She wasn’t the only good-looking woman navigating the packed dance floor centered between bars on either end of the room. There were a few tens out there. Gringas mostly, in bikinis, with their toes dipped in the pool, backs arched like models, holding cocktails with those little umbrellas. Fake smiles, fake tits. Former Instagram influencers, trying to get by in a dog-eat-dog world.
Judging by their pinpoint pupils, they were high, which would help when the work really started.
Camilla used being sober to her advantage. She had already gotten hit on by several low-level narcos. But she wasn’t wasting her time on those guys. She was here for someone higher up the food chain.
Flaunting her ass helped. She had more of it than most of the rail-thin prostitutas. She worked hard for hers—yoga in the morning, weights at night, and runs when she could manage. It paid off. The Italian gangsters loved her cappuccino skin, and the narcos loved that fine, round ass.
One of the hookers, a bean pole with spiky red hair and a minor case of acne, flung a melancholy glance in her direction, perhaps checking out the competition. The girl, who couldn’t be more than eighteen, kept the left side of her face in the shadows, hiding a bruise, probably from a client’s fist.
These women—girls, some of them—led a sad life trying to please these sexual freaks. Most of them didn’t have a choice. They either were sold into the business or got in to pay the bills.
Camilla never stopped looking for Dom’s sister. And she always felt a pang of sadness for girls like the redhead.
Camilla had something in common with this girl, but the scars and bruises from her last run-in with a Vega wannabee were covered with makeup. That was the one good part of getting all dolled up. It didn’t cover all the scars, but they weren’t visible unless she was naked. And she didn’t have to worry about that happening tonight.
Torches hanging off marble pillars lit the rooftop bar, spreading a warm glow over hundreds of patrons standing at the bars, sitting on wicker furniture, or relaxing by the pool.
Keeping to the shadows, she continued the prowl for her next target, sipping her tequila sour and touching the gold cross kept in place by her cleavage. She wasn’t very religious anymore, but something about wearing the symbol of the Christian faith calmed her.
The tequila also helped. It was nostalgic. Growing up in a poor Mexican household meant she didn’t get to try many delicacies the world had to offer, but there was always tequila and fresh tamales.
The thought of a homemade tamal brought back the good memories, and the liquor helped subdue the bad ones. At twenty-seven years old, she had already racked up her fair share of those.
One had occurred right here at the Catalina, a favorite hangout of narcos in LA. She didn’t really like calling these assholes Mexicans. Sure, they were from her home country, but they weren’t the real deal. Real Mexicans were hardworking, kind, gracious people, who would feed you even if they didn’t have much to share.
The narcos blew money on shirts more expensive than what the average Mexican had stashed under the floorboards. These weren’t 1980s Pablo Escobar narcos, either. None of these guys gave two shits about helping the poor in their local area.
Heads kept turning as she walked through the crowd toward a bar on the east side of the roof.
She used her fresh looks to her advantage, and so did the leader of her team. Dom had given her a note with this address, promising she would find someone here who had been involved with killing her brother.
While the other Saints were hitting the port, she would strike the Vegas. She would make no arrests tonight. That was supposed to be LAPD’s job, but those corrupt pricks wouldn’t do anything. They gave good cops—what few were left—a bad name.
The Saints’ job was to help eradicate the disease afflicting the city’s bones. The crime families had gotten into every niche and recess, into the very marrow. For Camilla, this was personal. Like Dom, she had lost someone to the crime families.
She spent the first hour scoping the area for targets. Mostly low-level narcos at the bar. The big guns were absent. Esteban Vega and his nephew Negro hadn’t made a public appearance in months. She didn’t see Esteban’s younger brother, Miguel, either, but that didn’t surprise her. Word was out they had bad blood.
If Miguel were here, he would already be dead, with one of her stilettos buried in his temple. Even if she died the second after, she would breathe her last knowing she had avenged her brother. She knew deep down that her obsession with this particular revenge wasn’t healthy, but she didn’t care. It was an internal fire she needed to extinguish, or the angry flames would eventually consume her.
Her heart skipped when she finally got to the bar for a refill. No matter how hard she tried to look away from the eastern fence blocking the view of the city, she couldn’t help herself. The owners said they had put it up to block the wind and dust, but the real reason was for safety.
Her brother had died a hundred feet from where she now stood. The sight of it still made her stomach turn.
Thrown over the roof parapet to the ground twelve stories below, over a debt smaller than a modest bar tab.
She was told he survived several minutes—long enough for the paramedics to arrive. The only consolation was that he managed to whisper a few final words.
“Tell Camilla I’m sorry,” he had said. “Tell her I love her.”
Camilla raised a finger and ordered another tequila sour, double. Then she looked to the west. When her drink came, she took two gulps. The liquor felt good, but it did nothing to suppress the bad memories.
“You thirsty, mami chula?” said a voice. “How about another . . . ?” The man to her right leaned over, close enough that she could smell the mezcal on his breath. “That a sour?”
She took another drink and turned toward the railing her brother was tossed over. She saw a narco wearing a cowboy hat. Judging by his outfit, he was low-level, and it was hard to see his face in the dim lighting.
This guy had a scar tracing a line from his dimpled left cheek up to his eye and splitting his eyebrow.
He blinked, and she saw that he was blind in that eye.
Apparently, the other eye liked what it saw.
“Come on, mami. Let me buy you another drink.”
“I’m good, but thank you,” she said politely. She knew how these fuckers ticked, and the last thing she wanted to do was piss off a narco with a big ego and a little dick.
Especially Julio “Blanco” Ocampo.
The gangster with the white eye wasn’t low-level after all. One of the Vegas’ most powerful dealers in Los Angeles, he spent half his time traveling to El Salvador to oversee shipments of new product. He had also been there the night her brother was killed—along with Miguel Vega. She would kill them all, eventually.
A chill rushed through her, blending with the warmth of the tequila and the satisfying thought of crossing one of these bastards off her list.
“You know who I am?” Blanco said.
She finished off her drink, pivoting slightly so her hips were turned toward his oversized belt buckle.
“No, who are you?” She forced a coy smile and batted her fake eyelashes.
A dead man, she thought as he proudly stated his name. She put her elbow on the bar, leaning down so he could see just enough to know that her breasts were real.
“Oh, you sound important,” she said, tapping her fake nails against her glass. Because, shit, that was what girls did, right?
The functional eye narrowed. “Have I seen you before?”
She shook her head—maybe a bit too fast, but she wasn’t worried. Every narco, gangster, and banger in the city with half a brain was paranoid. The only way to survive long enough to make any money was by trusting no one.
“You look familiar.” He gave her a good once-over, and she turned slightly to get the bartender’s attention.
“On second thought, I’ll take that drink,” she said.
Blanco’s milky eye
flitted to the bartender, a young white college-age guy trying to do things the right way—through hard work.
“Hey, gringo fuckhead, bring us two tequila sours,” Blanco ordered, apparently no longer interested in where he had seen her before.
“On the rocks,” she said.
Blanco’s grin widened. He liked that.
“You heard the lady, fuckhead. Give us your best tequila, ese.” He snapped his gold-ringed fingers.
The bartender nodded and went to work on the drinks. Blanco returned his full attention to Camilla, moving closer.
Line . . . sinker.
She could really smell his breath now. He was a smoker, and not just of cigarettes. Whatever cologne he wore wasn’t masking the skunky scent of weed on his shiny silver shirt. The top three buttons were undone to show off his chest hair and several gold necklaces. If you didn’t have a necklace, a cowboy hat, a belt buckle, and a gun with gold or silver on the barrel, you weren’t a narco.
She couldn’t see his gun, but she could feel the grip when he got off the stool and brushed up against her.
“I know I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said, still smiling.
Back to this again, she thought.
“You’re not a prostituta, are you?”
She recoiled. “Excuse me? If you’d been with me, you’d damn sure remember it.”
She maneuvered the small red purse slung over her left shoulder. Inside were several different tools, including her Smith and Wesson Airweight, but she wasn’t going to use that on Blanco. She planned something more satisfying for this pendejo.
“Lo siento,” he said. “Didn’t mean to offend you, mami.”
The bartender set two drinks down on the bar, just in time. He smiled as politely as he could manage, but apparently it wasn’t enough for Blanco.
“Fuck is this, ese?” he snapped.
The bartender scratched his short-cropped hairline.
“Don’t scratch your head like an idiot. You think I’m an asshole?”
“No sir, of course not.”
“I said bring us your best, and I saw you put Patrón in there.”
The man glanced down at the drinks. “Sir, you said ‘bring us your best—’ ”
“Patrón is gringo piss. Bring us Don Julio—that’s real Mexican tequila. Fucking asshole.” Blanco watched the barman carry the drinks away before turning back to Camilla.
“I’m not a hooker kind of a guy, and since you’re here by yourself, I just figured you might be one, baby. Had to ask, you know?”
Not your baby . . .
“I came with my girlfriend, but she already left with some guy. She was my ride.” Camilla shrugged.
He cracked a sly grin, and Camilla knew exactly what he was thinking.
Hooked.
Fresh drinks came a few minutes later, and she thanked the bartender politely. He nodded and looked at Blanco. “Sorry for my mistake, sir. Please enjoy these on the house.”
Blanco handed Camilla a drink and said, “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Nina.” Short. Sweet. Mysterious.
“Where you from?”
“Guadalajara.” Not a lie this time. “You?”
“Juarez.”
She took a drink, feeling his eyes wandering down and stopping on her breasts. Most narcos weren’t discreet. When they wanted something, they let it be known.
Blanco was no different, which made the next part easy.
“I’m getting a bit sick of the music here,” she said. “Probably head home after this drink.”
It was late, and the Saints would be moving into position soon. She wanted to be back to the safe house by the time they finished at the port.
She paced herself for the next thirty minutes, even downed a glass of water. In a few minutes, she was about to score a goal for the team.
And Blanco had no idea. Poor bastard thought he was about to get some first-rate pussy. Not like the girls sitting around the pool, who were now fraternizing with some low-end narcos. Blanco here probably didn’t think he would have to wear a condom. Little did he know, he was never getting laid ever again.
“What do you do?” Blanco asked her.
“I’ll tell you later,” she replied.
He seemed to dig this mystery game. He smiled again.
She finished off her drink. “So . . .”
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded and said, “Meet me on the street. I need to use the powder room.”
He tipped his cowboy hat and looked her straight in the eye as he slowly ran his fat tongue over his upper teeth.
She left him at the bar, giving him a great view. Keeping to the shadows, she did her best not to be seen. Half his friends were drunk or well on their way, but they would notice if she left with him.
A few minutes later, they met outside the building’s entrance, where a line of patrons was still waiting to get inside. She had already pulled up her face mask to keep out the alkaline dust and hide her features.
“I parked just around the block,” he said.
She followed him down the sidewalk, avoiding the gaze of everyone walking in their direction. Around the next corner, he approached a boat of a car, an old Chevy convertible with gold rims and a tan drop-down.
“Want me to put it down?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Dust is bad tonight, and I don’t want to mess up my hair.”
He opened the passenger door for her, acting like a gentleman for a moment, but she knew the truth. He didn’t have a gentlemanly bone in his body.
She ducked into the car and sat, fishing her weapon of choice out of her purse as he came around the other side. The needle was filled with enough concentrated heroin hybrid that he would stop breathing minutes after being jabbed.
Every once in a while, she liked to be ironic, killing them with their own product. It also helped her cover her tracks.
She would love to set him on fire or maybe pluck out his other eye, but too many dead narcos meant more careful narcos, and dressing up like Latina Barbie was already painful enough.
He opened the car door and relaxed onto the camel-brown leather seat that matched the drop-down. When he leaned over with a smile, she prepared to jab him in the throat with the needle, but a voice stopped her.
“Blanco, what the fuck you doing?”
Two Mexican men approached from across the street. Both looked like narco soldiers, but she didn’t recognize them.
“Hold tight, mami,” Blanco said.
Both men leaned down for a look inside. She tried to keep hidden in the shadows, facing forward, but they were directly under a damn streetlight.
“¿Qué pasa?” asked one of the men, a short guy with a shaved head and facial ink. He bent down farther, and Camilla saw the crosses and skulls tattooed between his eyes. A former Zeta soldier.
“Who’s this chiquita?” asked the other. He had even more ink, covering most of his face.
“Nina,” Blanco said.
“Thought you were coming back to our place tonight, jefe,” said the bald guy.
“Later,” Blanco said.
“You said you had some stuff for us.” The man’s eyes narrowed, scrunching the tattoo and making the bones and skull seem to blur.
Blanco looked over. “What do you say, mami chula?”
Camilla shrugged. The more the merrier, even though three might be a bit hard to handle with a single needle, especially if these guys were former soldiers. Lots of older Zetas were former Mexican military. But these guys looked too young for that.
She could handle them. One stone, three birds.
“Sure, why not?” she said.
“Get in,” Blanco said.
The Zeta twins chuckled and jumped in the back. The engine roared, and Blanco set off through the slums while the Zetas lit a joint.
Camilla took a hit when it was her turn, but she didn’t inhale. She watched the road, trying to time this perfectly. But to her surp
rise, they were heading west.
“Yo, Blanco, where you going?” asked one of the men, apparently thinking the same thing—that they were moving into zone 1, Moretti territory.
She could even see the Four Diamonds slums rising in the distance. Damn, she was going to have to make a move soon.
“For a cruise, amigo,” Blanco said. “Chill the fuck out.”
In the rearview mirror, Camilla saw that one of the men had pulled a pistol.
“How fast does this bad boy go?” she asked.
Blanco grinned and pushed down on the pedal. “Fast enough we don’t have to worry about Moretti bullets.”
The Zetas laughed. “¡Vámonos!” one shouted.
The tires thumped over a pothole, the tattooed freaks bobbing up in the back seat without their seat belts to hold them in.
Camilla had a feeling this was going to hurt.
The car hit sixty on a bridge. She clicked on her seat belt and gave him a seductive smile.
“You like this, mami?” he asked, eyes on the road.
Subtly she reached for the needle, then looked in the rearview mirror. The Zeta had put his pistol away.
“You know how to make a girl wet,” Camilla said with a seductive smile.
Blanco turned to focus his remaining eye on her.
“This is for Joaquín,” she said, holding up the wrist with her brother’s name tattooed on a cross. Her smile turned to a scowl, and before Blanco could react, she thrust the needle into his iris.
“What the fuck!” one of the Zetas yelled.
He reached over the back seat, but the car swerved as Blanco howled in pain, taking his hands off the steering wheel. A tire hit the curb and then the guardrail. Somehow, in the chaos, Blanco managed to pluck the needle out of his eye, right as she unbuckled his belt.
He pushed down on the brakes, but it was already too late.
Camilla braced herself and ducked as they rear-ended a parked car on the side of the road. The twins flew over the seat and hit the windshield as the steering wheel hit Blanco’s neck so hard it snapped like a twig. Camilla’s belt kept her from hitting the dashboard.
The horn kept blaring as smoke filled the vehicle.
Sons of War 3: Sinners Page 8
