hey walked across one of the bridges and presented their drivers’ licenses, which was all that was required for tourists staying inside the border free-zone. He hooked his cell phone off his belt and made a brief call; within ten minutes, a grinning teenager drove up in a slightly rusted brown Chevrolet pickup. Diaz passed him a folded twenty-peso banknote, and the teenager tossed him the keys, then turned and took off into the crowd.

This truck sat higher than the other one did, and when she opened the door, she looked for a handle to help her pull herself up. Before she could manage the feat in a skirt, Diaz stepped behind her, put his hands on her waist, and lifted her onto the seat.

She settled herself in the seat and buckled up while he went around and vaulted behind the wheel. She was shaking inside, her nerves knotted. “Maybe the man’s sister?” she asked.

“I don’t know for certain. We’ll find out.” He leaned over and opened the glove box, took out a big, holstered automatic and laid it on the seat beside him.

“How did you find her?”

“It doesn’t matter how,” he said briefly, and she understood. His informants were his own, as were his methods. She didn’t want to look too closely at either.

He deftly navigated through Juarez’s noisy, crowded streets, going deeper and deeper into a neighborhood so rough she didn’t know whether to weep with pity or duck down in the seat and hide. She was glad Diaz was armed, and she wished she were, too. The streets were narrow and crowded, with ramshackle buildings and shanties pressing in on each side, and trash littering the ground. Sullen-faced men and teenage boys stared at her with unconcealed resentment and vicious intent, but when they noticed the man driving the truck, they quickly looked away.

She said, “I think your reputation precedes you.”

“I’ve been here before.”

And done considerable damage, judging from the way these people were reacting to the sight of him.

Battered and rusty vehicles lined the street Diaz drove on now, but he found a gap big enough to wedge the truck in. He got out, strapped the holster around his thigh, and checked how the automatic was seated. Satisfied, he came around the truck and opened her door. After he lifted Milla down from the seat and locked the doors, he made eye contact with a man sullenly watching them from ten yards away, and made a brief motion with his head.

Warily the man approached. “If my truck is unharmed when we return,” Diaz said in rapid Spanish, “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars, American. If it is harmed, I will find you.”

The man nodded rapidly, and took up his sentry position guarding the truck.

Milla didn’t ask if the precaution was necessary; she knew it was. The pistol, however—“Should you wear the pistol out in the open? What if the Preventivos see you?” They were the Mexican equivalent of regular beat cops.

He snorted. “Look around. Do you think they come here very often? Besides, I want it where everyone can see it, and where I can get to it in a hurry.”

The thigh holster made him look like some modern-day outlaw; even the way he walked—loose-limbed, perfectly balanced—seemed like a throwback to some rougher, more violent time. She could easily imagine him with bandoliers crisscrossed on his chest and a bandanna pulled up to cover the lower half of his face.

He set an easy pace as he wound through a warren of increasingly small and nasty alleys. She clutched her bag tightly in front of her and stayed close to him, but he must not have thought she was staying close enough, because he reached out with his left hand and caught her right wrist, pulling her to him. He tucked her hand inside his belt. “Hold on, and don’t stray.”

As if, she thought.

She tried to watch where she stepped; since she was wearing sandals, she was doubly concerned. Evidently his definition of “You’re fine as you are” differed from hers. She would much rather be wearing pants and boots—and a Kevlar vest, if she had the choice—while she waded through trash and other things she didn’t stop to identify.

His right hand was on the butt of the pistol, not gripping it, just resting lightly in a way that said he was ready to use it. He turned down an alley even narrower than all the rest and came to a door that had once been painted blue, but only specks of paint remained, and some holes in it had been patched with pieces of cardboard that were duct-taped in place. He rapped on the rotted wood frame, and waited.

She heard scuffling noises from inside; then the door opened a tiny crack and one dark eye peered out. The owner of the eye made a muffled sound of alarm, as if she recognized him.

“Lola Guerrero,” he said, the tone of his voice making it a command.

“Si,” the woman said cautiously.

Diaz reached out and pushed the door open. The woman squeaked a protest and retreated a few steps, but when he didn’t come into her home, she hesitated, looking back at him. He didn’t say anything, just waited. The light was dim inside the little room, but still Milla could see the anxious look the woman darted at her. Perhaps she was reassured by the presence of another woman, though, because she muttered, “Pase,” and motioned them inside.

The smell inside was sour. A single naked lightbulb burned in a small lamp in a corner, and an old electric fan with metal blades and no guard whirred noisily as it stirred the air. Lola herself looked to be in her mid- to late sixties, with plump, shiny skin that said her room might be a dump but she was getting enough to eat.

More money appeared in Diaz’s hand, and he offered it to the woman. Warily she eyed his outstretched hand, then snatched the money as if afraid he would think better of offering it. “You have a brother,” he said in Spanish. “Lorenzo.”

He had an interesting interrogation technique, Milla thought. He didn’t ask questions; he made statements, as if he already knew the facts.

A bitter expression crossed the woman’s face. “He is dead.”

Milla was still holding Diaz’s belt, and her hand tightened convulsively on the leather. So this was another trail that led only to a blank wall. She bowed her head, fighting the urge to howl in pain and protest. As if sensing her distress, Diaz reached back and pulled her to his side, tucking her within the circle of his arm and absently patting her shoulder.

“Lorenzo worked with a man named Arturo Pavón.”

Lola nodded, and spat on the floor, which made Milla think even less of her housekeeping than before. Hatred darkened Lola’s face. A flood of Spanish poured out, too fast for Milla to completely follow, but she gathered that Pavón had either killed Lorenzo or been the cause of his death, and that Pavón was one of any number of unsavory animals who performed sexual acts with assorted other animals and also with his mother.

Lola Guerrero didn’t like Pavón.

When Lola’s invective finally ran down, Diaz said, “Ten years ago this woman’s baby was stolen by Pavón.”

Lola’s gaze darted to Milla, and Lola said softly, “I am sorry, señora.”

“Gracias.” Lola must have children of her own; her gaze had carried the instant, almost universal link between mothers that said, I understand this pain.

“She was injured in the attack, stabbed in the back by a man I believe was Lorenzo,” Diaz continued. “Your brother was known for his knife work; his specialty was going for a kidney.”

Oh, my God. Milla shuddered at the realization that the man who’d stabbed her had been trying to hit her kidney. She wanted to bury her face in Diaz’s shoulder, shut out the ugliness that surrounded her.

Diaz paused, his cold eyes raking over Lola. “You used to care for the babies who were stolen,” he said. Milla went rigid, her head snapping up. Lola had been part of the gang? The woman’s expression hadn’t been one of commiseration, but of guilt. Milla heard a low growl, and in shock realized it came from her own throat. Diaz’s arm tightened around her, clamping her to his side and preventing her from moving.

“My friend clawed out Pavón’s eye as she was fighting for her baby. Lorenzo would at least have told you about it, even if you did not see Pavón yourself. You would remember this, remember the baby.”

Lola’s gaze darted from Diaz to Milla and back, as if she was trying to decide who was the greatest threat. Like all rodents, she had a sound instinct for preservation, and decided on Diaz. She stared at him, frozen in alarm that he knew so much. She would have lied; Milla saw her consider it, saw the thoughts chasing across her expression as clearly as if she spoke aloud. But Diaz stood as still as a rock, waiting, and Lola had no way of knowing what he already knew and what he didn’t. Either way, she must have figured he would see through any lie. She swallowed, and muttered, “I remember.”

“What did you do with the baby?”

Milla’s nails dug into his chest as she waited, unable to breathe, for the answer.

“There were five of them,” Lola said. “They were flown across the border that day. The gringo baby was the last one brought in.” She spared a cautious look at Milla. “There was much trouble about him; the police were looking for him; we could not wait.”

Flown out. Milla squeezed her eyes shut. “Did the plane crash?” she asked in a hoarse tone.

Lola brightened at being able to impart some good news. “No, no, that was later. Different babies.”

Not Justin. He was alive. Alive! After all these years, she finally knew for certain. A sob caught in her throat and now she did bury her head against Diaz, almost breaking down at the release of an unspoken, unceasing tension that had held her for ten years. He made a low, wordless sound of comfort, then returned his attention to Lola.

“Who was in charge of stealing the babies? Who owned the plane? Who paid you?”

She blinked at the barrage of questions. “Lorenzo paid me. I was paid from his portion.”

“Who was the boss?”

She shook her head. “That I do not know. He was a rich gringo; he owned the plane. But I never saw him, or heard his name. Lorenzo was very careful; he said his throat would be cut if he told. This gringo, he told Pavón how many babies he needed, and Pavón found them.”

“Stole them,” Milla corrected violently, her voice muffled against Diaz’s shirt.

“What happened to Lorenzo?” Diaz asked.

“His throat was cut, señor. By Pavón. Just as he said it would be. He did not talk to me, but he must have said something to someone else. Lorenzo, he was always stupid. His throat was cut as a warning to others not to talk.”

“Who else knew anything about the rich gringo?”

Lola shook her head. “I knew only Lorenzo, and Pavón. They said it was best. I do know there was another woman helping them, a gringa, but they never said her name. She did something with the paperwork that said where the babies were born.”

“Do you know where she was? What state?”

Lola waved a vague hand. “Across the border. Not Texas.”

“New Mexico?”

“Perhaps. I don’t remember. Sometimes I tried not to listen, señor.”

“Do you know where the rich gringo lived?”

Alarm flashed across her face. “No, no. I know nothing about him.”

“You heard something.”

“Truly, no. Lorenzo thought he lived in Texas, perhaps even El Paso, but he did not know for certain. Pavón knows, but Lorenzo never did.”

“Have you heard where Pavón might be?”

Lola spat again. “I have no interest in that pig.”

“Take an interest,” Diaz advised her. “I will perhaps feel more friendly if you have information about Pavón when I return.”

Lola looked horrified at the idea of Diaz returning. She looked wildly around her cluttered, nasty, dark little room, as if wondering how fast she could pack up her things and disappear.

Diaz gave a slight shrug. “You can run,” he said. “But why bother? If I want to find you, Lola Guerrero, I will. Eventually. And I never forget who helps me, and who does not.”

Lola nodded her head very fast. “I understand, señor. I will be here. And I will listen for news.”

“Do that.” Diaz loosened his arm that was around Milla, turning her toward the door.

Milla dug in her heels, glancing back at the woman who had helped steal her baby. “How could you do it?” she asked, pain lacing every word. “How could you help them steal children from their mothers?”

Lola shrugged. “I am a mother, too, señora. I am poor. I needed the money to feed my own babies.”

She was lying. As old as Lola was now, even ten years ago her youngest child would have been, if not grown, at least an adolescent. Milla stared at her, frozen in place by fury that roared through her with the force of an avalanche. She could have at least understood if there had been babies to feed, but obviously Lola had done it purely for the money. This was no victim, no poor and desperate mother doing whatever she could to feed her children. This woman was as bad as her brother Lorenzo, as Pavón. She had been part and parcel of the scheme, a willing participant in robbing grieving mothers all over Mexico of their babies.

“You lying bitch,” Milla said through clenched teeth, and hurled herself toward the woman.

She must have telegraphed her intentions, because Lola sidestepped and quick as a flash had Milla’s arm twisted up behind her and a knife at her neck. “Stupid,” she hissed in Milla’s ear, and the knife pressed harder. Milla felt the cold sting on her neck.

Then there was a faint snick, the sound of a safety being thumbed off, and Lola froze in place.

“It seems your family has a propensity for the knife,” Diaz said very softly, his voice scarcely more than a rustle. “Mine, however, has a propensity for bullets.”

Off balance in more ways than one, Milla cut her eyes to the left and saw Diaz holding that big pistol flush against Lola’s temple. There was no quiver in his hand, no uncertainty in his eyes; instead they were narrowed in cold rage. “You have to the count of one to drop the knife. On—”

He didn’t wait even that long for her to drop it. His left hand snaked out, caught Lola’s hand, and twisted it down and away from Milla. There was an odd sound like a brittle branch snapping and Lola went rigid, a long, strangled moan reverberating in her throat. The knife clattered to the filthy floor and that lightning-fast hand transferred to Milla, snatching her to his side, holding her there with an iron grip on her arm. All the while the pistol in his right hand remained pointed at Lola’s head.

Lola reeled backward, keening and holding her hand. “You broke it,” she moaned, sinking down on a rickety chair.

“You’re lucky I didn’t take the knife from you and carve out your eyes,” he said, still in that soft, soft tone. “You cut my friend. That makes me unhappy. Are we even, do you think? Or do I owe you more, perhaps another bone—”

“I will find out whatever you need to know,” Lola babbled, rocking back and forth and staring at him in horror. She was no longer watching the pistol, but him, and Milla could understand why. His face was terrifying in its stillness, with only his eyes alive, glittering with rage. She could feel the force of his anger in the coiled strength of his body, hear it in the almost inaudible softness of his tone. He wasn’t a man who lost control in his anger; he gained it to an even greater degree.

“You will do that anyway, señora. So I think there must be something else.”

“No, no,” Lola moaned. “Please, señor. I will do anything you ask.”

He tilted his head as if considering. “I don’t know what I want, yet. I’ll think about it and let you know.”

“Anything,” she said again, half weeping. “I swear.”

“Remember this,” he said, “and remember that I don’t like it when anyone harms my friends.”

“I will, señor! I will!”

Diaz all but dragged Milla out of the room, and hustled her down the alley. She grabbed his belt again, hooking her fingers in it in a death grip, and pressed her other hand to her stinging throat. Warm blood wet her fingers, dripped through them. He glanced over his shoulder at her, his gaze going to her neck. “We need to get that cut cleaned and bandaged. It isn’t deep, but it’s making a mess of your dress. Keep your hand over it.”

The truck was right where they’d left it, with the sullen man standing guard. He straightened when he saw them coming, and his expression changed to alarm when he noticed the blood on Milla’s neck and dress, as if he might somehow be found at fault for whatever had happened. Diaz handed over the folded hundred dollars, then fished out his keys and unlocked the door. He lifted her in, nodded to the man, and went around to the driver’s side.

“We’ll go to Wal-Mart,” he said. “I can pick up something for you to wear as well as an antibiotic and bandages.”

The Wal-Mart was on Avenue Ejército Nacional. She sat with her fingers pressed to the cut on her throat as he worked their way out of the slum. “What exactly did you do to her hand?” she asked. He’d moved so fast she wasn’t certain, plus she’d been a tad distracted; had he crushed it with a quick, hard squeeze?

Diaz glanced at her. “I broke her right thumb. It’ll be a while before she can hold a knife again.”

Milla shivered, sharply aware all over again of the kind of man he was.

“I had to,” he said briefly, and she understood. Fear was his greatest ally. Fear was what made people talk to him when they wouldn’t talk to anyone else. Fear gave him an edge, an opening; it was a weapon in itself. And to earn that fear, he had to be willing to back it up with action.

“She’ll run,” she said.

“Maybe. But I’ll find her if she does, and she knows it.”

They reached the Wal-Mart, and she sat in the truck with the motor running and the air-conditioning on—and the doors locked—while he went in to buy what he needed. He returned in no more than ten minutes, proving that the shoppers inside had taken one look at him and realized he belonged at the front of the checkout line. At least he’d removed the thigh holster before he went in, she thought, or there would have been wholesale panic.

He had a bottle of water, a package of gauze pads, a tube of antibiotic salve, first-aid tape, some butterfly bandages, and a cheap skirt and blouse. She started to say she’d just put the blouse on over her dress to cover the bloodstains; then she looked down and realized the blood had dripped on her skirt, too.

He drove into the parking lot behind the store, away from the crowd of shoppers, and parked the truck facing away from the lot to give them as much privacy as possible. She started to tear open the package of gauze, but he took everything from her and said, “Just sit still.”

He wet one of the gauze pads and put it over the cut, then took her hand and pressed it there. “Hold that.” She did, pressing firmly to staunch the bleeding that had slowed but not completely stopped. He wet several more of the pads and began wiping her neck and chest, washing away the dried blood. His fingers dipped impersonally down the front of her dress, down to the edge of her bra.

“Okay, now let me see,” he said, taking her hand away from the cut. He peeled back the gauze pad and grunted with satisfaction. “It isn’t bad. You don’t need any stitches, but I bought some butterfly bandages just to be on the safe side.”

He applied the antibiotic salve, then a couple of butterfly bandages to hold the edges of the cut together. Then he taped a gauze pad over the butterflies to further protect the cut. When he was finished, he said, “Use the rest of these pads to wash your hands and arms before you change clothes.”

She complied, glad to get the blood off of her, but she said, “I don’t need to change clothes; I can go home like this.”

“You’re going to cross the border in bloody clothes? I don’t think so. And we’re going to get something to eat before we cross back over.”

She was so frazzled she’d forgotten about the border crossing. She finished cleaning her arms, then took the skirt and blouse out of the bag and tore off the price tags. “Turn your back.”

He gave a low laugh and got out of the truck, standing with his back to the window. She sat for a moment, blinking in astonishment. Had he actually laughed? He’d said he did, but she hadn’t really believed him, and now she’d heard it for herself.

Dear God. He’d had his arm around her, his hand down the front of her dress. She’d had her head on his shoulder, her nails digging into his chest.

Intimacy was a slippery slope, with one thing leading to another, and without thinking, today she had slid dangerously close to peril. His arm around her had felt too natural; his shoulder had been too comforting and right there, as if meant for her use.

Hurriedly, she pulled her dress up and skimmed it off over her head, then donned the blouse and wiggled into the skirt. Both were a little tight, but they would do until she could get home. When she was dressed, she leaned over and rapped her knuckles on the window, and he got back into the truck.

“What would you like to eat?”

Her insides were shaky, telling her that she needed to eat something, even if she wasn’t certain she could hold a fork. “Anything. Fast food will do.”

Instead of a fast-food restaurant, he stopped at a fonda, one of the many small, family-run restaurants. There were three tables outside on a small shaded patio, and he led her there. The waiter, a tallish young man, politely did not look at the bandage on Milla’s neck. She ordered tuna empanaditas and bottled water; Diaz went for the enchiladas and a dark beer.

While they waited for their food, she played with her napkin, folding and refolding it. She fidgeted with her blouse, because it was tighter than she liked. Then, because she couldn’t ignore him and she knew he was silently watching her, she said, “You’re very at home here.”

“I was born in Mexico.”

“But you said you’re an American citizen. When did you get your citizenship?”

“I was born with it. My mother was American. She just happened to be in Mexico when I was born.”

So he had dual citizenship, just like Justin.

“And your father?”

“Is Mexican.”

She’d noticed he said “was” when talking about his mother, and “is” when it concerned his father. “Your mother is dead?”

“She died a couple of years ago. I’m fairly certain they weren’t married.”

“Do you know your father very well?”

“I lived with him half the time when I was growing up. That was better than living with my mother. What about you?”

Evidently that was all the small talk he was prepared to make about himself. Tit for tat, though, so she told him about her family, and the rift between her and her brother and sister. “It’s hard on Mom and Dad,” she said. “I know it is. But I just can’t be around Ross or Julia now without—” She shook her head, unable to find the right word. She didn’t want to hurt either of them, yet at the same time she wanted to bang their heads against something.

“Do they have children?” he asked.

“Both of them. Ross has three, Julia has two.”

“Then they should be able to understand how you feel.”

“But they don’t. Maybe they can’t. Maybe you have to actually lose a child before you really understand. It’s as if part of me is missing, as if there’s nothing but a great big hole where he used to be.” She bit her lip, refusing to cry in public. “I can no more stop looking for him than I can stop breathing.”

Diaz regarded her with those somber eyes, eyes that saw straight through to the core. Then he leaned over the small table, cupped her chin in his hand, and kissed her.