No Rules. Just Victims.

The bellboy wrangled a fine piece of ass for Ransome Farrell. Accustomed to dealing with gringo businessmen the kid used one smooth bilingual patter.

After suggesting an obligatory bottle of whiskey and setups, the boy seamlessly advanced the likelihood of very compliant female company. Or if the well-tailored guest were so bent, a certain kind of young man.

The prissy head clerk jockeying the reception desk probably saw such tawdriness as affronts to his position. Mixed somewhere in his injured dignity was an adage concerning little power swelling small people. Above it all as the head man might've professed, Farrell never doubted he raked his percentage from those working girls (or boys) plying their upstairs.

The idea of such "relaxation" agreed with Farrell. It punctuated leaving Argentina and arriving in Mexico.

His North American return lacked drama. Pilot, co-pilot and sexy flight attendant shared an Embraer with him. The woman hinted at being the mothering kind. If he hadn't spotted the wedding ring circling her finger, the jet's cabin offered spaciousness enough for incestuous relations.

Farrell's paucity of luggage merited no raised eyebrows at reception. Most of the clothes he'd bought and worn in Buenos Aires remained there as donations. In the garment bag he brought pressed several suits, dress shirts and one thin supple black leather jacket. His leather carry-on held shoes and shaving kit. Other than the last item everything else originated from descendant Milanese tailors or cobblers. They'd get little use in Solipaz, Mexico.

Needing more practical clothing he'd forwarded a list to the New York office. Someone should've retrieved those items from his apartment and shipped them. Indeed the hotel clerk verified that suitcases waited in his room. A package also.

He signed in under his Argentine passport. Knowing how Latino staffs gossiped, especially at lofty addresses, Farrell assumed kinship might lower certain cultural hurdles. As an "Argentine" he'd enjoy less smiling animosity than a gringo.

The purple and gold embossed document presented shook the clerk's sangfroid. Throat-clearing got his associates' attention. They raised eyebrows and nodded approvingly.

In his room, Farrell tipped the boy as if he'd descended from River Plate fans. Greenbacks for doing nothing more than toting two light bags cemented the kid's lifelong service. Farrell asked him to fetch a bottle of bourbon, top shelf, then in an hour deliver some companionship. The boy asked for preferences, if any.

"Docile, female, and dark," Farrell said.

Grinning, the boy nodded vigorously. Farrell assumed not only did his facilitator already have one selected, but that their criteria jibed. They were simpatico on the elemental level.

While the kid retrieved Farrell's first necessity, the guest inventoried his shipment. Whoever went through his apartment closets and drawers did a good job. The essentials were there. Jeans. Work shirts. Bolo ties. Shitkickers. Rodeo belt buckles. Neckerchiefs. The requisite straw hat he'd buy after meeting with Grady, the facility manager.

After filling his wardrobe, Farrell opened a brown papered package. It held altogether different contents. A .38 and a 9 mm along with respective boxes of cartridges and holsters. Given he'd most certainly be an interloper amid less than genteel barrios, moreover adding Solipaz' narcotraficante wildcards, brandishing a sidearm was a good thing. During daytime he hoped only flashing his nine iron sufficed scaring any hard cases. At sunset such courtesy vanished. He'd resort to the .38 as backup bang.

Before securing his weapons, Farrell certified they worked properly, their serial numbers were filed and both had been cleaned. Done, the boy returned with his liquor and fixings. Before leaving, the bellboy reminded Farrell his "relajación" would arrive shortly. Alone, Farrell rattled several ice cubes into a tall glass, busted the bottle seal and poured many fingers. The pulls he rewarded himself jolted his stomach, seared his throat, and completely reestablished his North American frame of mind.

A shower abetted by the room's air conditioning further invigorated him. It was strange seeing water drain counterclockwise again. A towel girded his waist. Refreshed drink in hand Farrell stretched across the bed. Via TV remote he flipped through digital Southern Arizona evening news broadcasts.

Knuckles gently rapped against the door. Farrell rolled off the bed and cinched the towel tighter around his waist just in case housekeeping or maintenance waited outside. No. It was her.

Farrell guessed she'd migrated north. From Oaxaca or Chiapas perhaps. Who knew? Maybe even Guatemala. Lovely Indian features burnished by eons of sun looked up in mutual appraisal. Naturally she glimpsed through abyss-deep black eyes and offered dazzling white smiles. Betel-brown as she was, he found it good she neither permed nor streaked the pure raven plummeting between her shoulder blades. Best of all she hadn't skewed her complexion by smearing her lips garish and glossy.

The woman called herself Janey. Who was he to dispute that?

Janey's outfit left zero room for his imagination to deviate. A short orange strapless dress clung to her. Carelessly slung around her wasp waist one leather and silver change purse. Compact as she was, white open-toed heels raised her ass besides elongating and helping define legs.

By Janey's surprised-into-pleased expression, she'd expected some fat pasty gringo. That Farrell, distinguished looking, was tall, lean and apparently fit lent this assignment certain possibilities. He watched how Janey transformed entering his room into a kinetic exercise. Farrell shut the door.

Air conditioning stippled Janey's nipples. Both crowns stained through the orange fabric. Farrell offered her a drink. She declined.

"I don't blame you," he said. "It's a nasty habit."

He polished off his drink in two gulps.

Janey sidled against him. She exuded jungle heat. He clasped her upper arms. Her muscle mass was spare but firm.

Short thin fingers dug between skin and linen then pulled until the towel rested across carpet. Easing out of his pinion, Janey stepped back. Her gaze reminded him of livestock evaluations. She reached across and jiggled his dick which shook his balls. Both grinned at her teasing.

Janey stepped out of her heels, shrinking substantially. Unclasping the chain around her waist, she held onto the purse instead of placing it on some surface. The woman turned, swept luxuriant hair off her back and asked Farrell to unzip her dress. After the zipper sunk no farther, Janey shimmied that garment to the floor. The black thong providing minimal modesty wasn't removed so much as discarded. She faced Farrell and he absorbed her glory.

Poky nipples dominated high-riding tits. A modest silver cross hanged between her breasts. An unblemished belly and manicured pube highlighted Janey's lathed body. Farrell's rearing cock confirmed approval.

Janey walked to the bed and yanked back the counterpane. Out of her purse she withdrew a rubber. Purse now resting on the nearest beside table, she spread her cocoa body upon vanilla sheets. Farrell tugged his dick rigid then clambered next to her.

Bony fingers unfurled latex along his rod. While she sheathed him, Farrell's own fingers investigated the neat carpet between Janey's thighs. Heat seeping from there suggested a blast furnace! He laughed then laughed louder upon seeing her quizzical expression.

Mood lightened, Farrell flattened Janey beneath him. Her body's density equaled its resistance. He whiffed her scent although he hadn't fingered her much. Diminutive size aside, she took his cock easier than he would've suspected. She eased his entry through routine. However, her reaction to Farrell's thrusting was anything but rote.

Young as Janey appeared, he figured she occupied her prime 20s. The calmness by which she approached her task signaled behavior by muscle memory. The nights when nerves ruled Janey or suspicion hampered her were already long gone. She'd performed often enough to be guided by habit. He gathered that through her demeanor. She comported herself in fixed manner. Farrell liked how she gently but assuredly took charge. Rather than fake enthrallment or yawn, Janey detached herself from him and the task. Or she attempted.

She responded but such was calculated. Farrell imagined that's how she endured. How all the better ones did. Especially while servicing fat, sweaty, pig-ugly clients whose sawing centered on leaving her monumentally fucked instead of deriving pleasure. Her body altered its usual message.

Farrell's strokes pounded into Janey's professionalism. He steadily kept at it. Most importantly, unlike daytripping gringos or border-crossing businessmen seeking cheap tequila or uncomplicated sex, Farrell's was sober meat desirous of filling her tight wet slit.

Janey forgot about maintaining distance. She yielded to his joyous ram and recoil. Her head lolled, eyes closed while she muttered tender nonsense. He climaxed thoughtlessly enough to have these lunges mistaken for violence.

When she came Janey shivered and sucked her teeth. Focused again, Farrell saw slyness she'd intended concealing.

Afterwards loosely nestled in his arms, Janey snored lightly. Volume set low, the flickering TV screen cast the room's only illumination. Somewhat content because Janey had been contracted until morning, Farrell would fuck her again later that night. Then tomorrow once more before showering.

Finally settled, the woman snoozing on his chest a comfort, Farrell reflected on his progression to this point.

He found it easier leaving Buenos Aires than arriving there. Improved circumstances also made his departure luxurious.

Escaping New York had been an exercise in big-city subterfuge. A friendly Justice Department source informed Roderick Quinn's legal team that subpoenas were imminent for the corporate magnate's three closest support personnel and his "special friend." Quinn's secretary Moira, his driver Coyne, and Farrell who served as the boss' chief of personal security, a suitable title for nebulous duties, should each receive summons issued by US marshals. A fourth was destined for Quinn's "sweetie," a young woman none knew but with whom all were acquainted.

Through the quartet's expected grand jury testimonies, the Justice Department intended swirling Quinn in a perjury trap.

Testifying in an unrelated matter, the corporate titan answered evasively regarding his private relationships. Since his mistresses filled spheres distinctly apart from business, Quinn believed the government had no right or reason to paw through that area. However, he'd run afoul of powers who saw the personal as political, therefore exploitable.

Initially a reluctant administration supporter, its incompetence, neglect, deceit soon soured him completely. So much so Quinn began funneling contributions to the opposition.

As Quinn told Farrell, "Being a rich turncoat was the hay bale that busted those fuckers' balls!"

Quinn imagined the administration's more vindictive shirkers and narrowbacks selecting him for particularly painful vengeance. Perhaps they thought if their retribution sufficiently public and messy the humiliation might stem future desertions. From the start Quinn understood his former champions were ideologues without honor. Nonetheless their depth of treachery surprised him.

That state of mind was short-lived.

Individually in utmost privacy he sounded out the four. Under oath they would be compelled to answer truthfully. No fudging, no forgetfulness, no coyness. Just truthful discomfort.

Quinn bluntly presented alternatives, benefits and of course consequences. To a person his closest adjuncts chose disrupting their lives for him. He was humbly grateful. Once they assented, the matter merely became putting them into motion.

Quinn's Justice conduit gave his lawyer almost simultaneous warning. Promptly alerted the four vanished.

For Farrell and Coyne, both bachelors, leaving posed no particular hardship. Sheer youth allowed Quinn's paramour to view the proceedings as an adventure. Agree as she did, forsaking home proved problematic for Moira. The secretary had a husband, one whom she loved. That man exceeded loyalty when receiving pertinent facts he possibly forfeited personal career achievements and subsequent rewards after hastily accompanying his wife into comfortable limbo.

Such fidelity astounded Farrell. Moira's husband wasn't a spouse. He was a saint! From where did such people come and where might Farrell find a female version?

Per Farrell's instructions they each added their passports to normally carried documents. When the balloon went up there would be no time to waste returning home, searching drawers or visiting safety deposit boxes. Just up and go.

Marshals intended serving those subpoenas at 6 AM, the favorite hour of warrants squads everywhere. Not only should the named be home, the time also maximized intimidation. For alleged mobsters and other RICO targets such earliness emphasized their vulnerability. Applying tough guy tactics against working people confirmed overkill, spite from immature, misguided and cowardly leadership. It was the sort of high-handedness that transformed law-abiding citizens into "outlaws."

For Quinn's employees and his present girlfriend their workdays ended as usual. A New York fact: all commuted using mass transit. Anticipating light surveillance, Farrell insisted each follow his or her routine. Save for one minor deviation. Rather than detrain at their accustomed stations, they hopped off one stop early.

At these, nondescript cars bearing phony license plates retrieved them. The rides afterwards were short. Just to the nearest enclosed garages. Beneath cover the false tags came off while the autos' contraband transferred to different vehicles. Those conveyed them to one of the Metropolitan Area's secondary or tertiary airports. Unsurprisingly, despite September 11th the relative laxity accorded these fields beggared scrutiny.

From suburban airstrips four unremarkable corporate jets filed flight plans which terminated offshore. Beyond American jurisdiction, five baggage-deficient passengers boarded regularly scheduled carriers into leisurely exile.

During both legs, the bulk of which were flown through night, the Amazon below appeared impenetrable. Gazing into inky verdure Farrell understood regardless of improved geo-positioning devices, how aircraft ditching down there still stayed lost. On his way south Caracas' lights indicated mankind's last mega multitudes for a thousand miles.

Farrell preferred his northbound return. At least that afternoon he awoke seeing arid familiarity sliding below him.

Janey discharged, the next day Farrell left the hotel's cool cocoon for natural Southwest. Mid-May morning temperature had already entered the 90s. Nothing but sun-seared air between sizzling pavement and cloudless sky. Not the best conditions under which to sport a dark suit but he had an appointment with Grady the plant manager.

A hotel shuttle bus deposited him at the facility's main gate. As on his arrival, he saw little of Solipaz proper. The bus route skirted town. Fresh road led from a heavily guarded American suburbia minor to brutal industrial modernity set amid dun scrub.

Grady himself, not some flunky, met Farrell at the security island. Balding, tall on a dense frame, Farrell reckoned the executive an easy eight years his senior. Nuts and bolts know-how as he required, Grady's face lacked a clever man's mien. An electric cart conveyed them into the maquiladora.

Inside the frigid, enormous, well-lighted building Farrell received one very basic tour. Though both quite aware of the visitor's purpose, Farrell guessed Grady figured some dog and pony might impress one of the few known to have influence on Quinn, the big boss. Farrell ought have cut this short, told Grady he wasted their time. However, it did amuse him to watch responses of the cuter women toiling on the assembly line. By them he determined who Grady had fucked, was fucking and would fuck.

The plant manager's office was Spartan. Most impressively, though, his secretary. She was matronly and efficient. In the same position, posted abroad, a less conscientious executive would've found and "cultivated" a local sex bomb who couldn't have boiled water without instruction. Clearly Grady enjoyed his fun in Mexico though not at the expense of his job.

The two men seated, Grady excavated glasses and a whiskey bottle from his desk. Farrell disdained morning boozing. He regarded it as a telling vice. Apart from its "manly" connotation, the gesture could be seen as a crutch, a boost, a dependency or weakness.

Grady poured two bracing glasses. They raised them then tossed off the spirits after toasting "Amerikey for Americans!"

"Now that the socially affable part of our day is done, what can you tell me about this little murder problem of yours?" Farrell asked.

Grady spat. "The fucking locals are fucking useless! All the mayor knows is he wants to know nothing! El jefe commandante chalks up every stiff to narcos settling disputes among themselves! Some of the more Pentecostal are accusing the Church of killing these women as blood sacrifice rituals. That's the Catholic Church, mind you, not the Aztec church. Then if that's not enough, dyke women libbers daytrip down here and disturb the paying tourists with rants against reactionary emasculated men! What the fuck!?"

Indisputably serious as the crimes were, Farrell nevertheless laughed at Grady's harangue.

Calmed, Grady asked, "So what do you think you can do about any of this?"

"Maybe hold back the dykes," Farrell said. "Let's see your pictures."

Grady walked to his safe. He withdrew an accordion file and gave it to Farrell.

"I nearly blew half the month's bribe budget getting these," Grady said. "I had to pay extra so the forensic guys would leave out dead wives, dead girlfriends and dead whores."

The bulky parcel overflowed. Its contents heaved across Grady's desktop. Heated as the report skimmed in Buenos Aires then absorbed on his northbound flight was, the photos spewed before him made those words dispassionate.

Farrell looked upon revolting consistency. Whoever committed these acts turned his, theirs, or yes, even her niche into a rut. A ghoulish rut.

In every frame jugular veins had been severed. Blood-drenched blouses were yanked shoulder-high on the torso exposing missing breasts. These had been completely cut off leaving raw circles. The women's bras were untouched by any knife blade. Instead shoulder straps had been rolled down the arms and aligned with cups along the midriff. Farther below panties exhibited the same care as upper undergarments. Skirts or pants, whole dresses, however, shared the blouses mauling. Each victim's mons had been carved and excised.

Now Farrell better comprehended Grady's Aztec reference.

"Did they ever find the women's, um ...?" Farrell asked.

"Let's just say there's a lot more unattached pussy in Solipaz than there used to be," Grady said.

The photographs' reverse sides offered rushed, careless, minimal information. Dates, locations, addresses, ages. Robbery hadn't been a motive in any case. Zircons still encircled necks or wrists. Cheaper baubles still decorated ears. Only after police processing did these personal effects likely disappear.

Single women predominated. Farrell's earlier guess proved correct. Most of the victims had migrated from the south seeking improved lives in the maquiladoras. Instead early oblivion claimed them.

Farrell stuffed the gruesome pictures back into the recalcitrant file. He looked up at Grady.