by Faye Byrd
It’d be a lie if I said I accepted Antonio’s credentials with no complaints, but it didn’t take Ivan long to paint the right picture for me to accept—you know, the one where the murders I commit stay fucking buried because no one will ever connect us. And that’s only if Antonio ever gets pegged. I’m nothing if not smart, and it was clear this was an intelligent fucking move. Besides, I’m confident enough in my masculinity to fake a few loving-looking caresses.
My brother’s a fucking genius, and yeah, I’ve said it before, but I’m not sure the depth of his skill is truly understood. Not only does everyone in the Outfit have an alternate identity, sometimes two or three, but they all work for companies he’s crafted in order to make their backgrounds even more legit. He’s created a network of facts interspersed with such fine details that no one could even begin to unravel it. We have a whole fucking community of imaginary Chicagoans at our disposal.
Carter exits from the rear of the plane, his persona now fully in place. His just-past-the-shoulder-length blond hair is fastened at the base of his neck and gone are the jeans and tee he was wearing. In their place are the same type of yuppie clothes I’ve been forced into. I fucking smirk at his ass—with one big difference, his polo is fucking lavender.
Guess we know who’s the bitch in this relationship.
When he catches the look on my face, he scowls. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Boss. We’ll see who’s laughing later.”
Thoughts of later do make my smirk fade, so I stand and grab my bag from the overhead compartment. “Don’t get too fucking cheeky, got me?” I say, jabbing a finger in his direction.
He takes a step back and pushes his hands out. But it’s that goddamn secretive smile he’s sporting that bothers me most. “Hey, I got a part to play here. Can’t allow our cover to have any holes.”
All the words he’s saying are right, but Carlos is the motherfucker you better look out for. He’s got a mean streak, and I reamed his ass at the last meeting. My eyes narrow. “You touch me inappropriately, and you draw back a fucking nub.”
“Understood, Boss,” he replies, but that goddamn smile doesn’t drop.
I shake my head—this is the last fucking thing I need.
“When we step off this plane, we’re Antonio and Carter. Don’t forget that,” I say and wave my hand for him to precede me down the aisle. As soon as he starts walking, I mumble, “Bitch.”
His step falters slightly, but otherwise, he doesn’t react. I chuckle under my breath as I follow him down the stairs and onto the tarmac where a mid-sized sedan is parked and a golden-skinned young man is smiling eagerly in our direction.
The attendant approaches carefree and openly, his smile never faltering. Were I still in Dante Simone mode, this punk would be pissing his britches about now. As it is, Antonio returns his open smile as he holds out a keyring. “Mr. Mancini?” he questions with a thick accent. “The keys to your rental, sir.”
Taking cues from his approach, I allow my fingers to slowly brush against his as I retrieve the keys, and even with his dark tone, the blush is obvious. “Thanks. José, is it?” At his shy nod, I continue, “We really appreciate the service, meeting us on the tarmac. I’ll be sure to give you a glowing review.”
He bats his lashes as he rushes to assure me. “No, sir. I enjoy fulfilling my customer’s requests.” The innuendo in his words is only barely hidden, causing Carter to step closer to my side—as he should. José recognizes his mistake and backs off. “I will meet you both back here Monday morning at ten. Have a great weekend in Puerto Vallarta!”
And because I like to fuck with people, before turning to the car, I wink and tell him maybe next time. “Quizá la próxima vez, José.”
Though his eyes flit to Carter, who’s rounding the car, it still doesn’t stop him from responding. “Eso sería un placer, Señor Mancini,” he says, letting me know that it would be his pleasure.
I chuckle and get behind the wheel, tossing my bag into the back seat and then leaving my arm propped on the passenger one as Carter climbs into the car. After sharing a look, I let my hand fall to caress his shoulder as I move to put the car in gear.
As we follow the roadway to exit the tarmac, Carlos turns to me with a smirk. “You might be more comfortable with this than I expected.”
I tilt my head. “Of course I fucking am.” I make the turn that takes us away from the airport before speaking again. “Antonio has become like a second skin to me, especially when traveling away from Chicago. The more I master who he is, the less chance I have of making a vital fucking mistake. Sit back and watch, and you just might fucking learn something this trip.”
“You still drive like Dante Simone,” he says as he grips the dash.
Shit!
I let off the pedal to bring the car down to normal speed. “Some aspects are harder than others. Sue me.” I shrug.
Instead of a smart-ass remark, Carlos starts laughing loudly. After a moment, he even grabs his goddamn stomach like he needs to contain it or some shit. I tap my fingers on the wheel, annoyed as fuck, until he finally reins that bullshit in some.
“What the fuck?” I ask, sliding my eyes to his, daring him to say something stupid.
He reaches up and what—wipes the tears from his goddamn eyes—before saying, “Sorry, Boss.” Another small chuckle erupts, and my fingers twist tighter around the wheel. He holds up a hand. “Now, calm down. It’s just that … well … ” He takes a deep breath and releases it. “It’s easy for you to adapt to Antonio’s sexuality, but his driving is a problem.”
The car is in complete silence as I take in his comment—not even his breaths are detectable—until a little snort escapes my lips. In my periphery, he relaxes and takes a deep breath. He does make a good fucking point.
“Touché, motherfucker,” I snark as I turn into the resort complex where our bungalow is located. “I’m positive it’ll never be an issue again. Thanks for the fucking pep talk. Game faces on.”
I throw the car in park and get out, abruptly moving around to open Carter’s door and follow closely behind as he enters the resort. Check-in is quick and efficient, as an affluent American businessman is high fucking priority. I agree to have the concierge meet us at our bungalow to bring in our luggage. Of course, it isn’t fucking necessary, but appearances do matter, and we’re two men here together to share a fun time—not move our own fucking luggage.
I also accept the offer to book our dinner reservations—eight o’clock on the terrace of their finest restaurant. As we turn to exit the semi-lavish reception area, Carter stops to take in some of the artwork. I do my fucking part by nodding as he comments on a couple of pieces before he grows bored and we return to the car to pull it to the far edges of the beachfront community.
Our interactions aren’t flamboyant in any way, but they’re just enough to make it clear we’re here as a couple. Our bags are delivered straight to the single bedroom where Carter is already relaxed and attempting to coax Antonio into a pre-dinner nap. Before the concierge leaves, I pull him aside and arrange for a surprise breakfast in bed for my lover.
Dinner is intimate, and I even scoot my chair around to prop my arm over Carter’s shoulder—because Antonio’s an attentive motherfucker—as I watch the sunset by his side. After the last bit of light has faded over the horizon, I present him with a small gift of appreciation for accompanying me on this trip. In the whole scheme of things, it isn’t a big deal, but people are fucking curious, and details such as this stick in their minds. The night ends with a walk down the beach where other couples are doing the same.
Carlos grabs a pillow from the bed. “Guess it’s the couch for me, eh?”
“Fuck no,” I respond with a smirk and flit my eyes to the hardwood floor. “We have to keep up appearances.”
His eyes narrow as he follows my line of sight. “What the hell, Boss? Now you’re just abusing our cover for your own sick purposes.”
I shrug and toss him a thin blanket. “Maybe.”
By the time the sun rises, I’m up already and have woken Carlos to take his position in the bed as Carter. The doorbell dings right on time, and I answer with only a towel draped around my waist, motioning for quiet as I lead the server to the bedroom to set up. Carter is pretending to sleep, with both his naked chest and left leg on full display.
I smirk to myself when her eyes trail over his form, and then I straighten the fuck up and clear my throat when they stay a moment too goddamn long. She shows both shame and apology when her eyes snap back to me, so I too trail my eyes to Carter and nod appreciatively. Her shoulders relax, and I tip her and send her the fuck on her way.
The rest of our day is spent out and about among the community. We dine in the restaurants, peruse the gift shops, spend time in the ocean, and even join a game of couple’s volleyball on the beach.
Appearances are every-fucking-thing.
But when the moonless night falls, it’s time to let Dante Simone loose.
Carter and Antonio cap their night with a late beach walk, but this time, it’s in the opposite direction. Moving away from the community, we walk swiftly and with purpose toward a pier farther up the shore. At the parking area, a lone nondescript car sits with the keys in the ignition.
For almost two hours, we travel through Mexico, headed toward the small city of El Tule. Once there, we stop at a prearranged vacant house to switch cars. The new one is fully fucking equipped; a cache of weapons and dark clothing are stored in a duffel on the back seat.
It’s only when we pull off the roadway thirty minutes later to hide the car that we suit up, slipping into black military-style clothing, including hats and gloves. I mentally go through my weapon’s checklist as I attach each one to my fucking body, only keeping the sniper rifle in my hands. A backpack is slung over my shoulder as we start through the dry Mexican brush toward the lights in the distance.
“Twelve guards plus Pedro,” Carlos says, confirming the intel we’ve already reviewed.
“Six on the perimeter with check-in every fifteen minutes, two each at the front and back doors, and the final two inside.” I bark a short, abrupt laugh. “He couldn’t have made this any fucking easier.”
Carlos squats and props on a mound of dirt with the binoculars in his hands. “This will be three on two by the time they even know anything’s wrong. Fucking idiots.”
I move beside him and work a groove into the dirt for my sniper barrel to rest. Peering through the sight, I clock three of the guards before sitting back on my haunches. “Locked and fucking ready. Make sure you don’t miss the next check-in.”
“Got it, Boss,” he affirms, never taking his eyes from the targets.
I have to hand it to him. Carlos has performed pretty damn perfectly so far. He hasn’t even gotten on my nerves yet, and this is the one part where I know he’ll excel. As much as I thrive on this shit, he does too. Next to me, he’s the coldest motherfucker in the Outfit.
Right now, the blood in my veins is fucking thrumming. Each of my senses is heightened, and I can practically picture their goddamn skulls exploding from the force of my bullets. My hands ache to grip the knife attached to my thigh and send it deep into Pedro’s chest. The monster is lingering on the edges of my subconscious, just waiting to take over.
“Check one … two … ” Carlos starts counting down as the guards check in, and I line the first target in my sights, clocking every step until he finally says, “Six.”
My finger squeezes the trigger, moving to the next guy before the first one even falls. The dark silence is barely even disturbed as bodies slump to the ground in quick succession. Once I’ve counted six, I pull back and wait for the all-clear.
Carlos takes one more look over the perimeter before standing. “Fourteen minutes and counting.”
Without comment, we both start moving toward the block compound in the distance. At the fencing, Carlos pulls a pair of pliers from my backpack and goes straight to fucking work. Within a handful of seconds, a large enough portion is open, and we’re squeezing through the hole.
I put my fingers to my lips and tilt my head toward the rear of the house. “I’ll take the front,” I whisper, already fading into the shadows.
The pathway to the front of the building is obscured by darkness—making my job too goddamn easy. I land with my back against the side of the structure and start moving toward the front corner. I pause when the rumble of two voices meets my ears just seconds before the sound of dirt crunching underneath a boot.
Tensed and ready, I wait.
As soon as the guard makes the turn, his face meets the handle of my sniper rifle. The crunch satisfies the monster deep inside me. I toss the weapon to the dirt and retrieve the knife that’s been burning a hole in my thigh, slicing his throat so deep that death is instantaneous.
The monster pulses.
Slipping up to the corner, I take a quick peek, locating the second guard just as he rounds the opposite corner, coming back in my direction. The outside light is shining brightly on his face, and the confusion over his missing partner is clear even from this distance.
Without a fucking thought, I draw my silenced 9 mil as I step out, planting one right between his goddamn eyes. The monster rattles his cage over the swift kill, but tactical moves overrule blood-crazed killing any day. I soothe him with promises of a slow death for Pedro.
Just as I slip through the wooden door with a fucking eye roll—this motherfucker truly isn’t expecting this—a voice crackles to life from the dead guard’s walkie. “Registrarse,” it says, requesting the guards to check in.
I smirk and go back, retrieving it from his hip and reentering the building. After swiftly passing through several uninhabited rooms, I find a quiet corner and bring the walkie to my mouth. “Diez muertos, tres más para ir,” I say, giving them the death count, including how many more are on the list.
Chaos ensues as frantic voices can be heard due to failure to release the fucking button on their end. “Entregarlo,” comes a command (hand it over) before an attempting-to-sound-brave voice demands to know who I am. “¿Quién es este.”
Instead of responding, I throw my head back and chuckle loudly. “Pedro, you should’ve been expecting me.”
His quick intake of breath is evident before he says, “Simone.” He says my name in the same way I’m going to punish him.
Slow and angrily.
The swoosh of a bullet as it leaves a silencer meets my ears, and I tense, waiting to hear the satisfying thwack of it meeting flesh. Instead, the sound of automatic gunfire echoes through the hallways as a hail of bullets spatters along the concrete about twenty feet away.
“I’m coming for you,” I snarl and toss the walkie to the floor, stomping on it to let out a little pent up rage as I move toward the fucking action.
Instead of grabbing the large knife from earlier, I pull a slim double-edged knife from my belt loop holster and move toward the hallway up ahead. Bullets are being exchanged by both sides, and because I know weapons, it’s easy as fuck for me to determine how many more steps the guard needs to take before he’s in striking distance.
Patience isn’t my strong suit—especially with the monster rattling his bars—but I stand quietly, my ears in tune with the shots as they inch closer and closer to the hall I’m occupying. The tip of an automatic rifle enters my sight, and the monster goes fucking irate, but I hold him back just long enough. After another spray of bullets, a black boot appears a half second before a dark head of hair.
I release the fucking monster, and he responds with a kick so hard to the side of the guard’s knee that the bone cracks in two. When he falls in my direction, I slap the gun
to the floor while looping my forearm around his neck and dragging him back into my hallway—in case Carlos lets any more fucking bullets fly.
His eyes are wide as his head turns red from the blood I’ve trapped there. “Where’s Pedro?” I demand, my lips at his ear.
“Por favor, no me mates. Tengo una familia,” he says, begging for his life, using his family for an excuse. “Por favor,” he mumbles over and over until I bring my knife up and push the blade against his throat.
“Where. Is. He?”
“Sótano,” he finally utters, relaxing back against me.
The monster smiles from ear to fucking ear and places the tip of the knife on the skin under his lobe, slicing one long smooth streak all the way around to the opposite side. I drop his gurgling body to the floor and peek around the corner where Carlos is propped with an appreciative grin across his lips.
“Basement,” I bark, already making a right and expecting him to fall in fucking line. With the monster on the loose, my pulse is throbbing in my ears as blood surges through me in the form of a swift urge to kill.
My eyes are laser-focused ahead while my ears listen intently for any sound other than the quiet rustle of our clothes as we move down the hall toward the back of the house. Every door is pushed open and the room cleared before moving on. When we reach the kitchen, there are two doors on the opposite wall as well as a short hallway that leads to the very back door where Carlos entered.
A single dead leg is poking from the entrance to the hall, and I tilt my head, sending Carlos to clear it—a-fucking-gain—while I move to the first wooden door. Carefully, I pull it open to reveal a small fucking pantry. I eye the other fucking door.
This is where it gets a little fucking dicey.
There are two fucking men down the steps behind that small wooden door, and if they have any goddamn sense, they’ll both be fucking armed. Descending a set of rickety wooden steps in a narrow setting is suicide, so I slip my 9 mil from its holster and rip the wood to shreds with the spray of bullets. The resulting hole is dark and uninviting, but I smirk when Carlos produces a flashlight with a giant beam and aims it into the darkness.
