Emilia took a bite of her toast, pondering what angle to take.
“Marisa, I'm more upset than you'll ever know. Having someone killed at your home—especially in my neighborhood—it's just so sordid. And it makes me feel violated, to tell you the truth,” said a frowning Emilia.
Without hesitation, Marisa responded, barely acknowledging her mother's story. “The police found traces of a powder in your garage, and they believe it's cocaine,” she said bluntly, her brow furrowed so tightly Emilia wondered if her daughter might crack.
“Mother, did you hear me? The police are looking for the homeowner for a possible connection to this crime. They're looking for you!” she exclaimed, her voice rising with each word. She slammed her mug to the table, causing the hot liquid to spill.
Emilia's hands clasped around her coffee cup, her brain searching for answers to questions she couldn't answer, at least not in the way she wanted to answer them. The strain she'd endured was tugging at her emotional equilibrium. Tears bubbled in the corner of her eye. She finally looked up at her daughter and realized she couldn't continue this deadly charade.
“Marisa...I've...”
“Yes?”
“I've...I've been living a sinful life. Without a doubt, God will send me to hell.” She closed her eyes and brought her hand to her head.
“What have you done, Mother?” Marisa wasn't in a sympathetic mood.
“Oh, Marisa, you don't want to know.” Emilia shook her head and started breathing heavily, attempting to hold back her emotions, praying for an intervention that would keep her from having to tell her daughter the pathetic, awful truth.
***
Typically a compassionate person, whether it was for a homeless person asking for a handout or a young child crying in a restaurant, Marisa could no longer find it within herself to show empathy. Somehow, some way, she'd been able to find a special compartment to store her father's misdeeds and not blame her mother for withholding the truth for all these years. But apparently there was more to the story—so much more—and her mother appeared to be sitting in the middle of pile of polluted crap.
“Tell me you didn't know those people who were at your home. Tell me your home wasn't being used as part of some illegal drug distribution network.”
Emilia shook her head, her eyes closed, her lips moving, but no sound.
“Are you going to respond?” Marisa yelled demonstratively, now up and pacing the kitchen floor.
“What can I say? Yes, I've done everything you've described, probably more. All my possessions, my money, it's all based upon my work for the drug cartels. I'm so ashamed of myself, more than you'll ever be of me.” Emilia cried out and reached for a tissue.
Marisa looked down and tried to keep her mind from spinning by focusing on the design in the linoleum. She wasn't sure what to say. Both of her parents had lacked morals, had allowed themselves to be used as pawns in the drug war that was killing thousands of teenagers, mothers, fathers, doctors, teachers. Worse yet, her mother had profited from it. These people hadn't held a gun to her head. She willingly made money off the downtrodden—those who had little to no hope and only needle scars and ruined lives to show for their participation in a life controlled by drugs.
“Your entire life is built on a deck of lies and deceit. How have you been able to live with yourself?” Marisa asked bluntly, one white-knuckled hand grasping a chair.
“I never wanted it to go this way. I needed money, and I didn't want to put pressure on you. You needed to finish college and make an honest living. I always kept this away from you—until I heard that Michael and Arthur were flying into what looked like a hornet's nest. I reached out to Francisco, knowing it might, one day, lead to this discussion. I'm so, so sorry, my dear Marisa. I love you more than life itself.” Emilia reached for her daughter's hand, crying uncontrollably.
Marisa, overwhelmed with facing the reality of her parents' decisions, fell into the chair, her head in her hands, weeping, feeling very alone. Dear God, I need Michael.
Chapter Seventy-One
Marisa reached for her vibrating phone, desperate to see some sign of life from her beloved husband. She quickly flipped to her text messages. Thank God, it's him.
Have Trudy in tow. Bit worn & torn, but flyin in today, we hope. Yours 4ever, luv Michael
Warmed by the note, but eager to hear Michael's voice, Marisa quickly dialed his cell number, hoping he was in a zone that allowed him to receive the call.
“Hey, stranger,” Michael said.
“Oh, Michael, I'm so glad to hear your voice,” Marisa replied, her pulse rate on the rise.
“I know we don't have much time in case the signal drops, but I just learned the most awful news, Michael. I'm sick to my stomach,” Marisa said quickly. “There was a murder at mother's home in San Antonio over the weekend. Michael, brace yourself...Mother admitted to being involved with drugs and gangs, using her home as a stash house. Everything she's done, all the money, antiques, it's all a lie.” She began to weep. “I need you.”
“I'm sorry. I can hardly hear you. You're breaking up,” Michael replied. “If you can hear me, I think I heard some of it. Baby, if you said something about drugs and gangs, then you and Mama Emilia need to be very cautious. If anything comes up between now and the time I get home, call our old pal Carl Pearson at the police department.”
The line went dead.
“Damn it.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Stuffed into a window seat undoubtedly designed for a ten-year-old, I leaned my head back, thankful I was in one piece. My left forearm was still quite sore, and I looked like I'd been thrown into a football game without pads. I peered between the seats and saw Trudy resting on Arthur's shoulder. I couldn't resist a wide smile. It warmed my heart seeing that old guy with his better half. Both had been married previously, and he was a great deal older, but their union was special, it was easy to see.
I leaned forward and saw Francisco fidgeting with his seatbelt. He probably hadn't been a passenger in an aircraft in years, if ever. That son of a bitch saved my life, saved everyone's life, even after we'd doubted his allegiance to us. God bless him. I chuckled and glanced at his head, which was wrapped in so much bandaging it looked like a turban.
Cold air shot out of the vent just above me. I turned the knob to shut it down and peered out the window. I wasn't sure what to make of Marisa's call. I think I only heard every third word or so. Drugs, possibly gangs, and Mama Emilia's home were somehow connected. Marisa sounded upset, which, in turn, made me feel unsettled. Given what we learned about Marisa's father, any further association with drug smuggling was disturbing, particularly if Mama Emilia's name or reputation were attached. I'm sure once we got home and they all had a chance to calm down, the situation wouldn't be as grave as Marisa had made it sound—whatever it was. Between the weather delays, the overcrowded airport, and having to convince the authorities that Francisco wasn't a terrorist, it felt good to see the plane finally backing away from the gate, although darkness had arrived once again. I was only hours away from sleeping in the bed I shared with my wife. My beautiful, sweet, caring partner. Girls of all shapes and sizes roamed our world, and some of them were even attractive, but they weren't half the woman my Marisa was—at least for me. We were made for each other, and only each other, I thought to myself as I let my eyelids fall. Only seconds passed though—my brain wouldn't let me sleep until I checked my phone for text messages one final time.
Haven't heard from Andi. Need to get movin on hot story. Call me when ur bac. Brandon.
I couldn't think it all the way through. I was exhausted from so much drama. I closed my eyes for the trip home.
Chapter Seventy-Three
"Please do not be concerned. We are experiencing some turbulent air as we begin our descent into DFW Airport," the voice said, quickly waking me out of my slumber. I sat up, realizing I'd drooled down the right side of my cheek. I looked right and saw Francisco perusing a magazine, se
emingly calm. Given our last flying experience, any slight jostle or sign of trouble caused my heart to race.
“How you guys doing back there?” I asked Arthur and Trudy through the seat opening.
“As long as we're together, we can get through anything,” Arthur said, smiling at his wife who hadn't let go of Arthur since they'd reunited twenty-four hours earlier. “I think you might have slept through quite a bit there, my son. We've been circling DFW for at least an hour because of another round of strong spring storms. Looks like they're going to force us down now.”
Force us down? How about “give us the green light” or “allow us to land safely?” I tightened my belt, closed my eyes, and tried to occupy my mind with thoughts that would take me to another place...Marisa and me in our big bathtub, playing footsies, drinking wine, followed by a long lovemaking session. I repeated that scenario four times, each time better than the last. I was jarred back to reality as the jet's wheels bounced off the runway twice before the plane steadied itself and glided to the gate. A cab ride later, we were at the county airport where we'd left our cars.
“I guess we don't have to worry about replacing their plane.” I smirked at both Francisco and Arthur.
“I'm sure their insurance will cover it,” Arthur said, now smiling ear to ear.
“Something tells me they don't have the same kind of insurance we do.” I raised an eyebrow toward Francisco.
“Michael, please give my best to Emilia and a special hug to Marisa, whom I haven't held since she was a little thing. Tell her I think about her father all the time. And despite the circumstances, he loved her very much,” Francisco said with a twinkle in his eye.
“We'll have everyone over soon and tell some good war stories.”
Lightning flashed, and the skies unleashed a soaking, driving rain. I jumped in my car and it started on the first try. It was after midnight, and the last thing I needed was dealing with a dead battery. At the first light, with the streets all but barren, I checked my messages. Nothing from Marisa, and nothing from Brandon. I began to think about his last note to me. Hopefully by now, Andi had gotten it together and reached Brandon. This was the biggest operation this paper had ever orchestrated, and we wanted to make our mark soundly, before any other media outlet picked up the hottest collection of stories since...well, since last year's torturous debacle with the natural-gas-company coup and Tony, the Neanderthal killing machine. Barely able to see my driveway, I slowly pulled in and turned off the engine. Staring at the huge drops pelting my dark home, goose bumps formed on my arms.
Chapter Seventy-Four
A neighbor's back porch spotlight pierced through a crack in the vertical blinds in the silent, black living room ahead of me, cutting a narrow luminous swath through the foyer, just enough to catch splotches on the pale gray linoleum. Dry burgundy droplets—maybe ten to twelve and some connected at the outer edges—formed a trail, leading around the corner toward the kitchen. Given where I'd been, what I'd experienced, I quickly came to the conclusion that something was very wrong.
Movement ceased. I squeezed the keys deep into my palm to eliminate all sound. My body stiffened like I was cast in stone. The slice of light blinded anything more than four feet in front of me.
Chill. Think for just a moment. Inhale then exhale...slowly. My overactive imagination had jumped ahead about a hundred illogical steps. Memories, haunting nightmares of the last several days, might have been scarring my judgment. This—whatever I was assuming had transpired—wasn't possible in Franklin. Certainly not in our home.
What is my gut telling me?
I wanted to call out, yet my voice resisted the urge. I struggled for an audible clue of what, who had invaded our home. My breathing nearly stopped. I heard only a rhythmic pinging of raindrops against the roof. No sign of life. Nothing.
Then, a screech. A shuffle.
“Who's there?” I asked with surprising control and authority.
No response. Dead silence.
My heart pounded against my chest. Unsure if I should take a step, hit the floor, or throw my keys, I realized I had nothing to protect me, my wife. Where is she, damn it? This was too surreal to be a prank. I'd been away on a harrowing journey and couldn't wait to hold her, to touch her. I longed to bury my face in her neck, to smell her sweet, perfect scent, lifting her off the floor, rocking her back and forth. I knew she loved me, but I truly needed her in my life. It became all too clear while I'd been gone. I couldn't live without her.
“I said, 'Who's there'?” I was pissed, yet hoped, prayed that somehow this was all just a misunderstanding.
I shifted, and the squeak from my shoe sounded like a pig being prodded. I regained my balance and swallowed, triggering a crackle in my inner ear. My nose caught an unfamiliar scent. Something resembling vomit. No, maybe animal feces? I couldn't be sure. I tried connecting the odor to a myriad of images racing through my mind. Just then, a fly buzzed past my face, and I swatted at still air. I lost my balance, and my foot moved a half step, creating another untimely squeal.
I refocused my senses. The foul smell grew worse, like I was inhaling the source of the putrid stench. It was close by. Another fucking fly. Another wayward shadow punch.
“God damn it, who's in my fucking house!” I demanded with raw emotion.
The living room light flipped on, and an electric jolt shot up my spine.
***
Bile crept up my throat and I shook my head, my eyes staring directly at my wife. Twenty feet in front of me sat Marisa, gagged, tied to a chair...and Andi? The intern sat next to her, also pinned to a chair. Two men stood behind the ladies. One muscle-bound guy with cut-off sleeves, an array of undecipherable tattoos, and black jeans was holding up a large gun. The other man was more nicely dressed and did not appear to have a weapon.
“Hola, señor Michael.” The well-coiffed man puffed on a cigar. A cold patch of sweat formed on the back of my burning neck as I looked into the eyes of my wife, then at Andi. Their faces screamed terror. Marisa, in particular, seemed frantic, her eyes shifting to her left. Stay calm, I thought. Obviously, this was somehow connected to Marisa's frantic phone call earlier? I tried to keep my wits about me.
“Welcome home from Puerto Vallarta,” the man said, blowing a cloud of smoke. “Make yourself at home.” He chuckled at his sense of humor then looked at his partner, who then also laughed. The well-dressed man casually twisted his gold watch and adjusted his cufflinks. He thought he was cool...too cool.
“Look, I don't know what you guys are after, but I can give you all of our money and credit cards; just let us all go safely, please,” I said, stating my case, hoping for a rational response from people who had broken into my home and taken my wife and employee hostage. How did they get Andi here? They must have brought her from Mexico, which meant they were probably tied to Benicio and Luis. Sounded crazy, but I couldn't think of another connection.
“We're not against making a little money off this inconvenience, but our presence is more about retribution than money. Arthur's money? We already have it, thanks to my man Pedro here.” He'd confirmed their connection to Trudy's kidnapping and the robbery that took place out of the back of that peddler's truck. My insides churned like rocks in a blender.
I looked at my wife again and noticed two bruises on her face. I started getting flashbacks to a year earlier when another man had terrorized her and I couldn't do anything about it.
I wasn't tied down...not yet. But they had a gun and the tattooed gangster wearing silver tip boots seemed way too comfortable with his handheld weapon. My wife had tears in her eyes, yet I noticed that she constantly shifted her terror-filled eyes towards the kitchen. I leaned at an angle and took a half step and saw a glimpse of feet lying horizontally on the kitchen floor.
“What have you done?” I asked instinctively, walking to the kitchen. “Oh my God!” Mama Emilia was lying in blood, her body twisted, but there was no...I couldn't say it. My heart stopped beating for a single moment.
The whole world slipped into slow motion. I couldn't comprehend what I was looking at—I didn't want to believe it. This God-fearing woman, Marisa's mother...I ached for her, for Marisa. I let out a thunderous roar and pounded the counter.
“Are you looking for something?” the cigar man asked.
My tear-filled eyes peered over at the two home invaders and saw the muscle man holding Emilia's head. I shut my eyes, my heart pounding out of my chest, and felt vomit threatening to explode. “What the hell are you?”
The man with the cigar held out both hands, as if to say he'd had no choice.
“Now you see our main reason for making this trip to your home?” he said with a sardonic grin.
I turned to look at Marisa and shook my head. She heaved with emotion almost to the point of collapsing in the chair. I wondered if Marisa had seen her own mother murdered and decapitated.
“What kind of depraved, vile bastards are you?”
The men just chuckled. The way muscle man gripped Emilia's hair...it just didn't seem real.
“What did she ever do to you?” I begged for an answer that made logical sense, knowing that logic could never be used for such a heinous act.
“She double-crossed us. And no one double-crosses the Sangre cartel. When they do, they have to pay the price with Pedro.”
The thug was eager to prove his might. He tossed the lifeless head to the side, then picked up a lamp and flung it against the wall, shattering it. I bit my lip. My options seemed more limited by the second. I was certain they were here to kill all of us, only to prove a point of some kind.
“I'm trying to understand this. We did nothing to provoke any of this. You kidnap my friend's wife. Then, after going to hell and back, we're able to get you the money. You've apparently killed an innocent woman, a mother. In your terms, aren't we now...even?”
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 45
