The farmer had never heard of the TFPD, and it was in the middle of milking, but he gave Johnson ten begrudging minutes to talk with the livestock. Special Agent Johnson, of the narcotics division of the TFPD, flicked on the megaphone, trying to project confidence into his voice, as if he already knew exactly which one was the perpetrator.

"There has been a mistake," he said over the rhythmic hiss and suck of suction cups against teats, and the gurgling of milk-filled tubes. "Several liters of suspended cocaine solution somehow found their way into the supply chain. The product you were shipping is now in superstores. Many members of the public are in hospital. Clearly, this was not the distribution network your superiors intended for you to enter."

The cows watched him, dull-eyed and impassive. Johnson would have felt ridiculous if he hadn’t already done this at half a dozen farms. The contaminated batch had been traced to a single tanker, but that tanker had made pickups from dozens of dairies, potentially thousands of heifers. The human tissue was buried so deep that genetic testing them all was unfeasible, and multiple milkings would have already flushed any trace of contaminant from the udders of the man responsible, his milk as pure as any other.

"We know that you were paid to smuggle this product over the border. We know that you were given surgery for this, and were intended to be shipped to a cartel-controlled ranch. Clearly, that hasn't happened. A misplaced ear tag, or perhaps you were branded incorrectly. Now you are, for all intents and purposes, nobody. Just a filthy cow among thousands. Already forgotten by your superiors. Ask yourself, are those the men you wish to protect? Men who treat you like cattle? Who mutilate you and leave you to rot in a stinking barn? Step forward now, and we will not prosecute. We'll provide the best surgical care we can, and house you in a safe place. We only wish to catch the men who did this to you."

A combination of terror and warped loyalty, the cartel code of silence was ironclad. One of the bulls took that moment to mount one of the heifers, driving home his point. The females stirred at the sight, stomping fretfully. Johnson could only pray that it wasn't-... no, these were just animals, he assured himself. It helped him sleep at night.

"So this is the life you've chosen," Johnson sighed. "To be milked and pump out calves until the end of your days. I don't know if you're aware of how long a dairy cow lives but, I can assure you, you'll find it is too long."

"They're all yours," he said to the farmer, clicking off the megaphone and returning to the patrol car. There were many other ranches yet to be visited.

"¿Qué fue eso?" thought several of the cows.