But what does Roth want from the Salazars?

A weapon? Tonight’s trade meeting will have more on the bargaining table than tanks of water and biofuel.

That alarming thought spurs me to urge, “Drive faster!”

Mira sits practically on my lap, squeezed in Duke’s passenger seat, Owen at the wheel beside me, the rest of our five mission teammates crammed in the back. We follow Matías and the People’s Militia’s vans as close as a shadow.

Any faster and we’ll crash, but Owen indulges my request.

After weeks of doubt and agonizing, Roth has finally been rooted out. No more running or hiding, for either of us.

Tonight, at last, one side will win.

It will be you who falls, I send out a promise to Roth. Rage returns to my veins, hotter and more bitter than the fire I set to the Governor’s Quarters. I feel ready. Dangerous.

Lucía must sense my eagerness.

“Almost there,” she assures me.

Hands drumming on the steering wheel, Owen drives us skillfully down a remote dirt road, straight for the saddle-shaped profile of the Cerro de la Silla mountain.

“You are positive this leads to an airfield?” Alexander challenges, skeptically scanning our surroundings through the window. Even though Owen, his only ally within our team, has returned, Alexander has become more high-strung than ever.

“Lucía already said this is the route, didn’t she?” Skye bristles. “So sit back, shut up, and enjoy the ride.”

“I will not shut up,” Alexander spits back. “It bears repeating that Matías himself said he’s uncertain of the amount of stolen biofuel the militia has left in their stores. We should be driving to Mexico City, not taking this risk.”

“No, bud, I think the risk is ten hours of driving on Mexican highways,” Owen says. He manages to keep his tone light, ever the mediator.

Before Alexander can argue further, Mira, far less patient, snaps, “Do you want to get there in time or not?”

“Remember: same team, same goals,” Owen presses, holding up his arms for peace.

“Hands on the wheel,” Haven says.

“Right, of course, safety first,” Owen responds, immediately grabbing the ten and two positions, before shifting a quick glance at me.

I wish he’d take off his hat so I could see his eyes. Maybe then I’d know what he was trying to tell me with that look.

“The militia are signaling to us,” Barend warns from the rear of the car. Ahead, the lead van’s taillights flash on and off twice.

“On it,” Owen says, slowing the car as we curve around a series of twisty hairpin turns that take us deeper into the jagged desert mountains.

Seated on the floorboards behind our passenger seat, Haven has turned pale. Sweat shines on her high forehead and she clutches her stomach.

“Look out the windshield,” I advise her. “Pick a stable object—it will help with the motion sickness.”

“There’s nothing stable about this drive,” Owen quips happily. He’s in his element. Out on the open road, his team by his side, adventure ahead.

I’ve never seen him more excited than when Lucía told us about the People’s Militia’s small fleet of Cessna airplanes. Our ride to Mexico City.

But my sister didn’t look nearly as thrilled as Owen. She still doesn’t. I cover her hand to stop her from cracking her knuckles.

“You traveled across the sea in a shipping container at the bottom of a boat to cross back into the States,” I remind her. “This will be nothing compared to that.”

“A ship, not a boat,” Alexander clarifies. I feel Mira tense, hankering to throw out a barb about Alexander becoming a wealthy shipping businessman after fleeing his life in Dallas. But I squeeze her hand in caution: Let it go.

Owen turns down a final bend in the dirt road, and then all at once we’ve entered a sweeping desert valley, edged on all sides by serrated cliffs. The flat, V-shaped floor is covered in white-tipped Mexican feathergrass.

The perfect place for an unregistered airfield.

“Uh, not to ask the obvious . . . but where exactly is the runway?” Owen questions.

“You’re looking at it,” Lucía answers, pointing to a long strip of dry desert wash that’s been cleared of vegetation.

Four twin-engine planes make their way out of a camouflaged hangar to the start of the runway, dust billowing in their wake like earthbound thunderclouds.

“These are drug planes,” Barend says, reproachful.

We take in the sheet-metal birds in uneasy silence.

The seven-passenger aircraft have high, modified wings so they can take off from short strips, and metal plates attached under their engines to protect them from gravel. I note the extra-large tires, ideal for landing on rocky terrain, and the homemade fuel tanks peeking out from behind the seats.

Barend is right. These are smugglers’ planes.

I remember hearing Roth brag at one of Father’s work parties about how many drug planes his Texas State Guard had shot down at his Big Fence. He relished in comparing his legacy fleet of Golden Eagles to the inferior Cessna planes in fanatic detail. Every guest listened with rapt attention, a requirement if the person wanted to keep their position in his cabinet.

Now I know that was all a cover-up. A show for the public. Roth was really in alliance with the Salazar cartel all along. I bet he let them fly their Cessnas straight over the border and into Texas without ever firing a single shot.

“Where did you get the planes?” Owen asks Lucía, fascinated.

He lifts the bill of his cap, gaping at the small aircraft with a machine-buff’s appraising eye. “They’re old models, yeah, but anything with wings still costs a fortune.”

“The capo has a fleet five times larger than the entire Mexican air force itself,” Lucía says.

Owen shakes his head in awe as he parks Duke beside the militia’s vans outside the hangar.

“Over the years, the militia collected the cons’ scraps,” she continues, “and raided their smaller bases for the parts they still lacked.”

Skye’s head pops up beside Lucía’s. “Impressive.”

Alexander grunts. “Rebellions require an exhaustive replenishing of funds to stay alive . . . and not all have a Ciro Cross at their disposal,” he says, suspicion in his voice.

“Keep Ciro’s name out of your mouth,” Barend advises Alexander, pressing a finger into his chest.

“Tell me, Lucía, is the People’s Militia really a proxy outfit for a rival cartel?” Alexander pushes, unfazed by Barend’s threats. “Did Matías strike a deal with a lesser evil to fight a shared enemy?”

He thinks the People’s Militia is funded by cartel money. My own counsel comes rushing back to me, ideals I told myself in the War Room after I escaped prison. It matters how we get our power . . . We won’t be able to wipe off the blood if we compromise.

Lucía lets the accusation hang in the air. She watches, silent, as Matías shepherds his people out of the vans, splitting them into groups for the planes.

“Murder, kidnapping, starvation, thirst. That is daily life for the people who live in Salazar territory,” Lucía says, hot-blooded. “Matías was tired of hearing the people’s cries for help go unanswered.”