Aléjandro
Emiliano Ruiz drove us through the night along deserted roads in the Tijuana River Valley. The roads weren't completely deserted. A mile back we'd passed a truck, empty of merchandise with two of our men, killed. Bullet holes in the back of their heads.
“f*****g bratva," Em said, his grip of the steering wheel loosening for the first time since we'd come across the c*****e.
“We'll find them. They can't be too far ahead of us." I sent a text message to another of our drivers, telling him to watch for and report any signs of trouble. “There's a shack about a half mile down that dirt road." I pointed to the right. “If I were the assholes who intercepted our drivers, I'd try to hide out there until we moved on."
“If you knew we were coming. Nothing says they know."
“Two mill
