by Faye Byrd
As predicted, the steps are small and wooden, leading to a dirt floor with cardboard boxes stacked as far as I can fucking see. Underneath his super bright beam of light, Carlos is holding his automatic Uzi in a standard cop position where it’s braced below the light. He squeezes the trigger and sprays the area beneath as we descend the steps, one right after the other.
Just as my foot touches the dirt, a bullet ricochets off the cement block wall and finds purchase in the wood post right beside my fucking head. The monster tabulates the direction it flew from and retaliates with eight rounds from the 9 mil. I then take three long strides and duck for cover just as the next few bullets fly—I say few because this fucker can’t fire more than three every twenty goddamn seconds.
When I lean out to spray another round, I pause, because that goddamn Carlos is farther up the line of boxes, standing behind the last guard with a knife to his neck—the monster recognizes the evil glint in his eye. I stand taller and stride in his direction.
“Kill him. Pedro can’t be far,” I order as I move past them to see one more wooden door.
By the time I reach it, Carlos is already flanking me, so I stand back and let him enter first—if someone’s gotta get shot, ya know? He bursts through, gun and super beam leading the way. When no shots ring out, I step in behind him. Huddled in a corner, with only a machete for protection, is Pedro.
The monster rejoices at the pathetic fucking sight, and I holster my gun before stalking toward the whimpering excuse of a man. “Stand the fuck up,” I order as I reach down, knocking the meager weapon across the floor, and snatch him up by a handful of hair.
The tears that are streaming down his face along with the constant prayer he’s mumbling should give me pause, but it fucking doesn’t. Not in the least. It only builds the monster up, makes him even more bloodthirsty.
“Your first mistake was cutting my shit,” I say very slowly, “but it’s thinking that twelve men could fucking protect you that will ultimately cost you your life.”
The distinct sound of a gun cocking comes from behind me. “Make that twelve men and one woman.”
TEN
FINALLY FUCKING HOME
The monster scratches and snarls as I push him back into his fucking cage so the cold, calculating part of my mind can take control. This voice is familiar to me, from long ago, but it wasn’t laced with age and anger then.
Slowly, my fist unclenches, and Pedro drops to the floor like a dead weight. “Maria,” I say as I hold up my hands and turn to the voice. The tip of her sawed-off single-barrel shotgun is smashed into Carlos’ cheek.
I give her a smug grin and relax my stance. “One bullet, two men. Seems you’re at a disadvantage here.”
She laughs, but it’s more of a cackle—enough to rattle my fucking eardrums—and moves suddenly. Her arm swings back, and she lands the butt of the shotgun to the back of Carlos’ neck. He drops to the floor like a sack of fucking bricks.
My eyes narrow at the old bitch. “This is how you wanna play?” I widen my arms, ready to tackle her ass from here, but a move in my periphery catches my attention.
Pedro—I’d almost forgotten his fucking ass.
My mind is calculating as I pull out my knife and pin the tip to his temple. “Maybe you should’ve kept your hostage,” I say, pushing hard enough to break the skin, sending blood trickling from the wound. “Now you’re at the fucking disadvantage.”
A snaggletooth smile forms on her wrinkly ass face. “Kill him. See if I care. I warned him, but he wouldn’t listen.” She cuts her dark, hate-filled eyes to Pedro, who’s trembling from head to fucking toe. “Such a sad little waste. I had big dreams for us, boy, and you went the stupid route. The Simones bring death to everything they touch.” She spits a giant fucking loogie at his feet. “This is your punishment for not listening to me.”
I smirk—since she insisted—and brace my free hand on his head before driving the knife into his temple until the handle comes flush. His body tenses against the intrusion before slowly falling limp. I release him, and he slumps sideways to the floor.
Not as slowly as the monster would’ve liked, but somehow deeply fucking satisfying. “Guess we’re even now.” I shrug and bring my hands together in front of me, appearing completely relaxed—though I’m just waiting for the moment when I can snap her scrawny, brittle neck.
Her eyes flit to Carlos before coming back to me. “Not quite,” she says, squatting beside him while keeping the shotgun pointed my way.
She brushes her fingers through his hair like a deranged old bat. “He sure is a pretty one. I hate to have to kill him, but he’ll just be another Simone casualty.”
Stretching out her arm, she grabs the machete Pedro was holding earlier—right at her goddamn feet, no less. I make an effort to distract her. “So what’s this all about, Maria? I haven’t seen you since before college.”
She snorts. “Yeah, that’s how the fancy-pantsy Simones are. Don’t mind giving us their blood money in exchange for drugs, but when we really need them, they abandon us. Rafael, God rest his soul”—she does the sign of the cross while still holding the machete—“always did right by you people, even when I tried my best to get him to cut you loose.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes, as it’s very fucking apparent she’s a bitter old bat. “My father and Rafael had a great relationship.”
She reaches over and grabs Carlos’ ponytail, holding it taut so she can use the machete to saw it off just above the hair thingy. I might feel a little rush of glee when she dangles it in front of her face for a closer inspection—it always has looked fucking stupid.
She tosses it to the dirt at her feet. “I’m sure their relationship was great if your name was Simone, but all it ever brought us was trouble from the cartels. He asked for help, but your father never provided it. And now he’s dead.” She shakes her head sadly, but this hag isn’t sad. She’s out for blood. “If Pedro would’ve listened to me, we could’ve built a grand enterprise.”
My muscles are tense and at the ready, though I appear calm as a fucking cucumber on the outside. “He never had a chance.”
She runs the machete along Carlos’ back like a loving caress—any minute she’s going to drive it through him. When she fists his hair and yanks, exposing his neck to the blade, I react, diving across the few feet that separate us and tackling her to the dirt. The machete falls away, but she’s quick. By the time we’ve landed, she’s produced a knife and delivered a sweeping slash across the top of my left shoulder blade, slicing through the backpack strap and down toward my underarm.
It burns like fucking hell, but I ignore the pain and grip her wrist, beating her hand against a piece of wood from a broken chair we knocked over during the scuffle. The knife falls, and I position one knee against her throat while I grab her middle three fingers and snap them motherfuckers in half. She howls, but I laugh in her fucking face and reposition myself, wrapping both hands around her neck and squeezing. She chokes before her mouth falls open in a silent scream, her uninjured hand flapping uselessly against my arm. Her face starts to flush, and her struggling becomes more sluggish the longer she goes without air.
When I’m sure she’s out fucking cold, I stand and grab my 9 mil, sending two shots straight into her skull. Then I go over and nudge Carlos with my foot—a little fucking harder than necessary, but who cares?
He slowly sits up, grabbing the back of his head—probably because of the pain radiating from there, but he gets a fucking surprise. “What the fuck!” He jumps up, his hands going crazy trying to find that missing ponytail.
I bark out a laugh—mostly because I’m a cruel motherfucker. “Maria took it as a souvenir.” I tilt my head to the bundle of hair lying in the dirt.
His wild eyes focus on it before roaming the room, taking stock of the two assholes I’ve already killed. “You do all this?”
I give him a fucking look as I widen my arms. “Who the hell else?”
He shakes his head a
little, trying to get his fucking shit together. “So what now?”
“We torch the place,” I snap—like we originally goddamn planned. “Did you get fucking amnesia or something?”
He shakes his head again, giving himself a little smack—like that’ll fucking help. “Got it, Boss. The accelerant.”
Since this is a block structure, we’re going to have to be meticulous when it comes to making sure it burns sufficiently enough to destroy all the evidence. Not that Mexico has top-notch forensics to begin with, but I never do a job half-ass, no matter where I am.
I swing the dangling backpack around to my front and pull open the small zippered pocket. It’s imperative that I keep all my blood in my person, as much as humanly fucking possible. My fingers dig around until they close on the small tube I insisted be a part of my accessory kit.
I pull it out and hold it up. “First I need you to seal this wound.” I turn and squat a little, giving him my shoulder.
“Shit!” he curses as he lifts the shirt, ripping it from the drying blood and looping the material over my shoulder. I wince slightly, and he uses his gloved fingers to open the tube of glue, snapping the tip off with his front teeth. “This is gonna sting, Boss.”
I speak between clenched teeth. “Just fucking do it.”
It takes another minute before I feel anything, but when I do, my whole goddamn shoulder lights up like it’s on fire. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
It’s like I can feel every single cell of my fucking skin melting back together, and it’s more painful than actually being fucking cut. Blowing deep, steady breaths, I work through the worst of it until the raging burn turns into a constant, manageable sting.
I shove my shirt back down over my back and toss him the backpack. “Grab the accelerant and torch. Let’s burn this motherfucker to the ground.”
We start in the basement, which is easy as hell because of all the fucking cardboard. That shit is flammable as fuck, making this room the easiest part of our job. With flames licking toward the ceiling, we toss any used weapons into the fire and move upstairs. One at a time, we douse a room with a small bit of accelerant and light it the fuck up—the bodies get their own individual sprinkle.
By the time we exit through the front door, smoke is pouring through the heat-busted windows as an orange glow begins to light the area around the house. Carlos grabs the wire cutters and heads for the fence in the opposite direction we came in from, opening a large hole. He does the same along the back fence before we exit the same as we entered.
It’s two in the morning by now, and with a two-and-a-half-hour trip left before we get back to Puerto Vallarta, time is of the fucking essence. Yet, there’s still another important step to take. Carlos heads to the trunk of the car while I scout around, using his super beam for a nice spot to dig.
When he returns with a short-handled shovel, I point to the spot. “Dig here and be quick about it. Time’s a-fucking ticking.”
He huffs as he gets to his knees and shoves the shovel into the dry dirt, intent on his mission. Ten minutes later, he has a hole big enough for what we need. “I think this’ll do.”
I toss the backpack down first, sans the accelerant, and then start disrobing while Carlos does the same. Every stitch of our clothes, aside from three items—our gloves, hats, and Calvin Kleins—goes into the hole. Standing almost bare, we use the last bit of accelerant before tossing a match to ignite it all into a fucking ball of flames.
It’s almost therapeutic, watching it all burn to a pile of ash. The monster takes a victory lap, as if he’s the sole motherfucker responsible for every life we took tonight. But I digress. Word gets around, and people need to be reminded who they’re fucking with from time to time.
After the hole is filled in, Carlos and I re-dress, returning to Antonio and Carter, and get back to the bungalow only thirty minutes before sunrise. Since my shoulder’s been marred, I’m the one who lazes around in bed as breakfast is delivered, while Carlos parades around in his Speedo and a swimming cap—hiding his new impromptu hairdo.
Our only other meeting this trip consists of dinner at a fancy joint in Puerto Vallarta proper with an old contact, Rosa, and her partner, Silvia. After a terse debate, we’re able to come to a reasonable—especially for the Outfit—agreement. Her organization is responsible for getting the shipments across the border to my guy Francesco, and he makes sure they make it to Chicago.
By the end of dinner, my shoulder is burning and I’m tired as hell, so any couple-y activities are off the table. I’m going to fucking bed and dreaming of only good things. Well, one good thing if my mind can even make a reproduction—it’s been goddamn days since I last saw her.
When I fall into bed, it’s like I fall into a goddamn black hole. When Carlos shakes me awake the next morning, my head is still groggy from the fucking dreamless slumber. I dress in a daze, my mind computing that I’m heading home, yet my body remains sluggish and tired.
I don’t even have the energy to flirt with José as I return the rental—and yeah, he’s eagerly awaiting me. All I can do is offer a wink as I turn to walk away. My fucking shoulder is sore as hell, and I can’t wait to kick back on this fucking plane and just finish my goddamn nap—I need to be rested and ready when we hit Chicago.
One minute I’m relaxed back in my luxury airline seat, Piper dancing between my parted knees, and the next, a searing pain radiates from my shoulder, moving down through my fucking chest. I react instantly, bringing my free hand up to grab at whatever’s fucking stabbing me but meet flesh instead—someone else’s flesh. Driven by both agony and building anger, I clamp on to the offending arm and bring it down, twisting so that the wrist is bent to its breaking point.
As my mind struggles to overcome the distress, a voice breaks into my consciousness. “It’s gonna snap, Boss. Please, it’s me. It’s Carlos.”
Though my eyes are open, everything is fuzzy, and my singular focus is on the offending appendage I’m about to break. But his voice slowly breaks through as the urgency level rises, and I’m finally able to loosen my grip.
My eyes dart to his face. “What the fuck did you do?” I yell, shoving him away from me and standing. My knees almost buckle from the stab of pain that moves down my chest. I grip the back of the seat in front of me to stay upright. “Ahhh, it fucking hurts.” I grab my chest and crumble back into my seat.
Carlos disappears, to where I can’t even be bothered to fucking care. My shoulder is throbbing, and my head is light. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but at some point, Lorenzo’s voice breaks through the haze.
“Dante,” he calls, touching my leg, forcing my eyes to pop open. “We’ve got to get you up, son. Okay?”
I blink a couple times and focus on his face before offering a nod. “Sure,” I respond, my voice gruff due to my fucking dry ass throat.
When he reaches to help me, I physically withdraw, the memory of the pain from earlier cemented in my mind. “I got it.”
He looks at me skeptically before taking a step back, where I can now see Carlos lingering behind him with concern lacing his fucking eyes. “Gesù Cristo,” I say as I stand on shaky legs. “You two need to get a fucking life.”
Though I’m standing, even I can admit that something is fucking wrong. Judging from the pain that’s radiating from my upper back, I’d even fucking venture to say that bitch Maria left her goddamn mark. A low growl escapes, but neither of these motherfuckers is deterred. They both follow me—like I might fall out at any fucking second—off the plane and onto the tarmac, where Lorenzo has the Mercedes waiting.
He scurries ahead and pulls the back door open, and because I feel like shit, I don’t complain. I pretty much dive inside, making sure to keep my left shoulder from bumping anything. With a face full of black leather, I allow the soothing hum of the engine to lull my mind as the car races away.
“Dante.” Lorenzo’s voice rouses me from the light nap I lapsed into for the drive. I lift my head a little and recognize th
e scene outside the car. “Doc’s inside waiting on ya.”
Though I’m not very happy to be here, I can’t deny the need to see Doc. Lifting up as much as the car will allow, I slide my body over until both my feet are on the asphalt driveway. I take a fucking minute to get my shit together before standing. The walk in is okay—I can do it without help—but the fucking pain that radiates from my shoulder is blistering.
When Carlos falls into step beside me, I roll my fucking eyes. “What the hell?”
He throws his hands up in front of him. “Don’t mind me, Boss. Just making sure ya don’t die on my watch.”
If I could chuckle without shaking my sore shoulder, I would, but as it is, I offer what I hope is a smirk. “Consider yourself off the hook.”
“Yeah, I don—”
“We had a good trip. Don’t fucking ruin it,” I interrupt, all traces of humor gone.
“Got it, Boss. Later.” He turns to get back in his car.
I follow Lorenzo down the familiar hallways of my childhood home, hoping like hell that Mother doesn’t know I’m here—or even better, she’s not home. When he stops outside my father’s office, my brows hike up my forehead.
“Pop is here?” I ask, a little stunned. Not that he never comes here, because he does. It’s just usually during the day when my mother is out doing all her high society bullshit. Maybe I did get lucky and she’s not home.
Lorenzo doesn’t reply. He just turns the knob and pushes open the door. Inside sits Doc, the Boss … and my fucking mother.
Shit!
“Darling,” she drawls, in her “acquired” snobby accent. “What have you done to yourself? You look dreadful.”
“Thanks, Mother,” I reply as I move to sit in the empty wingback chair Doc’s positioned in front of him.
“Margaret,” Pop says in his most patronizing tone. “As you can see, he’ll live. So if you’ll excuse us … ” He leaves the sentence hanging, but she knows it’s best to comply.
