Carrera Cartel: The Collection

by Kenborn, Cora

  “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, pendejo. 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 casted 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 a family car that carted 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.

  “Claramente,” I lied. I didn’t hear him clearly. 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.

  “Eso espero. 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-four 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 vision 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 stomac
h 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 like meaningless 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 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.

  Nash rolled his chin toward me, lacking the strength to lift it any higher. His sullen blue eyes blinked, narrowed, then focused in the dim light. In a split second, I knew he saw me, and everything happened before I could react.

  Emilio returned from outside and must’ve heard the noise too, because he immediately turned toward me. Furrowing his dark brows, he wiped the knife on his jeans. He took three steps toward the chef’s cart and paused a few feet away from me. I held my breath, curling my fingers into my palms until my nails pierced my skin.

  I wondered what it felt like to have your fingers cut off. Was it quick and painless, or was every slice of tendon and muscle pure torture, until the bone cracked? Vomit curdled in my stomach again, and I let out a small squeak, preparing to run to my brother.

  At the same moment, Nash inhaled a rattling breath and yelled across the kitchen. “Hey! Are two fingers enough? You need more? I mean, don’t you need five to jerk yourself off?”

  What the fuck is he doing?

  Emilio jerked his head around. Darkness glinted in his eyes as his face twisted in anger. “What did you say, asshole?”

  Now was my chance to move. Nash gave me the opportunity to take Emilio out. Sneaking a hand to the top of the cart, I curled my fingers around a cast iron skillet. It’d be loud, but if I got a running start, he’d go down before he could turn around.

  As Emilio charged toward Nash, I reached for the handle. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Nash’s eyes bounce from his attacker to my movement. With a pained grimace, he shook his head forcefully.

  “Gumshoe! Gumshoe, damn it!” The exertion spewed more blood out of his mouth, and he collapsed onto the block, his eyes half closed from pain.

  I froze mid-movement.

  Emilio did as well, pulling Nash up by his hair. “What the fuck? Get a grip, Lachey! You’re going loco.”

  With his head wobbling, Nash held it suspended in midair, and our eyes locked. Mine pleaded with him not to hold me to a pledge between two teenage kids, who thought they knew everything. His demanded I honor a trust we once held more sacred than any promise.

  * * *

  I opened the cellar door and it creaked with the loud moan of a dying man. I might as well blow an air horn announcing my late arrival. The darkness creeped me out, and shadows wrapped around foundation pillars, making my eyes see things that weren’t there. It was the thing horror movies were made of.

  The stairs creaked as my sneakers touched them, each one sounding like a gunshot.

  Shit! Why were sneakers so loud?

  Turning the knob, I slowly stuck my face through and peered through the mud room. It seemed quiet. Dad was in bed, or passed out on the couch. Either option worked for me. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door wider and stepped into the bright room.

  “Where you going, boy?”

  I froze with one leg in the mud room and one still stuck in the cellar. My father’s voice carried from the kitchen, and from the trajectory I knew he was headed my way.

  “Gumshoe,” Nash yelled, much louder than necessary. “Damn gum on my shoe. Stay there, Dad, I’ve got it. I think I tracked it in here. You don’t want it on yours.” His voice elevated louder. “Damn, gumshoe.”

  Our code word clicked. Gumshoe.

  The stupid word from our childhood we used to use during freeze-tag. As teenagers, we morphed it from its original detective meaning, into a code word alerting each other to, ‘stop what you’re doing and hide.’ No ifs, ands, or buts.

  Gumshoe had saved my ass more times than I could count.

  I climbed back down and waited until Dad had fallen back to sleep to sneak upstairs.

  * * *

  “Gumshoe.” Nash whispered again as Emilio backhanded him. His eyes never wavered from my face. They were serious and hard, as if begging me to do this one thing for him.

  Nodding, I slowly crouched back behind the cart. The relief on his face was something I knew I’d never forget. I felt shameful in watching my brother’s pain, yet helpless to stop it.

  Mercifully, Emilio ended his torture, dropping his knife back in his pocket. “You know, lucky for you, I’ve reached my limit for today, Lachey.” He checked his reflection in the chrome refrigerator and smoothed back the sides of his greased hair. “My crew will stop by in a few minutes to take you back to your store.” He glanced at the floor and smirked. “Try not to bleed too much on my floor.”

  I held my breath as he walked out of the kitchen, and I didn’t release it until the cantina door closed. As soon as the chime rang, signaling his exit, I threw the chef’s cart aside and scrambled on all fours toward my brother. I reached out to help him, then stopped. I didn’t even know where to touch that wouldn’t cause more pain.

  “Nash,” I whispered as my voice broke. When he didn’t open his eyes, I panicked. “Nash, answer me!” My fingers clamped around his bleeding wrists, shaking against cold and clammy hands. The more I touched him, the more hysterical my voice became. All the pent-up fear I’d harbored behind the chef’s cart came spilling out in a tirade of anger. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into? Drugs? Fucking drugs, Nash? Jesus Christ, are you’re mixed up with a fucking drug cartel? They cut off your damn fingers, Nash!”

  As if my asinine statements of the obvious woke him, Nash cracked one eye, and his tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips. “Is that what happened? I thought he was doing… cough…my nails.”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” I whispered harshly into his ear. “You can explain later why you’re doing fucking coke. We’re leaving.”

  He nodded weakly, allowing me to wrap his torso around my shoulders. I’d heard stories of adrenaline rushes that allowed mothers to lift cars off their children. I never believed them until I hoisted my two-hundred-and-five-pound brother over my shoulder and prepared to carry him out.

  His hand skimmed my back. “Cherry, I don’t do drugs. They got the wrong guy. I swear.”

  I knew his words to be true. If there was one thing I believed in my life, it was that Nash Lachey didn’t lie.

  “Then what’s this all about, Nash?”

  His breath wheezed harder with forced exertion. “Dad.”

  It was
the last word he spoke.

  With him draped over my shoulder, I headed toward the back door when the knob turned. Nash’s cheek twisted against my back to face it, and my heart knew my brother wouldn’t let me put myself in between him and what was behind it.

  The moment the door cracked open, Nash used his last thread of strength and flung himself off my shoulder and against the butcher’s block. With mangled hands, he pressed his palm against my chest and shoved me hard into an open pantry door. The impact sent both of us flying backward. My ass landed on top of a huge bag of cornmeal as Nash crashed to the floor.

  I barely breathed as I waited for Emilio to taunt Nash again. Instead, two new men, clad in jeans, green bandanas, white tank tops, and dirty long pony tails surrounded my brother. I assumed they were the men Emilio said would take him back to the hardware store and breathed a sigh of relief.

  As they moved closer, my heart sped up. The older man’s long ponytail caught a fleeting memory of a bag of cable ties, rope, and creepy innuendos.

  I knew them.

  “This is the same one?” the shorter one asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s what the boss said.” The taller one circled Nash, coming to rest behind him. With a slow smile, he leaned back and spit on him. “El Muerte.”

  The words were spoken with such contempt that they imprinted themselves into my memory. The snarl in which he said them, and the hatred in his eyes as he glared at my brother sent a chill up my spine.

  The darkened pantry turned into my own personal confessional as the taller man pulled a long-barreled gun out of his back pocket and aimed it at the back of Nash’s head. A silent voice inside of me screamed at my brother to run. It begged him to open his eyes and move.

  As if hearing my pleas, my brother, who’d always protected me, stood by me, and never made me feel any less than worthy of his love, opened his eyes. Sadness glazed them and ripped an irreparable jagged hole in my heart.