by Cherry Adair
Andrés indicated he should take the others with him. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
Sin stopped. “We don’t have time to kill them. Let’s go.”
“You never feel more fucking alive than the moment that you’re killing another human being.”
No. That was how Andrés felt, not him. “This isn’t warranted,” Sin told him, voice tight.
“Mama says you have a conscience that makes you weak. You have a moral compass that won’t let you kill someone because it isn’t personal. Is she right, amigo?” Andrés shrugged. “No importa. I have to piss.”
“Andrés—”
“Jesús Cristo, Sin. When did you become such a pussy? I liked you better before.”
“I probably liked me better before, too.” At least his friend was walking with him. Giosue went ahead to use the machete, and they had to walk in single file.
“What was that about at the armory?” Andrés was directly behind him. “Fighting with Mama again?”
“She doesn’t listen. I was explaining how we have to update our computers, figure out exactly what our margins are so we can perhaps undersell the SYP. We have to expand our markets.”
Andrés gave Sin a sympathetic glance. “She’s old-school.”
“Windows Ninety-eight, for crapsake? Haven’t you wondered how the Sangre Y Puño amassed such power in such a short time?” Sin asked, frustrated. “Five fucking months, Andrés. Plus or minus. A hundred and fifty days. Where did Maza come from?” Of course, the same could be said of Sin Diaz. He’d emerged from his months-long coma at about the same time. “Where did he start? He wants our Demon’s Breath and cocaine market, he certainly wants our emerald mines. Does he fucking think he can just show up and take charge of the ANLF, too?
“Everything I’ve been trying to do for months, he’s already doing! He’s way ahead of the game, and we’re eating his dust. We should be much bigger in Europe, and have a presence in developing nations. Cheap labor, and an endless supply of consumers. Customers already have plenty of options for product. The Sangre Y Puño is selling their wholesale cocaine cheaper than we are, to get our customers.
“Product demand is shifting. And so far, almost a quarter of the mines are now paying protection to them instead of us. How much longer before we lose tens of millions of dollars annually because we were too apathetic to take control?”
“I don’t understand anything you’re saying, my friend. Computers, and margins, and expanding markets? ¿Qué quiere decir eso? I like the way we’ve always done things. The way you’ve always done things. We can beat them. We know the terrain in our mountains better than anyone.” Andrés lowered his voice. “Mama wants you to find out what the woman is to our friend.”
Andrés didn’t want to hear about expansion and innovation any more than Mama did. Sin was on his own in this. So be it. He’d drag the ANLF into the twenty-first century whether they wanted to go along for the ride or not.
Mama and Andrés clung to the old way of life. Clung to what his father had done, and Sin, apparently, had done before Maza shot him. But since Sin didn’t remember any of that, he was going with what he knew today.
“I can’t be in two places at once,” he said, considering the best time to leave camp and take the two-day trip down the mountain to Santa de Porres. The sooner the better. Things seemed to be escalating with Maza. He had no idea why. But he was ever vigilant to the pulse and activities of his enemy.
“She’s secure,” he said easily. “I’ll question her again when we return.”
“Unless Mama interrogates her while we’re gone.”
“Right. Unless.” Sin hoped that wasn’t the case. He’d hate to see that bright spirit broken. “Let’s see how pissed Maza was to find most of his toys gone.” Sin’s voice was pitched low as they reached the edge of unsecured trees beyond the borders of the compound.
Two groups of his men had been up, then down the mountain in the last few hours. They’d retrieved almost all of the weapons. He’d increased the security patrols around camp. Maza’s people would’ve counted the bodies—or parts of them, anyway. It wouldn’t take a genius for them to realize someone was missing. With the weapons cache gone, too, he’d put two and two together.
Sin doubted that anyone would even consider that she was alive. But he wasn’t taking any chances. Capturing the two latest weapons shipments of Maza’s put Sin ahead of the game they played.
He had one more thing Maza didn’t have. Riva Rimaldi. Whoever, or whatever, she was.
Taking a seven-man team with him, Sin split off from the regular patrols and headed east. Back to the crash site.
“You’ve got that look on your face again, amigo.” Andrés came alongside him as the cleared path widened so they could walk two abreast. “What’s bothering you?”
“The woman had a SIG Pro, a hunting knife in her boot, another under her clothing.”
Andrés raised a brow. “So?”
“Does that say civilian to you?”
“You’d rather go on patrol than bounce on your prisoner?” Speaking softly, Andrés nudged his arm with his shoulder. “Are you sick, man?”
“She’s not going anywhere. I’ll have another opportunity, if I want.” He wanted. Badly. But the circumstances weren’t right, and God only knew why that was, because he sure as fucking hell didn’t. When he had reluctantly left her, she’d been pretending to be asleep and was securely tied to his bed. He’d taken the lamp, leaving her in darkness. A generator powered lights in camp; the lantern had been for show. No reason to attract more bugs, though; she was uncomfortable enough as it was.
Her bravado under the circumstances intrigued him. Civilians weren’t that contained unless they were trained, or, like Mama, had endured unimaginable things that had warped them past the point of caring or common decency.
“Mama patched her up, then secured her to my bed.” Sin’s voice was dry as he rotated stiff shoulders, scanning the dark foliage. A pair of red eyes flashed, then were gone in a flurry of leaves. “She’s okay for a few hours.”
He put the woman from his mind and thought about the crash site. He could still smell harsh, acrid stink of smoke. The weapons would already have been removed, but maybe he could find something else of interest. Or nothing at all. Andrés was his first lieutenant, he could handle the patrol. But Sin wanted to face more realistic dangers than a smart-mouthed, naked woman or his mother who couldn’t decide who was boss.
Dense vegetation, and a narrow but swiftly moving river to ford made it a three-hour round-trip. Not the route they’d used earlier. This time he took a different route to come in from an unexpected direction.
A six-hour trek through the jungle, his second such trip within twenty-four hours, would do the job of easing his frustration. And if he encountered Maza’s men en route, that would be a bonus. He was itching for a… fight. Not a fuck. If he didn’t get one, he’d take the other.
He stepped up the pace to one that was more of a workout than a meander. Andrés walked several yards behind him. The men were intentionally spread out, weapons in hand, anticipating an attack at all times.
They maintained verbal silence as they moved through the thick understory, any noise they made covered by the activity of the nocturnal denizens in search of their next meal. The jungle was never quiet.
He’d seen a sleek black jaguar in this area on an earlier patrol, and he heard it now, crying for its mate. Its howl carried on the rustle of leaves. Monkeys and other small animals used thick vines and entwined branches overhead as a superhighway between the trees. His flashlight revealed bright yellow orchids, as small as his thumbnail and as delicate as butterflies, draped like intricate lace from a nearby branch as he used the machete to hack a path through waxy, wrist-thick vines.
A succession of rapid-fire gunshots broke the stillness. Sin spun on his friend. “Damn it, Andrés—”
Andrés raised his hands. “I’m here with you, amigo.”
Sin turned around and
continued walking. His friend had sent Giosue back to deal with Maza’s men. The women, too, he supposed. Sick to his stomach at the senseless—unnecessary, God damn it—killing, he gritted his teeth and kept going.
Two miles in, they passed one of Sin’s secret hideaways. Large-leafed vines, tangled with giant philodendrons, effectively concealed the entrance. If he hadn’t known exactly where it was, he’d have missed it. He’d stashed his computer there, although he still had to get into town to use it. And even then he used strong encryption, and a long, 67-character random, ASCII key/password/passphrase.
Sin wanted no eyes on what he was looking at. He’d set up installations to block all signals for a hundred mile radius. If Maza wanted Internet connection, satellite connection, or even sophisticated comm systems to communicate, he was SOL. Now Maza was doing the same fucking thing. Blocking their communication to the outside world.
The ANLF had camouflaged shelters, both above and under the ground, throughout the forest. Small, well-hidden structures holding weapons, ammo, and basic supplies. Places where several men could lie in wait for their enemy, or duck out of sight to avoid them when necessary.
He’d personally hacked this one out by himself, for himself, three months ago. Equipped with weapons, ammo, and basic supplies, it was a place to get away to try to quiet the noises in his head without interference from Mama or anyone else. It was his attempt to make some sense of images and half memories that twisted and turned like a kaleidoscope in his mind. Didn’t matter whether he was asleep or awake; the nonsensical images constantly assaulted him, along with the pain. The harder he tried to piece them into whole cloth, the less sense they made. Maybe he was losing his mind? Something Sin didn’t completely rule out.
Even Andrés didn’t know about his hidey-holes, scattered between camp, Santa de Porres, Abad, and the river. He’d trusted Andrés implicitly, but with this latest insubordination, that trust was rapidly eroding. Now he didn’t know who the fuck to trust. Everyone else under his command? No. They did as ordered, showed a veneer of respect, but there was something—
Fuck. Were his own men planning a coup?
Did someone want to overthrow him to rule the roost? He almost laughed. They’d have to get rid of Mama, too.
Did he give a rat’s ass if Maza wanted ANLF territories? Honestly? More than once he’d contemplated what it would be like to just walk away, start over as someone with a different identity who didn’t run a cartel deep in the jungle and instead drove a sweet car to a sleek office in a high-rise somewhere.
He’d clearly been satisfied with raids on politicos in Santa de Porres, kidnapping tourists for ransom, moving huge quantities of drugs and weapons, before he was brought back from the dead. But now? Not so fucking much.
Dammit to hell. Not for the first, or even thousandth time, he wondered if being shot and concussed was responsible for a complete change of personality. Maybe he was just bored by the violence and senselessness of it all. Hell if he knew. All Sin knew was that something had to give.
He just didn’t fucking know what.
What he did know was he had to keep these thoughts to himself if he wanted to stay alive. The merest hint of doubt sent Mama into a full-blown rant, followed by homicidal rage.
Andrés claimed he didn’t want or need a leadership role, that he was more than happy to be Sin’s right hand. But was that true? If Sin asked, would he answer honestly? Could he, hell, should he, just hand the reins over to his friend and walk away?
He’d ask Andrés when they returned. Change was necessary. But before he presented questions and options to Andrés, he had to think through his own fucking options.
Back at camp, sentries patrolling the narrow dirt track between the buildings would pass his hut every ten minutes. His prisoner wasn’t going anywhere, unless someone untied her, or she took the bed frame with her.
The compound was several days’ hike from the capitol, and well hidden in the jungle. It was a good central point for their vast operation. A few dozen small houses, and two long barracks for the men, all surrounded by dense, booby-trapped jungle that hummed with insects in the humid heat. Early-warning systems on the perimeter of the compound would warn of Maza’s approach before he and his men returned.
“Did you screw her brains out? Will she be able to walk when we get back?” Andrés gave him a licentious smile, his gold tooth gleaming.
Sin merely made eye contact with his friend. Not for him to know one way or the other. And as jefe, it was Sin’s right to claim her. Until he gave her up, she was his to do with whatever he wished.
“She wouldn’t have been on the helicopter if Maza didn’t send for her. And if she wasn’t important enough to hide, he wouldn’t have used that pile of shit Red Cross helicopter. She’s here for whatever he has planned.” Sin couldn’t imagine what.
“Or she is a puta,“ Andrés whispered as vegetation flew under the swings of their machetes. A swarm of clicking insects swirled around his head, and he absently waved them away from his face. “Here to service him before the big event. Instead she can service you. Unless, if she isn’t to your liking, I’d be happy…” He let the words trail off hopefully.
Sin shook his head.
She didn’t speak Spanish, which was a bonus. A silent woman with skills. But he’d never encountered a puta with that kind of fire in their eyes. Most were broken toys, their spirit taken by the men they serviced. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished with her. Until then, keep the others away from her. A few hours of being vulnerable and afraid should pry some information out of her. If not… Shh—” He froze, listening to the crunch of vegetation underfoot and the brush of something solid passing between the leaves.
A puma. Too bad. He was in the mood for a fight. He squeezed the fingers of his free hand around his temples as he walked.
“Need to go back for one of Mama’s potions?” Andrés asked.
“Hell, no.” The cure was worse than the ailment.
Illuminated by dappled moonlight, his friend shot him a concerned glance. “When last did you sleep?”
Now that he was no longer taking the pain medication, he rarely slept. When he did somehow fall asleep, he always woke with clear memories of his dreams. Of snow. Of the Eiffel Tower. BASE jumping the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, for fucksake.
Of…fucking hell. Places he’d never been to. Things he’d never done. Maybe he’d seen pictures in the newspaper, or one of the magazines Mama favored. Maybe he was just incorporating what he read into dreams that featured him as the hero. Wherever he’d seen the images, in his mind they were real, but as one-dimensional as a snapshot, because his brain provided no context. The images looked familiar, yet he didn’t remember being in any of those places or doing any of those things. His inability to connect the scenes or ground them in any kind of reality was driving him absolutely batshit crazy.
“Before my accident, how often did I travel?” Sin asked, wielding the heavy machete in a precise arc to sever a clump of thick new growth.
“We were in Bogotá—when was that? The month before Maza tried to kill your ass? Trujillo the same time—” Andrés raised a brow under his bandana. “Now you still don’t remember?”
“I remember a few weeks ago.” Hell, he remembered three/four months ago. Before that was the blank space where his memories should be. “North America, Europe, China…”
Andrés laughed. “Mi hermano, we were born on this mountain, and other than the trips to procure or sell our products, we haven’t been anywhere that exotic. Never will. We’ll die here.”
“No doubt about that.” A howler monkey yelled, then fell silent, his whoops echoing in the jungle. Leaves rustled, stirred by a faint breeze that didn’t reach the understory.
For some reason, the American woman had stirred up more than sexual interest. Sin hadn’t heard American English spoken since they’d held that journalist for ransom a few months earlier. When her ex-husband had refused to pay the ransom, Mama had given the woma
n to the men as a bonus.
Annoyingly elusive thoughts skirted the very periphery of Sin’s mind, stirred up like dust from the dark corners where he’d pushed them as mere fancies. They were maddening, frustrating, and unwelcome. Especially now, when he needed his mind to be clear and fully functioning, if he was to beat his enemies who were already at the gate. “Was I…different before the accident?”
“Different how? You’ve always been ugly and surly.”
“So, no changes you’ve noticed?”
“Why the sudden questions? You never talk about before the attack.”
One of Sin’s many problems was that while he knew Andrés was his best friend, that they went everywhere together, that they’d been raised together, he didn’t feel it. Not feeling that bond, that closeness he knew he should feel, was like observing some else’s life through the bottom of a glass. Disconcerting? Fuck yeah. To say the least.
“That’s because I don’t remember before the shooting,” Sin snapped, squeezing his temple. He didn’t remember much about the incident either. Pain was a big part of it. Falling. Yelling. Desperation. Mama and Andrés had filled in the rest, describing how she’d found him after Maza’s men had shot him, then beaten him to a pulp and left him for dead. It had been touch and go. He certainly had the scars to prove he’d been in a life-and-death struggle for survival.
He’d heard so many stories about his life prior to the attack, and about the aftermath of the attack itself, that he thought he might be remembering. Grainy images in yellowed press clippings Mama had saved in an odd show of sentimental pride.
He’d read them and reread them, looked at the worn pieces of newsprint. Himself and his father. The start of the myth of Sin Diaz. Rarely seen, but his power growing and expanding over the years. The indistinct figures in those pictures could have been fucking anybody.
Even if his life felt as though he’d been shoved into an ill-fitting suit, and he’d been placed onstage without a script, this was his life. Sin Diaz was who he was.