Internally I wince at the gruesome sight, but externally I keep my game face on all the way through cuffing and loading the twenty-three members of the Marseille cartel. With just one glance around the shop, I estimate that it’s perhaps our biggest bust to date. After a fifteen-month investigation, I’m glad this damn case has come to an end. Maybe I’ll be able to get some sleep. At the same time that we moved in on this operation, agents in Columbus; Mobile, Alabama; and Dallas, Texas, were synchronized to shut down the other arms of this organization.
“Hey, Rambo-ette! Great job!” Agent Elliott Baker rolls up on me and smacks me hard on the center of my back.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah. ‘Get your ass on the fucking ground.’ Classic.” He winks and then rolls his eyes.
Undoubtedly he thinks that because he’s six-two, well built, and reasonably cute that my ass likes him. But he’s wasting his time.
Elliott and his small party of knuckleheads—agents Aaron Pitman and Eric Thompson—chuckle around us.
“Yeah. Whatever. I got my muthafuckin’ point across, didn’t I? They got their asses down,” I say, turning my attention away from the black vans pulling away with our arrests to glance at the forensic team snapping pictures.
“Yeah, maybe you should have let big man stay in his seat. It took seven of us to help get his ass back up,” Pitman tosses in. “I swear I don’t know what these big muthafuckas be eating sometimes—whole grocery stores?”
Agent Thompson twists his face. “Who gives a fuck? These assholes are slinging poison in the street, and your ass is worried about their muthafuckin’ diets? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Pitman shrugs. “I’m just saying.”
I’ve had enough. “As entertaining as I find this conversation, I’m about to roll out.”
“Yo, Hayes. Does that mean you’re not joining the boys for a celebratory drink over at Flint’s tonight?”
“What? Just so I can watch you pussies toss your cookies after a couple of shots of Jägermeister?”
The boys club immediately erupts into laughter.
Elliott grins while his gaze skims over my stacked five-eight frame and heart-shaped ass as if he’s considering making a purchase. “You know, Hayes, you always talk a lot of shit for a girl.”
“So do you,” I snap back.
More laughter.
Elliott shrugs the barb off because trash talk is just a way of life in this business. “A’ight. I’m going to let you have that. But you know you owe the boys a round for the last rain check.”
“Fine. Damn. Stop your bitchin', man. I’ll catch you on the flip side at Flint’s.” That shit seems to make his night, because his eyes light up like a six-year-old on Christmas Day. I shake my head as I walk away. Elliott has been trying to get into my panties for two years and takes each rejection like a personal challenge. Momma was right—men love what they can’t have.
It’s not like there is something wrong with Elliott. Far as I can tell, he’s a nice guy. It’s just that I don’t believe in fucking people I work with. It’ll only cause problems when I toss their ass to the curb, which I will eventually do because I bore easily. It’s my MO.
Two hours later, I exchange my DEA clothes for my usual wardrobe of tight blue jeans and a basic white T-shirt. To soften my look, I let my thick, wavy hair hang loose to the center of my back. Of course it gets attention the second I walk through the door.
“HAYES!” everyone shouts the minute I enter. The place is packed.
I flash them all a brief smile and then thread my way up to the bar.
“Looking good, Hayes,” a few male colleagues comment as I pass them by.
Mitch, the bartender and owner, plops down my first shot of the night without even waiting for me to order it. “First one is on the house,” he reminds me. It was his usual way of paying back the men and women in military or law enforcement.
“Thanks!” I toss back my shot without a second thought. The instant jolt of alcohol is like an electric charge to the heart. “Damn. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
“Another?” Mitch asks.
“Don’t stop until I tell you to,” I tell him.
Just when I start to turn around, Elliott, Aaron, and Eric surround me like a pack of wolves. Outside the job, these boys are my dawgs. We hang tough on poker night, Monday night football, and, of course, after-work drinks at Flint’s.
“Glad to see that you could finally make it, partner.” Elliott’s hand smacks the center of my back like he’s trying to crack the motherfucker wide open. I don’t flinch because I know he only does that shit to try getting a rise out of me. “After having a bullet whiz by my head and my life flash before my eyes, believe me, I needed a drink.”
“Yeah. It would’ve been a damn shame to toe-tag the prettiest thing on the team.”
The compliment is so awkward that everyone, including the bartender, laughs at that shit.
Elliott’s mocha complexion deepens to a dark burgundy. “Yeah. Whatever. A brother is a little tipsy.”
“Already?”
He couldn’t have been here more than twenty minutes before me. “I told you your ass doesn’t know how to handle your damn liquor. I don’t know why you’re always running up in here trying to hang with somebody.”
“He’s been a lightweight since high school,” Eric cuts in. “You’d think that his ass would’ve built up a resistance by now.”
We all get a laugh over that. For the next two shots, the conversation turns, like it always does when talking with men, to sex.
Eric holds the court. “I’m telling you, man. I was waxing that ass like a full-time job.” He pumps his hips and pretends to be smacking a bitch’s ass. “I mean, pow! Pow! I was up in there. You hear me?”
I just shake my head. “I don’t see what the big damn deal is. Didn’t Big Joe and ‘em smash that girl a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yep. Yep.” Elliott and Aaron cosign and then laugh and point at a red-faced Eric. “Big Joe said she’s a hotel hooker at the Marquis downtown.”
“Well,” I say, impressed. “That’s a step up from an out-and-out streetwalker like you had on New Year’s Eve.”
“It wasn’t New Year’s Eve,” Aaron corrects me. “It was his birthday.”
Elliott chimes in, “Actually, it was New Year’s Eve and his birthday.” He looks over at Eric. “Hell, I’m starting to think that you spend half your paycheck on hookers.”
We all crack up while Eric shoots his middle finger at us. “You know what? Fuck all y’all. I’m a brother with needs, and I like dealing with bitches who are straight up with their shit. That’s all I’m going to say. I ain’t got to deal with bitches trying to trap a brother with a baby or some trick, whining about how I’m responsible for her rent or getting her hair whipped and dipped just because she gave me some pussy. Cash on the table is up front and honest, and I always leave with a smile on my face.”
“All right. I respect what you’re saying,” I say.
“Oh. Is that right?” Elliott laughs. “What about you, Jordan?”
I cock my head. “What about me? I know you don’t think I have to pay for sex.” I stand up from my stool and strike a pose. “Look at me.”
Elliott takes his time, doing just that, licking his lips as well. “How come you ain’t got a man hitting that shit on the regular? I mean … shit. You’re fine as hell and got a little sense about you. I would have thought that a nigga would have snapped you up by now.”
“Thanks. I think.” I roll my eyes.
“You ain’t answered my question.” He places his hand on my knee, which immediately causes my eyebrows to jump. “Don’t you ever get … urges?”
Aaron and Eric act like they’ve suddenly became interested in the bar’s decoration as they start looking around like they don’t hear shit.
I lean toward Elliott with the biggest smile I can manage. “Oh, I get urges all the time.”
“You do?” His
gaze drops to my full lips.
I can tell his ass is fucked up by the way he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. “Uh-huh.” I inch closer. “You want to know what I do then?” “What?”
I lower my voice to a throaty whisper. “I ease back on my big old bed, spread my legs wide, and peel open my fat pussy.” Eric and Aaron think they’re slick, but I see their asses leaning closer. “I take my fingers and test the waters for a little bit by stirring them around underneath my pink clit until I hear it go"—I pick up my drink and stir my finger around so that it starts to slosh around the glass—"and then …”
After a beat of silence, Elliott asks breathlessly, “And then what?”
I lean back. “And then … nah. You can’t handle that shit.” I wave him off and turn around on my stool. “Mitch, hook me up with another.”
“Awwww, man.” At least twenty brothers who had been listening start hissing and booing.
“Damn, Jordan. You’re just going to leave me hanging?”
I look down at his pants and see his dick trying to bust out like the Incredible Hulk. “Nah, man. I ain’t trying to give Mitch here more shit to clean up off his floor tonight.”
“That’s cold,” they all chorus, shaking their heads.
I toss back another drink and then hop off the stool to make a run to the little girl’s room. “Save my seat.” I walk through the main bar area, but as I glide through the pool hall, I start to feel a heavy gaze on me from somewhere in the room. I ignore it and go into the bathroom to empty my bladder.
On the way back, however, I feel it again and take a look around. Leaning over a pool table holding a cue is hands down the finest brother I’ve seen in I don’t know how long. Large, sexy eyes; plump, juicy lips; broad shoulders; and biceps I want to use as pillows.
His green eyes lock on me over the white ball a second before he cranks a shot and breaks the triangle of balls at the other end. He doesn’t look to see how many of the solid or striped balls scatter into pockets, because his eyes are still molesting my curves.
Shit. I have to remind myself to breathe. I try to pull my gaze away, but it’s damn near impossible. The brother’s green eyes are like a powerful magnet, and it’s either him or this whiskey that’s got my body tingling.
Finally he smiles, and two dimples wink at me. He stands up so I can peep out his whole six-foot-three frame. The man has to be solid muscle. I can’t find an extra inch of nothing on his ass.
“Damn.” I manage to shake this trance off and push one foot in front of the other until I return to my stool at the bar.
Elliott doesn’t miss a beat. “I was beginning to think you fell in.”
When I don’t answer but keep my eyes toward the back of the bar, he starts looking around. “What is it?” Elliott turns to see who has caught my attention.
Almost on cue, Mr. Sexy waltzes out of the pool hall and spots
me at the bar. I can’t help but smile. “I think my eggs just lined up.”
Elliott takes one look at the dude and frowns. “Aww, shit. Don’t tell me you go for the gangster type,” Elliott complains in my ear.
Mr. Sexy sits down at the other end of the bar and gives me a look that says I have to meet him the rest of the way.
“All right. I won’t tell you.” I get back up from my stool.
“Is she going down there to him?” The peanut gallery behind me explodes with laughter, but I don’t pay them any mind because I have my target in sight.
“Buy you a drink?” I ask, taking the seat next to him. I don’t know what he’s wearing, but damn he smells good.
“You want to buy me a drink?”
Shit. The muthafucka even sounds good. A deep, smooth bass that gets my clit thumping in my panties. “Is that a problem?”
“No. But usually it’s the man who buys a woman a drink.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you can buy the next round,” I tell him.
He cocks me a smile, showing two perfect rows of white teeth. No. It’s definitely not the alcohol that got me feeling this dude. “All right. You got a deal.”
“Mitch, you want to hook my boy up?” I ask without pulling my gaze away. “By the way, the name is Jordan.”
“Jordan? That’s different.” He nods, still trying to play it cool.
“And you are?”
His smile stretches even wider. “Keston.”
“Keston? That’s different.” I smile while my gaze continues to eat his fine ass up. Thank God I have on silk panties tonight and not cotton.
“What will it be?” Mitch asks.
“I’ll have another Heineken.” Keston doesn’t look up either. When Mitch walks away, he asks me, “Like what you see?”
“So far,” I admit. “You got a wife, Keston?”
“Do you have a husband?”
“I asked you first, slick.”
He pauses just long enough for me to suspect his answer will be a lie. “No. And you?”
I return the favor by waiting equally long. “No.”
He laughs, and honest to God it’s the sexiest shit I’ve ever heard. “So"—he leans in closer to me—"how do you want to play this out?”
“The usual. I get you drunk, take you to a hotel, and then fuck your brains out.”
Still smiling, Keston whips out his car keys. “Fuck the beer. Let’s go.”
Chapter Two
Alvaro Guzman Jr. sits behind his handsome mahogany desk with his hands braided and his hard gaze burning holes into everyone in the room. The Colombian drug lord is infamous for his explosive temper. Undoubtedly, someone in the room is just seconds from getting maimed, shot, or stabbed for this latest fuckup. Alvaro means for his erratic temper to instill fear in his men, but the truth is, the new Colombian king is nothing more than a spoiled child. His father, God rest his soul, is the one who built the Guzmans’ vast drug trade to what it is today. Some speculated that Junior would run the organization into the ground within two years. So far it’s been sixteen months.
“What happened?” Alvaro asks in a menacingly calm voice. “How is it that the government seized a half billion dollars of MY MONEY?!” He slams his hand down onto the desk, causing everything and everyone to jump.
Visibly trembling in his white linen suit, Alvaro’s right-hand man and childhood friend Delmar steps forward with his forehead slick with sweat. “At the moment we’re not sure, but I got our best people on it.” He runs a hand through his greasy hair.
Alvaro’s brows stretch up. “Our best people?” He laughs. “These wouldn’t happen to be the same best people who lost my shit in the first place, would it?”
Delmar swallows and shifts his gaze back around the room.
“Half a billion dollars,” Alvaro barks. “Half a fucking billion dollars!” His fist hits the desk again. The desk jumps and everyone else jumps as well. “I want to know how this happened. Now.” He opens the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a chromed 9 mm, a favorite of his that Father bought for Alvaro’s eighteenth birthday. “You, Delmar.” He points the gun. “You tell me what you think happened. We’re boys, right? I can trust you to be honest with me.”
Delmar’s large Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat.
Seeing the fear in his best friend’s eyes, Alvaro strolls casually from behind his desk and then up to his friend. He wraps his free arm around his neck. “See, I know that you would never lie to me, my friend. So tell me.” He presses the gun against the center of Delmar’s chest. “How could such a monumental fuckup happen under your watch?”
Sweat rolls from Delmar’s greasy hairline and then nests in his guff-looking day-old beard. “I … I suspect that we had a breach … somewhere. A mole, I believe.”
“Ah. A mole,” Alvaro repeats with his eyes growing blacker. “But, my friend, what does this matter? Do I not pay law enforcement handsomely enough to look the other way? I mean, tell me. Am I a cheap bastard or something?”
“Of course not. You’re most generous�
��more than generous.”
“Then why are they fucking with my shit?” Alvaro’s arm tightens around Delmar’s neck while the barrel of his gun damn near cracks his breastplate.
“It’s not the local police. It’s the goddamn DEA. Somehow they got a man on the inside and hit those three states.”
Silence.
Delmar is trembling so bad that he looks like a human earthquake. If he survives this bullshit, his men aren’t ever going to let him forget this humiliation.
Finally, Alvaro sucks in a deep breath. “You mean to tell me, amigo, that I don’t have eyes and ears in the DEA? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I … well, yes, you do. But I don’t know if they knew about this bust.” Delmar senses that he’d said the wrong thing when the other men turn their faces away. Some even shake their heads. “But I will find out, Alvaro. I promise. There has to be some reasonable explanation.”
During the next long silence, Delmar just goes ahead and closes his eyes. In his mind, he pictures his six-month-old son, sucking on his wife’s tit this morning. They’d looked so beautiful and peaceful when he’d left them. Had he known that it was possibly the last time he’d see them, he would’ve taken the time to kiss them good-bye.
“I’ll tell you what else you’ll do,” Alvaro whispers. “You’ll get me my shipments back.”
Delmar finally reopens his eyes. “Excuse me?”
Alvaro laughs. “C’mon, amigo. You’ve known me for a long time. When have you ever known me to stutter?” He removes his arm from around Delmar’s neck, but the gun stays put. “I want it back—all of it.”
Delmar’s mind races to how such a request can even be possible.
Heist Page 10