Dark Hunter

by AJ Adams

  The cousin moaned a bit, whining, “Ay, Dios mío,” and then Chumillo kicked him out, literally booting him up the arse. “Fool! Get out! And thank the good God you’re not dead!”

  I was disappointed at being halted just as it was getting interesting, but there was no doubt holding my hand was paying off, because Chumillo was right back, giving me the half nelson the Zeta men greeted each other with. “Joder, Rip! I thought you were going to kill him.”

  I remembered Arturo telling me his rule about killing without permission. “I was just scaring him.”

  “Well, you fucking scared me,” Chumillo sighed. “I really thought you’d lost it.”

  He was making a joke out of it, but I knew he was back to being worried again. He’d seen what cousin Eduardo had seen, and it unnerved him.

  There was nothing I could do about that, so I stayed on point. “Are there more cousins?”

  “Yeah, but everyone knows Campello deserved what he got. The jefe had the right to have him dealt with. None of the others will bother you.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  “Yeah,” Chumillo sighed. “Fuck! The jefe won’t like this.” He dug his phone out of his pocket. “He sent him to San Paolo to cool off. But the capullo came back. I couldn’t believe my ears when the halcones told me he was blasting towards your place.”

  It was a relief. If the cousin had disobeyed orders, Arturo couldn’t blame me for this. At least, it seemed that way to me, but I was uncomfortably aware that not being good around people, this was one of the things I was liable to get wrong.

  As Chumillo made his call, I went to check on Morgan. She was definitely coming round, making an effort all by herself to sit up. As she saw me, she leaned into me. Without thinking about it, I picked her up and petted her.

  “Joder!” Chumillo had spotted her. “She okay?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “She’s looking good.” He was looking at Morgan with approval. “The jefe says he’s sorry about this. He’ll call you soon.”

  “No need for that.” Because I’d thoroughly enjoyed myself. That shot in the side had energised me. “It couldn’t be helped. It’s just one of those things.”

  It was the right thing to say because Chumillo grinned. “Yeah. The maricon brought it on himself.”

  He was happy again, reassured by Morgan putting her face in my neck. She did that a lot, curling into me for warmth, comfort, or perhaps both. This time though, she clung and murmured, “Angel.”

  “She’s talking!” Chumillo exclaimed excitedly. “What did she say?”

  “Angel.” I stroked the blonde tendrils, and asked, “You okay, Morgan?”

  There was a new light in her eyes, but she shut them, shuddered, and went silent.

  “I’ll call Chismoso,” Chumillo said excitedly. By then I’d learned the Zetas nicknamed Kyle, their closemouthed chief of security ‘blabbermouth’ as a term of affection. “He’ll be happy to hear she’s talking.”

  This was going too fast for my taste. “It’s one word. Let’s give her time.” I stroked Morgan’s neck, thinking my way carefully. “Pushing her might scare her.”

  “Of course.” Chumillo put away his phone. “Look, I’ll leave you to it, okay? But call me when she talks again?”

  “Absolutely. And please tell Kyle I’ll call as soon as she tells me her name.”

  “Right.” Chumillo was looking out over the river, clearly considering something. Then he glanced at the grass, dappled with blood. “Look,” he said impulsively, “we may have picked up a problem.”

  “What kind?”

  “There’s noise from Warsaw, a rumour that a kid called Sokolov is planning a hit.”

  My past was coming back to haunt me. “I see.”

  “We’re dealing with it,” Chumillo assured me, “and it’s only a rumour. For all we know, it’s drunken talk at a club.”

  “But I need to know. Thanks, Chumillo.” Kyle might have told me, but he hadn’t. Nor had Arturo. I was wondering why.

  “We put an alert on the border and doubled up on halcones,” Chumillo said. “We’re getting more intel in a few hours. If it is more than a rumour, you’ll get a heads-up. Otherwise, it’s not worth worrying about.”

  Because Kyle wouldn’t mind if a hit was successful, but I knew better than to say so. “With you backing me up, I’m not worried.”

  “You’d better fucking believe it!” Another whack on the shoulders, and then Chumillo was off, calling, “Phone if she talks again.”

  I sat by the pool, Morgan on my lap, thinking. Over the years I’d had plenty of kills, but I remembered Sykes as if I’d seen him yesterday. Greasy had been correct in telling me that Sokolov was bad news.

  On the surface the man had been a patron of the arts. He’d met my father in his role as sponsor for a Shakespeare festival. However, I’d discovered Sokolov was simply looking to launder the money he and his family were making from their organised crime activities.

  Blackmail, murder and kiddy porn had been the least of it. It had been a pleasure to destroy him and his associates, but as I’d limited my vengeance to the players, their families were left intact. Now one of them was lusting for my blood.

  “Angel,” Morgan sighed.

  I stroked her back, smiling at the irony of it. If I were an angel, it would be one of the fallen ones. But even a devil can use help. I’d dealt with threats many times but this was the first time I had a heads-up about impending trouble. Frankly, it made me feel very safe.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Chumillo had warned me because Morgan had finally spoken. He’d been horrified by my monster, but that one word from her had unleashed a burst of warmth and inspired the confidence.

  Sending her away was no longer an option. She was too valuable to me. It was imperative that I should keep her.

  “Angel,” Morgan murmured again.

  I held the warm body snuggled into mine. Making her stay was simply a matter of explaining what would happen if she tried to leave, but making her appear sweet, loving, and friendly for the benefit of the Zetas instead of a terrified wreck would be a challenge.

  I petted the soft blonde hair as I pondered. Now how was I going to work that?

  Chapter Twelve: Morgan

  I floated, happy in the knowledge that the angel was guarding me. He was there all the time, holding me, giving me delicious things to eat and keeping the constant bright light flowing over me.

  I know, I was nuts. Maybe it was my brain fooling me so I wouldn’t worry. If I’d known the truth, I might not have made it.

  But evil reached out and sent me a terrifying dream. My angel was standing in the Garden of Eden when a dark devil came raging. He was screaming in tongues, but my angel twisted and turned. There was a shot, a cry from the stricken dark one, and a spray of blood.

  As I hid away, terrified by the invasion of paradise, I was hurtling back into space. Suddenly, Mitch was holding me while Neto leaned in to punch me. Both of them were laughing and wearing devil horns.

  “Hold her up!”

  “Loba!”

  “Your turn.”

  Trapped in my hell, I was screaming.

  I opened my eyes and found myself lying on a lawn. There were birds singing, and the sun was shining. In the background, a wide brown river flowed, sunlight dancing over its ripples. I breathed again; I was still in heaven.

  I sat there, wondering where my angel was. Then there was a buzzing sound followed by a ring tone. It was a mobile ringing. Why would an angel need a phone?

  It was as if a veil lifted from my eyes. The world shimmered and shifted, moving me from my dream state into reality. This wasn’t heaven. I came back to planet earth with a bump.

  I looked around, seeing the river, the wild garden, and then the pool and the house. It was a beautiful place, a Garden of Eden. But there was a streak of wetness on the grass. It was red, turning black. I leaned over to look at it. It was blood.

  I sat back, wondering
about that terrifying nightmare. Had it been real?

  “Arturo. Good to hear from you.” It was his voice, the angel’s. I recognised the light, clipped tone instantly. It was coming from the house behind me. “Yes, we’re both fine. Don’t apologise! How could you have guessed the idiot would try and kill me?”

  Kill? I sat up and listened, my heart pounding.

  “I shot him in the ribs. He should be fine.”

  Some angel. He’d shot a man and he was sounding happy about it.

  “Yes, I must say, it was a close thing. Luckily I didn’t break our agreement.”

  Another listening silence.

  “Yes, that would be better. After all, if they come for me, they only get what they deserve. Thanks, Arturo. You’ve set my mind at rest.”

  He had enemies, and from the sound of it, they were the killing kind. Arturo must be a boss, if the angel was asking permission to kill his attackers. I decided right there and then, I would not want to meet this Arturo.

  “I’m working my way through the files,” the light, clipped voice was saying. “I can take down the targets any time you like. I was just wondering, would you like me to link the bodies or not? If you’re after news value, it helps to have a signature.”

  Targets. Cold sweat was running down my back. My angel was a hit man. Dear lord, where the hell had I ended up?

  “Sure, think it over and let me know.”

  Maybe I should run. But where?

  “Yes, she did speak but it was one word, angel. Right, yes, in English. Or rather, American. Hopefully she’ll come out of it now, and then we’ll find out who she is.”

  He was talking about me.

  “We can decide what to do about her as soon as she talks.”

  And do what? Shoot me? Or use my murder to get TV time? I had no idea what was going on, but the fear was throttling through me.

  “You’re awake.” It was him, the sun bouncing off his blond hair, giving him a halo. Not a guardian angel. A man. I felt dizzy and sick. My stomach was twisting with nerves.

  He was leaning over me, examining me. “Well now,” he said. “You’re back.”

  I found myself acting on instinct, putting my arms around him.

  “Hello, Morgan.” His voice was calm and soothing as he hugged me. He smelled clean and fresh, like newly mown grass. I pressed my face into his neck, feeling the softness of his skin over hard muscle. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

  He carried me into the shade, settling in a chair. I’m a grown woman, but sitting in his lap seemed perfectly natural. I was cocooned in his warmth and scent. I’d done this before; this was my safe spot.

  But as he held me, I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. They were deep blue, the colour of the summer sky, and there was nothing in them. No feeling, no anger, just a watchful gaze. They were like coloured ice.

  “Who are you?” I felt as if I hadn’t spoken in eons, but my voice sounded perfectly fine.

  “My name’s Rip.”

  It was strange, but it suited him. He was strong, and it wasn’t just the way I could feel his muscles flex as he held me. I could sense the fierce intelligence of his mind. This man was sharp as a razor.

  As he gazed at me I felt he was sizing me up, seeing exactly who and what I was. It confused me. My thoughts were sluggish, and I felt disconnected from myself.

  Rip seemed to understand. He nodded and smiled. “You’re still coming out of it. You need to just sit for a while.” The emotion didn’t reach the soulless eyes, but the light, clipped voice sounded friendly. “I’ll make tea.”

  He vanished, leaving me sitting quietly, looking around. It was all familiar yet strange. I stared into the pool, tiled in blue so that the water looked turquoise, and the wide, slow-flowing river seemed to stretch for miles.

  Now it all began to make sense. I’d landed in that river when escaping from Neto. I remembered the cuffs biting into my wrists. It was a miracle that I hadn’t drowned.

  I must have floated ashore here. But thanks to the beating, I’d been delirious, thinking I’d sunk to the river bottom and died. It had been this wonderful garden and seeing the sun shining on his hair that had suggested the idea of the afterlife.

  I looked down at myself. I was wearing pink PJs with a unicorn printed on the front, Barbie-doll style. Pushing up the sleeves, I saw that my arms had a few patches of light yellow, but the cigarette burns had healed. My wrists had pink, new skin too. I touched my sides, remembering the agony of the boots breaking my ribs. They had healed as well.

  I must have been out of it for weeks. An image rushed back, “Soup or smoothie?” Rip, giving me lunch. All this time he’d been watching over me. It seemed incredible.

  I reached back, thinking of that moment I’d stepped out of Mitch’s truck when I’d spotted Neto. Instantly the rage, pain and despair, ending in the blackness devouring me came rushing back. I shivered, grateful to be in the sun.

  “Let me have a look at you.”

  Rip was back, putting down a tray of teacups and teapot before sitting next to me. He was wearing jeans and a beautifully cut blue and white striped shirt. They highlighted the sky-blue eyes, shining short blond hair, and muscular body.

  I drank in the smooth skin, lean angular face, high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and chiselled lips. No wonder I’d thought he was an angel! He really was beautiful. Except for those soulless eyes.

  “You’re healing well.” He was looking underneath my top and pulling aside the bottoms, examining my body as if he owned it. I didn’t resist, didn’t even think of it. It was too familiar. He’d done this often, when I thought he was my guardian angel.

  He stroked my hair briefly. “You’re coming along nicely.”

  Without thinking about it, I leaned against him. His scent, earthy and clean, like grass after rain, swirled around me. It was familiar, as if a memory from a dream, but it settled me. I closed my eyes and forced my brain to work.

  What was going on? Was Rip my rescuer? Somehow it didn’t seem likely. That phone conversation argued Rip was more dangerous than Mitch and Neto. So why was I hugging him? Had I gone completely insane? And why was he calling me Morgan?

  I sat back a little and looked at Rip. He really was good looking, if you didn’t look at his eyes. He was English, I recognised the accent, so why was he here? And where was here?

  “Sugar and milk?” Rip was pouring tea, just like in the movies. “We don’t have a milk jug.”

  I gazed at the blood blackening on the grass. He’d shot a man, and he was worrying about milk jugs. He was picking up the carton, and that’s when I saw the label, ‘leche’. Spanish milk.

  My mind flashed back to that dark night. “I’m going to put you in a whorehouse,” Neto had said. And then there had been that call about ICE dumping illegals over the border. I knew where I was: in Nuevo Laredo, the Mexican border town. The name was familiar, it could hardly not be. Nuevo Laredo was Zeta territory.

  “Are you okay?” Rip asked.

  Oh dear God, I was in enemy central. These people had once been part of the Gulf cartel. But they had split away, formed their own organisation, and in the war that followed, the Zetas had waged a vicious campaign. Images of the Zeta execution squads ran through my mind. The mountain of heads, the public hangings, the landfills stuffed with burnt bodies—my stomach was heaving.

  The moment Rip figured out my name, I was dead. Never mind he’d spent weeks patching me up, I’d be boiled alive or crucified if he learned of my Gulf heritage.

  “You’re frightened,” Rip was reading my mind. “What are you thinking, Morgan?”

  “I just feel sick,” I lied.

  “No, that’s not it,” he said.

  The eyes were piercing. It was as if I were standing under a spotlight. Unable to stop myself, I glanced at the bloodstain.

  Rip was looking right along with me. “Cousin Eduardo is fine. You must have seen him leave,” he was thinking aloud.

  The fight had been real, then. Rip
had been ambushed, and he’d shot his attacker. I’d seen it and in my delirium had put my own spin on it. I was wishing fervently I was insane again. This reality was scaring the fuck out of me.

  “Now what are you thinking, Morgan?” The pale eyes were intent. I could feel him thinking. Rip seemed to fade a little, as if he were falling asleep. Then he snapped back, fully alert. “Ah, the phone call from Arturo.”

  Oh hell.

  “How much of that did you hear?”

  “N-nothing.”

  “All of it,” he concluded. The eyes shimmered, piercing in their intensity. I felt as if he were reaching into my soul. “Who are you?”

  The memory of Mitch, handing me over to Neto flashed into mind. “A gift from Don Valentine.” Los Osos wanted me dead, and the Gulf were eager to help. If I went back, I wouldn’t last a day.

  I had nobody to turn to either. Don Valentine had betrayed me, and he’d want that secret buried forever. If I called Roberto or the others, the boss would kill them in order to protect himself. To keep them safe, I had to disappear.

  With nowhere to go, and not a shred of clothing or even a dollar in my pocket, I was trapped in the lion’s den. Rip was a Zeta hit man, there was no doubt in my mind. One who chatted lightly of themes for his kills.

  “Your name?” Rip asked again.

  My silence wasn’t getting me anywhere. Rip was a fiend from hell and now he was sensing my secret. “Who are you? Where’s home?” I was in deadly danger.

  “I’m Morgan,” I heard myself say.

  Rip frowned. “That’s what I call you. I meant your real name.”

  Walking on a knife-edge, I picked my words carefully. “I can’t go home. My ex will kill me if he catches me.” All true; I had the faded bruises to prove it.

  His eyes were watchful. “Is that so?”

  I knew he’d sensed I was hiding something. “I can’t go back. From now on, I’ll be Morgan.” Maybe distracting him would work. “I’m very grateful. You saved my life.”

  To hide my fear, I shut my eyes and leaned into him. Rip’s arms came up and held me. “Well now, isn’t that sweet?”