Dark Hunter

by AJ Adams

  “This is a beautiful city,” he growled. “Who will organise your security?”

  “Oh, I only do casting contracts.”

  “Then I will do your security.”

  The arrogance of the man was astounding. I actually rather liked it, but my character would’ve been appalled. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, it’s not my province.”

  “Without the authorities you can do nothing. I will make sure you have no problems.” He put his card on the bar. “Ask tomorrow, at the studio. They will tell you.”

  Then he just turned on his heel and left. A most unusual man, Diego Alejandro Velasquez Cervantes.

  I had two more drinks and went to bed but tossed and turned all night. I’m like that before a kill. Anticipation just fizzes through me. So I ended up watching a Rodgers and Hammerstein and thinking through my plan.

  The next morning, I waltzed off to the studio behind the hotel, briefcase in hand, less floral and more macho in a blue shirt. My meeting was at eleven, so when I turned up at ten, the office girls were in a flutter.

  “Darlings! My bad!” I squealed. “Jet lag always scrambles my brains! Don’t mind me. I’ll be perfectly comfortable on this lovely sofa with these beautiful magazines.”

  Five minutes later I begged to use the phone. “A local call, darling. My cell doesn’t seem to work. Must be one of those sunspot things.”

  Velasquez Cervantes picked up, sounding sleepy. “Who is this?”

  “Marcus Benson, Inspector General.” I sounded crisp, military almost. “I have liased with head office. They would be very grateful for your help.” Code for I just found out you’re a big wheel.

  “Where are you?” he growled.

  “I’m in the studio, looking at the possibility of Angelita Romero joining our little venture.” I was instantly chummy. “I think it will add local colour, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  He didn’t much care for her by the sound of it, so I went back to crisp. “Look, I fly out this afternoon. I’m booked solid for the next six weeks, so could we have a lightning meeting today? Just to firm up ideas?”

  “For security?”

  “Well, yes, but for the cameo spot we were thinking we might want you to sing a part of your song.” I could feel him smile over the phone. “And we’re tentatively thinking that if you rerecorded it with Pen—”

  I disconnected the phone, thanked the secretary and sat down. Two minutes later it rang. She answered it, spoke briefly, and said, “Yes, Mr Benson is still here.”

  I looked apologetic, but inside I was chortling. My prey now had incontrovertible proof that I was the real deal: flurries of phone calls from ‘overseas’ to the hotel, a receptionist who could vouch for business cards and letterhead, and finally confirmation from this office that Marcus Benson was present for a production meeting.

  “Where do we meet?” Velasquez Cervantes’ famous caution had vanished. “Your hotel?”

  “We’re setting up shop at the studio condo. Meet me there at one? And can you bring a copy of your record, your CV, and a headshot? And we’ll need a release from your employer. I’ll give you our boilerplate for that.”

  I burbled on for a few minutes, and when I hung up, my fish was well and truly hooked. Red tape does that to people. They think that anything involving mindless paperwork must be legitimate.

  I had my meeting with the producer, and it went well too. I just asked, “What would you like your role to be in Pen’s next film?” and sat back as he talked the hind legs off a donkey.

  When I left an hour later, all I had to do was stroll into the condo and spread around papers, making it look like I was setting up a production office.

  At one o’clock I slapped on the hideous aftershave, opened the champagne, and then opened the door to admit Velasquez Cervantes.

  “Ah, Inspector General, come in.” I waved at the champagne. “A little bubbly?” I picked an orange out of the fruit bowl. “Pen does this marvellous thing with champers and orange.”

  He was looking around as I talked, somewhat suspicious by the unoccupied feel of the place. This man was cautious around men, but my eyeliner, camp act, and revolting perfume settled him. In his mind, I was a little maricon, no threat at all, so he relaxed.

  I quartered his orange, put it on a plate, and quartered another. “You know Inspector General, I had no idea who you were last night. I’m so sorry.”

  He grinned. “They told you, huh?”

  “Oh yes!” I handed him a plate of orange, poured champagne, and raised my glass. “Pen says I’m to woo you.” Then, when he scowled at me, I added quickly, as if embarrassed, “Right, erm, Pen has this marvellous way of drinking champagne. You bite the orange and then drink. It’s wonderful!”

  When I bit my orange, he bit his. I’d poured both glasses from the bottle but even so, the wily fox watched me swallow before he did.

  “Good?” I asked.

  “Excellent! She invented this, huh? Penelope Cruz?”

  “Oh yes,” I assured him. “We’re all drinking our bubbles this way now.”

  Delighted at being in the in-crowd, Velasquez Cervantes had another gulp and orange slice.

  “Top up?” I joined him. “Did you bring the recording?”

  He’d brought an iPod. It really was great quality sound, but the music was dreadfully brassy. But I smiled and exclaimed, and we played it again.

  It was half way through the second chorus that Velasquez Cervantes went white.

  Me, I was all concern. “Are you all right? Shall I open a window?”

  He was beginning to sweat. “Something’s wrong.”

  I saw him reach into his pocket. If he took out his phone, he could call for help, but it was already too late for him. Nothing could save him now. But if he took out his gun, we’d both die.

  I had to stop him doing either, but I didn’t want to interfere by bashing him. I’d never tried this method of killing before, and I didn’t want to miss anything. “Darling, shall I call a doctor?”

  My apparent shock and surprise kept him in place for the last few vital seconds.

  I watched him narrowly. “Maybe champagne on an empty stomach was a bad idea?”

  He gasped like a goldfish out of its bowl, finally realising he was in desperate straits. He tried to move his hand, the effort visible in his face, and failed. I was safe.

  I picked up my champagne, put my feet up on the table and gave Velasquez Cervantes my best grin. “Come to think of it, it’s probably the hemlock.”

  He was gasping now with the sweat running like a tap. I’d seen Derby winners look more relaxed.

  “Socrates lasted several hours, but I think my distillation is more powerful.”

  “Cruz—” he gasped.

  “Pen? Never met her, I’m afraid.” I raised my glass. “Lovely girl, by all accounts. Far too nice to mix with lowlifes like me.”

  The cheerful iced champagne against my lips was a delicious contrast to his silent panic. The power was surging through me, putting sparkles on the afternoon.

  “Hey, talking about lowlifes, you know that kid who tried to mug you? The one you shot twelve times?” I could see he did. “How long did he last?”

  Velasquez Cervantes didn’t reply. He couldn’t because his heart was going like the clappers, trying to bash its way out of his body, sending his nerves and muscles into useless overloaded spasms.

  That’s what hemlock does: it paralyses you, slowly shutting down your system. This kind of poisoning isn’t particularly painful, but the handful of people who’ve been rescued by handy paramedics bearing all the right drugs say it’s fucking scary. Apparently, you can hear your heart thundering in your ears while you’re trying to suck in air, unable to move.

  “That girl you shot, Julia Torres. Bet she’d love to see you now.” I swirled my glass, enjoying the look on his face. This was perfect justice. “And Gloria Reyes. Did you do your own dirty work? Or did you hire someone to rape her?”

  He ju
st looked at me, frozen as the subtle herb did its deadly work, still not understanding how this happened.

  “I injected it into the orange,” I informed him. “Cute idea, don’t you think?”

  I think he tried to nod, but it may have been a last-ditch attempt to try and escape. Whatever it was, it made him slide off the chair, spilling onto the floor. I didn’t want to miss it, so I quickly put down my glass and scooted over.

  He was wheezing now, eyes filled with fear and rage. I leaned over him, drinking in the sight, revelling in the power. All that clout and dominance was nothing, thanks my hand. I felt on top of the world. I’d done this. I had lured him in, pulled his strings every step of the way. I was omnipotent.

  “What’s it like?” I asked him. “Are you thinking of the others? Of Julia, Gloria, and that kid?”

  From the way he blinked, I didn’t think so. It looked more like he was wishing he’d added me to his body list.

  “That’s life,” I told him. “You’ve got to get them before they get you.”

  The hemlock was working fast; his eyes were beginning to glaze. He was going out by inches, every second bringing him closer to death. It was time.

  I picked up my phone and hit record. “Arturo Vazquez sends his regards.” At the name, the eyes blinked and widened. His mouth opened in a silent scream. A final gasp and he was gone. Diego Alejandro Velasquez Cervantes was no more.

  My rush ended with his death, but I was still feeling upbeat. It really had been a superb hunt. Spectacular, really. One of my best.

  He’d died on his back, which was excellent. Now the post mortem bruising would be just right. I gathered the champagne bottle and cork, plus my orange skins. Then I loaded the body onto the food cart, throwing his iPod on top.

  The lift whizzed me to the penthouse. Angelita would be at work in the studio, but just in case, I rang the bell. Nothing. The passkey worked smoothly in the lock; I was in, and Velasquez Cervantes was on the bed, minus his boots, less than a minute later.

  I smudged the bottle by pressing the sheets all over it and put his prints on top. Then it and the cork went over the pillow, soaking through to the mattress. If they dumped the body, they’d have to ditch that too. Awkward! The fruit rinds went in the bin. The iPod stood on the bedside table.

  I surveyed the scene. Right. Velasquez Cervantes came to visit and died of a heart attack. Perfect. Angelita would have a fit, and her Sinaloa boyfriend would be wondering how come one of the Gulf stooges was making himself at home in her place. Lovely. He’d fuck up any legal work the Gulf gave him, or maybe even ignore it, leaving Arturo a clear path to his casino playground.

  I took some pictures and exited. The trolley went back to the Zetas apartment and then I was back in the lift, home free. Or so I thought.

  Halfway between the fifth and fourth floor the lights went out, and the lift stopped. There was a dead silence, and then the smell of smoke. From a great distance, I heard terrified screaming. The condo was on fire, and I was trapped.

  Chapter Sixteen: Morgan

  “I’m not locking you up,” Rip said, and then he laid out exactly what my options were. “You’d be undocumented in Mexico.” As I had seen along with the rest of the US what happened to illegals, I was staying put.

  “I’ll be back before you miss me,” Rip said cheerily.

  The bastard. I could have smacked him one, but when he went off, I sat on the edge of the bed and stayed there. My head was pounding.

  I was moaning, “How much damn rum did I drink?” Then I got myself together. “Explore your options,” I told myself. “Start figuring out how to get out of this goddamn mess.”

  I had a shower, a cold one, and looked for something to wear. The walk-in closet was massive, and Rip’s stuff took up just a corner of it. The jeans, plain black suit, and preppy shirts were clearly his. But there were also Hawaiian shirts, cargo pants, and tie-dye tees that I just couldn’t see Rip wearing. Even weirder, there were also wigs, a box filled with different reading glasses, and a case loaded with makeup. Not just blusher and mascara, but also putty and colour contact lenses.

  It should have been clear, but all I could think at the time was that Rip was either a cross-dresser or dead serious about Halloween.

  Anyway, as I wasn’t putting it together, I ignored the PJs sitting on a shelf of their own and borrowed a pair of his boxers and a navy blue shirt. They were too large, but it was a relief to get out of the night gear. They were softest cotton, but I’ve never been a fan of girly pink, and the unicorns were just too much.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Weirdly, I looked exactly as I always had. The wild events that had gone by had barely left a mark on me. There were a few rapidly fading light yellow contusions, and that was it. Well, except for my hair. Rip must have given me an impromptu trim at some point. It was inches shorter than usual and uneven.

  Staring at my reflection wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I went to explore. It was creepy walking about in a stranger’s home. I had the awful feeling that I was trespassing. But I got over it pretty quickly, and very soon I was going through every room with a fine-tooth comb.

  It was spotlessly clean and luxurious, with sunken baths, leather sofas, fabulous rugs, and an amazing TV that took up an entire wall, but there were no photos, knickknacks, or books. In fact, most of the cupboards and drawers were bare. It was as if Rip didn’t exist.

  I ended up in the kitchen, looking for coffee and breakfast. The fridge was full, but apart from the eggs and milk, it was stuffed with vegetables I didn’t recognise and waxed paper parcels of meat that might be anything.

  What I didn’t find was cereal. There was yoghurt, though, and I had a flash of Rip saying, “Drink your smoothie, Morgan.” At that, I sat down abruptly.

  Memories were flooding back. Rip brushing my hair, washing me in the shower, and even brushing my teeth. Also, more vaguely, of being held while I was sick, and then, very clearly, of him laughing as he licked my nipples.

  It had been terrific in both senses: scary and the best sex I’d had in years.

  “Get a grip,” I moaned. “Why the hell do you go for bad boys?”

  As I made eggs, sunny side up, I wondered what Rip was after. I didn’t believe his statement that he wanted a “nice, quiet girl” for one single second. The cartel could supply him with one of those in a heartbeat. No, there was some mystery there. But I was damned if I knew what.

  The house was off too. Like a hotel, it was beautiful but impersonal. Either Rip was renting, or he’d just moved in.

  Unlike a hotel, Rip’s place had leaky taps. “Do me a favour,” he’d said, and so I made my way to the garage.

  I opened the triple door and just stood and stared, open-mouthed. On the one side stood a row of garden tools, perfectly clean and with the shears and grass-cutter properly oiled. The rest looked like an abandoned chop shop.

  There was a top-quality car lift as well as all the tech tools from hydraulic jacks to a machinist’s vice. But the equipment was dumped here and there, covered in dust, spider webs, and garden dirt.

  There was no car, but a Harley Davidson custom-built SuperLow stood in one corner. It was dusty, leaking oil, and some hooligan had messed with the seat. It had been ripped open and badly put back together again. I could have cried, seeing how badly it had been treated.

  Behind it, hidden under tarps, I found an Italika sports bike and an ATV, both neglected. It wasn’t clear to the casual eye, but I know my bikes; both had been modified. The seats were hollow, and the frames were hinged. These had belonged to a drug courier.

  From an oil stain on the cement, there was a vehicle missing; presumably Rip was driving it.

  Exploring further, I found neatly packed boxes filled with clothes, broken phones, cameras, and also a gigantic stash of porn. Mitch had a revolting collection of DVDs, and Roberto was shameless about his Hustlers, but this was beyond belief. Leather, Udders and Jugs and Jugs and Jizz were on top, and they weren’t the worst, either.


  That settled it. I couldn’t see neat-freak Rip neglect a bike, and while the rum had addled my brain, he’d not seemed an ‘udders’ fan. There had been another tenant before Rip had come in.

  I wondered what had happened to him. He might have been arrested, I told myself firmly. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Rip had killed him. He was quite capable of it; I’d seen that vicious streak with my own eyes. And yet, he’d not hurt me.

  That brought back surges of Rip laughing down at me again as I squealed for more. Before my brain got stuck into reruns, I put together a toolkit and went to work. I know it seems strange, but standing about and moaning wouldn’t help. I needed to be busy.

  The kitchen tap needed a new washer, and the trap needed cleaning. The upstairs bathrooms were the same, and when I went to look for the mains to switch off the water, I found the garden hose was dripping too.

  While I worked, my brain was going round and round. I knew Rip was lethal, and I had to get away, but I had nowhere to run to. I wasn’t even sure if going back over the border was a safe idea. It wasn’t just a matter of staying out of Dawson Heights; Don Valentine and the Gulf had national reach.

  That was something I didn’t want to think about. I could’ve taken it if Neto had caught me, but having been betrayed by my own people crucified me.

  I wasn’t surprised Don Valentine had wanted me gone. Cartel bosses just aren’t to be trusted. But Mitch had framed me. That I couldn’t understand. He’d lied to me, keeping his real situation from me. I’d been upset and angry when I found out the truth, but I would never have hurt him. Not ever.

  But Mitch had hated me so much that he’d handed me over to Neto, knowing I’d suffer a long, lingering, painful death. It had almost worked too. If Rip hadn’t rescued me, I would have been dead.

  The horrible thing about thinking about Rip was that my head told me he was a fiend who was no different from Mitch or Neto, but in my heart, I was grateful. Rip had cared for me for weeks, and for that I owed him. But the other part, scaring me and practically blackmailing me into bed, was unforgivable—except that it had been spectacular.