by Alex Segura
“If it wasn’t for Emily, I’d have killed you the second you interfered, or seemed like a real threat. She begged. She pleaded. Said we’d only need to scare you away, that you weren’t smart enough to become a problem. I should’ve never listened to her, but you know how seductive she can be, right? By the time I took charge, by the time I realized she was the one that needed to go, so I could deal with you, it was too late. Too fucking late.”
Rosen’s voice had grown louder, more desperate. He took a few paces away from Pete. “Where the hell is he?”
“Trouble in paradise?” Pete asked. Now he was the one smiling.
Rosen wheeled around. “What did you do?” he said, pulling out his gun and pointing it squarely at Pete. “Where is Ordell?”
Pete returned the favor, pulling out his gun—his father’s gun. The weapon Pedro Fernandez carried for decades as a police detective in Miami. The weapon Pete had used to kill too many men. The gun that had saved Pete’s life more times than he wanted to think about. The gun Pete swore he’d never use again.
“I made a promise to myself,” Pete said. “After what happened with Salerno ... almost dying ... I promised myself I’d be better. Smarter. Rely on things like this less. Think more. Not just stumble around and hope I could figure it out.”
“That’s sweet, but—”
The bullet cut through the air and slammed into Rosen’s shoulder. He fell back, clutching the wound as his gun clattered to the floor, a surprised yelp of pain followed by a low, moaning groan as he landed on his ass.
“Fucking asshole,” Rosen said, wincing. “You’re dead. I can kill you with a word.”
Pete ignored him. “But I decided to make an exception today,” he said, gun still trained on Rosen, “for the man who murdered my mother.”
Rosen’s eyes widened. He slid his body back, as if he could outrun Pete’s slow and steady pace.
“Huh … wasn’t expecting that old chestnut. What gave it away?” Rosen said, genuine surprise in his voice. “Was it Alter? That cunt.”
“No, she tried her best to protect you—or at least throw me off the trail,” Pete said. “It was the flyer, of all things. For the party on the night my mother was murdered. That was the spark.”
“A flyer?” Rosen said with a scoff. “I don’t even know—”
“I thought Mujica had done it at first, but why would he hire me if he killed my mother? It didn’t make sense,” Pete said, shaking his head. “Then I did some digging, just to cross the name off my list—and discovered Alvaro had spent some time in the clink, including the night my mother was murdered.”
“Her fucking diary …” Rosen said, the words speeding out of his mouth like the hiss of a venomous snake. “That stupid dream book …”
“Guess you hadn’t covered all your bases, huh? Hadn’t figured Osvaldo Valdez did some digging beyond what was expected of him. Alter could only edit the file so much,” Pete said. “No matter how hard you tried to cover up what you did, the truth bubbled up. I got to know my mother in a way we never expected. As a strong, independent woman who—even dying—clawed her way to the light. To be seen. You can’t bury her anymore.”
“You’re a dead man,” Rosen said as he reached into his pocket. Pete’s gun remained trained on the roving hand, waiting. Rosen pulled out his phone—dialing feverishly, still sliding away from the slowly approaching Pete, his footsteps almost matching the dull beat of the music coating the walls.
“He won’t pick up, Eddie,” Pete said, as they reached the far wall of the ballroom, Rosen’s back against it and Pete standing over him, gun a foot away from his head. “We need some time to chat.”
“H-how ... what …” Rosen said, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ordell Robbie is a staple of the Miami underworld. He likes things to remain copacetic and calm. When Emily connected with La Madrina, she hired Robbie to be her eyes and ears down here. He’s a known quantity. Could play both sides. You’re the opposite of that. You’re a wild card. You think he wants to be running interference for you with the Colombians? When I saw him talking to Emily, I knew I needed to find out how to get to him,” Pete said, crouching down, his face close to Rosen’s, the gun barrel pressed into the man’s cheek. “And, well, what do you know? I have a Miami underworld staple of my own. Remember Dave Mendoza, Eddie? Guy used to run drugs with the best of them, with people like Ordell. Long before you dipped your toe in the water. Before you tried to be a big fish in a dirty, toxic pond. So all Dave had to do was ring up his friend Ordell and, well, here we are.”
“Fuck you,” Rosen said, his voice a sputter as he folded into himself. “You piece of shit. Fuck you, fuck your slut mother and fuck Emily, too. I hope you all rot in—”
Pete swung the gun across Rosen’s face, the soft, wet crack of bone and cartilage not enough—so he swung back, the handle hitting teeth and slicing his lip wide open, gushing blood over the bottom of his once-smug face.
Rosen folded into himself, a pile of bruises, blood, and pain. A broken man.
“It’s over, Eddie,” Pete said, standing up, sliding his gun behind his back.
Pete noticed a change in Rosen’s expression. From utter defeat to something else. Something more sinister and knowing, his face perking up.
“What is it?” Pete asked.
“Apenas estamos empezando, señor Fernandez,” a woman’s voice—strong and confident—said from the doorway that had led Pete into the ballroom. We’re just getting started, Mr. Fernandez.
Pete turned around to see a small entourage of armed men enter the room, scanning the space before stepping aside, like courtiers preparing a space for royalty. Pete moved for his gun, but was soon dissuaded by the armed men and their semiautomatic weapons.
A woman walked in. About Pete’s age, perhaps a few years older, her dark black hair flowing around a hard, stoic face. She was dressed in a sharp, black suit—her eyes looking Pete over methodically, as if analyzing a new purchase. She made a quick motion with her hand and a new set of guards walked in, leading Kathy and Dave into the ballroom, more guns pointed at them. They looked glassy-eyed and resigned.
Ready to die.
“Who the hell are you?” Pete said. He felt exhaustion wash over him. This was not the plan. “What do you want?”
“Me llamo Andrea Muñoz,” the woman said. “Tu amigo tiene algo que me pertenece. Y lo quiero—ahora mismo.” Your friend has something of mine—and I want it. Now.
Pete’s creeping sense of defeat had exploded into an aching, desperate, and growing panic.
Andrea Muñoz.
La Madrina.
“WHERE ARE THE drugs?”
La Madrina was speaking English now, no accent—her voice was clear and calm, like a patient parent explaining to their child why screaming at the dinner table was not appropriate. Her guards flanked her as she stepped closer to the fallen Rosen.
“You’ll get your money,” Rosen said, struggling to get up, a red smear of blood on his face. The front of his shirt was soaked with more blood, making it look like he’d dunked his head in a vat of dark red paint. His eyes had a crazed, desperate glint to them. “It’s just ... it’s just taking a minute.”
“Your friend, Mr. Robbie, he didn’t seem to think so,” La Madrina said. “Said you were unreliable. That my drugs were gone.”
Rosen started to respond, but La Madrina raised her left hand.
“My patience ran out long ago, Mr. Rosen,” she said. “I do not come here lightly. There is a jet waiting for me that I intend to be on within the hour. I also intend to have either my money or my drugs on that plane, too. If not, I will have your head. Which one will it be, Edward?”
The fucking nerve of this guy, Pete thought. Not only had Rosen stabbed his boss, Alvaro Mujica, in the back—to get a chance to run his own Miami drug gang, but he’d tried to double-cross the head of the Colombian cartels. Pete would almost be impressed at Rosen’s audacity if it wasn’t o
vershadowed by sheer novice stupidity.
“Robbie is lying to you,” Rosen said, but Pete could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Rosen was broken. Even the cornered cat knows when his ninth life is ending. “I will have your money ... I just got ... distracted.”
La Madrina nodded to her men, the move so subtle Pete almost missed it. Then they were on him, pushing past Pete and hoisting Rosen to his feet, dragging the man toward the room’s far exit. He did not go quietly.
“No! No, please—listen, Madrina, please — this is a major mistake ... I can help you ... please!”
The wailing continued, whatever drop of respect Pete had for the man dissolving within seconds. Eddie Rosen had been a cool, collected, and precise businessman when Pete met him. Now he was a shattered shell of a person, desperately clawing for purchase as gravity pulled him into the abyss.
Pete shifted his attention to Kathy and Dave, who were seated on the other side of the room, quiet and despondent. He met Kathy’s stare—empty, defeated. What did they know that he didn’t?
“It’s a shame about this,” La Madrina said.
“I can’t say I’m sad to see Eddie go,” Pete said.
La Madrina let out a brief chuckle. “He’s a little shit.”
“Then what do you mean, a shame?”
“About you and your friends,” she said, motioning toward Kathy and Dave with her chin. “If I ever apologized, I would here.”
Then it snapped into place and Pete felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. There was no way they were getting out of this alive. No way the head of the Colombian cartel was going to fly into Miami illegally, take out an underling in front of a handful of witnesses, and leave any that were not in her direct employ alive. It didn’t matter if Pete, Kathy, and Dave cared little for Rosen. They’d seen her order his murder. They’d been in the same room with one of the most wanted women—hell, people—on the planet. She couldn’t let them live to tell about it.
“I promise you it will be quick,” she said, starting to turn around.
“It’d better be,” Pete said. He caught Kathy and Dave perking up out of the corner of his eye.
“Excuse me?”
“It’d better be quick, I mean,” Pete said. “Because the cops will be here any minute.”
Her demeanor shifted slightly—a tiny, almost nonexistent crack appeared on her tough, crime-boss veneer. A fleeting, tiny shadow of a doubt. Pete felt so wired—so on edge—that he could almost read her mind. Feel her deepest thoughts come into focus: Could this punk have cornered me? La Madrina?
“A desperate ploy. Admirable, I think. But it’s only serving to annoy—”
“I don’t care if you believe me,” Pete said with a shrug. “But do you really think I’d come in here with no backup, to face off against the guy who killed my mother? Who killed one of my best friends? Who had my pregnant girlfriend held prisoner?”
The crack got a little bigger. La Madrina’s calm face was now fighting to hold back a seething anger.
“You’re lying,” she said, stepping toward Pete—a few paces away from her guards. “You’re going to end up making your friends’ suffering worse. Now I’ll have my men enjoy—”
Pete grabbed La Madrina roughly, yanking the fit, strong woman toward him with one hand as he pulled his gun out with the other. In less than a second, the end of the barrel was resting comfortably on La Madrina’s temple, as Pete’s forearm pulled her neck back, her hands gripping for release. He could smell her perfume. Feel the sweat on her face. This was not what she had planned for, either.
“I’ll be totally clear with you,” Pete said, eyes on the three closest guards, who’d yet to drop their weapons. The three on the far end of the room, guarding Kathy and Dave, were inching closer now—guns drawn and raised as well. “Don’t make me kill your boss.”
“Shoot him! ¿Qué estás esperando?” La Madrina said, her voice more like a growl.
But her men hesitated as she writhed in Pete’s grip. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold her. She was powerful, her nails digging into his arm. Like a wild animal being pulled into a cage.
“Drop your guns,” Pete said. A few of the guards listened, some still held on—unsure what was worse, risking their boss’s life or risking her potential future rage by losing their arms advantage. “Drop your guns, I said.”
The two stragglers were moving toward dropping their guns when Dave moved. It hadn’t been planned—at least not by Pete. His friend leapt on the closest guard, one of the early adaptors to Pete’s request, pulling him to the ground. Shit, no—no, no, nononononono …
One of the armed guards turned around, aimed, and fired—a few quick rounds sending Dave to the ground, his hands clutching his midsection, a dark pool of blood already forming. Kathy lunged to the ground, trying to take cover.
“No!” Pete said, screaming as he clutched La Madrina closer, feeling his arm press on her windpipe as he pressed the gun barrel on her head. “Drop your guns! Drop your fucking guns!”
Both men did. But the odds had changed. Kathy was on the ground, her arms covering her stomach—fearful of another spray of gunfire. Dave was on the floor, dying. Time was not on Pete’s side. His breathing was ragged. La Madrina had noticed. Her grip slackened. She was waiting.
“Get out,” Pete yelled at the guards. “Leave. Now. Go outside.”
The men hesitated—looking toward their leader. She nodded and they began to file out, slowly, each one looking back as they exited—as if trying to ensure that she was safe. A few stepped over Dave, avoiding him like one would sidestep a passed out homeless man on the streets of Calle Ocho. Just another body to ignore.
When the door shut, Pete let La Madrina go, stepping back—his gun still trained on her as she tried to compose herself.
“You will live tonight, and die tomorrow,” she said, a smile creeping onto her face. “I promise you that.”
“Fuck you,” Pete said.
“Your friend is dying,” she said. “You don’t have time to argue with me.”
Kathy got up—slowly, trying to maintain her balance—and walked toward Dave, crouching next to their friend.
“He’s losing a lot of blood,” Kathy said to Pete. “We need to get him to a hospital … Pete …”
Her voice had become a choked sob. La Madrina was right. They had no time.
“To think, you could have gotten out of this with a quick, painless death,” La Madrina said, almost to herself. “And now, this.”
“I still have a gun on you,” Pete said, a tinge of fear in his voice. Her sudden confidence threw him off. Something was up. “Don’t forget that.”
“And he,” she said, as the main door swung open. “Has a gun on your girlfriend.”
The Silent Death walked in, his demeanor relaxed but alert, gun arm raised and pointed at Kathy’s head. Dave made a soft gurgling sound at his feet as the Death stepped over him.
“Hola, Pete,” the Death said, his voice coated in gravel. “Qué gusto verte de nuevo.”
So nice to see you again.
“I GUESS THIS is how it ends,” Kathy said as she took a seat next to Pete.
She was shaking. They both were. Dave Mendoza—their friend, someone they’d come to love like a brother was bleeding out on the floor, erratic gurgling sounds the only sign that he might still be alive. The Death had ushered them toward two empty chairs near the exit. The same droning, insufferable music pounded the conference room’s flimsy walls. La Madrina was pacing around on her cell phone, trying to negotiate some kind of covert exit back to Colombia. Eddie Rosen was probably dead, too. Pete knew he and Kathy were likely not far behind.
The Silent Death—even after the demise of his last incarnation, Isleño Novo—was back to torment them one last time, it seemed. He hovered near the entrance, walking around the room slowly, looking back to check on Pete and Kathy every few moments.
“It’s not over,” Pete said, trying to keep his voice to a whisper.
“Do
you have anything that might provide at least a glimmer of hope to support that?” Kathy said, her sharp humor replaced by a longing desperation for any kind of chance. “What are they even doing? What’s taking so long?”
“Muñoz is one of the most wanted people in the world,” Pete said. “She can’t just walk outside and wait at the airport. She needs to know her transition from here to the plane and into the air is going to be seamless.”
“Glad we’ve gained a few minutes of life because of hashtag travel delays.”
“It’s not going to end this way,” Pete said, his eyes trained on Kathy’s. He felt them glass over. Felt the tears start to well up. “Not for you. Not for me. Not for her.”
He placed a hand on Kathy’s pregnant belly.
“It can’t,” he said.
Pete felt a tug at his shoulder. Felt himself being yanked up by the Death. The masked man shoved Pete around, so that they were now facing each other.
“Enough talking,” he said, gun pointed at Pete’s face.
“Wait, not yet,” La Madrina said from across the room, still on the phone—she started to make her way toward the commotion. “Paciencia, por favor.” Be patient, please.
Pete moved. That brief moment—with the Death’s attention split between him and La Madrina would not come again, and time was ticking away. Dave might be close to gone, but he still had a chance to save Kathy. His child. His world.
Pete sent his palm hurtling at the Death’s masked face and felt it give as his hand made contact with the man’s chin. The Death stumbled back, but retained his footing—and his gun. Pete didn’t hesitate—and sent a kick up to his throat…He watched as the man’s head snapped back. This time, he fell. Pete ran toward him, stomping his wrist and taking the assassin’s gun. He felt around his pockets and found his own gun, sliding the Death’s silencer-equipped one into his back pocket. He yanked the Silent Death’s mask off, expecting to see someone—anyone—that echoed back to the last few months. But what he saw staring back at him was a nonentity—the bland Latin features could have belonged to any man Pete had passed on the streets over the last few days, even years. Just another hired gun wearing a mask. The Silent Death wasn’t a person—he was a tool. Someone else gunning for them.