by AJ Adams
It touched me on the raw. I didn’t want to think about it. “Don’t worry about it.”
Her mouth drooped and she touched me on the arm. “Come in, love,” she murmured. “Come and talk to Kyle.”
My boss was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee while watching the news on a small television and reading through the local papers. He’s a news hound, and I am, too, because it’s part of the job. You see, he’s head of security for the Zetas, and as we’re the most powerful cartel in Mexico, we’ve got plenty to keep track of. Me, I’m his right hand man. I’m also his cousin by marriage.
“Quique, I’m sorry.” The boss has grey eyes. Mostly they’re cold as ice, but now, when he was talking personal, not business, they were warm. “He’s still alive. Need him finished and a clean-up?”
Typical. He knows everything, sometimes before it’s happened, and he’s always practical. A clean-up, by the way, is when we dispose of a body, via wood chipper, usually. The small bits biodegrade easier than big chunks, and it means the cops have trouble keeping track of what we’re up to. It's not that they could touch us, but we like our privacy, so chipping is a good method.
“No need. He’s in the road, not in the house.”
The authorities avoid us when they can, but when we have corpses on the lawn, they find it hard to write up reports saying “person or persons unknown,” so we make it a point to either clean up or leave them in a public place. It’s easier all round really.
Kyle was texting, probably telling the halcones to leave the cowboy to his fate. “Well, either way, I think he’ll get the message. I’ll send Antonio away for a few days, too.”
“That fucker doesn’t ever come near me again!”
“No problem. He’s gone.”
I knew it was unlikely because Antonio is well connected, but the boss knew we both needed to cool off. He would ream Antonio a new one and tell him to stay out of my way, but eventually I’d have to forgive him. The thought made me smoke with fury.
“Bad morning, huh?” As the boss pushed the coffee pot my way, Chloe stepped in, bearing plates loaded with pancakes, bacon and maple syrup, Texas style. She’s English, but the boss is American, and she’s always working out ways to make him happy, lucky bastard.
“I’m going for a swim,” she announced, “so you can gossip in private.”
The boss rolled his eyes. “We’re men. We don’t gossip.”
“Right. You knew Maria had become engaged before her mum did, and it was you who told me that Constanzia would have a baby boy.”
“That’s not gossip; it’s news.”
Chloe giggled, kissed him and vanished.
I was jealous as hell, but I didn’t show it. “Boss, I want your permission to divorce.”
Tina and the boss are cousins, but as her father died five years ago and she has four sisters but no brothers, he’s the head of that part of the family.
“Quique, you don’t need my permission.”
Right, he’s a Yankee and I’m Guatemalan, so we see things differently. “Actually, I do. Tina is your cousin, and she has no other male relative who can make sure she has her rights.”
“She has three uncles and a dozen other cousins.”
The men were nowhere near high up enough in the cartel to count because I outranked the lot of them, but as the boss always does the right thing, I just waited him out. We tucked into our pancakes, had a second coffee and by the time we’d finished, he’d come to terms with his position.
“Right,” he sighed. “The uncles and cousins don’t count for shit. What are your plans?”
“She can have the house and I’ll continue her monthly allowance. She won’t suffer for it.”
“Tina needs her ass whooped.”
I’d thought about it, but I have a failing: I can’t raise my hand to a woman, not even when she takes another man to my bed. Maybe I should’ve steeled myself and done it. Not beaten her the way I’d beat a man, but turned her over and slapped her ass so that she’d have to eat standing up for a week.
Me, I don’t see how that would do anything but make her hate me, but there are plenty of men who’ve boasted they fixed their marriages that way. I always wonder if what they’d really done is scare their wives into toeing the line. That’s something I just can’t imagine doing. Call me a pussy if you like, but slapping women around just isn’t my thing.
The boss sighed. “Forget I said that. I’m an asshole sometimes. I’m just pissed at Tina.”
“Ah, fuck it. No point in talking about what can’t be fixed. We’re both young, right? Better luck next time.” I didn’t mean it, but I wasn’t going to tell him how I felt. Divorce is a bloody awful thing, a personal failure no man can tolerate easily, and I didn’t even want to think about the fact that it was my fault. I still couldn’t take in that I was shooting blanks. The thought created a block of ice in my gut.
“Don’t make decisions in a temper,” the boss advised. “As it happens, I want you to go to London.”
“Oh?” My instinct was to stay. Everyone would know I was wearing horns, so leaving would make me look like a pussy. “Boss, I have issues to fix here.”
“Quique, this comes from the jefe. Jorge’s got a security situation. He says he thinks he can deal, but he’d rather have one of us audit and advise.” The grey eyes were warm. “We can call him if you like, but I think you should go. The England operation is important.”
You might think it’s weird to hear of the cartel operating in England, but actually it’s just the latest of our ventures. We Zetas are based in Nuevo Laredo, just across the border from Laredo, Texas, and we control most of western Mexico, but we also do business in a dozen other countries.
We’re into everything from trading coke, heroin and weapons, as well as pharmaceuticals, currency and other commodities. It’s a US$40 billion business, and so we’ve got a network of about 5000 direct employees. As you might guess, the cartel doesn’t attract angels, so security is a big part of our operation. Being second in command, I’m always on my toes.
“Arturo’s pleased with your work, Quique,” the boss was saying. “He thinks you need to spread your wings.”
I started off working in Mexico, but in the last two years I’d been sent off on several foreign operations. In fact, I’d just come back from a job in La Paz, Bolivia, taking out a man who’d taken part in a coke heist in Chicago. The silly fuck thought going to the back of beyond equalled a safe place to retire on the proceeds of fifty ki’s of product. Well, a bullet in the brain proved him wrong!
My jobs had always been in-and-out, clean kills mostly, and now I was off again but for longer. Maybe it was a put-up job, maybe not. For one thing, when the jefe says to go, you go. For another, hearing he thought I should spread my wings was irresistible.
Also, I was suddenly very tired. Having my marriage fall apart was getting to me. Normally I’m the kind who confronts trouble head-on, but as confrontation wouldn’t fix this, I wasn’t sure what to do.
So I ignored my instincts that told me to stay and fight. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to be busy. And if the jefe thought I should spread my wings with a London job, I’d go.
The boss smiled, seeing the decision in my eyes. “There’s a flight in two hours.” He was tapping on a screen, booking me a seat. “Draw on the account in London for expenses. I’ll email you the brief in half an hour. Stay until you’re certain Jorge’s on the right track. Then take some leave. You’ve never been to Paris. Go for a week and see the sights.”
He was of course hoping that a break would bring Tina and me back together. Maybe it would. Frankly, I was too tired to think straight. “I’m all over it, boss.”
Actually, I wasn’t. I got on the plane, stretched out, and was asleep before take-off. Planes affect me that way. I’m sick as a dog at sea—hell, I can get seasick fishing on a lake—but put me in a plane and I’m out like a light. I woke up ten minutes before touchdown in Heathrow. It was just enough time
to read over the file.
From the look of it Jorge, the head of our English organisation, had the wind up. There was nothing to put your finger on, but he’d noted a couple of small deals gone wrong and a few near misses.
“I may be imagining it,” he’d emailed the boss, “but like the English say, I’ve got a feeling in my water. I think, cousin, that someone is watching us. I’ve got some good people here, but we’re all new, and our experience is nothing compared to yours. Please, come and advise me or send Quique to me.”
That made me smile. Usually anyone not born into the cartel can only climb so high. After all, we’re in a hard business, so trust is essential, and there’s nothing like blood to make for strong bonds. The boss recruited me personally after I left the special forces in Guatemala, and as I had no previous connection with the cartel, I’d thought I’d be a plain soldier.
However, the Zetas are different. We’re loaded with foreign talent, and if you prove yourself, you can climb as high as your skill set will take you. I’d gone straight to the top in just ten years, and Jorge’s note was just what I needed to remind me of what was important: good friends and the knowledge you’re the best.
By the time we taxied in to the terminal, I’d mastered the file and was ready to hit the ground running. I knew there’d be action right away because it’s how we work. When you’re with the Zetas, you always go First Class and for security people like me, there’s always someone local to deal with immigration and red tape. Carrying a gun’s a bitch when you fly commercial, so we plan well ahead.
So I was expecting to be met, but when the aircraft doors opened, I spotted James Cortez, an Anglo-Argentine, Jorge’s right hand man, and far too senior for this kind of job, standing at the end of the link tunnel.
“Quique, thank God! Jorge’s been shot.”
“Fuck! Dead?”
“No, thank heaven.”
We were off the plane, walking fast and talking so I’d get up to speed ASAP. “Did you get the shooter?”
“We winged the fucker, but he fell six stories, splat on to some poor bastard’s Harley Rocker.”
“Who was he?”
“Renee Argent, a pro from France.”
That was bad news because it meant we’d have to dig to find out who’d hired him. An hour later I was at the hospital. Jorge’s young, just twenty-seven, but he’s fifth-generation cartel and a tough bastard. “He was waiting on the roof across the street from the office,” he grumped. “Spotted the capullo and ducked just in time.”
“Yeah, I can see he totally missed.”
Jorge had a shattered shoulder blade, a bullet in his arm and another in the leg. Amazingly, he laughed. “Yeah, but you should see the other guy!” He mimed falling out of a window and sang, “Volare, oh oh!”
I guess the Gypsy Kings were singing about flying with love not taking a dive, but we all cracked up. It was a bad thing to do because Jorge doubled up in pain.
As if by magic, a matron appeared. “I don’t care if you’re his brothers! If you can’t keep him quiet, you’ll have to go!”
James was on his feet, giving her the big smile that got him laid every time he stuck his nose out of the house. “Guapa, it’s all my fault! Please, tell me about my brother! You explain it so much clearer than the doctor.”
While James was luring her away, I spoke to Jorge. “Your spider senses have been tingling?”
“Yeah, I suspect the Rovers.”
The Rathkale Rovers are players, especially in England. We’ve got a truce, but they’re a tricky bunch so I got where he was immediately.
“Right. We’ll put triple security on you, and I’ll go see what I can find.”
“Talk to James.”
You know how in The Godfather, it’s always the bodyguard who gives you up by stepping aside? Well, that’s totally spot on. James was Jorge’s second in command, not a bodyguard, but he’d have plenty to gain if his boss croaked. I lowered my voice. “Do you trust him?”
“Like a fucking brother. He dragged me to cover, stemmed the bleeding and saved my life.”
It didn’t mean much because James might be playing both sides, but I didn’t say so. No point really. It would cause suspicion that might be unfounded. Not that I worry about friendships exactly, but business can only work when there’s trust. That’s the bitch about working security: you’ve got to be a suspicious bastard but keep everyone sweet. So I smiled at Jorge and resolved to check everyone out, including James.
I was about to tell Jorge to rest and take off when James came in, phone in hand and looking excited. “Guess who sublet the apartment? Sal Binks!”
It meant nothing to me but Jorge exclaimed, “Cabron! Que hijo puta!”
“He’s with the Peckham Knaves,” James explained. “They’re a small gang, an offshoot of the Peckham Boys crime family. Their territory runs next to ours in that area. We’ve had a bit of friction, nothing serious so far but annoying.”
“Go see him. Find out whose orders he was following and kill them all,” Jorge snapped.
I’d always thought of Jorge as a good leader but new wave, more likely to call a lawyer than pull a gun, but clearly there was plenty of Zeta blood in his veins. He sounded just like Arturo, who, incidentally, is also Jorge’s cousin.
“I’m on it,” James assured him grimly.
Jorge was looking pale so we tucked him up, made sure a private nurse was briefed, put two guards on the door and went to have a chat with Sal.
I don’t know London well, but James did because he took us zipping through back lanes and avoiding traffic snarls like a pro. He had us in a place called Southwark in twenty minutes. It looked old, a bit rundown, but here and there I spotted new buildings and there were a lot of renovations going on, too. The place was getting an upgrade.
“The property we’re after is a block away from here,” James informed me. “It backs on to the Thames, so we plan for a small wharf with a mini-mall and offices above. We’ve put in an offer, but it’s complicated because there are several properties bundled together.”
It sounded good. We could bring in merchandise via the river, set up shop in the office tower and make a fucking fortune from the mall. I’d have to buy shares in this; it was going to be mega.
Still, business before personal fortune. “Tell me about it later. For now, what’s the ground like at Sal’s?”
“He lives alone in an apartment on the top floor. No security to speak of. Two sets of stairs and two sets of elevators. No CCTV in the building but traffic and security cameras on the road.”
“Okay, standard evasive procedure, then.”
We Zetas do a lot of killing, so we have our systems for keeping us safe. We go in wearing hats, long coats, and if possible scarves, so it’s hard to get an ID. In addition, we rock up in one vehicle and then abandon it. We have a second ride parked and waiting a few blocks away, or we make our way back on foot. It means that tracking us, even using facial recognition software through CCTV, is a bitch.
To be extra certain, we have alibis set up, like a poker game somewhere. If we have to, we have people who can fake security camera stills, complete with time and date stamps. It’s expensive but better than having men in jail.
James was looking at the map. “We can go up the stairs at the front and exit via the fire escape at the back of the building. It’s only two miles, so we walk home. I’ll have someone put together a poker game as a backup.”
“I’ve got my gun. Are you packing?”
“Of course.” James was carrying a nice little .32. “Hats, scarves, coats, gloves, crowbar and baseball bat in the boot, and I’ve got brass knuckles, too.”
“I’ll need an axe or saw.”
James thought for a moment. “There’s a DIY shop on the way.”
“Great, then we’re good to go. So, what’s the target like?”
“Stinky?” James thought for a moment and then grinned. “Sorry. The English are crazy for nicknames, and it kind of rubs of
f.”
When in Rome, right? “Okay, what’s Stinky like?”
“He’s a hard bastard. Started as a dealer and now works as a loan shark. Creepy son of a bitch. When he shook my hand, I felt like I should wash it.”
It was a strange description, but as it turned out, it was spot on. Normally we carry gear in a golf bag when doing a job, but England being freezing, we had nice discreet trench coats that covered James’ crowbar and my axe.
We trotted up six flights of stairs to stay out of public view and listened in at Stinky’s door. It was one of those cheap places where the front door opens straight into the living room. There was a football match on, and as we looked through the window, we spotted him on the sofa, dressed in shorts with a cooler of beer at his feet. He was alone.
We used the crowbar as a lever and busted the lock so quietly that even Stinky didn’t hear anything until we were right on top of him. I got him a beauty, picking him up by the hair and kneeing him in the balls. Stinky croaked, “What the fuck?” and collapsed. By the time he got it together, we had the curtains closed for privacy and him taped to a wooden chair I found in the kitchen.
“This guy’s a player?” I asked James. “This place is shit!”
There was a massive entertainment system, a leather sofa set and that was about it. One bedroom, a bathroom that needed scrubbing out and a kitchen fitted with just a gas ring, a microwave and a table that fit three chairs. It sucked. Our halcones live better than that.
Stinky was glaring at me, but as we’d gagged him with some duct tape, he could only grunt in protest. James was looking at me, waiting for a lead. He was the number two in London but coming from headquarters I outranked him.
“Turn the place over. We’re looking for his ledger, phone and laptop. Keep any cash, leave everything else.” Stinky relaxed, thinking we were thieves. I gave him a nasty look. “Oh, and James, find me a large piece of plastic.”
“Gotcha.” James paused and acted the straight man. “Plastic?”
“Yeah.” I flourished the axe. “I don’t want blood to leak through the floor while we’re working.”
