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    To Live and Die in Juarez: Paul Decker assignments, #10
    To Live and Die in Juarez: Paul Decker assignments, #10
    To Live and Die in Juarez: Paul Decker assignments, #10
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    To Live and Die in Juarez: Paul Decker assignments, #10

    By Jeffry Weiss

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    The drug wars have left 160,000 dead in the past six years.  But the war is no closer to an end.

    .

    Each time the Mexican police make some headway, the cartels gain more sophisticated arms and tactics.  While the federales vastly outnumber them, the cartels seem to anticipate their every move.

     

    Into that maelstrom walks Paul Decker and his new family.  Paul has retired from the CIA and desires no more than to raise his family, regain his peace of mind, and fulfill the promises he has made to Lydia and the children…promises he failed to complete with his first family.

     

    But all that comes to a violent end on the streets of Ciudad Juarez. 

     

    Paul goes after the killers, however, what he learns makes his revenge seem small and personal in perspective.  The Cartels are being armed and provided intelligence by the ATF and DEA who desire to foment violence in order to build their organizations and become indispensable.  The U.S. Administration is seeking to use the violence as an excuse to pass gun legislation in the U.S. and will go even further – declaring Mexico a failed state and take over the country.

     

    Even with all his training, Paul is no match for the cartels.  So he teams up with Gabriella - a brave female Mexican Federale – and an elite team of mercenaries, veterans of the Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libyan campaigns.  Together, they are intent on taking down the cartels, restoring the rule of law to Mexico and bringing peace to the country.

     

    The war on drugs is really a war to maintain the drug trade…even if the cost is another one hundred thousand lives.

     

    As Paul and his team close in on the rogue forces in the U.S. government and the cartels, the forces aligned against them grow stronger and more determined. 

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJeffry Weiss
    Release dateJan 29, 2016
    ISBN9781519159885
    To Live and Die in Juarez: Paul Decker assignments, #10
    Author

    Jeffry Weiss

    BIOGRAPHY Mr. Weiss attended Central High School, at the time recognized as the top High School academically in the U.S.  He then attended Drexel University where he gained a BS in History, Temple University where he earned an MA in Economics and the University of Pennsylvania where he received an MA in International Affairs.  Those studies provided him with unique insights in the realm of foreign policy, military capabilities, détente, and trade. He has been a writer for forty plus years and has penned hundreds of articles on social, political, and economic issues.  He has written position papers for the Carter and Clinton Administrations and his work on social issues has received recognition directly from the office of the President of México.  He speaks regularly with Noam Chomsky on political, economic, cultural, and military issues. Mr. Weiss writes political, military, economic and scientific thrillers.  There are now twelve books in the Paul Decker series.  All his stories come right off the front pages of the major magazines and newspapers but none of his plots has ever found their way into novel before.  His characters are ones readers can relate to: flawed, not superheroes.  His stories do not require a leap of faith or use deus ex machina. Finally, he has written a stage play, “Einstein at the Guten Zeiten (good times) Beer Garden, and an urban horror novel: “The Art of Theft”, a modern day version of “The Picture of Dorian Grey” by Oscar Wilde.

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      Book preview

      To Live and Die in Juarez - Jeffry Weiss

      BY

      JEFFRY WEISS

      OTHER BOOKS BY JEFFRY WEISS

      POLITICAL THRILLER SERIES; PAUL DECKER ASSIGNMENTS

      1) The Go Code Protocol

      2) Web War One

      3) The Patriot Betrayal

      4) The Cern Revelation

      5) The Euro Option

      6) The Eugenics Solution

      7) Code 6 North of the DMZ

      8) We the People

      9) The Neanderthal Regression

      10) To Live and Die in Juarez

      11) The Mouth of Allah

      12) Changing Of the Tides

      13) Year of the Crocodile

      14) The Order

      15) The Death Zone

      16) The Kremlin Insider

      SCREENPLAYS

      From The Depth

      The Auto Auction

      DIET / NUTRITION

      Why We Eat...And Why We Keep Eating

      The Perfect Day

      The Caffeine Diet

      Turning Off the Hunger Gene

      Warning

      Living a Alzheimer Free Life

      SCI-FI

      A Dystopian Tale

      Message from Ceti-Alpha-6

      REMAKES OF OLD CLASSICS

      A Story Of Revenge (based on The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas)

      Faust 2000 A.D. (based on Faust by Goethe)

      The Art of Theft (based on The Portrait of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde)

      POLITICAL SATIRE

      The Wizards of Oz

      SOLVING THE KENNEDY ASSASSINATION

      Who Bought the Bullets

      STAGE PLAY

      Einstein at the Guten Zieten Beer Garden

      The War on Drugs employs millions - politicians, bureaucrats, policemen, and now the military - that probably couldn't find a place for their talents in a free market, unless they were to sell pencils from a tin cup on street corners.

      L. Neil Smith

      ––––––––

      I believe that the war on drugs is a tragically misplaced use of resources - an immoral venture that produces far more suffering than it alleviates.

      David Harsanyi

      ––––––––

      If you look at the drug war from a purely economic point of view, the role of the government is to protect the drug cartels.

      Milton Friedman

      The drug war is a total scam, prescription drugs kill 300,000 a year, while marijuana kills no one, but they spend billions a year 'fighting' it, because pot heads make for good little slaves to put into private prisons, owned by companies who fill the coffers of legislators, and financed by the banks who launder the drug money.

      Alex E. Jones

      Juárez / El Paso, before the recent drug violence, was one world.  One entity.  One place.  One city where you could live in between worlds, and have the hope of creating something new.  That is what the violence has destroyed.

      Sergio Troncoso

      The government and the DEA view drug trafficking as more of a hazard to society when it moves through the poor area, than when it has to do with corporate boardrooms.  The focus of the war on drugs is not primarily on the flow of drugs, but on what kind of people are involved in it.

      Magnus Linton

      In Juárez, assassins earn less than taco vendors.

      Anonymous

      Death solves all problems.

      Joseph Stalin

      THE PARTICIPANTS

      U.S. Operative - Paul Decker

      Wife - Lydia Decker

      Children - David and Julia

      Lydia’s mother - Abuela María Hildago

      Federale Sergeant - Gabriela Gabby Rodriguez

      Chechen arms dealer - Borya Timoshenko

      Attorney General - Derrick Hosteller

      U.S. Attorney in Arizona - Jack Weinberg

      U.S. President - Barry O’Brian

      U.S. Vice President - Zachary Bainbridge

      CIA Director - Jeremy Clay

      Chair of the House Oversight Committee - Dan Isaacs

      Speaker of the House - Warren Hanover

      Secretary of State - Bernard Thompson

      Secretary of Commerce - Roger Eaton

      Secretary of Labor - Jasper Collins

      Secretary of Defense - Stuart Owens

      Secretary of the Treasury - Tom Horan

      White House drug czar - John Waters

      CJCS - Admiral Edward Jessups

      ATF Director - Gary Broussard

      Presidential secretary - Diane McBain

      PARTICIPANTS

      DEA Director - Mike Huckelby

      DEA agent working with the El Norte Cartel - Chris Trever

      Federale Capitán - Juan Gonzales

      Head of the Tóxico Cartel in Tijuana - Victorio, Roja, Torres

      Second in command, Tóxico Cartel, Tijuana, Julio Guzman

      Head of the El Norte Cartel in Nuevo Laredo - Jorge, el Negro, Rivera

      Second in Command of the El Norte Cartel - Roberto Morales

      Head of the Juárez Cartel - Miguel, el Mano, Reyes

      Second in command of the Juárez Cartel - Arturo Garza

      Head of the hit squad for the Juárez Cartel - Claudia Sanchez Orellio

      ATF agent working with the Juárez Cartel - Kurt Andrews

      Border Patrol Supervisor - Dick Martin

      Assistant Director of ICE - Dan Carson

      Director of ICE - Michael Bainard

      Deputy Director of the Border Patrol - Wayne Dewitt

      Mexican President - Maximilian Flores

      Banker on the run in Juárez - Bernie Cornfield

      Senate Appropriations Committee - Senator Harvey Keenan

      Asst. U.S. Attorney General - Hank Stillwater

      PARTICIPANTS

      Commander of mercenary troops - Lieutenant Stanton

      ––––––––

      Team One leader – Sergeant Morgan (Juárez)

      Corporal Daniels

      Corporal Danz

      Corporal Cousins

      Team Two leader – Sergeant Skeets (Nuevo Laredo)

      Corporal Dandridge

      Corporal Tuesday

      Team Three leader – Sergeant Detroit (Tijuana)

      Corporal Bates

      Corporal Jax

      Corporal Latham

      DICTIONARY OF SPANISH TERMS

      Abuela: grandmother, old woman

      Abuelo: grandfather, old man

      Algo más?: do you want anything else?

      Amigo: friend

      Años: years

      Arroz con pollo chicken with rice

      Asenscio: killer (for hire)

      Bebidas: drinks

      Bienvenidos: welcome

      Buena suerta: good luck

      Cabeza: head

      Calles: streets

      Camisa: shirt

      Cartel: an association of manufacturers

      or suppliers with the purpose of maintaining

      prices at a high level and restricting competition

      Cartelita: little (baby) cartel (a slight)

      Chinge: go fuck yourself

      Chocha: pussy

      Cholo: Hispanic male that wears a hairnet,

      or a bandana, around the forehead

      Cojones: balls, guts

      Comida: food

      Comprendo: I understand

      Coño: cunt

      Culo: ass

      Dejar la botella: leave the bottle

      Dia de los Muertos: Day of the Dead. 

      On Nov. 1st each year, family and friends

      gather to pray for those who have died

      Diñero: money

      Es correcto: that is right

      el Mano: the hand

      él necesita el enterrador, no un médico: he

      needs the undertaker, not a doctor

      el Negro: the black one

      el Rojo: the red one

      Esposa: wife

      Esposo: husband

      Esta bien: all is well

      Estupido: stupid

      Es verdad: that is true

      Gordisimo: fat pig

      Habitación: room

      Hacienda: a large estate or plantation

      Hombre: man

      Hija: daughter

      Hijo: son

      Immediamente: immediately

      Jesucristo: Jesus Christ

      Las tienes las dos cosas?: Do you

      have them both?

      La gente: the people

      Loco in la cabeza: crazy in the head

      Lo siento: I am sorry

      Mamón: insolent douchebag

      Maquiladoras: factories

      Maricón: faggot

      Mierda: shit

      Mordita: the bite (payoffs)

      Muerte: dead

      Narcomantes: cartel banners / letters

      taking credit for a killing or issuing a threat

      Niño: young boy

      No ahora.  Tal vez más tarde: Not now;

      maybe later

      No comida, pero un otra cerveza: no food,

      but another beer

      Officina: office

      Panchocho: pussy

      Pedí dos cafés: I ordered two coffees

      Pendazos de mierdas: pieces of shit

      Pendejo: fool, coward

      Perdóneme: excuse me

      Plata o Plomo:  An offer by a cartel,

      accept silver as a payoff to do as one

      is told, or lead in the form of a bullet if

      one does not comply.

      Puta: fuck

      Puto: male prostitute

      Que es esto?: what is this?

      Que es eso: what is that?

      Quién es él?: who is he?

      Roto: broken

      Salud: a toast to your health

      Señor: sir

      Señora: madam

      Señorita: miss

      Servicio en la habitación: room service

      Servilleta: napkin

      Sicario: killer (for hire)

      Si, yo conosco gente in un otra barrio:

      Yes, I know people in another neighborhood

      Sus cafés se están enfriando:

      Your coffees are getting cold.

      Tan triste. Podríamos haber bailado

      a tanta música juntos:  So sad.  We

      could have danced to so much music together.

      Taza: cup

      Tenga un buen día: have a nice day

      Tengo un paqueta para usted: I have a

      package for you

      Tiempo no sus amigo: time is not our friend

      Tomar por el culo: take it in the ass

      Una persona ha sido asesinada:

      a person has been killed

      Un momento: one minute

      Yo soy un carjeta: I have a letter

      Vamanos: let’s go (urgently)

      PROLOGUE

      Ciudad Juárez, México

      In the dry season, the sun-baked clay roads into hardened bricks.  Parched leaves clung to withered branches, struggling to hold on until the rains arrived.  A sky, composed of dust and fumes, felt solid, air that could be tasted.

      Dogs barked at passing cars and people, and at stray cats that had grown unafraid in a city where death came early to all species. 

      Trash skittered down the street, plastic bags and discarded newspapers caught on frayed wire fences and iron bars that protected stores and homes. 

      Sirens wailed, increased in pitch and intensity, then faded as police cars and an ambulance raced by.  People didn’t question others to learn what had happened or who had been killed.  Knowing something one was not supposed to know was an act of suicide in Juárez.

      *   * *

      A man shuffled down the sidewalk, past houses made of discarded material: old lumber, concrete blocks left over from a construction site, tarps, and corrugated aluminum that once served as a fence.

      He was prematurely bald and had a defeated look to him, not old, but hunched over nevertheless, from working twelve-hour days at the maquiladora, from the burden of hopelessness and despair that hung over the city like the Sword of Damocles. 

      He walked slowly and carefully, looking down at his shoes, to avoid eye contact.  His progress was minimal, but he had little reason to rush. 

      He spoke to no one on his journey, for there was little to talk about but the murders, and if he didn’t speak of them, then maybe they were just figments of the imagination.  And after awhile he could pretend they were only tales, stories to frighten children, fables to be told on Dia de los Muertos.

      A Ford Explorer with blacked-out windows rolled to a stop at the curb, missing the man by just inches as he prepared to cross the street.  He stepped back, fearful of being hit.  If that was all he faced at that moment, he would have been a happy person.

      A big hombre with long, greasy dreadlocks got out of the passenger seat and opened the back door.  Have you been waiting long?

      What? the man exclaimed.  But I did not—.

      No, they never do.  Everyone pretends it will not happen to them.

      Everyone?  But I am not—.

      Yes, you are.  Your name is on the list.  If your name was not on our list, then it would be on someone else’s list.  Now get in the car, the gordisimo ordered.

      But I must return home with my wife’s medicine, the diminutive man pleaded.  He looked into the eyes of the hombre threatening him but saw a lack of any human compassion, a soul as empty as a tomb.

      You’d better save that medicine for yourself, the brute suggested.

      The little man looked around, searching for a savior.

      People turned away.

      The giant saw it and laughed.  Ha!  You see?  Your friends, even family, no longer recognize you.  It is as if you never existed.  You are already just a statistic.

      The hapless man struggled against the vice grip of the big hombre’s catcher’s mitt of a hand.  A futile effort.

      What do you intend to do with me? he pleaded.

      Do?  Why isn’t that clear?  We’re going to kill you," he said so sweetly that just for a moment the victim could think his captor was kidding and that it was all a joke.

      But you can’t—.

      There are no can’ts in my world, puto, Gordo insisted, as he forced the man inside the darkened vehicle.  You must see it and know that it is true...people disappear in broad daylight and business still goes on as usual.  After all, there are so many on the lists it is impossible to kill only at night.  A backlog would develop, deadlines would not be met, commissions lost, an interruption in the course of business.  The wheels of progress would come to a halt.

      Please!  I beg you!

      Shut up.  If you squeal like a pig we will torture you first.

      The driver hit the gas and the SUV pealed away from the curb, leaving a small patch of black rubber.

      The kidnapper bound their guest’s hands and feet with duct tape, then put an arm around the man’s shoulder and squeezed him close.  You must look at things with a broader perspective, mi amigo.  Death is a part of life.  You really don’t know that you’ve lived till you die, he said, then laughed so hard it put his belly in motion.

      But mi esposa e hijos!

      Yes, well you should have thought about that before you did whatever you did to get on the list.

      The SUV bounced up and down on the rutty roads, kicking up clouds of dust that somehow seeped inside even though the windows were all the way up.

      Tell me, amigo, what do you think of my fine car?  Real leather seats, and glass so dark no one can look inside and see how scared you are.  Better they should remember you as a brave man.

      It’s a mistake! the man pleaded.

      No mistake.  The lists do not lie.  All I can promise you is that we will try to make your death memorable.  Maybe your head planted on top of a statue or pole.  How does that sound?

      The victim struggled against his binds.

      What?  Is the tape too tight?

      Yes!  It hurts!

      Shut your mouth or I will cut your vocal chords.

      Ah!  You are loco en la cabeza!

      You should not insult me señor.  That will only anger me and lead to more torture.

      But you can’t just go around killing people!

      You’d better listen, Señor Estupido.  You saw people all around you being killed but you did not think it would happen to you?  You are the crazy one.  You said to yourself, well, yes, they were murdered, but they must be bad people.

      Yes, I—.

      "Well, I will explain to you how things work.  In Juárez, you can do anything you want: kill, rob, rape, kidnap.  You will never be arrested, never charged, never convicted.  If some other man has a woman you like, then you can have him killed and she is your woman.  If a neighbor plays music too loud at night and it disturbs you, then you pay to have his house blown up or burned down, same cost.  That way, no one can move in and you’ll sleep like a baby.

      So, you see, someone wants something you have, or maybe you bumped into someone on the street and you did not apologize when he looked at you.  Maybe you kicked up some dirt on to his shoe.  It doesn’t matter what, just that you were put on the list.  So now we torture you for a bit, then kill you and put you in a hole with lime and in no time you will be just a bag of white bones for the dogs to gnaw on.

      Please!  I have diñero.  I will pay you if you let me go.  Take me to my house and I’ll give you the money.  Then you can shoot...or stab...or strangle the man who wants me dead!

      What good would that do?  It would mean one more person on the list and I am already running behind.  In Juárez, the business is killing...and business is good.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Office of the Attorney General of the United States.  Washington, D.C. 

      Attorney General Derrick Hosteller sat at his over-sized desk, in front of which stood three of his most trusted assistants: Sam Baker, Don Adams and Ed Lasky.  The A.G. was a scarecrow of a man: long, lanky arms and legs, a head too big for his narrow shoulders, beak nose, thin lips, and ears that stuck out like those on a jackass, which some people said was a fitting analogy.

      Derrick looked at his men, then around the room, reorienting himself to the position he held and reminding him of the work he needed to accomplish.  On the wall were pictures of previous Attorneys General: Ed Meese who made millions on a Bechtel oil pipeline going through Iraq while he helped determined U.S. policy.  Alberto Gonzales who forced his way into the ICU of the hospital where John Ashcroft lay dying, pressuring him to sign off on enhanced interrogation methods...that is, torture, so as to absolve himself and President George W. Bush from blame.

      Last, but certainly not least, there was John Mitchell, a low-life who played a central role in sabotaging the 1968 Paris Peace Accords that could have ended the Vietnam War.  A dirt bag who believed that the government's need for law and order justified restrictions on civil liberties.  A bastard who advocated the use of wiretaps without obtaining a court order.  A crook who controlled a political slush fund used for gathering intelligence on the Democrats; ultimately found guilty of conspiracy, obstruction of justice and perjury and sentenced to two and a half to eight years in prison for his role in the Watergate break-in and cover-up.

      The men Derrick sought to emulate had attained the airy heights of corruption on an industrial scale, raised the bar on circumventing the Constitution, reached the pinnacle of unethical behavior, established the gold standard of conspiracy and cover-up.  Derrick considered all that and realized he had an uphill battle to fight if he was to reach their level before being indicted himself.

      Hosteller’s head was swimming.  He put his hands over his ears and stared down at a stack of files, trying to block out the voices that told him to do what the President ordered and screw the little things...like the constitution, or the consequences for the people and the country.

      He had more bad habits than a smoker at a Greenpeace conference: sucking snot up his nose, constantly tapping a pencil on the desk, interrupting people.  He was a poster child for obnoxious.

      It looked to the other men like he was going to vomit on the papers.  Seeing their supervisor in that state, the men became nervous, moving around like mice lost in a maze.

      One of his assistants opened the blinds to let a little light in the room.  Dust particles danced in the beams of sunlight.

      Derrick reacted to the light like Dracula.  He bolted upright and yelled, Would you close that goddamn thing.

      Shit, boss, Don replied.  I thought you’d—.

      And sit down! Derrick insisted.  You’re making me nervous.

      The men took their seats but continued to fidget.

      Ed leaned forward, reached out a hand to touch Derrick’s shoulder.  Boss, he began, you don’t look so good.  You all right?

      The AG slowly lifted his head.  We just got new marching orders.

      And? Sam queried.

      Gun control is on the top of the President’s agenda, Derrick replied.  He’s determined to get legislation passed banning assault rifles, large magazines and armor-piercing ammo.

      He’ll be going against more than half of Congress and two-thirds of the Senate.  Those are pretty big hurdles to clear, Ed suggested.

      How does he expect to get the votes when the NRA’s put the fear of God in all those cold hearts? Sam asked. 

      That’s our job: turn the tide of public opinion, the AG explained, hands held out like a man pleading for a reprieve.  Cause a ground swell of indignation; show them murder numbers that stagger the mind.  Congress will have no choice but to vote in favor of the President's legislation.

      And where do these staggering numbers come from?  Do we snatch them out of the ether? Ed asked, wary of the direction the meeting was going.

      We ratchet up the collateral damage, Derrick said, leaving out the details in the hope he would not have to explain the inexplicable and rationalize the senseless.

      Care to elaborate, sir? Sam asked.

      Hosteller looked up at the man.  You really want to know?

      No, not really, Ed said, but better to hear it now than from a subpoena.

      Derrick nodded his head slowly and reluctantly began.  We authorize the ATF and DEA to supply guns to the cartels, sit back, and count casualties, the AG mentioned, as if it were a simple, neat, clean agenda.

      Sam uncrossed his legs and bounced forward in his chair.  One hundred thousand deaths in Mexico isn’t enough? he questioned.

      It’s over a hundred thousand now, but it’s not going to be just Mexico; we’re including Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras, the AG replied.

      Those people already live in hell, Ed said.

      Yes, well, it’s about to get worse, Derrick responded, a shrug of the shoulders to show his overwhelming concern for the citizens of those countries.

      Does this program have a name? Sam asked.

      Fast and Furious, the AG replied.

      How about a fast trip to a furious Senate Judiciary Committee, Ed suggested.

      And your deputy director, Hank Stillwater? Don mentioned in passing.  What do we do about him?  He’s not a team player.

      Hank’s a boy scout, Ed warned.

      Believes in the rule of law, Sam added.

      It’ll be tough to leave him out, Don said.

      You leave Hank to me, Hosteller said with a high level of confidence.

      Does that mean a temporary trip to some international function or a dirt nap? Ed asked.

      Let’s not get emotional about this, shall we, Derrick said.  This is business; nothing personal.

      There’s going to be so many people in the loop that this boat’s going to spring a leak when it hits the first reef, Ed assured.

      ATF, DEA, DOJ, FBI and probably Border Patrol, Don enumerated.  A thousand mouths to worry about, and all it takes is one do-gooder to blow the whole program up and us along with it.

      It sounds to me like we’re being sacrificed on the alter of President O’Brian’s pet agenda, Sam added.

      We’re going to need written authorization for the President’s program, Don decided.  This is his deal, not ours.  And I’m not going to be the only one left without a chair when the music stops, and it will stop...it always does.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Plaza Libertad.  Ciudad Juárez, México

      It was a matter of only one hundred yards and a border checkpoint separating Juárez, México from El Paso, Texas.  That short span was a path to freedom and safety for some; for others, it represented an insurmountable obstacle, leaving them mired in a nightmare world of murder, kidnapping and drugs south of the border.

      Yet in the grand courtyard of the plaza - surrounded by French-inspired architecture, and bustling with men and women, hombres y muheres, from both worlds - those realities and concerns did not filter through the archways and walls sanctified by priests.

      In that milieu, Paul Decker, his wife, Lydia, and their two children, David and Julia, stopped to listen to the Mariachi bands as they played for tourists.  The kids giggled when the guitar player sang directly to them, while for Paul and Lydia, it brought back memories of six years earlier when Paul fell in love with México and then Lydia in one magical winter.

      While all that transpired - the poorest of the poor made their pilgrimage to the three cathedrals on the corners of the plaza, eschewing the vendors selling paintings, souvenirs, candy, chimichanga and religious memorabilia - the family thought it proper to seek the sanctuary of the church and the blessings of God.

      It is time to give thanks, Lydia said as she guided the children to the igeslia.

      David and Julia resisted her tugging. 

      She bent down to look the niños in the face.  We have much to be grateful for.  If you desire to return here and visit your abuelo and abuela next year, and receive gifts, then you must pray for their good health and also for your own.

      Where once, Paul would have joined the children in their reticence, he now lent support to Lydia.  He grunted and shooed the children along with hand taps on their backsides.

      The four of them entered the large church.  It was not elaborate.  The tile floors were faded by women creeping toward the alter on their bare knees rather than by the soles of hard, expensive shoes.  Fans hung from every pillar, but were rarely used by people adept at suffering.  A solid wooden altar - made and donated by people so poor they had nothing but still gave – dominated the front of the iglesia.  Vinyl-covered kneeing pads split, worn through, with a little help for repair as the lives of those praying for better.  México was a country where the best went to the elite, and what little filtered though made only the difference of one more tortilla, not a new pot to cook in or an extra bed so six brothers and sisters would not have to sleep together.

      Paul was pained by the sight of such poverty.  He asked himself, How can such poor people spend so much time in church, after working so hard?  But of course they must go, they must believe, they must pray.  A life so hard, with so little . . . how can they not believe in God, in a hereafter, in the power of prayer?  This cannot be all there is.  Esto no puede ser todo lo que hay.

      God be merciful, God be great.  God grant our wishes, the banners said.  Who believed what, if anything, was not evident on the faces of those present.  Habit was as strong as belief for the poor.

      Some stood swaying back and forth in their daily ritual – kissing children who laughed and sang – insulated from their abject poverty by a love that transcended possessions.  Materiality was no friend, Paul thought, it only impeded interactions between mother, child, friend and neighbor.  Poverty was, if nothing else, purifying – a perfect reflection of truth and beauty.  For those steeped in faith, there was one blessing:  nothing lay between those afflicted and their God.

      After a commensurate amount of time spent with the Lord, Paul and his family walked out of the church and into the bright sunshine. 

      It was the family’s yearly visit to Lydia’s parents.  For the kids, it meant Christmas in July.  For Paul, it was the culmination of a life’s wish...to have a second chance to be a good husband, to raise his children without excuses.  Once, he was not a religious man and had never prayed, even when holed up in a cave in Yemen while a caravan of al-Qaeda came within one hundred feet of his position.

      However, it was his first family - wife Karen and children David and Carrie - he abandoned in favor of the military that caused him to seek God.  And as implausible as it seemed, God had granted him a second chance.

      Ever since then, he accompanied Lydia and the children to church each Sunday and every holiday...like the day at hand.

      The four of them wandered through the plaza, the children and Lydia completely lost in the moment.  Yet for Paul, surrounded by a sea of people, it meant maintaining a heightened level of awareness.

      It had been a wonderful day.  The children loved their grandmother, their abuela. And she doted on David and Julia with sweets and stories of growing up without television and playing games with imaginary toys.  But now the family had their hands full of packages, their feet sore from walking, and the kids tired and bored. 

      The sun slipped behind the steeple of the tallest church, signifying only half an hour of daylight remaining.  It was time to head back home to El Paso.

      They strolled past a restaurant where a large group of Mexicans was celebrating...a birthday, or anniversary, or maybe a business success.  There was much laughter and toasting.  Some stood, glasses held high, nodding at the man at the head of the table.

      The Jefe was heavy-set, balding on top with whatever hair was left tied in a ponytail that ran past the collar of his shirt.  He had pock-marked leathery skin that was scared and grooved, in all an ugliness that was almost mythical, but sharp-eyed and attentive of every gesture.  He smiled in recognition of the respect afforded him.

      Those at the affair were well-dressed in conservative, but expensive clothes and fine jewelry.  Their laughter could be heard halfway across the plaza.

      There was constant toasting with Tequila shots, arms raised, all offering Salud to the others at the table.  Waiters rushed to and from the kitchen and the bar, refilling empty glasses and bringing new dishes of meats, fish and specialties of the house.

      A flock of birds took off from the many trees interspersed through the courtyard.  It didn’t mean much to the untrained observer.  But for Paul, it was a warning.  Then he caught them out of the corner of his eye, before people realized what was happening. 

      Federales came in from both sides of the plaza and were converging on the restaurant like moths to a bright light.

      The men at the long table reached underneath and drew out automatic weapons: large caliber, military issue.

      Several of the hombres flipped the table on its end and took refuge behind the heavy wooden frame.

      La gente in the courtyard quickly realized that the drug war had come to their small piece of sanctuary.  There was much screaming as men and women scooped up their young children and ran for safety.  Yet every avenue of escape was in the line of fire.

      Paul, Lydia and the children ducked behind a statue, providing as much protection as an umbrella in a hurricane.  They were waiting to see when and how they could evade the tumult safely.

      Automatic fire opened up, started by the party-goers.  Not the burping sound of Uzis, but the clacking noise of heavier-gauge guns: Kalashnikovs, M-16s and M-4s.

      The Federales took cover behind trees, statues and the corner of buildings and fired back at the narcotraficantes.  Poorly trained soldiers, using inferior weapons against professional sicarios with the most deadly firearms.

      The table the bandidos took refuge behind was two-inch thick hardwood.  Each shot knocked a chip out of the wood, doing about as much damage as termites on a concrete building.  Not nearly enough of a threat to flush the men out.

      On the other side, each shot from the cartel took out chunks of stone from the statues and broke limbs off the trees the Federales used for cover; their protection was being whittled away.  In the war of attrition, the narcos were winning.

      The bad guys had better cover.  But it was a standoff as more Federal troops poured into the plaza.

      Hundreds of people were trapped in the center of the square.  Parents clutched their children to their breasts, folding their bodies over their young ones, willing to die in their place.

      Cries rose up from every corner.  Several people attempted to escape but were hit by errant bullets.  The rest cowered down.

      Paul...the children!  What should we do? Lydia asked while David and Carrie attempted to hide in the folds of her dress.

      Paul reached behind his back, pulled out an H&K fifteen-shot hand gun, took off the safety and grabbed a second magazine from the pocket of his cargo pants.  Then, turning toward Lydia, with a smile of reassurance that belied the seriousness of the situation.  We’ll get through this...together."

      He went into a crouch, pushing Lydia’s and the kids’ heads down.  The clack of automatic weapons fire going off in the enclosed courtyard sounded like a claps of lightning. 

      More Federales poured into the plaza like rushing water through a narrow funnel; the cartel party was caught in a crossfire.

      Paul saw a window of opportunity.  He jumped to his feet.  Now!  Follow me! he shouted to his family above the din of cries from the crowd.  They ran toward the edge of the plaza and the entrance to one of the big cathedrals.  Paul figured that even the worst of men would not risk a sacrilege against the church. 

      But the family had to hunker down with yet a hundred yards to the church, a million miles from safety. 

      Three Federales were lying on the ground, rifles scattered around.  They were bleeding from chest wounds and were tossing about, moaning.  That made no sense. 

      The soldiers were wearing Level 3-A bulletproof vests that could stop any normal round.  He’d file that away until later.  Meanwhile, more uniforms were moving through the plaza and toward the gunfire.

      Paul was talking fast. his mind thinking two steps ahead  Take the children to the church.  Wait for me there.

      No! she cried.  Not without you!

      I’ll have to cover you, he replied, with an assurance born from fighting bad guys on three continents.

      Come with us! Lydia pleaded, tears streaming down her face along with eyeliner.

      This isn’t the time to argue.  If I don’t slow them down, they’ll kill everyone in the plaza.  Stay low; they’re serious people who'll shoot anything they feel is a threat.

      There was assurance in his voice and it gave courage to Lydia.

      Paul grabbed Lydia’s shoulder, looked at her straight on, and smiled.  See you at the church.

      He gave Lydia a get-going push. 

      She grabbed the children and followed orders.  They weaved through the plaza, then stopped behind a large statue when the heaviest of the gunfire erupted.

      One of the bandidos raced back into the hotel attached to the restaurant.  He carried a long-barreled rifle with him.  Paul watched as the man took the steps to the upper floors two at a time.  He got to the top where he had a sweeping view of the entire plaza.  The hombre opened fire.  The Federales returned fire, but the bad guy had the angle and the protection.  He picked off the soldiers one by one. 

      Lydia looked back to Paul, uncertain as to what to do.

      Stay down, he yelled, motioning with his hands.

      She nodded her understanding.

      The shooter was one hundred feet away and fifty feet up.  All Paul had was a handgun.  A mismatch as grand as a pacifist challenging an MMA fighter.  The only thing visible was the barrel of his gun and the top of his head.  Paul came out from behind a statue, took aim at the shooter and fired.  Low and to the left. 

      The shooter shifted his position and fired down on Paul.  The shot hit the statue next to him, blasting off chips of concrete that hit Paul’s face.  He was cut and bleeding, which would not normally have bothered him, but the blood was trickling into his eyes.

      He wiped it away with his sleeve, then brought his gun up to eye level.  Paul knew that the sniper’s next bullet would be a kill shot.  He had one chance left.  Paul fired off the rest of a fifteen-shot magazine.

      Nothing. 

      Shit.

      Then the rifle dropped to the ground; the shooter’s arms reached out over the window sill in a futile effort to catch his gun; his head slumped back and he was gone.

      Gotsha, Paul said, but there was no time to celebrate.  He popped in a fresh magazine, turned to Lydia and cried out, Go, go!

      Lydia hesitated.  Paul was about to ask why when he saw the reason.  A bad guy was coming down the marble steps holding a priest in front of him, a gun to the Father’s head.

      The sicario waved a gun at Lydia and the children, forcing them to get down on their knees, out in the open with no cover whatsoever. 

      There was a narrow opening between the hombre and the priest.  Paul

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