Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
This is sloppy, but I have to work fast for my woman.
“I am ready for war, my friend,” I reply. “I need some information.”
Antonio sits just as slowly as he rose, but the other man keeps glaring at me. “I see no gun, gringo. I see no reason to be scared of you.”
“So, am I scared?” Antonio says, looking up at the man. But he’s so tall that he doesn’t have to look up that much. “I’m sitting. I’m ready to talk. This is interesting to me. But if I take your word as gospel, I’m scared, is that it?”
“No, I—”
I leap back when Antonio springs into action. He moves far quicker than I would’ve guessed. He explodes into a right-hand punch, hitting his so-called friend across the face. It’s a routine I’ve seen before. The drugged-up boss beats up his own men. I step back as he hits him twice more, then spits on him.
He turns to me, smiling shakily. “Where were we?”
The man on the ground groans. I don’t have the time to give a shit. Anyway, he probably deserves it, as pessimistic as that might be.
“Simone Harwood,” I tell him. The other man has rolled onto his back. He’s carefully probing his nose, and there’s something about the movement. It looks like he’s done it before. “How much do you want?”
He places a hand on his chest, looking genuinely offended. “It’s not a question of money, sir.”
My hand twitches, urging me to go for the pistol and shove it in his face, but there’s no telling where Simone is. If I had backup, a team, but this has all happened in, what, an hour, maybe a little more?
“Enlighten me, then, sir,” I say coldly.
“Do you speak Spanish?” he asks.
I nod, answering in Spanish. “Tell me where she is.”
“Relax. Listen, Sebastian Gutierrez is a very big figure in the town where I am from. We all heard stories of the great Sebastian Gutierrez, who came from the mud like us, who bled for us and brought schools and hospitals.”
Cartel-owned conveniences. It’s a common tactic of theirs.
“Get to the point,” I snap.
He sighs. “I have now had the honor of meeting Sebastian Gutierrez. He is in his later years. I’m unsure if he knew I was there, but he came alive again when I mentioned this wonderful thing—this data disk that held millions. He cried on my shoulder. He’d never met me before. I was a friend of his son’s, but he cried. I would die for that man. I made him a promise.”
Some people say the narcos look at their bosses like royalty or gods. I’ve seen glimpses of this kind of behavior before, but never like this. Whether it’s the drugs, his messed-up upbringing, or maybe he was just born like this, he’s a zealot. He’s ready to die for the narco cause.
“It was a custom build,” he goes on. “This data disk.”
“Portable hard drive,” I say in English, and he repeats it.
“And this could hold all that money?” he says, not even looking at his buddy dragging himself into a chair.
Yes, it could. It had, and that was my mistake. Or maybe it was selfishness, but a man needs money to operate. I could’ve handled it alone. I saw a lonely, lost mother; perhaps she reminded me of my own. Maybe she reminded me of what she did, so I helped her. Now look at me.
“Why do you think Simone knows where it is?” I ask.
“She told me. She said it right to my face. I was at a bar, minding my own business, and this drunk American lady stumbled over with all her friends. They wanted to take photos of me for my face. Drunk American women, eh?” He gestures at his facial tattoos that cover most of his features. “They go crazy for any little thing.”
I swallow. It’s something I warned Simone about in the past—her behavior in public. I’d told her she should always be aware of her surroundings, and she’d replied with something about being able to handle herself. So naïve, but she wasn’t my responsibility.
“So she took the photo, then…”
“Then drinks and stories. She thought it was so funny. A friend of her husband’s stole it. Then, her husband stole it from him, but he was too scared to do anything. He hid it. He died. She kept it. Then, somehow, she found a way to make the money real.”
“That’s quite the tale,” I say. “Let’s call it a million.”
“We’re not discussing price, sir,” he says with an intoxicated conviction. He stares at me without any hint of doubt. “It’s the data disk, the hard drive I need. It had a unique whalebone cover and his daughter’s name inscribed. He was going to give it to her. She died.”
I almost groan, massaging my head. A good operator incinerates anything he never wants to be discovered, but I remember the inscription. I remember how it generally looked. It will take time, though, dammit.