For a while, anyway. Until his work got them all killed.

Joe flipped over again, sending the sheet flying off his body. He felt hot. Enraged. He felt that familiar black hole in his gut, and knew he'd never find a way to fill it.

It had been the assignment of a lifetime. Their job was to infiltrate Guzman's Albuquerque cell and get enough evidence to take down the entire organization. The cartel was suspected of smuggling huge quantities of cocaine, marijuana, and methamphetamines into the country and distributing it all over the western United States. He and Steve soon learned the group had expanded its reach by subcontracting to deliver Colombian heroin as well.

It took them ten months to worm their way into the good graces of Guzman's men, making several small buys of cocaine and heroin. Their money was clean. Their word was good. They earned the dealers' trust. And the team did a meticulous job of documenting every encounter, every meeting, every word exchanged. The result was that even if they never caught Guzman himself in the act, the U.S. attorneys had enough evidence to nail the elusive drug lord.

Joe had never met Guzman during his two-year assignment in Mexico City but knew all about him. He was in his early fifties, a man who'd been born in the fetid slums of Ciudad Ju amp;rez on the U.S. border and had worked his way up in the ranks of organized crime.

He earned a reputation for killing anyone who looked at him funny. He had a large and loyal following of men who knew that if they made one misstep, their families would die. It's how any tyrant won respect-with fear. Absolute fear.

Joe laced his fingers together behind his head and let the memory of Steve's murder flood his brain.

They'd been hanging with Guzman's men that evening, putting the finishing touches on the deal that was supposed to go down the next morning. Guzman was already in town to supervise the transaction-fifty kilos of cocaine for $5 million. In hours, they'd catch him orchestrating the sale, on videotape.