Dark Hunter

by AJ Adams

  “When I was fourteen, the Feds came to the house,” Morgan sighed. “They showed me pictures. Lots of pictures. And all of them were of dead people.”

  “The Feds said Papa had killed them,” Morgan said softly. “I told myself they lied. That Papa would never hurt anyone, that it was someone else. But I knew in my heart that it was all true.”

  Poor Morgan. She’d been a child at the time. It was no way to live.

  “I loved Papa,” Morgan pointed out. “And yes, I tried to make my own life, but it didn’t work. And if you leave me, I’ll be alone forever, surrounded by the cartel.”

  “I’m even worse than they are.” I had to say it. “Morgan, you’ve seen what I’m like.”

  “But you’re changing.”

  How she knew, I’ll never know.

  “You’re a good person who got sucked into this, and you’re suffering now because you’re turning back to your old self,” she said. “I know you’ll get out of it.”

  I wasn’t so sure. But despite my doubts, a little seed of hope was budding.

  “It won’t be easy, but we’ll get through it.” Morgan patted my arm. “Somehow we’ll make it, Rip.”

  “I wish it were possible.” That came from the heart.

  “Anything’s possible,” Morgan said firmly. “But we have to do it together. So no running off and leaving me.”

  That conversation haunted me. As the days flowed by, I was torn between hope and fear. Maybe there was a chance for us. Maybe I didn’t have to leave her. But I could not see a way out without the support of the Zetas.

  Every way I cut it, the price for protection would be to continue working for the cartel, and in my heart I wasn’t sure if Morgan could live with that. She was sustained by hope, and if that vanished, my darkness might destroy her.

  So we lived on a knife-edge, alternately burgeoned by dreams and depressed by trepidation.

  Matters came to a crunch a fortnight later when Kyle came by. As always he was dressed in black, seemingly absorbing the sunlight as he strode across the lawn.

  Just the sight of him grated on me, but I smiled. “Well, hello!”

  “Morgan said I’d find you here.” He cast a swift look around, and I was certain he had sized up the dog patrol a mile off to one side and the other halcone on the other. This man didn’t miss a trick.

  “How nice of you to drop by. Is this a social visit?”

  “Cut it out.” The low voice sounded gruff. “Bad news, I’m afraid.” The silver eyes were impenetrable. “The Bratva figured out they’re chasing their own tails in St Petes.”

  “They are very dedicated. It’s inspiring, really.”

  “It won’t be long before they get here.” Kyle was gazing out at the river. I couldn’t read him at all. “We were going to set you loose next week, but under the circumstances, we think you should go now.”

  “Set me loose? How sweet! ‘Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war’? Am I your dog, Kyle, or your bitch?”

  “Jesus, you really have a nasty tongue,” the enforcer sighed. “Julius Caesar, right?”

  He was more literate than I’d thought. “Yes.”

  There was another of those long brooding silences. “Want me to tag along? I could watch your back.”

  That set me on my heels. He couldn’t stand me, so where was this coming from? If I were him, what would I be thinking?

  “You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Kyle was explaining in words of one syllable, “but you’ve stuck to the deal, taken orders, and delivered. And in my team, we stick together.”

  “Fair play, huh?” Sometimes I just can’t help myself. “But his captain’s hand on his shoulder smote ‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’”

  The colossus wasn’t impressed. “That’s from a poem, right? First World War?”

  Definitely well-read. “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a friend, Mac, who recites that.” Kyle eyed me up, not hiding his dislike. “Look, chances are you can go in, do the job, and get out before the Russians zero in on us. But if you get it wrong, you’re fighting two fronts on your own. Don’t be an asshole. Take the backup.”

  He actually meant it. “Thanks, but I hunt alone.”

  Kyle shrugged. “Have it your way. If you change your mind, call me.” There was more brooding—the man did dark and gloomy better than Batman—and then he added, “If you don’t make it back, I’ll watch over Morgan.”

  I didn’t like him, but I couldn’t help but feel relief. He was a son of a bitch himself, but with his deep streak of romantic hero, he would stick to his pledge come hell or high water.

  “Thanks.” I meant it too. “I shouldn’t pick at you. Sorry, I can’t help myself.”

  The enforcer nodded briefly. “Forget about it. Go do the job and then hightail it back home.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Morgan was round the moment his superbike roared down the road. “Everything okay?” She spoke casually, but she was trembling.

  It hurt me just to see her fear. I put my arms around her, wishing I could just run off with her. But it was impossible. “I have to go away for a day or two.” I stroked the soft hair.

  “Oh, right.” She was trying to sound light and casual, my brave Morgan. “The apprentices will be gone in an hour. When they’re done, shall we have a drink?”

  Any delay brought the Bratva closer to me. “I have to go now, love.”

  “Oh.” She was quiet, but her eyes asked a thousand questions.

  “Nobody you know, sweetheart.”

  She breathed again and tried to smile. “Right. I won’t ask. You’ll message?”

  “Of course.”

  I went off, not realising that I was leaving my girl open to danger.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Morgan

  Rip picked up a small pre-packed case and left. With the apprentices gone for the day, I roamed around the house. Unlike last time, the halcones were round within the hour, determined to be helpful.

  “Oye guapa!” Vincente was yelling into the kitchen window. “Give me a shopping list for tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “The night team are in place, but take our phone numbers,” Leo was adding, “just in case you want something.”

  What a difference a couple of weeks make, right?

  I should have been feeling pretty good, but I was uptight as hell. Even though Rip would have kittens if he knew, I couldn’t help picking up my new phone, and a few clicks later I was on the Barnyard Facebook page. I was instantly sucked back into my former home space.

  The top posts announced that Christy and Dale had married at Notre Dame. The wedding I hadn’t been invited to had been a great success. Christy had worn a terrific dress straight out of a Disney princess movie, and the party look awesome. The whole thing made me depressed. I was reminded that I’d been an outsider looking in.

  Viewing my own page was just as dismal. An endless stream of bikes and cars I was working on, plus a few selfies in Barnyard with Emma and Lucy. It might have been captioned ‘Life of a Loser’. There were a few likes from the Classic Automobile page gang and then notes under all the top photos.

  Where are you? Worried! From Emma.

  Then a Wherever you are, call! If you’ve lost your phone, here are our numbers from Lucy.

  For God’s sake, Chica, get in touch. We’re hearing the most God-awful rumours, a group message from Roberto, Tim and Jake.

  I was tempted to answer, but Rip’s warning rang in my ears. The Zetas said my phone was safe to use, but there was no guarantee that the Gulf hadn’t bugged the phones at their end. I hesitated and then, although I was dying to call home, I exited without posting. I wasn’t going to risk killing my friends.

  Curious to see what was being said, I cruised the local news. There was nothing about me at all, not even a Missing notice. Considering the rumours Roberto had mentioned, I was betting that Mitch had relayed order from Don Valentine that I was to be forgotten.

  On cue, I received a text. Arrived
safely. Eat properly and sleep. Then, thirty seconds later. Love you. I had to smile. That was typical Rip. He was still hesitant about being openly affectionate. The years of being alone had left him vulnerable, expecting constantly to mess up and be rejected.

  Yessir! Missing you... Love you, Morgan.

  I ate the stew Rip had cooked, hung about and worried for a couple of hours, and then went to bed to enjoy some nightmares.

  “Hold her up!”

  “Don’t let her pass out.”

  I was up at dawn, and Chumillo was round first thing, carrying bread and fruit. “Chica, you look shattered.” He eyed me up worriedly. “Want someone to come and stay with you while Rip’s travelling?”

  Travelling. The cartel never ever discuss what they do. It’s always, “taking care of business” and “merchandise”. Really, like anyone’s fooled. Yet we’ve got more euphemisms for hard drugs, rape, and punishment beatings than you can shake a stick at.

  I felt sick, knowing I was right back to where I’d been all those years ago. But careful of our safety, Rip’s and mine, I smiled. “I’m fine. I just miss him, you know?”

  Chumillo was smiling at me. “Of course you do. He’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.”

  “Sure.”

  The Zeta was stirring his coffee. “You know, our favourite local garage is closing down.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Segis, the owner, is retiring,” Chumillo said. “Me and Rafa were thinking you might take over.”

  A workshop of my own. I’d always longed to have my own place. “I’m not licensed here, and I probably don’t have the funds, either.”

  Chumillo shrugged. “We’ll get you the papers you need, and we’d be happy to be your business partners. If Rip’s okay with it.”

  Typical, right? It’s the twenty-first century, but in the cartel a woman still needs family permission to go into business.

  “If Rip kicks,” I joked, “I will stand back and ask the jefa to be my champion.”

  “Ay, you’re a winner through and through, just like your papa.”

  What a difference, right? Not the daughter of a hated Gulf lieutenant but the child of an admired national motocross winner. I must say, it was an improvement on suspicion and hatred.

  I got a hug, and then Chumillo was off. I stood at the end of the drive, waving goodbye when I caught a glint of reflection. Far up along the river, someone was watching.

  As one, the halcones went on alert. “Chica, better get inside.” Leo was rushing up protectively.

  “It’s miles away.” But I went inside, freaked out at the thought that someone might be aiming a gun at me.

  The guards were certainly efficient. Within minutes there was a report. “A Yankee car. They came, looked about and left. Probably tourists.”

  “Even so, stay on this side of the house,” Leo warned me. “The pool is shielded by the house and the garage wall.”

  I thought he was being paranoid but while making myself a cup of tea, I’d become addicted to the stuff, thanks to Rip, I heard him talk to Vincente.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Leo was saying, “but with those crazy Russian bastards on their way, we’d better be careful.”

  The Bratva. My heart sank into my shoes. They’d be after Rip. Thank God he was away. Although he’d probably known way before anyone else, I still texted him. Your Russian friends may be visiting. Watch your back. Love you, Morgan.

  Then I went straight back online, snooping on Twitter this time. It wasn’t my thing, but after messing about with trends, I found a feed of Texas true crime tweets.

  At first there was nothing more exciting than a botched armed robbery and the usual fender-benders, but then there was a news flash, “Enforcer’s murder prompts fighting among cartels in Templado.”

  I didn’t need to click on the link to know it was Rip’s work. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked, but I couldn’t help myself. But I did click. I recognised the face instantly: it was the whiner who’d been with Neto. That was strange. With Don Valentine taking control, it should have been someone from Dawson Heights, not an ex Los Osos man.

  I remembered Mitch talking to Neto during that awful beating, “I’m picking my own team, and you’ll be inner circle.”

  Don Valentine had promoted Mitch to lieutenant as a reward for delivering Neto, the revenue-making chemist, and that decision was coming back to haunt him. The job of lieutenant should have gone to Poncho or Ben, who’d served faithfully for years, not a new man.

  Instead of making friends and helping loyal Gulf men take on positions in the new territory, Mitch had persuaded Don Valentine to leave the ex Los Osos members in place. It might have been easier but it was also tricky.

  Mitch was probably thinking it gave him a power base. But seeing the old gang had been taken over by force, keeping them around was dangerous. Mitch would have to control the old Los Osos gang and he wouldn’t have friendly backup from Poncho, Ben and their associates.

  The news focused on cops milling about, but the tweets were suddenly coming in thick and fast.

  Cartel murder shocks town. PD baffled.

  Brutal enforcer found in pool of own blood.

  Cops warn cartel infighting on the rise.

  Stripping down the boat’s engine helped keep me from screaming, but all day I was on tenterhooks. When I finally broke down and sent a voice mail to Rip, it came back with an automated reply saying the phone was off.

  I tried not to speculate what he was up to, but the evening news was full of it. It was pretty clear that nobody was too worried about the corpse. The journos did try to look respectful, but when the Templado cops announced the enforcer’s rap sheet included rape and armed robbery, there were shrugs and some discreet grins.

  I tried to tell myself the enforcer wouldn’t be missed, but between you and me, it wasn’t working. I was plagued by doubts and worries.

  Another bad night’s sleep was interrupted by a text from Rip. Travelling safely. Love you. But as soon as I hit reply, the phone was off again.

  At dawn, bleary-eyed over my tea, Twitter was alive with the rumour that another enforcer was missing. There had also been a shooting in a club, and a fistfight turned into a very ugly brawl in another. Fear and anger were setting the town seething.

  The early news shows revealed the missing enforcer had been found. He’d been killed in his own home, in his own kitchen, and the security cameras had captured nothing but a couple of hookers strolling down the road.

  “The stealth killer strikes again,” a serious-looking moustached journo yelled. “It’s definitely a cartel war. Whoever this is, he’s walking through walls and taking out armed men like ninepins.”

  I remembered the wigs in the closet and knew that the cameras had caught the killer. They just didn’t know what they were looking at. And with Rip being able to transform himself, the women who’d strolled down the lane with him probably hadn’t guessed what he was, either.

  “You’re insane,” I said to myself. “He’s right. He’s worse than the Zetas and the Gulf rolled together.”

  Except I remembered the pain in his voice when he’d talked of his family, the love that was in his eyes when he looked at me, and the self-loathing that tortured him. Rip was fucked up, but he could be brought back. I couldn’t let him disappear into the darkness.

  The phone was silent, but the news was telling me Rip had gotten away clean and Templado was in uproar. Twitter was awash in gossip and conspiracy theories.

  This is the Sinaloa, trying to pull a fast one on their partners, the Gulf.

  Did Don V bite off more than he can chew?

  Team Templado clash with Dawson Heights central.

  Are Los Osos staging a comeback?

  Don Valentine’s hold on Templado was shaky, and now the old gang were trying to take their territory back. With the town in uproar and the Sinaloa refusing to lend troops, Don Valentine would send his new lieutenant in. Mitch would need help, but Poncho, Ben, and their associate
s would be dragging their feet.

  Don Valentine forces thin on the ground.

  The ties that bind. Old school cartel battle new kids on the block.

  Within the hour, the trickle of tweets was an avalanche. Speculation, accusation and counter accusation were piling up.

  Is it curtains for Don V?

  “Whoohoo! Yes!” Okay, not nice but I was dancing with joy. The bling pig would get his comeuppance. “Serves you right, you miserable son of a bitch!”

  No apprentices were scheduled for that day, so I spent my time glued to the news. As the morning went by, it became clear that Templado was going down. What I told Rip was true: I didn’t hate Mitch. But knowing he was well on his way to losing Templado was a warming thought.

  He’d probably survive, Don Valentine wouldn’t kill him, but his reputation would be in ruins. Being a new man and having made too many enemies, he’d have to leave the cartel.

  Call me a vengeful bitch, but I was loving that idea. Ambitious, power-hungry Mitch would hate to be an everyday working stiff. Isolated, poor, and without any connection, he’d have to slog his guts out just to make ends meet. A lifetime of that would be perfect justice.

  By lunchtime, the news from Templado confirmed that Mitch and Don Valentine had their hands full. Los Osos had risen as one, and they were taking on the Gulf. The fighting went on all day, and even fixing a faulty fuel line for Vincente the halcone didn’t manage to settle me.

  To my immense relief, Rip messaged at dinnertime, All’s well. Love you, and promptly went off-grid again.

  I may have slept that night, but I don’t remember. I tossed and turned, wracked by images of death and violence. At dawn, the news was short and plain.

  Los Osos gang wiped out; Gulf sustain heavy losses

  Templado quiet; cops say peace restored

  Sinaloa battle Gulf in San Antonio

  Houston rocked by gang violence as Sinaloa-Gulf feud escalates

  By the look of it, gossip, rage, fear, and revenge had finished off the players in Templado. Rip had delivered.

  Maybe that meant it was over.

  I worked on the ATV, mindlessly stripping down the engine as I put events in perspective.