Anastacio Crossing the Texas-Mexican border went off without a hitch. Annaliese did her thing with the border patrol agents. They didn’t ask Jorge or Sebastian any questions, nor did they ask me for an ID or passport. We’ve been driving for eight hours, and we still had three more to go. The cartel knows we’re here, because once we made it past all the traffic and into the city, they take the lead and the rear. We pass through the popular city and into the mountains until we pull into a massive gravel driveway that leads to a stone five-foot fence with a wooden gate. The armed guard at the door comes up to my window and interrogates us in Spanish, which Annaliese handles like a pro. Immediately, I can sense that he is human, which surprises me. I half expected the cart
