Corrupt

by Elena M. Reyes

  Taking my seat opposite of Daniel, I pour myself a drink while giving Geronimo a barely perceptible nod as he enters a minute later. He takes his place a few feet behind me, hand on his gun.

  There’s a beat of silence that follows. They look at me while I wait. Their body language is nervous while they find the courage to ask me the one question that’s been bothering them since Daniel extended my invitation.

  And it’s the pudgier of the two that sits forward a bit after a few minutes, sweat beading at his brow. “Mr. Lucas, why are we here? How can we be of assistance?”

  “You’re here because I need a hacker.”

  3

  “NOTHING IS OFF-LIMITS for the right price,” the same fucker answers quickly, and it’s clear he’s the more vocal of the two. He’s intrigued, curious, while his friend’s posture becomes falsely more relaxed.

  Another mistake.

  They shouldn’t trust me. Not even for a split second.

  The two culicagados sitting in front of me are no older than twenty, but with a reputation that precedes them.

  They’re not natives to my country. They’re not from this continent. The two fugitives are American citizens hiding in Colombia while evading what other nations call justice.

  Jason Thorn and Shawn Bosdell are wanted men in both the US and Europe for high-profile cybercrimes. For selling confidential information on the black market belonging to the clientele of Fortune 500 companies spanning the globe.

  From L.A. to Shanghai.

  From London to Mexico.

  It’s cost each company trying to right these wrongs millions. It’s also made their governments scared. And they should be…

  Secrets never stay hidden for long.

  Moreover, they did this multiple times—raking in millions, which they stupidly spent back home somewhere in the Midwest. From farm boys to crashing Ferraris and buying anything and everything they could get their hands on.

  They broke the golden rule to never draw attention. To not let superficial garbage define you.

  “What and when?” Jason surprises me by opening his mouth for the first time since my arrival. He’s not looking at me. His eyes are on his phone as he taps away at the screen. “Any specific date you—” I clear my throat and his eyes snap up to mine, the expression on my face making him flip the device in his hand around quickly. In the background, I hear his low sorry but I’m reading the notes being made on the notation app; the breakdown of what could be needed and timeframes where certain networks are dormant and can be bypassed. Smart kid, but still mierda for etiquette.

  “I need five bank accounts emptied, leaving behind only a single penny in each.” At my words, they look at each other for a brief moment—just a quick flick of the eyes—and then nod in acceptance. “There’s also the matter of an encrypted message I’d like left behind for the owner when he attempts to log in.”

  “Anything.”

  “Done,” they say in unison, Jason being the latter. He’s still adding to his notes, fingers a blur over the screen. “Can we ask whom and what?”

  Second mistake.

  Never ask questions. Wait until the information is provided.

  “No. You can’t.”

  “Sir, we mean—”

  “How do you feel about corrupt governments in general?” I interject, cutting him off instead. Bringing the drink to my lips, I take a sip and then another, downing the shot and placing the glass atop the table. The anise taste is crisp, settling into a slow burn as it spreads, and I let the question hang in the air between us for a full minute.

  The immediate disdain on their faces is enough of a tell.

  Shawn speaks up first, his expression full of unresolved ire. “I’m an anarchist, Mr. Lucas. Fuck them all.”

  Jason nods in acquiescence, first-bumping his friend before placing his phone screen up beside his glass of water. “While my views aren’t as extreme, I agree with how much greed and corruption have taken control of governments across the globe. Politicians no longer work for the people who vote them into office, but for millionaire donors and their private agendas.”

  Right answer.

  “Then you’ll have no problem playing the role of Robin Hood for me.” At my words, Daniel snickers across from me, but quickly hides it behind a sip or two of liquor. “Take from the rich to feed the poor.”

  “None whatsoever.” Again in unison. They remind me of two bumbling idiots I once knew and are dead now.

  “Good. Then you start tomorrow.” They look like they want more information, better instructions, but I snap my fingers and Geronimo comes right over with a nondescript folder in his hand. Shawn and Jason shrink back as he towers over the table but are smart enough to take the file without prompting. “Everything you need is in there, gentlemen. I expect to see progress by the end of the week.”

  “Sir, I’m—”

  “Bosdell, this is your cue to leave. Take it and don’t push your luck.” At my words, they stand and after giving me a pussy-looking bow, leave the room.

  Moreover, if it weren’t for how good they are at what they do, they’d be dead already. There is more to their moronic antics than they think I know. Like the fact that each stole three hundred grand from an associate in Cali.

  Money that was ultimately mine.

  My eyes shift to one of my men standing next to Geronimo, and he leaves after my nod. He’ll be watching them. They’re not allowed out of his sight.

  “Well, that was entertaining, to say the least,” Daniel says, leaning over to grab the bottle of Aguardiente this time to pour us each another shot. He’s forgoing his usual drink, so I know the man is right at the cusp of lit and hungry. Could out eat anyone I know when drunk. “The skinny one almost shit himself. Another glare from you and he would’ve had an accident.”

  “That’s disgusting.” I take the offered drink and let the clear liquid swish lightly around the edge of the glass before taking another sip. “And the truth. No backbone or self-preservation on either of them.”

  Because fear doesn’t equate to awareness, not when the person you’re making a deal with is someone you owe money to.

  I own Cali. Barranquilla. Medellin. Every single inch of this country works for me, something that the pieces of shit holding the presidential office will learn soon enough.

  It’s taken me years to get where I am, and not by luck. Blood. Sweat. Death.

  After my father’s sentencing, things changed for us. Our lives were turned upside down, and working became my number one priority. To maintain my family and bounce back. To be able to afford a one-bedroom home in one of the poorest neighborhoods of the country while simultaneously sending whatever we could to our father in jail.

  For food.

  For protection.

  For the rights to a simple visit, and that fee was imposed by the tombos at the jailhouse.

  And while my mother cried at night, I worked harder. Smarter. Made the right connections with a man that I’d kill near the end of Quintero’s second term and overtake his illicit throne.

  The day I took possession, I personally sent Quintero a gift via a car bomb outside of the presidential palace. Just one car. The exact replica of his. The message was loud and clear on my behalf, but if by any chance he still didn’t understand, I called him. My phone call didn’t last long, just a few seconds, but I made sure that he heard the one word.

  My name and the date of my father’s arrest.

  That’s it.

  Jose Quintero became president off the back of false accusations toward his honest opponent. Off a man that refused to play dirty. A man that served six years for a crime he didn’t commit, and after a visit from myself to the newly appointed leader, I persuaded him to see things my way in exchange for a financial contribution to the national debt.

  And while Quintero fled the country with his entire family, I bided my time. To this day he hasn’t come back, but I know where he is. Where he hides beneath a pile of rocks like the snak
e he’s always been.

  Guatemala isn’t far enough.

  “Now, back to something a bit more important...”

  “What’s he asking for this year?”

  “You hungry?” he asks instead, standing with a bottle in his hand when I shake my head. “Then let’s head upstairs. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “You sure you don’t want to eat?”

  “After my surprise.”

  With a brow raised, I wave a hand in the air. “Lead the way.”

  The moment I rise from my chair while taking my guns, the soldiers with me move toward the entrance and open the door. Two walk outside with their weapons drawn, while the others stand between me and the hallway. A quick search finds everything clear and they step aside to make room for my exit.

  We go back the way we came in but stop midway where a hidden panel resides behind a painting. With a flash of my keycard across the oil medium the wall parts, exposing a vintage elevator shaft with exposed metal and a manual door you push aside to open—and secure it closed with a hard pull and a latch. It fits three people, and I signal Geronimo to head inside while looking over at the others.

  “Take the stairs across from us and meet me on the rooftop.”

  “Yes, Patron.” They’re gone before I fully turn around, and the sound of a door opening meets my ears while Geronimo stands waiting to close the metal entrance and then pull the lever.

  Three floors separate the clientele here, and while the first floor is quieter and more reserved, the next two are festive—open-bar settings with small dining tables littering the floor, and the kind of music playing is a little more Criolla. From old school to top hits. From vallenato to cumbia.

  The elevator passes and stops. This one is for the younger crowd.

  The rowdier hipsters of the country, and the music reflects that.

  Urban Latino blares from the speakers of this rooftop club for a throbbing sea of bodies. Men and women all blur into each other, their bodies grinding—moving to the beat of reggaeton as one at the center of the room. It’s a depraved gyration that catches the eye of every person within as hands wander beneath short skirts. As heads are thrown back in bliss and the smiles on glossed lips are one of dirty satisfaction.

  No hiding. No pretending.

  And while the lighting is minimal beneath the cool night sky, I stride across the room toward a small VIP section toward the back. There are two private seating areas and my men are already there on the left, standing guard as a waitress places a few bottles of liquor atop a table between the arranged seating.

  A few people try to get my attention: women and men for similar reasons. To talk shop or offer me easy access to pussy. I’m interested in neither and at the sight of my glare, they step back.

  Not tonight. This isn’t the time to try to make a deal.

  I’m the first to take a seat. The oversized red gothic chair between sofas gives me a view of the entire floor, from the large bar, the DJ’s station, and the dance floor where now a woman is on her knees with a cock down her throat, bobbing her head as those around her cheer the petite woman on.

  “Are you keeping with the same drink or…?”

  “Rum.”

  “Good choice.” Daniel pours us each a drink, and I look back at Geronimo who stands again just behind me. I tilt my head and he gets the hint, taking a seat to my right and opposite Daniel who’s looking at him. “And you, parce? What’s your poison?”

  “I’m driving. I’ll stick with water—”

  “Join me in one,” I say, and he nods without another protest. Geronimo’s a good man. A good soldier and always on guard. “Poor him a double. We’re celebrating tonight.”

  “Thank you, Patron.”

  “Hagale and relax.” Looking back at Daniel, I raise my glass and the two men follow. “To the beginning of the end. To the death of many.” They nod, and so do the other men surrounding my area. “To the mercy of God finding a home in my country, because until that family is six feet under, every street will run red in supplication.”

  “Your word is the law, Patron.”

  “Those hijueputas don’t deserve to live.” The latter comes from Daniel.

  “Your loyalty is appreciated, gentlemen. Salud,” I say, throwing back my drink and then sitting forward, grabbing the bottle to pour another round. For tonight, though, I won’t discuss my plans any further. Not with so many ears around. Not with a few familiar faces trying to subtly get close. “So, what does my favorite kiddo want for his birthday?”

  Daniel doesn’t miss a beat and snorts. “The pony you promised.”

  “Is he taking riding lessons yet?”

  “Yeah, but the wife isn’t...” he’s talking, animatedly waving his hand between us, but I’ve stopped listening. There’s a sudden prickling sensation—an undercurrent that travels through my body as a giggle meets my ears—and my cock swells at the sound. It’s feminine and arousing, and I can’t stop myself from looking over at the private section across from mine.

  A group of women, in their early twenties at the most, arrive and take their places around the center table where their drinks of choice await. At once, I’m picking apart their faces, trying to decipher which family in the capital they belong to. None seem familiar, though.

  They’re laughing.

  Shooting shots of clear liquid.

  All except one.

  Motherfucking Preciosa. I can’t take my eyes off the one to the far right and how she moves her hips sensually to the rhythm of reggaeton. She’s mouthwatering, and my heart beats like the stampede of a thousand wild beasts. My muscles tighten. My jaw ticks.

  The sounds around us dim and my cock hardens, pulsing as the beautiful doll across from me twirls. Once. Twice. Five times while her hips undulate to the beat, the bottom of her strapless dress swirling around her mid-thighs.

  She’s beautiful. Utterly indecent perfection.

  On the last turn, her eyes wander my way and lock on mine. Light grey on my cognac, a bolt of volcanic need rushes down my spine. Licks at my skin. I’m aroused and hungry and near clawing at my flesh, but I stay right where I am.

  My eyes traverse her short frame in a minuscule blush-colored party dress. I take in how the fabric shimmers, almost glowing around her with each tempting move. From her dainty, high-heeled feet to her slim waist and thick hips—to those larger-than-a-handful tits pushed up against the thin fabric—I find her to be the physical embodiment of sin. A temptation I won’t deny myself.

  Not when her lips quirk up into a shy smile.

  Not when a touch of pink sweeps across her cheeks.

  Not when she subtly squeezes her thighs.

  I see it. Her. Every delicious inch makes me throb, and pinning her beneath me is all I can focus on.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “No.”

  “What’s got you so...oh. You found her.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask Daniel, but my eyes remain on her, taking in how she bites her lower lip before accepting the shot the girl beside her offers. The little flower throws it back without pause; a small shiver runs through her—nipples pebbling into stiff little peaks as I watch her stand beneath soft lighting. I catalog the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The clenching of her small fingers around the glass. “You know her?”

  “I do.”

  My head snaps in his direction and my eyes narrow. “Explain?” I grit out, the malice behind my tone clear. For the first time in all our years of friendship, I want to shoot him, snap his neck, and all because the grin on his face holds a hint of salaciousness. Of a familiarity. “Talk, man, before conclusions are made that are not in your favor.”

  “Why so possessive?”

  There’s a tumultuous storm brewing within, a thick cord that snaps and I pull my gun out, finger on the trigger before rationalizing my actions. “Now isn’t the time to test me.”

  His hands go up and his face loses all trace of hum
or. “Parce, this is—”

  “Who. Is. She?”

  “My gift.”

  “Gift?”

  “Yes.” He swallows hard, eyes on my finger over the trigger. The same one that’s twitching. “That’s Solimar Quintero, my friend. The president’s daughter.”

  4

  I’M AN IDIOT.

  Crazy.

  A dead woman if my father finds out I let my cousin drag me out to Codicia tonight, and more so without my guards. But then again, that’s the least of my worries. I’m terrified of him, of his reaction if he knew that Laura is sleeping—in love—with Signio Cortez when the arrangement for my hand has already been made.

  I don’t love him. She does.

  I don’t even like him. She’s completely smitten with the jerk.

  My heart breaks for her, but the decision was taken out of my hands a few minutes after the strike of midnight on my twentieth birthday by his father and mine. It’s a political move between the two countries. The creation of a stronger alliance by two overbearing and archaic-thinking presidents.

  Because of their greed, I’ve become a pawn in a game I never wanted to play.

  Unfortunately for Laura, she’d been chasing him for over a year at that point with nothing more than the title of friends with benefits safely within her grasp. No one knew this. No one suspected. And while Laura pines and he sleeps around, I’m caught in the middle of this unwanted love triangle after her confession with tears in her eyes.

  I’m damned no matter which way I turn.

  I’m left forcing a smile and praying my disgust doesn’t show.

  I’m left imagining another face every night that is forbidden to me.

  “Thank God we’re not married yet,” I mutter under my breath for the ninth time as our group—a few women I barely know and her one childhood friend I can’t stand—are ushered toward a VIP table near the very back of the rooftop terrace. The other section is already occupied, but I know better than to look. To be nosy or worse, get caught by the kind of clientele Sergio caters to.