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)
A small lizard darted up the house wall as we climbed the stairs.
I heard a splash and a woman laughing and guessed we were heading toward a terrace.
Five, six, seven…
I counted each guard I saw.
A narrow pathway along the estate’s second floor brought us to the other side, opening up to a large pool area.
Fuck, that was a lot of people. Another four or five guards. Approximately fifteen to twenty guests dressed for a coke-filled evening with a drug lord.
The patio was a giant seating area with several sofas, chairs, and low tables. A fully stocked and staffed bar in the corner.
Someone yelled for the guests to make room, and I watched the cluster of people part like the Red Sea. And there, in the center of a couch, sat Vincente. The wall above him was the canvas to a mural of Colombia. “Blanco” was written in an elegant font across the painted map.
Vincente hadn’t changed much since last year. He was admittedly handsome as fuck, just a couple years older than me. He kept himself fit and trimmed his mustache obsessively. Not a wavy hair out of place on his head either. He grinned crookedly at me.
I filled my Frank Rivera shoes automatically and made sure I looked like I didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone.
Joel came up next to me and looked every bit the military man that he was, from the width between his feet, the squareness of his shoulders, and his hands clasped behind his back.
Vincente rose from his seat and addressed his guests. “Vean a este man,” he told them. Here we fucking go. He was gonna share the story of how I was the “craziest wolf” to ever work for him. “Frank Rivera es el lobo con las pelotas que ha trabajado pa’ mí. Y sé que están pensando ‘¿pero Vicente por qué sigue vivo ese huevón si él fue el que mató a su papá?’ Pues así es la cosa conmigo, me importa un culo si tenemos la misma sangre, si me quieren joder, si me quieren tratar como una mierda, ¡se mueren!”
Theatrical fucker.
“Exactly like you predicted,” Joel muttered under his breath.
The male guests sized me up, and the women… Well, they were drawn to power and money. If only they knew I didn’t have much of either.
Vincente headed toward me, so I met him halfway.
“Vincente. Tiempo sin verlo.” I said it’d been a while, then added that he was, as always, difficult to find. “Como siempre es difícil encontrarlo.”
He chuckled warmly and shook my hand, and he said that was how it was supposed to be. “Así es como deber ser, hermano. Lo estaba esperando.” No surprise, he’d been expecting me too. He gave my arm a squeeze, the humor long gone. “Apenas me pillé lo que estaba pasando…?” He flipped a hand under his jaw, visibly irritated, and told me as soon as he’d figured out what was going on, he’d known it was me who had been targeted. “…que ese man estaba detrás de usted, supe que iba a venir buscarme. Me alegra que haya venido.” And targeted by whom. Or, that was implied. He glanced curiously at Joel next. “¿Y este quién es?” He asked who he was, as if he didn’t already know.
Before I could answer, Joel took a step forward and extended his hand. “Yo soy Joel, el padre de la niñita que su hombre secuestró. ¿Me puede decir dónde se está escondiendo?” Christ, he didn’t take any baby steps with polite introductions; he said he was the dad of the little girl one of Vincente’s men had kidnapped. And he was wondering if Vincente knew where the fucker was hiding.
I gave Joel a look of warning. “Cool it. We’ll get to that.”
Thankfully, Vincente was in a good mood. He just laughed a little and shook Joel’s hand. “El enemigo de mi enemigo es mi amigo.” Right. The enemy of Carillo was Vincente’s friend. “Welcome to my home, Joel. Let’s take this someplace private.” He motioned for us to follow him, and he spoke to me next. “By the way, your alias is secure. Carillo and his closest may know Frank and Elliott are the same person, but the attack order went out for Elliott only.”
For him to be sure of that, he must’ve heard it from somewhere.
“You’re the one cleaning the streets of San Diego,” I stated quietly.
He let out a laugh. “Cleaning the streets—that’s exactly it. Yes, I am. My boys questioned a few of them, and as soon as we had it confirmed, yes, the cleaning began. I want every single Carillo affiliate off the streets. They’re fuckin’ dead.”
Great, except for the fact that River and Reese couldn’t interrogate dead people. If Vincente’s men killed the ones holding our loved ones hostage somewhere, we might not find them in time.