Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45785 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 229(@200wpm)___ 183(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
I found the car in question, a rusty Honda, parked under a tree, and sure enough, he was staring in the direction of the roof above us. Nice catch by Joel, I had to admit.
“They could be scouting the area to report back to Blanco.” That was my theory, anyway. “I’ll go across the street and buy another paper.” I wanted to have a look.
“Do you think they’ll pick us up earlier?”
“Based on experience, no,” I admitted. “He likes to use the cover of darkness to conceal the locations of his properties. But with what’s going on back home, you never know. He could be as eager to see us as we are to see him.”
At around four PM, we had more movement. Joel had been right earlier; a man had stood on the roof above the café, and he’d left at the same time as the red car.
Now it was back, circling the neighborhood every fifteen minutes. An SUV with tinted windows that stood out like a sore thumb had also driven by a couple times before it’d been parked outside the entrance to the park at my four o’clock.
The heat wasn’t as brutal anymore, so I ordered a cup of coffee. We’d already taken turns eating lunch across the road, and there wasn’t much else we could do. We sat there at our corner table and pretended to read papers while we kept an eye on our surroundings. We’d gone through the café’s selection of pastries out of sheer boredom.
I pushed out the third chair at our table and rested my leg on it. Time to elevate it for a moment again. The pain wasn’t awful today, but it cramped up if I sat in the same position for long.
Joel lit up a smoke. “Any guesses about where they’ll take us?”
“None whatsoever.” It could be a ten-minute drive, a helicopter ride, a couple hours in a plane… “I only know we’re staying in Mexico. Blanco doesn’t cross borders unnecessarily.”
I was ready for whatever. I’d warned the guys in the chat server that we would likely not be able to communicate until we’d left Vincente’s compound, because he liked to confiscate phones. All to ensure the secrecy of his whereabouts.
In return, Darius and Ortega had updated us on the situation at home. The news of more killings was spilling out into the public, triggering experts to predict the next cartel war. Seven known Blanco affiliates had been found dead so far, not at the hands of River and Reese. And, of course, what we knew was that the dead men had no longer been Blanco members but rather Carillo recruits. There were no rival gangs to speak of this time, just an in-house war.
According to Ortega, the authorities had put together a task force with the DEA in charge. Three kidnappings, one prison break, and cartel members ending up dead—yeah, no wonder everyone was scrambling.
“Someone just climbed out of the SUV,” Joel said.
I glanced over there and spotted a man looking directly at us. Then he nodded, and a spark of anticipation ignited within me.
“That’s our ride. Let’s go.” I took a final swig of my coffee, then rose from my seat and made an effort not to show I was wounded.
“Finally.” Joel followed me.
I checked my watch and tapped my foot restlessly.
We’d been in the air for nearly four hours.
We could be fucking anywhere.
“I wonder how many private jets he has.” Joel eyed the luxury we were surrounded by. Eight cushy seats divided into groups of two with a table in the middle for each pair. Tan leather and mahogany. Private bar. “It never ceases to amaze me how the underworld has set up its own infrastructure.”
Yeah, me either. Theirs was better funded too.
I took a swig of my Coke.
“Did you ever meet any of the Colombians when you worked with Vincente?” Joel asked.
I mean, Vincente was Colombian. And his sister. And their dad, whom I’d killed. “His dad would be the one.”
“He ranked higher than his son, I assume.”
I nodded.
“So where do their Italian roots come in?”
“Vincente’s grandfather Luca Blanco,” I replied. “He was born in Sicily and moved to Colombia solely for the cocaine. He was a made man. Then he met his wife there, they popped out a few kids, and he branched out on his own.”
They’d incorporated some of the more traditional mafia structure into their organization, only with a few more steps involved. The big boss was untouchable. No clue where he even resided or what region they’d laid claim to. I figured Joel could benefit from the knowledge, so I gave him a rundown of the Blanco Family. Underneath the boss was a line of advisers, coordinators, and snakeheads, who kept the regional officers in check. With each regional officer controlling a drug route. In-house wars were actually not uncommon, because so many crews were part of the cartel, whether they bossed over a territory or a responsibility. Vincente was, in his own right, a boss. In business terms, he was the manager at a branch that reported back to corporate.