledge, staring hadn’t been criminalized… and, honestly, she wasn’t unpleasant to look at. He unclenched his fist to examine her golden lighter. Colibri. How fancy. Because “smoking” and “pretentious” were mutually exclusive.
‘You’re not from here,’ guessed Walt, casually; he could tell from the everything about her, mostly her peculiar accent that he couldn’t pinpoint on the global map – not that he encountered many Europeans.
‘Neither are you,’ she teased, flirtatiously, wide lips flashing him a charming grin, ‘So, where are you from?’
The fuck’s it to you? His disorientated radar didn’t help much. Walt blew the smoke away from her direction as the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. A harmless piece of information, undoubtedly. What if she were a stranger, simply making small talk? Walt ought to loosen up. Not everybody was a narco with ulterior motives.
‘Houston,’ he provided, truthfully, stroking his mustache, ‘You?’
‘Napoli,’ she acknowledged, then paused in contemplation before curiously inquiring, ‘What brings you to Guadalajara?’
State secrets, so, mind your business, sweetheart. A Texan in Mexico wasn’t uncommon, but a young Italian woman on her own? Definitely a rarity. Worse, she didn’t strike him as Italian.
‘I’m on vacation with my buddies,’ lied Walt, automatically.
Surely, tracking down Carrillo Fuentes to Belize counted as a vacation. Working for the DEA permitted agents to travel more than the average bureaucrat. Dream job, if one overlooked the shootings, illicit drugs, and shitty salary.
‘Well,’ she began, kindly, ‘I hope you enjoy your stay. It is a beautiful city.’
And an oasis for drug traffickers, but they don’t include that in brochures and leaflets. Judging by her phrasing, it wasn’t her first time in Guadalajara.
‘What about you?’, prodded Walt, nodding once, ‘Why are you in Guadalajara?’
Her answer might’ve been the only highlight of his day – or of the next weeks. This better be good.
‘I am doing my PhD,’ she declared, smugly, crossing her arms over her chest, careful of her cigarette.
Bullshit. Who picks Guadalajara for their PhD? Anyhow, every student had an inner peacock, and Walt might have just discovered how to ruffle this one’s feathers.
‘PhD, huh?’, repeated Walt, impressed, ‘What’s your field?’
Dibs on Arts. If her eccentricity weren’t a testament to it…
‘Diplomacy,’ she replied, her half smirk anything but subtle.
PhD in Diplomacy. What the fuck does that even mean? Walt recalled having a conversation with Heath about the consequences of Leyenda’s actions, following Machaín’s abduction. Heath had warned him about diplomatic repercussions, among others. It’s a good thing we’re not diplomats, Walt had sassed. Miss Napoli here could fit the bill, though.
‘That’s rough,’ he snorted, downright patronizingly.
Walt grew increasingly wary of her, yet he couldn’t identify the major flaw. The polite stranger narrative checked out… until it didn’t. Two gabachos at the airport, and she somehow managed to find him. Strength in numbers, right? Unfortunately, Walt didn’t believe in coincidences.
‘I do not mind,’ she admitted, shrugging, ‘I quite like it.’
‘Yeah, I bet you do,’ huffed Walt, tone unintentionally implicit.
They peered at each other, both amused by the innuendo, her eyes flickering with mischief. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, biting her bottom lip. Walt fought the urge to smile. So, she has a sense of humor.
‘You haven’t told me your name,’ reminded Walt, spreading his legs to sit comfortably.
‘Sofia,’ she disclosed, extending her hand for him to take, ‘What about you?’
Fair enough. Pretty name for a pretty girl.
‘John,’ he introduced himself, dryly, shaking her hand and simultaneously inspecting it.
She had long, slender fingers, several decorated with rings. Walt noticed the tattoo on her inner wrist; a cat sitting on a crescent moon. Interesting choice. Too bad that the DEA’s policy strictly prohibited him from showing his own tattoos.
‘I like your sunglasses, John,’ complimented Sofia, chuckling.
Was she hitting on him? At this point, Walt couldn’t tell, and he didn’t have time to find out, either. Try again in ten years, sweetheart. After I’ll retire, and you’ll… have a doctorate in Diplomacy or whatever the fuck.
‘I like your T-shirt,’ he asserted, referring to Electric Light Orchestra’s colorful spaceship, ‘What’s your favorite album?’
Walt couldn’t decide what stunned him more: her toned biceps – unusual for a PhD student – or her firm, confident grip – unlike her demeanor. Bit by bit, her alibi fell apart. Or she was an odd character. Convenient excuse.
‘Out of the Blue, obviously,’ she claimed, playfully, ‘Mr. Blue Sky is a masterpiece.’
‘I prefer Secret Messages,’ grumbled Walt, flicking his cigarette in a nearby trash can.
Their discussion ended abruptly when a middle-aged man burst into an angry rant in Spanish, at Customs. He seemed to be having problems with his passport. Walt shifted his attention to the screens that displayed flight numbers and cities, despite the blending of colors making him feel dizzy. He craved to lie down and close his eyes, just for one minute. Meanwhile, Sofia used the opportunity to take her leave. She was shorter than Walt anticipated, though the size of her hand compared to his should’ve been a sign.
‘Someone is in trouble,’ she observed, nonchalantly, putting out her cigarette with the heel of her shoe, ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, John.’
‘Thanks for the lighter,’ said Walt, intending to return the item, after its owner had finished gathering her bags.
‘Keep it, cowboy,’ encouraged Sofia, sending him a wicked wink.
Walt’s breath hitched involuntarily, his response having died on his tongue, promptly followed by panic. He spotted Ossie in the crowd of people, heading their way, his facial expression indicating confusion. Fuck. Seriously? Now? Walt was prepared to jump out of his seat and do damage control, but Ossie and Sofia walked past one another, blissfully unaware – until the former caught the latter turning her head and smiling warmly at Walt. Shit.
‘Who was that?’, laughed Ossie, heartily, elbowing him in the side.
Walt groaned in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fucking hell.
Confirmed: taxi drivers are talkative in every country. And a little too friendly for Magnussen’s taste. Carlos – who joked that driving is his job and his name is Carlos – had been delighted that his client spoke fluent Spanish and had bombarded her with questions – “¿De dónde eres?”, “¿Es tu primera vez en México?”, “¿Has estado en Guadalajara antes?”, “¿Qué te trae a Guadalajara?” (Where are you from? Is this your first time in Mexico? First time visiting Guadalajara? What brings you here?). Magnussen had politely answered all of them, avoiding the details. After the initial stop – an exchange, of course – Carlos had briefly rambled about the weather before allowing the faint music on the radio to replace him.
While the taxi drove in comfortable silence, Magnussen absentmindedly stared out of the window. Guadalajara hadn’t changed much since she had last been here. It had an eerie, almost haunting feeling to it, because of the horrors that had happened, yet people had moved on with their lives. Strange, how the world stopped for some, but carried on for most. Coming back reminded Magnussen of the lack of safety that the city brought with it. Except, this time, she wouldn’t attend classes and write papers. Instead, she would become a target for narcos who wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between her eyes.
Nevertheless, Guadalajara and its rich history continued to fascinate Magnussen. Although its reputation had been tainted by criminal activities, things hadn’t always been like this. The name originated from Arabic, meaning “fortress valley.” Home to the mariachi, tequila, and birria, Guadalajara was “founded” on February 14th, 1542, by the Basque conquistador Cristóbal de Oñata, as the capital of the kingdom of Nueva Galicia, part of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. Allegedly, only 126 people lived there. Several epidemics had dramatically reduced the indigenous population, but by the 19th century, Guadalajara had taken its place as Mexico’s second largest city. In 1810 – the year that marked the beginning of the Mexican War of Independence – priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla established the first revolutionary government here. In 1823, it became the capital of Jalisco. The Three-Hour Revolution overthrew President Santa Anna in Guadalajara, and in 1856, at the time of the Reform War, President Benito Juárez made the city the seat of his government. Although Guadalajara had flourished during the Porfiriato, Jalisco saw multiple regional wars following the 1910 Mexican Revolution. The city’s landmarks included Hospicio Cabañas, Templo Expiatorio, the Sanctuary of Guadalupe, and the Metropolitan Cathedral, and it had served as the cradle and dwelling of important figures such as José Clemente Orozco and Luis Barragán.
When they arrived at the address that Bowen had provided – Av. Ignacio L. Vallarta, nearly three blocks away from the U.S. Consulate – Carlos miraculously found an empty spot in the parking lot, behind the building. On the outside, the construction looked ordinary: a regular, concrete four-store, recently painted. Ironic. Last year, Mexico City had been hit by an 8.1 earthquake; thousands still didn’t have food, water, shelter. Add to that the national economic crisis and you got yourself incompetent leadership. Or worse, ignorant. In Guadalajara, however, the local government was busy repainting shit. The PRI has its priorities sorted.
Magnussen declined Carlos’ offer to help with her bags, making sure to tip him generously before biding him goodbye. It was a surprisingly cloudy day for Guadalajara, yet pleasantly warm. The gathering of the clouds. She had lived there for two years. Why would the city represent a source of unease? Maybe because the rules had shifted, and so had the territory. Magnussen needed to adapt and accept that she would be obliged to do things she disliked or hadn’t previously done. Her hands would only get dirtier. Bloodier.
Kiki is worth it, she tried to reason.
According to Audrey, the neighborhood was quiet, fairly isolated, and far enough from the main road. Good. Magnussen felt safer surrounded by tall buildings. Once indoors, she made the unfortunate discovery that the complex lacked an elevator. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Since her apartment was on the fourth floor, she ended up practically dragging her luggage up the stairs, on her own. The natural light barely illuminated the place, so she had to be extra careful.
Magnussen’s arms had already begun to object by the time she reached her apartment door. Number 9. She scanned her surroundings, sighing deeply, recalling Bowen’s instructions. Your keys will be in the Aloe’s pot. Luckily, the mission didn’t require any gardening tools; they were hidden among the plant’s fleshy leaves. She inserted the item in the lock, twisted, and entered cautiously, searching for the light switch.
The grand reveal… Not bad. The hallway was spacious enough to fit a wardrobe. Magnussen closed and locked the door after hauling her bags inside. She stepped out of her shoes, relieved to be rid of the heels, then regarded herself in the mirror on the wall. While she fixed her bangs, Magnussen realized that she saw what she had always seen. A woman, uncertain about her choices and her actions. A tired, fractured soul. A lucky impostor who refused to die. A survivor with slightly uneven eyeliner wings.
The white oak hardwood flooring creaked softly under her feet as she explored her new home for the upcoming months, possibly years. An idea she had better become adjusted to. I never had a home, she corrected. But that’s not why I’m here.
In the living room, two steel blue recliners flanked a large, polyester sofa of the same color. The TV – situated opposite the sofa – sat atop a wooden dresser. A rectangular X-base coffee table rested on a burgundy nylon carpet. Further to the right of the TV stood an umber, laminate bookcase. Instinctively, Magnussen pulled the burgundy drapes over the window beside it. One of the tricks she had picked up courtesy of Kiki. The cartel had frequently run surveillance on DEA agents. Lip readers and tailing vehicles may had been their preferred methods, but they hadn’t shied away from violent measures to remind the gringos who was in charge. Magnussen vividly remembered the incident when the DFS had shot at Agent Knapp’s car. He and his family – including his young kids – had been in their house, oblivious, about to have breakfast. Following the attack, Knapp was transferred back to the States. Standard procedure, embassy’s call, that kind of fuckfest. Others hadn’t been so fortunate. Kiki’s neighbor had wound up shot in a restaurant, in broad daylight.
Kiki’s death had changed things. Supposedly. Magnussen wasn’t familiar with the Federation’s operations nowadays. The bloodthirsty sharks were undoubtedly still in the water. You just couldn’t see their fins anymore.
The bedroom – down the second hallway, to the left – contained a California King bed, with coal grey sateen duvet covers, cool to the touch. The white bedside three-drawer chests each had a lamp on them, and the grey drapes behind them matched the light grey wool carpet. Magnussen curled her toes through it, relishing in its texture. The writing desk and chair had been positioned next to the sliding door wardrobe, where she found a vacuum, a broom, a dustpan, a clothing basket, and an ironing board. Mandatory polishing. A few cacti and a stereo, for starters. A lover or two, eventually.
White ceramic tiles decorated the kitchen, contrasting the mythic blue cabinets, which stored pots, pans, jars, plates, bowls, food containers, cups, and glasses. At first glance, the place seemed to have everything; top-freezer refrigerator, four-burner gas stove, island, stools, sink, microwave, cutting boards, blender, toaster, garbage can, cupboards containing cutlery and can openers. The one essential component missing was food. Magnussen wasn’t opposed to going shopping for necessities, but she was too lazy to cook today. She figured that ordering some birria from Birriería Aceves would suffice.
Her full bladder led her to the final destination: the bathroom, covered in grey tile. Magnussen removed the rings on her fingers and set them on the edge of the sink before washing her hands with cold water, too impatient to wait for the hot one. If it weren’t for the infernal queues, she could’ve solved this problem at the airport. And lose the chance to talk to Breslin? Never.
While she urinated, she busied herself with studying the rest of the room. The majority of the objects that she expected was there; toilet, sink, mirror, front-loading washing machine, small window, mat, hair dryer, towel bar, bucket, mop, cleaning supplies. Admittedly, the custom shower and the built-in tub astonished her. They’re really spoiling me… Shower curtains are ugly, though. She flushed the toilet, washed, and dried off her hands, then slipped her rings back on.
Okay, time to unpack.
Magnussen began by laying out her footwear in the entrance hallway – shoes, sneakers, boots, sandals, flats, high heels, Oxfords, moccasins, slippers. The pairs that didn’t have any space left went inside the wardrobe, along with the umbrella, headwear, bandanas, sunglasses, ties, gloves, scarves, shawls, shoulder holster, hoodies, sweaters, coats, jackets, blazers, cardigans, and vests. The bathroom had the honor of hosting her perfume, deodorant, shampoo, body wash, hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, and makeup. She hastily arranged the books she had brought in alphabetical order, according to the author’s surname, on the bookcases’ shelves.
When she organized the living room dresser, Magnussen realized that she had yet to decide what to wear to her reunion with Heath tomorrow. Bowen had repeatedly warned her about that. Heath had been appointed to oversee Leyenda, so Magnussen would inevitably bump into him. She had met with Audrey on so many occasions that she had memorized every damn wrinkle on her face, as well as her physical and verbal ticks. By week three, the paperwork had become torturous. Magnussen must’ve been signing shit in her sleep. They had even subjected her to multiple drug tests. Most nights, she craved to crawl into bed and nestle against Maia, who had been ridiculously patient and supportive throughout the mess. They had discussed the situation thoroughly, and after Maia had expressed her reservations, she offered a precious piece of advice.
‘Look, I’m not questioning your intentions,’ clarified Maia, gazing down at Magnussen, whose head rested in her lap, ‘I understand why you want to do it… You know these people better than I do. What they’re capable of.’ She caressed her hair, cautioning, ‘Don’t let them sink their teeth into you. Turn this on you. It’s a big change. Stakes are high.’
Maia had been right. Switching from researching and profiling criminal behavior to working with the DEA was a significant leap. Magnussen had had enough time to think over the issue, and she had made her decision – albeit not easily. She wouldn’t allow anyone to intimidate her into budging. She placed the socks, bras, panties, and lingerie in the dresser’s first drawer, the bedsheets and pillowcases in the second drawer, and the belts and suspenders joined the swimsuits and bikinis in the last one.
Moving on to the bedroom, Magnussen deposited her book, Chapstick, phone, and contraception pills on the nightstand and hid her ID and passport in one of its cupboards. She had lost her train of thought somewhere among the clothes and semi-existential crises regarding the U.S.’ procedures for selecting people for the bureaucratic apparatus. Don’t be so hard on them. They have the electoral college.
Alas, I digress.
Edward fucking Heath. He had graduated with a degree in Being a Misogynistic Asshole and had perfected the art of it. Benefit of the doubt privilege suspended indefinitely. Knock-off Ronald McDonald had been constantly useless to the agents in Guadalajara – rejecting or ignoring their intel – but he had truly outdone himself when Kiki had gone missing, refusing to act until forced to do so – mainly by Mika, who had embarrassed him in the presence of both Administrator Lawn and Ambassador Gavin. Magnussen wasn’t particularly elated about seeing Heath again, though a small part of her hoped that she didn’t have to deal with him that much. Shouldn’t it be Breslin’s duty to report back to Heath? As far as she was concerned, she only had to pick up her gun, car, phone, and DEA badge from him. Their obligatory interactions ceased there, and Magnussen had no intentions whatsoever of applying for any optional ones.
The wardrobe turned out to be the most challenging, and it quickly became obvious that she would require more hangers. Magnussen divided the rest of her belongings into six categories, as if they were sectors of the economy, arranging them into two sections.
blouses, tops, shirts, T-shirts, turtlenecks, V necks – shelves
accessories – cupboard
Magnussen’s eyes lingered on a silver bracelet – a treasured gift from the Camarenas, when she had completed her dissertation. They had even invited her out to celebrate – a fond memory, the closest one that she associated with “family.” Magnussen had eventually summoned the courage to reach out to Mika and shamefully confess that she had agreed to join an operation meant to bring justice to Kiki. No matter how she phrased things, it sounded wrong, but the reality was that Mexico City didn’t plan to finish the job. They had swept what they could under the rug, wishing that no one would bat an eyelid – or that everyone would forget.
Mika had been encouraging and polite upon hearing the news, yet Magnussen struggled to assess whether she had been genuine or not. She must be thinking, “They recruited a child for a professional’s task.” Magnussen couldn’t blame her. A year had passed since Kiki’s demise, and Mika hadn’t been granted a sense of privacy, to mourn and move on. This would haunt her and their sons forever. Magnussen couldn’t comprehend what that felt like. She wouldn’t want to live long following her partner’s death. To her, it resembled a version of hell. She had once been told that those who died shortly after one another had been soulmates. For a moment, it was nice to believe. To be naïve.
Nevertheless, Mika had thanked Magnussen for getting involved. “Kiki would be proud,” Bowen had said. I assume that he would rather be alive. I’m not doing this to make anyone proud. Kiki was gone, and what had happened to him had been a tragedy, so cruel and vicious that it was difficult to wrap your head around it. Leyenda had slowly but surely advanced towards achieving its goal. If Magnussen could contribute at all, she would try. At least it’s better than Reagan’s shitty phone call to Mika. Magnussen’s best guess? It was somehow supposed to comfort Camarena’s widow and offer reassurances, which was bizarre, because “comfort” and “reassurances” weren’t concepts that Magnussen would affiliate with Reagan. He probably gave a delirious Hollywoodian speech about patriotism, remembered that communists existed and got a raging erection, then had a stroke when he entertained the idea of sane healthcare policies.
Before stepping out to run her errands, Magnussen replaced her ELO T-shirt with a peach blouse, pulled on a black maxi coat and a pair of sneakers, and grabbed her keys, wallet, and pack of cigarettes. The habitual chaos was deafening – unnecessary honking, cars and trucks driving by, tires screeching, pedestrians conversing, shouting, or laughing – an anthesis to her apartment’s quiet bubble of solace. Trees of various shapes and sizes lined the sidewalk, as well as tall streetlights and colorful traffic signs that few obeyed. The wind increased, causing her hair to whip her cheeks and the strong smell of gas to invade her nostrils. The corners of her eyes watered, in protest. Magnussen almost gagged. Urban charm.
She decided to take a detour, so she started down the congested boulevard, tightening her coat around herself. A stray cat sneaked between the bars of a fence, into someone’s front yard. Early in the morning, Magnussen would wait for the bus in a station, not too far from here. After class, she would sometimes go to the park and read on a bench for hours. The image of kids joyfully playing might’ve been permanently soiled by the looming threat of the cartel. The youth grew up defenseless, exposed to violence, with little to no opportunities. Many viewed illicit activities as their salvation. Everybody had become absorbed by narcotics, but the equation wasn’t that simple. The War on Drugs was a hydra, stretching its tentacles and suffocating all aspects of life. The current strategy seemed inherently fucking Christian; concentrating on the sinners, disregarding the victims. It should be their new motto.
The U.S. Consulate General looked bleak and deserted, just as the last time Magnussen had seen it; neither imposing, nor welcoming. And they didn’t get rid of the hideous beige paint. Memories flooded her mind, both bitter and sweet. She had lost count of the number of instances that she had walked in and out of that building, usually accompanied by Kiki or Jaime. While Magnussen hadn’t been authorized to join the DEA on their missions, she had participated in discussions at the office, analyzed files, and helped piece together intel. At first, their knowledge had been so deficient; how the cartel operated, who its members were, the officials it had corrupted. They still didn’t have much, yet they had gathered enough to attract the attention of the narcos and turn the U.S. Consulate into a crime scene. Magnussen wasn’t standing far from the spot where DFS agents and sicarios had abducted Camarena, in broad daylight, in February 1985. Her stomach twisted, mouth going dry. The beginning of the war. Of the nightmare. Searches, news reports, political tensions. The U.S. government had even shut down the border with Mexico and ordered every vehicle to be inspected.
The longer a person is missing, the slimmer the chances of finding them. Kiki had been gone for a month. Doomed from the start. All of the parties involved had been aware that the cartel was behind it. Then, the bodies had been discovered, and hell had slowly and silently broken loose. Truthfully, Magnussen had been surprised when Fonseca and Quintero had been arrested. When Félix Gallardo hadn’t been, however, things had finally begun to make sense. The system had worked; sacrificing Camarena and protecting the Thin Man. Kiki hadn’t had any information about the politicians on the cartel’s payroll. Neither had Zavala, though there hadn’t been tapes of his interrogation. Magnussen rejected the theory that Camarena had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. No, they had sought him out; threatened him, followed him. The cartel had known precisely where he would be on that day, at what hour, and what he would be wearing. The entire fiasco was a splintered mosaic, mutilated maybe beyond repair. Kiki had been obsessed with the idea of Félix Gallardo knowing his name, and, in the end, his wish had been granted – at an enormous cost. His patriotism had flown him too close to the sun.
Now, it was Magnussen’s turn. One way or another, Félix Gallardo would learn her name.
Magnussen’s shopping trip had resulted in a strategic disaster. She had returned with more bags than she had anticipated, having to balance them and the birria when climbing the stairs to her apartment. A success, nonetheless. It hadn’t been until Magnussen had smelled the meat grilling that she had realized how hungry she was. Luckily, the queue hadn’t been long. Magnussen had passed the time by listening to the ranchero music playing at the diner, harmoniously joined by cutlery clinking against plates, smokers coughing, stools creaking, and people slurping coffee.
Magnussen drank the rest of her red wine and sat up to deposit her glass on the floor. Her back touched the cold edge of the bathtub – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – so she sank into the hot water, taking a drag from her cigarette. In the living room, Judas Priest’s Love Bites blasted on the stereo, which she had set up after she had eaten.
Softly you stir
Gently you moan
Lust’s in the air
Wake as I groan
In the dead of night, love bites
The butterflies tattooed on her right ankle peeked out of the bubbles, droplets trickling over their wings. Magnussen watched the smoke rise to the ceiling, her thoughts wandering to her earlier encounter with Breslin at the airport. Accidental encounter. He had looked familiar, but things hadn’t initially clicked. Once they had, Magnussen had improvised and half lied during their unofficial introduction. Breslin had seemed a bit stiff and antisocial; probably common, given that he’s an undercover cop. Ironically, his appearance hadn’t wholly indicated that he was in law enforcement. What if the curls are meant to throw everyone off? Breslin’s photo in the Leyenda file had definitely been deceiving; his hair was dark brown, not black. Magnussen felt betrayed. His sad eyes were a distinctive shade of brown, almost hazel – especially if light reflected in them. Breslin’s voice had been the most striking; low and deep, likely because of the smoking. The other details she had deemed uninteresting. Magnussen hadn’t been able to help herself when Mejía had materialized and fucked up Breslin’s state of Zen. She had deliberately flashed him a smile, making sure that Mejía would notice the action.
Professional relationship, off to a great start. Magnussen had never assumed that it would be smooth sailing. A European woman in her mid-20s born in a communist regime amidst conservative American cops in a propagandistic narco-war in Mexico? Peachy. Except Magnussen would fight the war on two different fronts; against the cartel and the DEA. Nothing new. She had faced much worse.
Yet, Magnussen hadn’t come to Mexico to prove something to her future colleagues or to do the U.S. administration “proud” or to be awarded a medal. While some might ignore or forget the reason why they were there, to Magnussen the message resonated loudly and clearly.
