Los Zetas Cartel Collection (3 book series)

by AJ Adams

  Then his mate started, too, interrupting and making an even bigger mess. Part of me was at screaming point, terrified for Delicia, but at the same time I knew I’d remember that approach and use it sometime.

  Smith eventually broke away and confronted me. I was so frightened for Delicia that I tried once more to get the plods involved. I hated Smith, but for her sake I begged. “Look, I need your help.” Then I quickly told him what had happened.

  “I’m not here to help the likes of you,” Smith snarled.

  I should have known. Smith’s a pig, always has been. I determined there and then to fuck him over.

  After letting me have a good look at the comic duo, Bacon-breath led me into a video booth. “Tell me if you recognise anyone.”

  They showed me a dozen photos, leaving Dark-eyes and his mate to the end.

  “See anyone you know?” Bacon-breath sounded alert and confident.

  “No, not a soul,” I told him.

  “Look again!”

  We did, and this time they cut it down to six photos, again leaving the two till last.

  “Nope. They’re not there.”

  “You know they are!” Razor-cut was yelling at me. “What the fuck are you playing at?”

  “Delicia,” I said softly. “She’s thirteen. She’s in trouble.”

  “And so are you!”

  “Delicia is a child!”

  “What’s one dirty stop out?” Razor-cut snarled. “Do you know what you’re doing? Those fuckers are Zetas!”

  It meant nothing to me.

  “They’re Mexican, tougher than the Mafia, worse than the goddamn Russian mob!” Bacon-breath flipped up a photo. “That’s James Cortez, an enforcer, based in London!” Another flip and Dark-eyes came up. “And that fucker is Enrique Ramas, one of their top hit men!”

  I knew they’d be hard, but this sounded extreme. Still, Delicia needed to be found. I tried again. “And what about Delicia?”

  “Fuck her!”

  Razor-cut thumped the desk, and when Bacon-breath punched me on the arm, I’d had enough. “Fuck both of you! Touch me again and I’ll lay charges!”

  At this point we had the attention of the entire plod shop. I stormed out, clutching my arm and pretending to cry. Then I took up watch across the street and waited.

  Dark-eyes and his mate walked out ten minutes later. I saw them spot me. Mindful of prying eyes, I raised my eyebrows and nodded to the end of the road. After a hesitating, Dark-eyes followed while his mate walked off towards the car park.

  I made for the corner and waited for him to catch up. He was smiling and relaxed, but the dark eyes were watchful. “Hey, do I know you?”

  He had a low voice, rough but intimate. The eyes raked me briefly, lingering on my tits and then back up to my face. He didn’t say a word or move a muscle, but I sensed a mental wince.

  “We met when you punched me in the face yesterday.”

  The eyes widened as if in shock and he shook his head. “Lady, you’re crazy.”

  “I have your watch.”

  He blinked and shrugged. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. But I love watches, so if you’ve got one for sale, I might buy it.”

  It was a great act, but I had no time for it. “I’ll go talk to Smith then. You get life for murder. Even if you took out pond scum.”

  It was as if I’d thrown a switch. The fury leaped into his eyes, turning the dark brown to black. A volcanic rage came off him in waves. It was terrifying.

  I wanted to run, but fear for Delicia kept me nailed to the spot. “Look, I don’t want to cause you any grief. Help me, and I’ll forget I ever saw you.”

  He leaned forward, nearly overwhelming me with his wrath. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  “You’re Enrique Ramas, a big wheel in the Zeta cartel.” I gathered my courage. “So stop fucking around and do as I tell you, or you’ll be in the slammer before you can say assault with a deadly weapon.”

  The fury boiled over and he reached for me. I’d made a mistake. A fatal one.

  Chapter Five: Quique

  Of course we knew it was a set-up straight away. The cops who came to the office looked dead scared, and they messed it up completely.

  “Detective Sergeant Smith wants to see you.”

  “Does he? Why?” James asked.

  “Just routine,” they chorused, fingering their tasers and shuffling their feet.

  “Routine what?”

  “Identification,” one said.

  “No, just to talk,” the other said hastily.

  “About identification?” James said surprised. “Like immigration?”

  “Yes,” one said.

  “No,” the other said.

  “We’re all legal here,” James replied. “I can show you our visas. We pay tax, too.”

  I interrupted. “Quit torturing them, James.” As I spoke Spanish, the two cops had no idea what we were saying. “Is their man on our list?”

  “No, never heard of him, either.”

  “Okay, in that case I don’t speak English. Tell them we’ll follow them there.”

  We went over, the cops leading the way, and Smith talked to us in full view of the public so that his men could take totally unobvious photos of us. Some cops would’ve been trying to put us on edge, but Smith turned out to be a total waste of space: racist and with horizons so limited that he could have been wearing a blindfold.

  “My name’s Detective Sergeant Smith.” He spoke slowly and clearly, expecting us to be idiots. I smiled, nodded and said nothing while James drawled, “Delighted! I’m Cortez, James Cortez, chief of personnel, or what you call human resources, for Zeta International, Limited. My associate, Enrique Ramas, from head office in Mexico.”

  “You speak good English.” Smith was totally taken aback by James’ fruity aristocratic drawl.

  It was my turn. “Encantado!” I embraced him before he could shrink away. “So, you have found the cabron? Cojeme!” Then I was in full flood, praising him and his men. In Spanish.

  “What’s he saying?” Smith asked warily.

  “He is happy you have caught the robber.”

  “What robber?”

  “The one who shot our associate.”

  That took a few minutes and distracted him nicely.

  “This is not about the shooting; we would like to know your movements yesterday. Particularly yours, Mr Ramas.”

  “Llegado in the morning, to look at property. We want to invest in London. Pollas en vinagre, the prices! But you see it’s una buena inversión!”

  Smith looked confused. “Maybe I should get an interpreter.”

  “No need, valedor,” I assured him. “I comprehend you very well!”

  By the time they walked the girl in, I was in full flood, and James was helping. Smith was red with rage, suspecting we were making a fool out of him but suffering it because he thought he held the winning hand.

  I knew from the second I saw her that she’d keep her mouth shut because she was glaring at the cops. When she sat down, she looked at us, through us, and yawned. She didn’t fool me, I’d seen her eyes flash in recognition, but Smith hadn’t a clue. Even so, he would’ve won that round if he’d treated the girl right.

  “Look, I need your help.”

  We weren’t close enough to hear what she wanted exactly, but Smith was clear enough.

  “I’m not here to help the likes of you,” Smith snarled.

  What an idiot, right? If he’d played nice, she would’ve rolled over. Well, maybe not her, because I later found out that damn woman sets her own rules, but ninety-nine per cent of people will feel obliged to you if you do them a favour first. That’s why we Zetas are always respectful to old ladies and kind to little kids, because when people see you’re basically okay, they forgive you for blowing away the opposition.

  You think I’m joking, but I’m telling the God’s honest truth. It’s how we Zetas stay in business. If you have an old tree that’s fallen over i
n a storm, we’ll help clear it. For free. If you tell us drunks or addicts are hassling you and scaring your kids, we move the sleazeballs away from your home. So when a politician says, “Those cartel fuckers have to go,” there’s always a citizen supporting us.

  People do it because they don’t realise that we moved that tree with a truck we stole and that those drunks and addicts are just round the corner and are still buying from us. So we keep working and getting richer and more powerful.

  I know it’s dirty, but what do you expect? Life isn’t a game, it’s war. It’s a battle to the death, and the last ones left standing win. I don’t intend ever to be a loser, so I do what I do, and I do it to the best of my ability.

  Smith was a loser, and after he blew off the girl, she fucked him over, saying, “I’ve never seen those two before in my life!” Then she stuck her nose up in the air and left.

  I liked her style, and I felt bad seeing the black bruise on her jaw. I’d gotten her a good one that would stretch from her neck to her ear for a fortnight. It’s a bad thing to mark a pretty girl. Well, not that she was looking hot; she didn’t smile once. I got the impression her mind was on other things, but I could also see she wasn’t the friendly type. Frosty. It suited her.

  Anyway, with no ID, Smith had nothing to keep us. He had a last try, though, showing us fuzzy CCTV pictures.

  “You were seen at 3:30 p.m. entering the building.”

  “Is that us?” James was peering at the photos, frowning. “All I see is hats and coats.”

  “It’s your car.”

  “Oh, I see!” James was charmed. “How observant, Detective Sergeant!” He translated for me, and I was pleased, too. In Spanish. James turned back to Smith. “Good. So when did we leave?”

  “You know damn well you had someone pick up your car!” Smith was raging. “At four o’clock you and this scum bucket Ramas were killing Sal Binks!”

  “No, no! At four we were playing cards!” James produced our trump card. “We have witnesses!”

  Smith knew he was boxed in. “Why didn’t you say so at once?”

  “I forgot,” James said apologetically.

  Smith made the call, and two minutes later he had statements saying we had been in Curzon Street, playing poker with six dear friends. CCTV was promised by the afternoon. Smith had to let us walk. He was damn sulky about it too, so we continued the loco peasant act and told him we had great faith in his finding the robber.

  “That’s not my case,” he growled.

  “We wish it were,” James oozed charm all over him. “You have our complete confidence.”

  “Hasta luego, valedor!” was my contribution and if I got the evil look in his eyes right, my good buddy would have cheerfully shot me.

  “We should pay the girl a visit, see if she has my watch,” I said as we left.

  “She’s got a great rack,” James said thoughtfully. “Good legs, too. Wouldn’t mind seeing more of her.”

  At that point we spotted her, waiting for us down the road. “You get the car,” I told James. “I think the girl has my watch.”

  Ten seconds later I wasn’t sorry about the bruise. In fact, I could’ve fucking strangled her. She knew it too because she stepped away quickly. “Touch me and I’ll have you!” she snarled.

  “Bruja mala leche! What the fuck do you think you’re playing at! You can’t push me around!”

  “Sure I can.” Her eyes were slate grey, the same colour as the sky, and just as cold. “I need help, and you’re going to give it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got a situation. I need someone who isn’t afraid of murder and mayhem.”

  I should have charmed her, offered to help and maybe it would have settled it, but I was too mad to even consider it. “Help you? Over my dead fucking body!”

  She shrugged. “We can do it that way, too.” She took out her phone. “I’ll call you soon, hopefully within the hour. If you still refuse, I call Smith.” The eyes were hard. “I’d rather not shop you, because I hate that bastard, but I will if you make me.”

  I gave her my number. I mean, I wanted to kill her, but in London they notice things like bodies in the street. Especially if you’re careless enough to do it in broad daylight next to a cop shop.

  So I let her walk away. I’m telling you, it took discipline not to shoot her.

  “Did you get it?” James pulled up at the kerb. Looking at my face, he frowned. “Jesus! What happened?”

  “Get me everything you can on the bitch. Top priority!”

  “Okay.” James turned the car and sped up. “I just got a call from the hospital. Jorge’s not doing so good.”

  Jorge had a raging fever.

  “The wounds are clean, but as the bullets fragmented, I’ll do an MRI, just in case we missed a speck. Also, with this kind of trauma the immune system is overloaded.” The doctor was a nice woman, plain-speaking, conscientious and warm. A lady, unlike that grey eyed witch. “We’ve got him loaded with antibiotics. Hopefully we’ll see a change for the better in twelve to twenty-four hours.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “He needs rest.”

  “Two minutes. I need to tell his mother I’ve seen him with my own eyes.”

  “Okay.”

  Jorge was asleep, but he looked at death’s door. I wasn’t too worried, because he’d been shot before. It’s a shock being hit, but after the first time it gets easier. He was breathing on his own and not rambling—all good signs.

  Also, the nurse in the room was looking cheerful. That’s always a good thing. Doctors fix people, but nurses are around 24/7, and they soon learn to size up the situation just as well, if not better. So if the nurse isn’t worried, chances are good that you’ll be okay.

  As I went to leave, he opened his eyes. “Quique.” His voice was weak.

  “Just checking in. Do you need anything?”

  “Nah, I’ve got a sexy nurse. I’m good.”

  “Great. Everything’s under control, so get some rest, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  The minute I was out of there, I began planning. “James, when’s Jorge’s family arriving?”

  “In two hours. Favo’s picking her up. Mama Jorge’s bringing Celia, her eldest girl. I’ve booked them into the Dorchester.”

  “Good. See there’s flowers and fruit baskets and get someone reliable to be their runner. I want those ladies pampered.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “I need to meet the lawyer, the solicitor, I mean. And where are we on Sooty?”

  “The capullo hasn’t been home. Word is that he’s got a new squeeze but we don’t know who. Also, there’s something odd. The girl’s looking for him, too.”

  “The bruja?”

  “Yes. She’s been calling him, and she’s at his wife’s place right now.”

  It made me think. She’d said she needed help. So how was Sooty involved? Did she need another licence? Maybe that’s what she wanted Smith to fix.

  It’s stupid to waste time speculating when you don’t have enough information, so I put it out of my mind. I’d fix the bitch and that fucker later. First I had to see about the property deal.

  Sykes, the solicitor, had news that got my pressure skyrocketing, too.

  “What do you mean, one of the properties was sold?” I asked him. “We put in an offer, didn’t we?”

  “I’m afraid we were gazumped.”

  The goddamn English with their lousy slang! “We were what?”

  “The buyer made a higher bid and persuaded the seller to accept it on the spot.”

  “Is it legal?”

  “Oh yes!”

  “Reach out to the new man and offer ten per cent more than the price he paid.”

  “We can certainly do that. It’s a generous profit for a one day investment.” Sykes tapped on his computer keyboard. “The new owner is a Ms Natalia Truelove.”

  “What!” My shout had Sykes jumping out of his skin. “Tha
t hija de puta bought my fucking shop?”

  Suffice it to say the meeting went downhill. Sykes got an education in Spanish that’s not usually part of the curriculum, and I got a lesson in the ethics and practices of property buying in England.

  “Gazumping is generally frowned upon but legal, whereas putting a gun to the lady’s head and forcing her to sell is illegal.” Sykes had a nasty sense of humour and excellent insight into what I was dying to do. “Worse, it automatically invalidates any agreement.”

  “Not if I shoot the bitch the second the ink’s dry!”

  “Oh, how funny!” Sykes said quickly. “You are a joker, Mr Ramas!”

  He was afraid I’d do it and make him an accessory, I guess, but I wasn’t in a mood to laugh. “I want everything you’ve got from the assessment reports. I don’t care if they’re complete or not, just give me what there is. And do it quick, like now quick.”

  “That may not be possible.”

  “We pay you top dollar. Earn it.”

  He must have seen the violence in my eyes, because he sat up straight and gave a sickly smile. “Yes, Mr Ramas!”

  “I’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning. Clear your calendar for the day.”

  “Yes, Mr Ramas!”

  I was fucking angry, I’ll tell you that for nothing. Being blackmailed and gazumped in one morning was really breaking my balls, and I wasn’t taking it anymore. I blasted out of that place, swearing I’d kill Sooty, settle with the bitch and sort out the property deal—Zeta style.

  But first it was back to the hospital to welcome Mama Jorge and her daughter, Celia. They were good people, worried over their loved one but sensible. I thanked God for it, because I don’t think I could’ve handled hysterics at that point.

  “He was like this last time, too,” Mama Jorge said placidly. “His papa was the same, God bless him.”

  “He will soon be teasing the nurses for kisses,” Celia smiled.

  I made sure they had my number, and had a word with Nacho, the man who James had chosen as a runner. “Do whatever it takes to make the ladies happy.” I handed him a couple of hundred pounds. “Buy them a decent lunch, run their errands, escort them where they want and call me if there’s anything.”