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.
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.
