Blurred Red Lines: A Carrera Cartel Novel

by Kenborn, Cora

  “I’m no junkie, asshole.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “I told you,” Nash wheezed, his breath coming out weaker by the minute. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I never touched your damn drugs.”

  “They all say that too.” Emilio chuckled, his laugh hollow with impatience. “But see, Lachey, the problem is that I’m bored with you, and I’ve got other shit to do. So, let’s get this over with so we can both get back home, all right?”

  The lump in my throat grew the minute Emilio wrapped a hand around Nash’s wrist as he struggled against him. Garbled curse words fell from my brother’s mouth as his hold on his mask of indifference slipped. The moment Emilio dragged him to the wooden chopping block and held the blade against the tip of Nash’s right forefinger, reality set in his eyes.

  This was no mistake.

  This was no joke.

  This was real, and the only person left to protect him hid in the corner crying for her own pathetic life. I willed my feet to move, but the signal from my brain to my feet short circuited, leaving me paralyzed.

  As the blade slammed down on my brother’s fingertip, the cry of intolerable pain filled the kitchen, bouncing from the walls and piercing my already broken heart. I wanted to vomit, but like a coward, I removed my hand from my mouth and covered my ears. His screams shattered me.

  “Three digits for three g’s. That’s the trade, Lachey. Think about that next time you decide to arrange a deal for blow and disappear when we collect.” The clank of the knife hit the stark white tile floor, and my eyes popped open as Emilio moved toward the sink to wash the blood off his hands.

  He could wash with bleach until his skin peeled off. The stain of my brother’s blood would never leave his fingers. My eyes would never forget.

  Chapter Eight

  VAL

  By the time I reached the heavy ornate door, it was already technically Sunday morning, and the humidity had me sweating so much I looked like I’d gotten caught in a freak rainstorm. I’d given up a long time ago trying to fight it with undershirts. Somehow mother nature centered a bubble around Houston with a climate siphoned straight from hell. Even as a boy in Monterrey with high temperatures reaching one-hundred degrees, I couldn’t remember anything so sticky and disgusting.

  Dios mío.

  Entering the pretentiously decorated Irish pub, I silently chastised myself for my momentary lapse in judgment in going back to Caliente. Being there had been reckless and stupid. With what I knew to be occurring in only hours, I’d shown my face in a place I should never have risked visiting.

  Not only was being there dangerous, engaging the bartender was suicidal.

  One moment I sat in my office pouring over the profits from the last commodities investment we’d exported, the next, I found myself sliding onto a dirty barstool in the shittiest cantina in downtown Houston.

  “Can I get you something, handsome?”

  I glanced up, still lost in thought. Somehow, I’d made my way through the front door of the darkened pub to an even darker wooden bar. As I took in the bartender’s tight, black Lycra shorts and half-tee that boasted the phrase ‘Naughty Irish Girl,’ I was sure turning the wheel into oncoming traffic would’ve been a better option.

  “Probably not, but you can give it a try,” I told her, absentmindedly flipping my phone from end to end between my thumb and forefinger.

  Her toothy grin faded a little as a tinge of annoyance crept into her voice. “I’m pretty talented with my hands, sugar,” she quipped, offering a smirk. “Why don’t you try me?”

  Any other time, I might have taken her up on her implied offer. She was attractive enough, but tonight my mind swam with swirls of red and streams of snappy banter.

  “Añejo tequila. Straight shot, in a stem glass, room temp…” I glanced without interest at her nametag. “…Tiffany.” I had low expectations, but for the sake of drying my soaked shirt, I gave her a shot.

  Giving me a wink, she clomped off in heels way too high for her uncoordinated legs to handle and began rummaging through a wasteland of bottles. I took the opportunity to evaluate my surroundings. Observation was a valuable skill my father instilled in me early in life.

  A man could never be surprised if he was aware of danger before it struck.

  The small room was dimly lit, brightened by only low watt overhead bulbs encased in terra-cotta shades. I found it strange décor for an Irish pub, but with the almost caricature Ireland memorabilia tacked to the walls, I had a feeling the place was anything but authentic.

  My gaze bounced from man to man, inconspicuously searching for telltale signs of a shoulder holster, the outline of a gun protruding from a waistline, a nervous hand twitch, or a repeated glance toward the door. Every man in my father’s inner circle, at one time or another, had brought me to a cantina since I was fifteen years old. They taught me to notice the unnoticeable, see the unseeable, and recognize the markings of a guilty man.

  “Here ya go, sweets.” Tiffany slid a highball glass in front of me, sloshing half the liquid on my hand. I didn’t have to taste it. I could smell it on my skin.

  Blanco.

  Shit tequila, aged less than a month…maybe two.

  I’d rather die of dehydration. Grabbing a drink napkin, I wiped my hand and pushed the offending glass toward her. “Just a water, thanks.”

  A confused look crossed her face, followed by annoyance. “You still have to pay for it.”

  “Of course.”

  “Whatever, dude.” Insulted, she moved down the bar, working her pathetic charm on some other unsuspecting man.

  I should’ve known better than to order a drink no one in this town could seem to manage.

  Except for her.

  Cereza.

  It was a dangerous move to know her name and even more so to give her mine. I had every intention of denying her request or even making up one. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d lied to a woman about my name. Since I never fucked the same woman twice, I never saw a need for such triviality as the exchange of names. My discretion was for their safety as much as mine.

  Aside from the fact that she was the only bartender in Houston who could make a drink without fucking it up, I thought too much about her the past few weeks. I found myself gravitating toward women with long red hair and blue eyes. I’d fucked each of them, hoping to screw her out of my head.

  It never happened. A man couldn’t crave quality steak…salivate for it…then satiate his hunger with a cheeseburger from a drive-thru.

  American women usually failed to hold my attention, but her strength and dominance surged all the blood in my veins straight to my cock. She was flashy, but her eyes hid a world of pain behind them. The pale blue color made a man want to break down her walls and discover her secrets while burying himself deep inside her body.

  The same thin black tank top she wore did nothing to hide the curves that dipped into a trim waist, highlighting an ass I could sink my fingers into from behind.

  That candy-red hair. Those smoky rimmed eyes.

  Just thinking about her made me hard as a rock.

  Immediately regretting the images flashing through my head, I almost excused myself to the restroom when a buzzing in my pocket distracted me. Pulling my phone out, I glanced at the number before answering in a hushed tone.

  “Si?”

  “Situation is handled, boss,” Emilio said, his voice slightly out of breath, and the sound of traffic roaring in the background.

  “Bien.” Ignoring my intuition, I abandoned my native tongue and broke into English. “So, what have I gained tonight in assets?”

  Emilio paused, as if choosing his words were of the upmost importance. “We got eight g’s between the safe, register, and night deposit bag, so we took two fingers, and…”

  “Why do I hear hesitation in your voice?” I scanned the perimeter of the bar again. Something didn’t feel right in my gut. Experience taught me that my gut never betrayed me, but men
did.

  “Lachey isn’t what I expected, boss,” he explained, waiting for me to respond. When I remained silent, he continued. “My crew, who knew him, talked like he was a junkie and scared of his own shadow. You know, set in his ways…real estúpido.”

  I grew tired of his hesitation. “For fuck’s sake, what happened?”

  “He didn’t seem high. I don’t know, boss. Something just felt off.”

  With a single nod of my chin, I threw a twenty-dollar bill down on the bar. The shitty tequila wasn’t worth the spit it would take to disgrace it, but it wasn’t the bartender’s fault she was a moron.

  As I pushed open the door to the pub, I growled into the phone, my patience gone. “Of course, it felt off, estúpido. Cutting off a man’s fingers isn’t supposed to feel like hitting a piñata and watching a fuck-load of candy fall out. Go back in there, clean it up, and get him back where he belongs.” Jerking the phone away, I strode to the car before hauling it back to my ear, confident he’d still be there. “And stop calling me for stupid shit.”

  Hitting the disconnect button, I glanced around before tossing the burner phone into a trashcan on the side of the street and slamming the car door.

  * * *

  Dropping the keys to the Lexus on the small table lining the hallway, I watched them skid across the polished wood and crash to the tile on the other side. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle in my body, reminding me it’d been weeks since I slept a full night without interruption. I barely cast a glance at them as I rounded the corner toward my bedroom.

  Fuck it.

  They could stay there for all I cared.

  With three million dollars spread strategically in offshore bank accounts, and another two million stashed in a safe underneath the baseboard of my house, I was still forced to drive around in an ordinary Lexus. A man of my wealth should be able to pay cash for a Bugatti or Maserati—not one that could cart a family of five around for afternoon picnics. But those were the unwritten rules of the business, and they were followed, or you got taken out. Stateside cartel members weren’t allowed to draw unnecessary attention to themselves.

  I understood the rules. It didn’t mean I had to like them.

  Anyone driving by my house wouldn’t give it a second glance. That wasn’t by accident. I came to this country with specific instructions from my father on where to live, what type of house to buy, what to drive, how to dress, who to surround myself with, and who to trust. No decision was my own. It should’ve bothered me, but taking orders from Alejandro Carrera was nothing new. The moment I’d decided enough was enough and demanded entrance into his world, I forfeited the right to an opinion.

  Sitting at the small desk in my bedroom, I tried for over an hour to find a new unloading drop to distribute the next shipment, but fatigue kept me unfocused. Nando’s fuck up and untimely demise left a major hole in my well-orchestrated hubs. The extra work it left for me made me want to raise Nando from the dead just so I could kill him all over again.

  Resigned to the fact that my productivity was shot, I’d just exited out of my computer when a ring pulled my attention to the end of the desk. The nondescript, black phone had sat there undisturbed for weeks, quiet and gathering dust.

  I stared at it, rubbing my eyes as if that had anything to do with the sound. Only one number would call on that burner phone. One voice on the other end of the line would answer. There could only be one reason why he’d call.

  Running a hand down my face, I let my palm hover over my mouth as my thumb and fingertips dug into my cheeks. I listened to it ring again and again, while the sound pierced my ears as if he were already screaming his tirade. There’d be no voice mail to pick up and no end to the ring. It’d continue as a game of wills until one of us cracked.

  It wouldn’t be him.

  Swearing under my breath, I slid my palm from my face and slammed it down on the phone, pressing the answer button with force. “What?”

  “What took you so long?”

  I fought to control the tone in my voice. “I wasn’t aware I was being summoned.”

  “Show respect, boy. Family doesn’t matter in business.”

  My fingers tightened around the phone as blood pounded in my ears. “I know that more than anyone, sir.”

  A rare pause of silence passed between us before a rumble of laughter filled the line.

  “When were you going to tell me that you allowed someone to flip a lieutenant?” he asked with accusation sharp in his tone.

  “I wasn’t.” My jaw ticked from holding back anger. “I handled it.”

  “You handled nothing. I handled Nando’s betrayal,” he hissed.

  The words sent a chill down my spine and a swirl of acid in my stomach. I knew what he meant, but for some reason, my mouth asked the words I didn’t want to hear the answer to.

  “Father, he’s gone. Why?”

  The ice in his words bit through the line. “A narco lives and dies by the code. When he joins our family, so does all of his blood.”

  I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I knew the code. I hated the fucking code. The code was the reason there were hundreds of movies in Hollywood about Italian mafia wise guys and Corleone bullshit. Omertà was a joke. Capos got pinched by the Feds and turned state’s witness in a heartbeat to save their own skins. I could wipe my ass with their omertà pledge. The reason Americans rarely saw a movie about a true cartel or saw headlines about one turning against their own family was simple. It didn’t happen. We had no need for a code of silence when we faced a code of death.

  It was beaten into every low-level cartel runner that if they were busted and talked or cooperated with the DEA, their family and friends back in Mexico would be killed. There were no made men or ceremonies or pledges in our world. A simple threat of beheading your wife, children, mother, father, or multiple generations of your lineage, kept your mouth shut.

  I hoped Nando’s blow job was worth the death that would soon come for his wife in Houston and his family back home.

  “Did you hear me, boy?” My father’s voice carried a twinge of annoyance. I’d missed half of what he’d said.

  “Si,” I lied. I didn’t give a shit. I just wanted off the phone. The less I talked to the man the better.

  “Watch for the Muñoz Cartel,” he warned. “They just shipped new men across the border.”

  “I’ve got it under control. Don’t worry.” I had nothing under control, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Bien. I’ll call soon.” He disconnected the call before I could mention another word.

  My father thought I was a moron, but I’d been aware of the Muñoz Cartel sniffing around my operation for a while now. It was because of that knowledge that Nando’s betrayal couldn’t have come at a worse time. I needed all my men close and vigilant. Shipments were being intercepted and it wasn’t by the Feds. With Mateo, Emilio, and Nando, I’d been able to always stay one step ahead of them. With one man down, I was crippled. I couldn’t afford to lose another fifty-two kilos.

  Squeezing the phone in my hand, my father’s words rolled around in my head, and I couldn’t help thinking of Nando’s sister and her two small daughters back in Mexico City. Were they already dead? Would my father make it a clean kill with no suffering, or would he be a bastard and mount their heads on a stake, leaving it in their front yard as a warning to the rest of the runners’ families?

  “Motherfucker!” Twenty-three years of resentment exploded as I hurled the phone across the desk. It skidded across strewn papers, knocking a glass and pictures over in its wake until it finally came to a stop against the wall.

  Rising from the chair, I ran my fingers over the small, three-by-five pewter picture frame lying on the floor. I didn’t give a shit about anything else. It could stay a clusterfucked mess for all I cared. Picking up the frame, I wiped the spilled water from the glass with the tail of my shirt, taking care to dry it before it could leak through to the photo.

  As I crashed into bed, my vi
sion blurred. The woman in the photo faded from a smiling, onyx haired image, to a clouded memory. The toothless boy wrapped in her arms grinned, innocent and blissfully unaware of the life that awaited him on the other side of destiny.

  Chapter Nine

  EDEN

  My stomach roiled as my gaze shifted from the sink that washed the evidence from my boss’s hands, to my brother, draped over the butcher’s block. His face had drained of all color, and his lips turned a bluish hue. Blood poured from almost every crevice of his body. Gripping the steel rods of the cart, I sat up on my knees and forced myself to see what the man I trusted had done to him.

  Bile crawled up my throat, burning a hole in the delicate tissue. The tips of Nash’s middle and forefinger on his right hand were gone. The digits were scattered across the block, tossed meaningless like scraps from today’s special ready for tomorrow’s garbage pickup.

  I couldn’t take it. Blackness crowded the outer edges of my vision, and my grip tightened.

  My big brother. My hero. Nash always saved the day and made sure I didn’t screw up everything in my path. He never did anything wrong. He spoke the truth. He wasn’t a junkie. He dedicated his life to getting inner city kids off drugs.

  The shaking intensified, and the more Nash bled, the more I panicked. I couldn’t pass out. He needed me. His eyes fluttered, and a slow trail of blood seeped out of his nose. I’d already lost everything that meant anything in my life. If I lost Nash, they’d might as well kill me too.

  Releasing one hand from the metal cart, I swiped the tears and pressed the back of my hand to my lips. The pressure was the only thing that quelled the cries of his name from bursting from my chest.

  My brother wouldn’t die alone. I was getting him the hell out of here.

  Just as I twisted to crawl from behind the cart, my knee caught the end of the bottom tray. The move was enough to cause it to roll forward into the prep table in front of it with a metal clang. Only a slight noise pinged through the air, but to my own ears, it sounded like a gunshot.