“I do believe I’ve contracted some horrific disease,” Trevor Davis, a well-known writer, sneered as he left the private bathroom of the hotel room he and his photographer had elected to share.

Grace McIntyre glanced up, smiling at his usual dramatics. “This hotel is much better than the one in Columbia. We have our own bathroom, at least.”

Trevor turned to her from his suitcase, his eyes boring into hers. “Did you hear the rats in the walls last night?”

“I heard something scratching the walls.” She shrugged, teasing him. “Might have been the guests next door.”

“There are no other guests. No one in their right mind would come to this God forsaken place,” he grumbled, closing his suitcase with a snap after finding the undershirt he’d been digging for.

“We’re here,” Grace pointed out. She’d been dressed and ready for more than two hours. After venturing to the lobby, she’d gathered a sparse breakfast of bottled water and canned fruit since the hotel offered no amenities, not even continental breakfast. “I brought breakfast.”

Trevor picked a can up, reading it with distaste. “I would kill for a spinach omelet and a decent cup of coffee.” He slammed it down and continued dressing, eyeing Grace lolling near the window, a hip on the oversized sill. “And it’s been established you and I are completely mad.”

Grace chuckled as she sauntered to the table and picked up the second can of fruit. She popped the top and began eating with her fingers. “Do you regret our chosen profession?” she asked after returning to the windowsill.

He glanced at her, rolling his eyes. “Only when I’m actually out on assignment. The writing of the articles is my passion. The gathering of information, torturous.”

“I enjoy all aspects of my job,” Grace bragged needlessly. She’d never been shy about expressing the fact that she had her dream job.

Grace was the lead photographer for the magazine they worked for, Hudson Monthly News. She not only traveled for the exclusive stories their editor/owner managed to find, she edited the majority of the photographs taken by the assistant photographers. She was the only photographer who traveled, and Trevor the only writer. Their magazine was small but popular, specifically because they did stories the major newspapers and magazines chose to ignore. And more than once, Trevor’s article accompanied by Grace’s photos had been picked up by national magazines.

Their current story had taken them into Mexico. They were staying in Matamoros, which was just across the border from Brownsville, Texas. It was a hot spot for the drug cartels, and drugs and guns crossed the border like a river running under a bridge. The small towns and villages were hit hard by cartel violence, and the police, if there were any, were notoriously corrupt and helped not at all. The Mexican government had been trying to curb the cartels for decades with no luck, regardless of how many high profile arrests they’d made.

Grace had actually pitched this story to Charles Hudson, the owner and lead editor. Because she was from Texas, the story was more personal to her than it was to the others. Charles had been hesitant to grant her permission, specifically because of the violence inflicted on American civilians who visited the non-tourist areas of Mexico. He’d sent her away so he could do some research. Two days later, he sent an email denying her request to go to Mexico. Grace had sent him her own research with more sound arguments, asking him to rethink his answer. Once Trevor was on board—mostly because she’d bribed him with an expensive bottle of wine—Charles had agreed to send them and pay their expenses. They had one week to get the story and photos and get the hell out of Mexico.

“Yes, you’ve made that more than clear with your chipper attitude and irritating smile,” Trevor said, brushing his perfectly cut brown hair. His clothes were immaculate, even in Mexico, and he looked like a stylish explorer. He was always camera-ready, so Grace grabbed her camera and snapped a couple pictures as he adjusted the multi-pocketed vest he wore. He lifted an eyebrow. “Why are you taking pictures of me in this state?”

“You look sexy,” she commented drily as she snapped a few more. He was slim and fit and wore his clothes snug to show off the amount of time he spent in the gym. She had called him wiry once, and compared him to Justin Theroux, and he’d beamed with pride for a week.

“As stunning as you are, it’s a shame you’re always behind the camera,” Trevor remarked as he brushed his jacket fastidiously.

Grace scoffed, shaking her head as she glanced at the screen to see if the pictures deserved the space on her memory card. Her strawberry blonde locks were magnificent when she bothered to do something with them other than a sleeked-back ponytail. The damn hair flew in her face so often, she had considered cutting it short in a pixie style but decided her face wasn’t shaped for that. Her athletic build was a too square for a model, she thought, and she’d photographed enough of them before being hired by Charles.

“You’re ridiculous,” she pointed out as she placed her camera carefully in its bag and zipped it.

“Ridiculously fabulous!” he retorted with a snap of his fingers. “And ready to go.” He picked up his bag and wandered to the door.

“You didn’t eat,” Grace said, grabbing the extra can of fruit and two water bottles.

“I’ll eat when we get back to New York.” Trevor sniffed haughtily, frowning when he couldn’t find the key to the room. “I can’t believe this hotel has an actual key rather than a card. It’s like the 1950s.”

“It’s quaint.” She chuckled at his sneer and jiggled the key on its hotel keyring. “I’ve got it.” She readjusted her camera bag on her shoulder and followed Trevor out, glancing into the room as she did so.

Other than the fact the hotel was more than thirty years old, the room they’d reserved looked like a low-budget motel room in the US. Two double beds, a television on top of a dresser, and a desk with a chair made up the furnishings, and the typical bad landscapes decorated the walls above each bed. The most upscale hotel in Matamoros, La Cartegena, was at least clean and did have a small store where guests could purchase items such as the bottled water and fruit cans Grace had bought for breakfast.

“What kind of vehicle do we have?” Trevor asked as they walked down the stairs and into the lobby.

“Some little sedan thing, I don’t know. The rental place dropped off the keys with the clerk this morning.”

They stepped outside and found the car parked directly across from the doors of the hotel. The sickly brown paint on the car was the nicest thing about it. The thing had dents from bumper to bumper, and the windshield was laced with a spiderweb crack from a rock hitting it. They exchanged a look, and Grace climbed into the driver’s side so Trevor could pay attention to the passing villages, people, and landscapes, all part of his ritual when he wrote a story like this one.

She put the key in the ignition and turned, breathing a little easier when it started with only one try. “At least it started.”

“Ha!” Trevor exclaimed as he placed his bag disdainfully in his lap rather than on the dirty floorboard.

“Why don’t you put your bag in the back?” she asked after she put hers gently on the back seat.

He looked over his shoulder. “My bag isn’t touching that seat. A black light would certainly reveal a myriad of fluids on the upholstery.”

“You are such a snob.” She snickered as she pulled the car out of its parking place and left the hotel. “And if I were you, I’d be more worried about the fluids on your bed.”

Trevor pretended to faint, gasping and slumping dramatically against the door. With both eyes closed, he mumbled, “I won’t sleep or eat until we get back to New York. I will stand the whole time. I refuse to touch anything.”

“After the number of shit holes we’ve stayed in, I am fascinated by your attitude when it comes to this place,” she observed quietly as they bounced over potholes the size of manhole covers. “You have the map, right?”

“Yes. You’re going the right way,” he announced, pointedly ignoring her comment about his attitude.

Grace smiled to herself after glancing at her business partner and best friend. They’d been working for the magazine for almost five years and went on every excursion out of the country together. More than once, they’d each been offered jobs separately, but neither had taken the offers. They enjoyed working together, even if they did stay in shit holes. This hotel was nowhere close to the worst place they’d stayed, though, but Trevor tended towards amnesia once they’d left a hovel behind. The next place was always the worst place they’d ever stayed, according to him.

“Adelaida is the name of the village, correct?” Grace asked as she passed a sign with three different names on it. Trevor grunted a yes, and she frowned. “It’s pretty damn far.”

“Yes, it is, but Adelaida is where the last cartel activity was reported and where our interviewee lives,” Trevor commented, looking up from the map and at what landscape there was to see. This area of Mexico was far from barren, but the people here were poor. The only source of money for many of them was working for the cartel, meaning that any person they encountered could be a spy and, therefore, dangerous.

After a silence, Trevor asked, “Did you get the pistol?”

“It’s in my backpack,” Grace told him.

She was licensed to carry a weapon in Texas, and because of that, felt comfortable carrying a gun into situations that might prove dangerous. Getting her gun into Mexico had been impossible, so she’d left it at home. However, in her travels, she’d learned ages ago that guns could be purchased without questions in places run by drug dealers. A hint from the clerk, a flash of American money, and a gun had been waiting for her in the car that morning. At the end of their trip, she’d dismantle it and thrown the pieces in different trashcans around Matamoros before going to the airport.

They drove for nearly an hour before following a sign and the map onto a gravel road mostly washed away by whatever rains the area received. The research Grace had done revealed the weather was a lot like Texas weather, which made sense because it lay directly across the Rio Grande River from Brownsville. They were lucky to have come in April, when the average high was eighty-three, average low sixty-eight.

Adelaida was home to one of many Mexican prisons, and the horror stories abounded. However, Grace had discovered that the prison was the only legal employer in Adelaide, save for one bar/restaurant and a grocery store. Most of the villagers worked for the prison, were paid barely anything, and dealt with horrifically violent men who were still members of the cartels. Fights broke out constantly, bodies were buried hastily, and guards were among the dead as often as prisoners.

Men joined the cartel to avoid working at the prison, and their lives were in danger as well. The danger was of a different sort, though, and most who worked for the cartel did so for years without being bothered. As long as they did the job they were paid to do, didn’t trade sides, and kept their mouths shut, most men—and women—in the small villages felt working for the cartel was better than the abject poverty they might otherwise be subjected to.

The gravel road ended at the village, which had a population of just over a thousand. The people were poor as dirt, and some lived in squalor while others lived in prosperity. Those who had anything were employed by the Tamuas Cartel, which ‘governed’ this region.

“Before we go into the bar, you should know there is no police force,” Trevor reminded her, glancing her way.

“I know. We’re pretty much on our own when we step out of the car,” she said, a buzz of fear mixed with excitement filling her ears. “I’ll put the pistol in my jacket. Hidden but accessible.”

“Make sure you park the car as close to the door of the bar as you can,” he advised, and she nodded as she navigated the car around a huge hole filled with muddy water.

To their left, a makeshift boxing ring had been erected, and a fight was in progress. Grace slowed enough to look and wished she weren’t driving so she could get pictures. The two men fighting were bloody but still swinging, and as they passed, several spectators’ heads turned in their direction. Their interest piqued, the group of twenty or so men watched as they passed, and the two fighters stopped boxing to look as well.

“Shit.” Trevor cursed again as Grace sped up, turning a corner and nearly running over two boys on bikes.

She waved at them as they moved to the side, but neither waved back, only stared at them with hostile expressions. The excitement was tipping towards anxiousness. “You talked to this guy we’re supposed to interview, right?”

“On the phone last night,” he assured her, his voice strong. “He said we’d stand out but to drive to the bar and he’d be there.”

“Yeah, okay,” Grace murmured, grateful she had a hat in her bag. She knew all too well what could happen to a pretty blonde in the middle of nowhere Mexico. She might have a gun, but she’d never had to use it and hoped today wasn’t that day.