“Has there been a murder?” They pulled onto the main road.
“Take your pick, there’s one every half hour now in Mexico.”
They drove in silence past clubs and restaurants overflowing with boisterous tourists. A left turn took them away from the beach and after ten minutes the landscape began to radically change, architecturally as well as economically.
“We are heading for the Triangle of Death,” Miguel said. They were stopped at the intersection of Highway 40D. “It’s the area where highways intersect between Monterrey, Nuevo Leon Reynosa, and Nuevo Laredo.”
When the light changed, Miguel turned left. The highway sign read Durango, 252 kilometres.
“Two of the biggest cartels are at war there,” Miguel said. “They kill people in clusters.”
“How efficient of them.”
“It’s what Klein wants, what the world needs to see, multiple victims, mutilations.”
“And good images,” Freyja said.
They continued in silence focused on a strip of highway bounded by desert and stars.
“You think what is happening in Mexico is a joke?” Miguel said. His voice conveyed no anger, no accusation.
“Of course not, Miguel.” Shit, me and my smart mouth.
“Civilization balances on a knife edge. Under certain circumstances, any society can break down. The rule of law becomes the rule of the gun.”
Gunnar could relate to that, Freyja thought. In fact, he’d endorse it.
“We must help by showing the world what is happening, since they are responsible.” The lights of an oncoming car lit Miguel’s face. It was serene, fatalistic.
Freyja pulled her camera from backpack, flicked it on, turned off the internal flash, and cranked up the ISO. When the next car came by she clicked his picture. The playback was grainy but good enough to see that even in profile, with terrible lighting, he was beautiful.
“I want to help, Miguel.” She really did.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish