Killers

by Olivia Gaines

  “There’s nothing to talk about. You have messed with the wrong person,” Tito belted. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with!”

  Yuńior laughed. He called out from behind the boxes of vegetation, “No, my friend, it is you who doesn’t understand who you’re fucking with. However, I am a fair man. Lower your weapons and I shall allow you to live.”

  Laughter followed the loud boast as Tito’s remaining men all chuckled as if the gunfight was about to go down at any moment, only Yuńior was the hombre without weapons. Mr. Yield placed his hand on Yuńior’s arm, trying to keep him behind cover, but Yuńior pulled away. The black shirt he wore, ripped open to reveal the bright yellow head of the eyelash viper. A fan in the corner which ticked on each oscillation, blew hot air on the heir to the Delgado fortune, causing his shirt to flap in the wind as he stood up. The heavyweight of the hair in the crown of his head flopped back and forth as the fan passed by, covering him in a fine mist of suaveness, inherited from generations of Delgado men.

  “What the fuck is he doing?” Mr. Mann asked Yield. “If he goes out there, they are going to kill him. Stop that fool!”

  Mr. Yield had seen a man down in Mexico when he was still working for the University who had a full chest tattoo of a snake as well. People damned near kissed that man’s hands. The kid had one of the same kinds of tattoo, but a different snake. He knew it was a Cartel thing to distinguish the leaders from the workers. The kid had been groomed to be a leader. This was the make or break move for the young Delgado, but he’d be damned if he was going to let the boy get killed or them either.

  “I think Simba is about to find his roar,” Yield said.

  “Screw that. Simba needs to get his ass back down here in the draw,” Mr. Stop said, popping his head up to provide a suppressive fire in case the kid needed it.

  “I am El Bocaracá!” Yuńior announced proudly. “Lay down your weapons and I shall let you live.”

  Chapter Eight – Blind Hope

  4:15 AM, AUGUST 8, 2019

  Tito Montoya thought the announcement of Eduardo Delgado’s son being on his ship and fucking with his enterprise was the funniest thing he’d heard in a month of Sundays. He knew the Czar had no idea his pride and joy was on his boat in California in the process of having his head blown clear off his shoulders. A sick satisfaction ran through him at the thought of bringing Eduardo, the Fer de Lance, to a crippling crawl if he took the life of his son. The vipers of the Cartel took pleasure in toying with their prey before sinking in long fangs, injecting poison into the veins of others. He too would sit in the moment and enjoy this unraveling of a dynasty. He had every intention of killing the kid, if not for prosperity’s sake, then for the fun of it.

  “Does your Papa know his heir is no longer in South America? I mean really, Yuńior, does your father know you’re no longer under his watchful eye?” Tito asked, standing with the gun pointed dead center of Yuńior’s chest. The red eyeball giving the man an ominous appearance that would have intimidated others, but not him.

  “Tito, at least I know who my father is,” Yuńior retorted, the trademark expressionless face braced for the stare down. “It would behoove you to be grateful that your whore of a mother instilled more gratitude in you to at least be thankful that my family allowed you to even live.”

  Tito threw back his head in uproarious laughter. “My mother! You speak of my mother when the entire southern hemisphere knows yours didn’t even like your father,” Tito said, “so much so, she ran off, leaving you and them retarded brothers of yours under the Fer de Lance’s care.”

  “Sí, this is true,” Yuńior said, “but at least she wasn’t a whore. Now, please, lower your weapons so no one has to die. I leave, go home, and say nothing of this to my father or the Cartel.”

  “You’re not going to say a fucking word because I’m going to send your head to the Fer de Lance in a box! If I’m feeling gracious, I may include a little eyelash viper in the container, just to show I’m a sporting type of guy,” Tito said.

  To Yuńior’s left, a man made a move, trying to circle in behind him. No one saw Yuńior’s hands move as a Ninja star sailed through the air, dropping the henchman where he stood. Yuńior only arched one eyebrow, his gaze still trained on Tito.

  “Ha- ha! That was a very neat trick,” Tito said, as another star flew, dropping the man standing behind the captain to his right.

  “I have more, if you’d like me to continue,” Yuńior said. “or for the last time, I shall ask your men to lower the weapons and kick them over to mis amigos, so we can all go home tonight.”

  At the sound of the words, mis amigos, Stop, Yield and Mann, popped their heads up from behind the boxes. The gaze on the men, but also a careful eye on Yuńior.

  “And if I don’t?” Tito said.

  Yuńior flicked his right wrist towards Mr. Mann, who fired a round, dropping another of the henchman. He flipped a finger on the left hand at Mr. Stop, who fired a round terminating one more of Tito’s men. Three of the other men lowered their weapons to the floor, kicking them towards Mr. Yield, who had come around the boxes to stand next to Yuńior, holding the guns. From Brody’s hand, Yuńior took a weapon, his eyes still on Tito as he, without looking down at the piece, seated around in the chamber and shot one more man. His eyes still focused solely on Tito.

  “The difference between you and me, Tito, is that my father trained me, from the day I was born to replace him, should his eyes ever close,” Yuńior said. “I have known nothing my entire life but understanding ways in which to take a man’s life without breaking a sweat.”

  He fired another round, taking down one more man, who slumped to the floor which was becoming red from the sheer volume of blood seeping from the bodies. Yuńior’s eyes still honed in on Tito as he raised the weapon towards one more of the henchman.

  The man yelled out, “You said if we dropped our weapons, you’d let us live.”

  “Well, I changed my mutherfucking mind,” Yuńior said and fired at the man.

  Tito lowered his weapon, placing the safety on, handing the butt end of the gun towards Yield, who accepted the piece. The corner of his lip snarled as he fully took in the younger Delgado. The familial dark hair moved gently as the fan’s blades oscillated air which reeked of death. Splatters of blood filled the air, picked up by the rotation of the fan, speckling the chest of the yellow viper with dots of crimson.

  “It seems I mighta underestimated you,” Tito said. “A mistake I won’t make again, but tell me, Yuńior, have you fully considered the implications of your activities tonight? There will be a penalty for your actions.”

  “Everything has a price, Tito,” Yuńior said, passing his weapon to Yield. He took four steps forward to stand toe to toe with Tito, who raised his fist, making contact with Yuńior’s face. The young heir’s head snapped back only to come forward again, the same unreadable expression on his face. Blood oozed from his lip in which Yuńior only licked at and offered a smile.

  Yield moved forward, the gun raised, ready to place it against Tito’s head. Mr. Stop was on his feet, moving to the center of the room, and Mr. Mann was on one knee, his weapon pointed at Tito’s head.

  “Say the word,” Yield said.

  Yuńior held up his hand. He respected Tito for taking the first blow, but he could not respect a man who trafficked children. He didn’t admire a man who employed the likes of a Manuel as an overseer of the innocent or men who would lie to snatch up children to keep them company through long voyages at sea.

  “I do not understand a man like you, Tito Montoya,” Yuńior said. “You have more money than you can spend. In a good light, minus the one weird red eye, you are not a bad-looking hombre, yet your money buys more boats so you can traffic more women and children, to make more money to traffic more women and children. You have a sickness.”

  “I run a business. Supply and demand,” Tito said. “Besides, no one wants these people. They are a blight on the world. I’m just cleaning up behin
d the men your father put into power.”

  His eyes went to Mann, Stop, and Yield. “Your government funded the Contras and put them into power which bled into Central America,” Tito added. “Nests of vipers piled in, setting up shop, raping the land of its value, poisoning the water, and killing the babies. It was no life. I’m wiping the slate clean so we can build a new world order. In order to do that we need money. Money I’m making selling the only commodity we have; an overabundance of pussy.”

  Yuńior finally blinked. He searched for a word that he couldn’t find in English or in Spanish. The word escaped him as he finally turned his head, just an inch towards Mr. Yield.

  “Como se dice, head shrink, the doctor,” Yuńior asked.

  “A psychiatrist or a therapist,” Mr. Yield said.

  “Eso!” Yuńior exclaimed. “Mi amigo, you need to see a therapist, you know, talk about these issues you have with tu Mama. I shall be there for you if you’d like to perform the DNA test on the men in your village to find your real Papa. Would that help?”

  Tito didn’t find it amusing although Mr. Mann murmured, “Sick burn” down low which elicited a snicker from Mr. Stop. Tito attempted to turn his anger towards Mann. Yuńior prevented him from doing so by extracting his knife and nicking Tito’s arm.

  “What the fuck?” Tito exclaimed.

  Yuńior worked like a sushi chef, cutting, nicking, and piercing the man’s flesh like a crazed mad man, leaving holes throughout Tito’s clothing. Spots of red formed over the torso as the realization of what Yuńior had done hit him.

  “You little fucker!” Tito said, reaching for Yuńior, who returned an unexpected blow to Tito’s face, hitting him much harder than Tito had done to him and knocking the man on his ass.

  Seated in the pile of blood in the floor, the three remaining men looked on in shock. Yuńior checked his watch. It was nearing the five a.m. hour, and he needed to get the men back to Blakemore and show that he was in one piece, allowing them to get paid. There was also Melissa to deal with, then his father and Irena.

  “Shit,” he said, scratching at his chin. His eyes went to the remaining men. He spoke in Spanish in slow measured words. “I am the Bocaracá! You have been allowed to live and serve as a witness to this night. Spread the word that any who prey on these poor unfortunate children shall face my wrath!”

  The men nodded their heads in feigned agreement as Tito sat in the floor, looking at all the cuts on his body. Venom was entering his blood stream and unless he managed to get to an antivenin, he would be dead before the morning came. However, Yuńior knew a bit of knowledge that Tito did not. He knew the man’s father. The last thing he wanted was to have to vengeance of that man chasing him for the rest of his life.

  “Tito, I am fair, if nothing else,” Yuńior said, reaching into a small side pocket and pulling out a tiny vial. “Catch!”

  Tito’s hand flew up, securing the small vial of antivenin in his grubby hands. He didn’t know why the Fer de Lance’s son saved his life when he’d taken such measures to instill fear that death would be slow in arriving via the blade of the Bocaracá. Tonight, he wouldn’t question. If he survived, he’d live another day to plot revenge on Yuńior Delgado, but first he had to continue breathing.

  “Vamos,” Yuńior said, waving his hand in the air as he stepped over bodies while simultaneously fastening the snaps on his shirt. He led the men down the dark corridors out of the back of the ship and down the gangplank. Mr. Mann took the end, sweeping high and low with his weapon and searching for threats.

  Lizzie arrived with the car, unlocking the doors for the team to climb inside. Yuńior paused, looking at the orange vehicle, his eyes going to Mr. Yield.

  “Señor, did your wife pick this car for you?” Yuñior asked, his brow furrowed.

  “Oh, shut up and get inside,” Mr. Yield said as Lizzie moved to the backseat to sit in between Mann and Stop. “I have a couple of hotel rooms should we need them.”

  “No,” Yuńior said. “We’re in the air, wheels up in less than one hour. Texas, then I must head home.”

  “Sí, Señor,” Mr. Yield said, driving towards the hotel to pick up Melissa. He was interested to know the story between them and why the Czar’s son started a war with not only the buyers of the products Tito went to the trouble to secure, but also Tito. In many ways, he wanted to have this blind hope that what the kid had done would bring light to the Cartel of what was happening behind their backs, but he knew better. Nothing moved on any continent without those 16 men being aware. Mr. Mann, Stop, and Lizzie had just become accomplices in a battle there was no way they could win.

  “It’s going to be a long fucking flight.”

  YUŃIOR PROVIDED INSTRUCTIONS to Yield to take Lizzie to the airfield where the Blakemore plane awaited. He opened the rear car door for her to climb out and gather her belongings. A low bow was provided over her hand where he placed a kiss on her inner wrist.

  “It is with humble appreciation that I offer you my gratitude,” Yuńior offered. “The Blakemore plane shall return you to Sacramento.”

  “How did you know I lived in Sacramento...never mind,” she said, pulling back her hand.

  “My business is to know a great number of things, Señorita,” Yuńior said, looking her square in the eyes until she blinked and flinched under his scrutiny. “May I ask your given name?”

  “No,” she said, stepping back.

  “It is of little consequence if you tell me now, by your own lips,” he said, still giving her that look of tell me or you die.

  “Elizabeth Perkins,” she said, feeling 12 levels of discomfort.

  Yuńior handed her a business card with a yellow eyelash viper etched on the front. Six digits in bold black were printed on the back. “Here is my card. Should you ever need anything, this is my direct number. Use it once, but use it wisely.”

  “You’re just all kinds of a suave and debonair, aren’t you?” she said, taking the card.

  “This is true, but it’s hereditary,” he said, offering a wink and an uncharacteristic charming smile before he got back into the seat. He tapped twice on the dashboard, looking at Mr. Yield. “Are there words you wish to say to the woman before you depart?”

  “Fuck no,” Mr. Yield said, pulling off, not looking in the rear-view mirror at the woman who gave him the permanent scar down his face.

  “She’s the reason for the scar,” Mr. Stop volunteered.

  “I would like to know this story,” Yuńior said, half turning in the seat and looking at the scarred profile of Mr. Yield, giving a brief smile. “Did she give you that memento during your sexy time? Like the foreplay?”

  “When did you get to be so damned funny?” Yield said, driving toward the hotel to retrieve Melissa. “No, she gave me the scar first, then screwed me six ways until Sunday while blood trickled into my eye.”

  “Shit, is she single?” Yuńior asked, finding humor in the situation. “I’m not scared to try that at least once. Maybe twice if it is bueno.”

  “That, young man, is muy mal, wrapped in a sexy ass package of crazy,” Yield said, wanting to close the subject. He didn’t wish Lizzie Perkins on his worst enemy, which gave him an idea. “You might want to send her to pay a visit to Tito, if he survives.”

  Yuńior cut his eyes at Mr. Yield. He liked him a great deal. Saxton the Blakemore had sent Yield to find him, and he’d done just that. Even after locating him, Mr. Yield returned to his side, diving at him to prevent a bullet from harming his body and standing firm when he faced off with Tito. This man he respected.

  He would make him into his friend.

  Chapter Nine – Blind Fate

  8:30 AM, AUGUST 8, 2019

  “Lady, stop asking questions. Get your shit and get in the car,” Mr. Yield said to Melissa, who was running around the room. She ran her hands through her hair six times while asking the same thing over and over again and testing his patience. “Listen, the plane is headed back to Texas. The Bocaracá wants you on it, so get
your ass in gear.”

  “You can’t talk to me this way,” Melissa said. “Who are you anyway? Where’s Ed? This is nuts. I don’t understand any of this. Someone needs to explain things to me, or I’m not going anywhere!”

  “Fine,” Mr. Yield said, walking out the door. “I’m leaving. You can stay.”

  “Wait!” she exclaimed, grabbing her overnight bag and running behind him. She slowed her pace when she saw Yuńior in the front seat and two very large men in the back. “What’s going on here?”

  “Melissa, get in the car,” Yuńior said, “and be quiet.”

  “Oh, I’m going to be quiet, but I’ll still be thinking things,” she said as Mr. Stop got out, pushing her into the middle and squishing her between him and Mr. Mann.

  Yuñior tapped twice on the dashboard and put his phone in the holder. The GPS led them to the airfield where the plane waited. Yield had all kinds of questions, but took the advice of the kid and stayed quiet as he drove to an abandoned airstrip where a private jet sat.

  “Hey, what about my rental car?” he asked as they all climbed out.

  “It shall be returned to the circus clown who loaned it to you,” Yuńior said with a half-cocked smile.

  “Yeah, you have all kinds of jokes now,” Yield countered as he watched the young man climb the stairs to the plane.

  Gunther stood inside the door covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes immediately went to the busted lip and crusted blood on Yuńior’s mouth. Displeased his boss had left without him by slipping him a drug to make him sleep, Gunther told him as much. Gunther also offered a litany of ways Eduardo Delgado would kill him had his son been hurt.

  “You are worse than a woman, Gunther. Relax,” Yuńior said as Melissa climbed on board. “Stealth is not your strong suit. You just don’t blend in.”

  Yield came on board next, stopping in front of the huge man and gulping, but moving around him to take a seat. Melissa stood in the aisle, hands on her hips and ready for a fight, but the wind was taken out of her sails as Stop got on the plane and spotted Gunther.