by AJ Adams
I’ve taken three women apart on purpose for personal reasons. The first time was the chiputa who Juan had been obsessed with. I went after her to find out exactly who was responsible for what. After a few slaps, she confessed she’d discovered Juan’s name the second time he’d come to her, and she’d instantly called her cousin, the Gulf man who’d set up the team that took Juan out.
The cousin went the next day, courtesy of a car bomb I set up. I made sure the girl suffered before she went, but as revenges go, it was commonplace: I tied her to a bed and invited every single member of the Zetas to enjoy himself. After a couple of days, I had to limit access, and she died after a week. I was young at the time and inexperienced so I didn’t do a really good job.
I’m a fast learner, so my next act of revenge was much better organised, which was rather unlucky for Juanita, the next woman who was stupid enough to screw me.
Juanita was Guatemalan, but she worked for me in LA, and when she did well, I’d given her a lieutenant’s position in Dallas. When I promoted her, all the men bitched about it. We’ve got plenty of women in the business, but they’re on the factory floor making knock-off designer gear or in entertainment, like brothels, clubs and hotels. There are very few women in pharmaceuticals, finance and special projects, by which I mean coke, meth, Viagra, counterfeiting, money laundering, assassination and extortion.
Women don’t get an even break, because most of the cartel are so macho that they think eating a banana means you’re secretly a fag. Me, I’m secure with my gender, so when the best man for the job is a woman, she gets it.
I ignored the protests, promoted Juanita and quickly discovered the ungrateful bitch had begun skimming. Everyone has a bit of a scam going, a heist here, a little meth deal there, but that’s just high spirits. She was taking ten percent off the top day in and day out, and that’s a no-no.
The second I found out, I knew killing her wasn’t good enough. I’d supported her all the way, and the bitch had flung it in my face and betrayed my trust. I vowed to make an example of her that nobody would ever forget. Juanita had grown up in Guatemala, which is a rough place, and she had a rep for being tougher than Mike Tyson, but I knew how to get to her.
I had her picked up and put in my basement. At that point it was just a storage space where I kept the good wine and microbrew. I was fucking angry, so I slapped her around a bit and left her hanging from a ceiling pipe. It leaked, so I didn’t have to bother about her dehydrating.
After twenty-four hours, I beat the hell out of her. I was already pretty good with a whip, so I inflicted maximum pain without doing serious damage. I made the bitch scream, and I made certain she stayed conscious for the duration.
I repeated the treatment every day. After five days, she was begging me for her life. After ten she was broken and desperate. After a fortnight she did whatever I wanted.
I spent a month teaching her party tricks, and when she finally emerged from the basement, she was all set to entertain my friends. When I snapped my fingers, she stripped. A double snap and she’d drop to her knees and give head. A horn sign had her begging to take it up the ass, and a fist pump when the queue got too long had her taking on Eiffel towers. There were thirty men at her coming-out party, and she did the lot, twice.
Having shown the crew that screwing with me means you’re fucked, I made sure the message was heard in Dallas too: I made a present of Juanita to the new man in charge and made sure he understood she was to be a party girl.
I got a lot of shit about that bitch, and everyone thought that would be the last time I’d promote a woman. Pretty stupid, that. I mean, I’ve had men fuck me over, and it hasn’t stopped me hiring more of them, right? So I went on with business, and the next time a woman outperformed her peers, I told her to drop in on the Dallas office for a briefing session before taking up her new job. She did, took the example to heart and made her first priority to keep me happy. She still works for me by the way. She’s Julia Cortinas Fenton, and she runs my Chicago business very efficiently.
The third woman to fuck me over was Gina, and you know what happened there. In a way she was lucky I lost my temper, ‘cause she went fast; Juanita is still performing tricks, although she’s in Beijing with a triad man now. Her story goes with her, so my rep gets around. She’s the girl that keeps on giving.
Of course, I’ve had my share of informers, thieves and other hassles, and some of them have been women. As it’s business and not personal, it’s mostly a bullet in the back of the head and game over. I say mostly because in special cases, I arrange for an object lesson.
The last one was Onelia, a courier who shot one of my pilots, Alex – a good man who’d survived the war in Chechnya. The bitch killed him so she could hijack my coke, and she shot him in the back, too. She fucked up on the timing, though: she sold the consignment, but I was onto her before she could vanish.
Seeing this went down in Cancun, I threw a beach party for her. I staked her out on the shore, just below the high tide line, and we had a barbecue. We ate, drank and the men took turns with her. When the tide came in, the gangbang took on a water sports aspect. I’d given the girl a bit of leeway, so she kept her head above water that night, but she didn’t make it the second time those waves came rolling in.
She suffered before she went, which would have cheered Alex up, and the men got to blow off some steam, which was all good, but I lost out because she’d sold the coke for a song in order to move it fast. I enjoyed seeing her get what was coming to her, but I’m not sure it was worth a quarter of a million.
As Solitaire said, I govern by terror because it’s efficient, but compared to others in my position, I’m a pussycat. I could take any woman I want and do with her what I want, with no comeback at all, but I don’t. If you have a beautiful woman, you needn’t hide her from me. I won’t touch her unless you cut her loose. And if she’s your wife, daughter or niece, I’ll respect her like she’s my own family. As I said, there’s plenty of available women, so why invite trouble?
That’s why telling Solitaire I’d kill anyone who looked at her came as such a shock. I mean, Solitaire’s drop dead gorgeous, but I’ve had scores of models and actresses who’ve made careers out of their looks, and I’ve never thought twice about anyone else having them. Solitaire’s got that cool, fuck-me-if-you-dare thing going for her, too, but that’s not it, either.
I decided it started when we danced. Salsa is always a turn-on, and I was enjoying myself because I had a beautiful girl in my arms, but when I dropped a kiss on her neck, quite simply because I was having a good time, Solitaire shivered and looked into my eyes. I had the strangest sensation of time standing still and of the two of us being utterly alone.
Those dark blue eyes were almost black, and I was drowning in them. I could feel my heart thudding, and the breath was stuck in my throat. It was a fleeting moment that lasted an eternity. Then she seemed to shimmer, and the world snapped back. We were in the same place, surrounded by the same people, but something had changed: Solitaire now danced for me.
She gave herself to me, and for the first time in my life I understood the power of possession. All those years I’d played games, like a child playing make-believe. When Solitaire danced, I knew this was the real thing. She was mine: body and soul.
I’m not sure how we got back. I remember handing a roll of bills to a waitress, stepping into a Mercedes and shoving money at the driver. Then I was locking the bedroom door and ripping her clothes off. I’d planned on seduction – tying her down and making her beg for it with that crazy flashing vibrator before fucking her – but I found myself tearing into her.
It was brutal, a savage, primeval rite of dominion. I took her, sinking into that soft rich body, drowning in her scent, submersed in her siren call, dashing myself against the rocks until the blaze consumed me, blasting me apart in white hot fire and leaving me shattered, clutching her like a drowning man.
Afterwards I just lay on top of her. I was intensely aware
of her. I could feel her heart beating as if it were my own, her every breath in tune with mine. I saw a drop of sweat roll down her collarbone and felt goose pimples rise on mine. She had become part of me, and I didn’t want it to end, ever.
Try as you might, you can’t keep the world at bay forever. I slowly became aware of the distant sound of traffic, of voices in the corridor, and the million and one other sounds that make up a city.
I didn’t like it. I had never felt this close to someone, and I wanted to burrow inside her, to have her as part of me always. But I’m a practical man, so about a week later, I began to lift myself off her. Solitaire, that cool, well-controlled girl, instantly wrapped herself around me, refusing to let go and almost weeping when I gently removed her ankles from my back. I gazed into those blue eyes, and that’s when I heard myself tell her I’d kill anyone who looked at her.
I meant it, too. She’s mine, and I’ll tear apart any man who tries to take her from me. Solitaire murmured something, but I knew she was paying no attention whatsoever. She was completely focused on keeping me close, and once she realised I wasn’t going anywhere, she curled up against me, closed her eyes and went to sleep.
I lay there all night, just watching her. Just like that first time I was shot, I knew my life had changed forever. After this, other women would be no good to me. I tried to remember the brilliant fucks I’d had, and I just wasn’t interested. From now on it would be Solitaire or no one.
Others in my position would have given her away the very next day, recognising her as a weakness. I didn’t try to kid myself; you’d have a better chance trying to persuade a crack addict to give up his pipe. Solitaire was an experience that blows coke out of the water, and there was no fucking way I’d give her up. Ever. I’d keep her, knowing she had my cock on a leash, and I’d strain every nerve to make her happy. Every man has an Achilles heel, and I knew Solitaire was mine.
So I watched her sleep and wondered what life with her would be like. I didn’t know much about her, and I was praying she’d be loyal, honest and not too much of a bitch. I know, the cartel boss at the mercy of a girl. Ridiculous, except that that having had her, I knew I was hooked, and as I’m always honest with myself, I knew exactly what I was in for. I wouldn’t do anything that might jeopardise my possession of that sirena.
At six o’clock my phone buzzed.
“Arturo,” it was Jorge. “The cops are onto us. Our friend’s clean-up was perfect, so that case is totally off their radar. As for the other, they’ve no physical evidence, no eyewitnesses, and not even a number plate to go on. They have you shopping yesterday, but they haven’t even been able to find out what flight you came in on. It’s purely a fishing expedition. They’ll be on your doorstep before lunch.”
It was discrete but clear. Fucho’s body was on its way back to Mexico, with paperwork that meant nobody knew what had gone down, and we were in the clear on Escamilla. “Excellent. Thanks.”
It was all according to schedule, so I was relieved. As that white haired guy in The A-Team says, “I love it when a plan comes together.”
The thought of what was coming next got my mind off my personal life. I uncurled myself from Solitaire, tucked the duvet around her and went for a shower. Fifteen minutes later I was having coffee and going through my email.
It’s amazing how much shit piles up over just two days. My father would do a deal with one phone call asking “How much, where and when?” I get details and options on origin, quality, packaging, methods of dispatch and payment. I delegate as much as possible, but the constant flood of information going about means everyone is constantly tempted into micromanaging.
Jorge’s updates said the cops had ticked all the boxes, come to the right conclusions and were busy trying to get warrants for arrest. It would be a waste of time. No judge will sign off when the chief suspects are a billionaire Princeton graduate and a decorated war hero, both with clean records, especially when the evidence consists solely of being in the country.
The rest of the team were clean, too. It’s my policy that everyone doing a job abroad has an impeccable background. It allows us to move around freely, and it pays off every time.
Solitaire would be a different matter, but my connections would take care of any trouble. I’d intended to send her shopping for the day but decided it was safer to keep her close. I told myself it was because I didn’t want her hassled, but the truth is that I was scared shitless that she might talk if the cops got to her and put on the squeeze. I didn’t want to put her in a position where she was a security threat.
She’d be pissed and bored being indoors all day, so I made a call that ensured her record would be expunged by noon, a second one that would bring a sapphire and diamond necklace, and a third that secured dinner reservations at The Ivy. I didn’t know her, see, so I thought I had to buy her affection. I really was a sad fuck back then.
Anyway, I made my plans, anticipating trouble as always and making sure countermeasures were in place. The cops would fail to get a warrant, but they would be round later that morning, hoping something would shake loose. It wouldn’t, but you can’t blame them for trying. I’d have my people around Solitaire; they’d keep her safe.
It would be a busy day, because I was also expecting visitors. We had some territorial disputes to settle with the Rathkeale Rovers. Escamilla should have dealt with it weeks ago, but he let it slide, the lazy fuck. Jorge was too inexperienced, so I’d handle it. I let Jorge know it was a favour, a lesson, but actually I was looking forward to it. I always enjoy a battle, and I don’t often get to talk to people like the Rovers who’ve made millions from art theft and who run a business almost as successful as mine. So I made my plans and looked forward to an interesting day.
By eight, Rafa and Chumillo were at the door. They’d brought my own security people with them, so the temporary team moved back to provide perimeter service. It was good to see friendly faces again, even if it meant that my location was known and the party was over. From now on the walks were off; it would be limos all the way.
I brought Rafa and Chumillo up to speed, and neither was happy about Solitaire.
“Escamilla’s woman?” Rafa said slowly. “Is that safe?”
He thought Solitaire might want revenge.
“I can’t imagine any woman liking that fuck,” Chumillo added thoughtfully, “but witnesses are always a problem.”
“She won’t talk,” I told them. “She knows what happens to those who do.”
They nodded, but I knew they weren’t convinced. I knew everyone else would be worried, too, but they’d come round soon enough.
Then I looked in on Solitaire. She was fast asleep, but the second I came close to the bed, my phone buzzed. She woke up, flipped a hundred and eighty degrees and curled up in a ball, covering her head and belly. The second I saw that, I was raging.
I sat on the edge of the bed. “You think I’d hit you?”
“Arturo.” She uncurled and sighed with relief. “No, of course not. I-I had a bad dream, I think.”
It was a lie. That block had been a reflex, and you don’t develop it unless someone has beaten the fuck out of you on a regular basis. Trust me, I know. The thought of someone hitting Solitaire took a hold on my gut and squeezed. I wanted to kill the fucker responsible. “Was it Escamilla, that fuck Danjuma, or someone else?”
Solitaire’s eyes went blank, and then she shrugged. “Does it matter?”
It surprised me. “You think it doesn’t?”
“One’s gone, and you scared the hell out of the other last night.” Solitaire was smiling. “I’m done with the past. It was a shitty time, and I’m going to pretend it doesn’t exist.” She touched my hand. “You look spiffy.”
Spiffy, naff, cobblers, tart, muppet... The way the English talk cracks me up. And to think they’re always making fun of the Americans. “I’ve got a thing,” I told her, and by the sudden grin, quickly stifled, I knew she was laughing at me, too. My heart skipped a beat at t
he sight of those sparkling eyes, filled with fun. “Sirena.”
The second my lips touched hers she was in my arms, soft, delicious and sweet. Seeing her all snug in that bed, fucking drop dead gorgeous with her hair all over the place and no makeup, made me want to jump in with her, but my phone was buzzing: the Rovers had arrived. I couldn’t blow that off.
A man’s gotta do, right? So I stood up. “Business, sirena. I’ve got to go. Have room service or go downstairs, but stay in the hotel.”
“I know, Arturo.”
She thought I was reminding her of the rules, and I let it slide. I didn’t want her worrying about the cops. Another mistake. Her record should have told me that Solitaire could deal, but I had this stupid idea that she was a typical chupita under pressure: nervous and liable to make stupid mistakes. Luckily my not giving her a heads-up didn’t blow up in my face, but that was thanks to her and not me.
It was just past two when the text came through warning me that two Scotland Yard men were on their way upstairs. It was great timing, because the Rovers had exited twenty minutes before, promising to think over our proposal and to come back with a counter offer later. We were just tying up loose ends from the change in management, so I left Jorge and his people working while I took Kyle, Quique, and Pedro Rojo with me to see our visitors.
Although it had taken us less than five minutes to make our way to the suite, Solitaire’s voice was coming through loud and clear in the hallway.
“Arrest me if you like!” she yelled. “You can go fuck yourself! I’m not saying a bloody word!”
My girl was holding her own, but before I could open the door, intending to settle everything without fuss, I heard the sound of a slap and then all hell broke loose.
Chapter Eight: Solitaire
I woke up frightened out of my wits, sensing there was someone near me. Of course it was Arturo, looking good enough to eat in a black suit, purple shirt and black and purple tie. Pure Armani, I think it was. The look wasn’t matched by a smile, though.
