Dark Hunter (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 4)

by AJ Adams

  I poked the gunman in the chest with the gun barrel, and he tottered backward. I took a step back and ducked, guarding myself from splatter. There was a screech of brakes, a solid thump, and the threat was no more. Four kills in one day, and not one of them in any way satisfying. Such a waste.

  “Oh my God, you killed him!” The pink dress had a good mouth on him. He was also looking right at me. He’d remember me. I lifted the gun to dispose of him when a quiet voice growled, “Drop it and go.” It was him, those knowing black eyes looking into mine. “Arturo Vazquez, Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. Come find me.” Then he touched my wrist; I dropped the gun and I was off.

  I walked rapidly for a block and then slowed, keeping to the same pace as the people around me. I ditched my coat in a pub and then stepped on a bus, moved on to another bus, and ended up in Brixton.

  They don’t ask questions in that part of town, but it’s always best to blend in, so I hit a supermarket and bought toiletries, some spare clothes, and a backpack. I put it together, found a small hotel, and relaxed, knowing I was safe at least for a few hours.

  The place was sparse but clean so I lay on the bed, thinking things over. It wouldn’t be easy to relocate. I’d left England to take down Sokolov, but my original hunt had taken on a life of its own. Having killed Greasy and his team and then Sokolov and his Polish mafia for revenge, I’d graduated to hunting purely for pleasure.

  Over the years I’d honed my skills to an art, preying on professional killers, each one of them cunning, vicious, and lethal. I had taken out top predators from all of Europe’s crime syndicates, from the Sicilian mafia to the Moscow Bratva. It had fed my need for vengeance and drowned my pain permanently, but it also meant rather a lot of vengeful types out for my blood.

  I managed to keep under the radar by moving often and changing identity, but after a decade of killing, it was getting harder to stay invisible. Finding new cities to work in was becoming more difficult, and some of the big players were beginning to make connections.

  I’d almost been caught and killed in Kiev after killing Nikolayev, the head of the local Bratva there, and those buggers had been hard to shake. After a narrow shave in Budapest and another in Stalingrad, I decided I needed a safe haven.

  A brief attempt at joining the Rossi crime family in Italy and another with the Balchunas in Lithuania ended in disaster, so I’d gone back to my roots. The Southside Knights would have worked nicely, but Tricky had fucked me over. I’d put away the competition for him, killing six men in as many weeks, but the ungrateful bastard had dumped me in it because he didn’t like me.

  Not surprising really. I’d inherited the family’s fair skin, blue eyes, and regular features, but I guess the ability to spot defectives is inbuilt. It didn’t take my associates long to tumble to my real self, and their fear outpaced their appreciation of my usefulness. Also, as I’d fallen out of the habit of being around people, I kept putting my foot in it. I have a nasty tongue, you see.

  Fucking up when you’re dealing with the mafia is always trouble, and my funny little ways had led to a lot of violence, by which I mean a body count that included several Rossis and Balchunas as well as Tricky and his pals. Cleaning up wasn’t a problem, but having to move each time was inconvenient, so you can see why I was ticked.

  I took out my phone and Googled Arturo Vazquez. There were two newspaper articles about his business empire and three more about his role as leader of the Zeta cartel, Mexico’s most violent and powerful gang. Crucifixions, mass beheadings, and murder galore were part and parcel of his world. Considering it, I decided it was a step up from Tricky and his ilk. The cartel was the perfect place for a beast like me.

  I switched off the light and closed my eyes. Moving from London would be simple. Being prepared for trouble, I had caches of money and papers in every major city in Europe. In the morning, I’d pick up a new ID, take a bus to Pembroke, and catch a ferry to Ireland. From there it would be a snap to travel to Canada, then through the US to Nuevo Laredo.

  At the thought of a home, my spirits rose. I was on my way to a new life, and this time I would get it right. I’d build a safe haven, and with a bit of luck, I’d have a nice new killing ground too. Now, how to go about it? My attempts to join in with Tricky, the Rossi, and the Balchunas had gone wrong because they’d liked my work but not me. So I’d have to hide my true self.

  Lying on the bed, I thought it all out. I’d impress the Zetas with my art, and I’d be careful to fit in. The principles for that were clear. Friendly, open communication and adopting their attitudes, or at least mirroring them. I’d done that every time to trap my targets. All I’d have to do was to keep it up when around my new friends. It would be draining, but it would be worth it if it got me a safe haven.

  That feeling of being adrift was replaced by hope. I was asleep two seconds later.

  Chapter Four: Morgan

  The next morning I went to work as usual. It just never occurred to me to do anything else. Female mechanics are rare. I was the only one in Dawson Heights, but with Papa being a racer, I grew up with fast cars and bikes. It set a stamp on me for life. Where other girls lust after flowers and sparkles, I’m the kind who gets wet at the sight of a V8 engine.

  So there I was, carefully ignoring my breaking heart by getting my hands dirty. I was finishing installing a new sound system into a Mustang when Roberto came over. From the look in his eyes, he’d smoked his breakfast. He’d been doing that too much recently. Weed may not be addictive, but he was smoking Gorilla Glue that’s got like mega THC. I knew he was taking an occasional bump of coke too. I’d warned him he was getting in too deep, but Roberto simply couldn’t resist.

  “Mitch is pissed,” he told me. “He feels disrespected.”

  “Does he?” I went straight into my next job, an oil change for a classic Shelby Cobra.

  “You ditched him. Right in front of his crew.”

  “It’s his own fault for lying to me.”

  Roberto sighed. “Look, you clearly don’t give a shit, but you’ve got to be careful around these guys.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Absolutely. You’re right.”

  But I didn’t give the sincerity enough push.

  “Dammit, listen to me!”

  Roberto’s weed habit meant he knew the cartel better than Jake, Tim, and the girls. In fact, he’d hired me because he’d known my history meant extra business. The Mustang belonged to Ben Angelito and the Cobra was Tony Alvarez’s. Everyone in the cartel brought their rides to me because they’d known and worked with my father. Even when I’d stepped back, they still came. It’s not easy to find a good mechanic.

  “Chica,” Roberto was still lecturing. “Are you listening?”

  “I agree I’m a stubborn ass,” I said mildly. “Shall I replace the intake manifold gaskets on that Focus?”

  “Yes, but listen, Mitch is trouble,” Roberto continued.

  He meant well, and I ended up giving him a hug. “I hear you, you’re right, and I will be careful,” I promised.

  “Great. Good to hear it.”

  I thought I’d get in some lecturing of my own. “Roberto, please, cut back on the weed, okay?”

  “Sure, you’re right.” Roberto grinned at me. “Guess I’m a stubborn ass too.”

  I hugged him again. “After work, let’s go to Barnyard. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  It was a live band night, and we spent it dancing. Mitch wasn’t there, and so I was doing my best to shake the blues out of me until I went to the powder room and got waylaid.

  “Oye guapa.” He had short black hair, spider tats, and an evil look. “Let’s fuck.”

  Classy, right? What a creep.

  “I’m married.” I know, but it’s less hassle than ‘get lost, asswipe’. I just wanted to pee and get back on the dance floor.

  “So?” He grabbed me, and before I could catch my breath, he was pulling me out the back door and shoving me up against a wall in the alley beyond. His hands were like st
eel, and his crotch was bulging.

  For a moment I was frozen.

  “Dirty little bitch.” He was hissing insults. “Puta! Loba!”

  My fear overflowed, and I went into overdrive. I stomped on his foot, and as I was wearing my dancing heels, he gasped. Then I went for his balls. “Fucking whore!”

  He let go, moaning as he clutched himself, so I did the sensible thing and ran back inside quick, in case he had friends.

  “Hey, you look spooked.” Jake was concerned.

  I was shaking, “He grabbed me. I think he was going to rape me.”

  “What? Who? Here? In the club?” Jake couldn’t believe it.

  I could barely believe it myself, but the red marks on my wrists told me I wasn’t imagining it.

  Then spider-tats was walking out, his stride somewhat short and clearly raging. “That’s him!”

  “We’ll go and have a word.” Tim was putting down his beer.

  “Right with you,” Jake said.

  Sweet, right? But as they went after him, I got really scared. Tim and Jake thought sorting things out meant a fistfight, but I was sure spider-tats would be carrying. So I went flying after them.

  To my relief, Tim and Jake were at the door, talking to Mitch. He was nodding, saying, “Yes, I get it. But look, you can’t get involved.”

  The way he said it had me asking, “What? Do you know him?”

  Mitch gave me an unloving look. “So what if I do?”

  I set him straight, right away. “This is Gulf territory. You may not like me, but you can’t have creeps like him running loose.”

  Mitch looked shifty. “He’s got permission to be here.”

  Which meant spider-tats was a known problem and connected to a club or gang opposed to the Gulf. Usually his type are given a punishment beating and kicked out, but this piece of work had business with the cartel.

  “Then whoever is sponsoring him needs to ride herd on him,” I told Mitch. “Who the hell is he, anyway?”

  But before Mitch could answer, Roberto staggered over, drunk. “Fuck! Did you see him? Fucking Neto is back!”

  The room whirled, and then I heard myself whisper. “The one who raped Aleja?”

  It blasted me back in time, to the hideous year that changed my world forever.

  Aleja was my little sister, just sixteen, and drop-dead gorgeous with sun-kissed blonde hair, huge blue eyes and a figure to die for. Everyone loved her on sight, and she was as sweet as she was beautiful.

  One afternoon, when she was walking back from school, Neto spotted her. We found my sister after midnight, crawling out of the ditch the bastard had dumped her in. The shattered look in her eyes haunted my dreams.

  “I’ll kill him.” Papa had been white-faced, his rage so huge that he’d been perfectly quiet. “He’s dead.”

  I didn’t doubt it, and Neto clearly knew it too, because he vanished. Until now.

  The world shimmered. “I’ll kill him.”

  Jake and Tim were staring, “Are you crazy? No!”

  They really didn’t understand. “He hurt my family. He’s dead.”

  Roberto was shaking his head. “No way, babe. You can’t do that.”

  “I’ll get a gun. He can’t dodge a bullet.”

  The girls came off the floor, scenting trouble.

  “Everything okay?” Emma asked. “Ohmigod, your wrists are all bruised!”

  I looked down and saw she was right, but I wasn’t feeling it. Anger was surging through me.

  Mitch was silent, but Roberto filled her in.

  “Neto is back?” Lucy was pale with shock. She and Aleja had been close. “He dared show his face here?”

  “He won’t be much longer.” I was aching for revenge.

  But Mitch was blocking my way, saying, “No. Wait!”

  With my friends looking appalled, Mitch dragged me away, into the street. I thought he was worried about witnesses, so I was grateful. “Right, not in front of civilians. Thanks, Mitch.”

  Amazing, right? Years of straight living and the second there was trouble, I was channelling Papa. I could see my friends staring at me, totally freaked by my reaction, but all I could think was that they didn’t understand.

  Mitch did, and for a moment I felt close to him again. “Neto has to pay. You know it.”

  “Yes, but you can’t take him out,” Mitch said flatly.

  I just stared at him. “Why the hell not?”

  Mitch was twitching again. “Neto’s with Los Osos now.”

  “So?” Los Osos aka ‘The Bears’ worked Templado, a town halfway between us and the Mexican border. I was familiar with their bear paw cuts even though they weren’t often in Dawson Heights. But everyone knew they were independent, and they did contract work with the Zeta cartel, arch-enemies of the Gulf.

  Violence is the cartel’s magic bullet, but while the Gulf handled themselves like any crime organisation, the Zetas were legendary for their brutality. Where the Gulf would shoot, the Zetas crucified and even boiled their enemies alive.

  Given the facts, Los Osos were fair game. Anyone could take them on, and the Gulf would cheer them on—especially if it upset any ongoing deals with the Zetas. So I didn’t get why Mitch was warning me off.

  “He’s mine. It’s my right,” I told him.

  Mitch dropped his voice. “Look, don’t tell, but we’re negotiating an alliance, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, it’s been going on for months. The big boss, Don Valentine himself, is in charge.”

  Luciano ‘The Don’ Valentine, the Gulf cartel boss who ruled Dawson Heights.

  “But Los Osos deal with the Zetas,” I protested. “Why are we talking to that scum?”

  “I just follow orders,” Mitch said quietly. “Please, let the boss deal with it.”

  Cartel bosses are dangerous, dealing out death on a daily basis. They live in forts, surrounded by bodyguards, and nobody in their right mind goes anywhere near them.

  “I want a meeting,” I heard myself say.

  Mitch protested, but my family name got me in. An hour later I was being patted down and made to walk through a metal detector, and finally I was facing Don Valentine.

  When Papa was alive, I’d seen the Don at big parties and funerals. Back then, he’d seemed larger than life. Now I could see he was fat. He was also smelling of violets and dripping in bling. He embraced me, saying loudly, “Chica, what a thing to happen. I’m so sorry.” Then, more quietly. “Don’t do anything. I’m on it.”

  When a boss tells you to back off, you do it or die. My knees were knocking from fear of being near the man, but I couldn’t let this go. “You know what he did to Aleja?”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  I could barely breathe as grief rushed back and flooded me. “He killed her.”

  Although Neto left Aleja alive, my sister never recovered. We tried to reach her, but six weeks after the attack she stepped in front of a train. There wasn’t enough left of her to identify. Papa went to see the body, and he was throwing up for a week after.

  Don Valentine was nodding, “A tragedy.”

  “Neto’s a serial rapist. He tried to grab me, at the club.”

  Don Valentine was loud and shocked. “But this is awful! This needs to be worked out.”

  Worked out. That was code for compromise, not revenge.

  The boss patted my hand again. “Well, chica, Mitch probably told you we’re expanding our business.”

  I tried to look impressed and interested, but secretly I was horrified. I didn’t want to know cartel business.

  But Don Valentine was bringing me on board. “Mitch did very well in LA. So well that we brought him in especially for this project. He will be speaking for me, spearheading our team and helping fine-tune strategy.”

  Christ, no wonder Poncho had kowtowed! When the cartel expands operations, it inevitably involves blood. So much for being in construction; Mitch might know how to lay bricks, but his real business was deadly. I reall
y had been a blind fool. And I was determined to stay that way. I did not want to know what Mitch was doing.

  “Mitch, phone Neto,” Don Valentine instructed, “and make sure he knows I’m extremely concerned.”

  Concerned. That was meaningless. Neto would take a finger-wagging lecture as a laugh.

  “I’m sure he didn’t know he crossed a line, and from the way he was grabbing his balls, payback’s been made,” Mitch said quickly.

  Don Valentine exploded in laughter. “Awesome!” He patted my hand again. “You are truly your father’s daughter.”

  I could see this wasn’t going well. Don Valentine was blowing me off. I eyed the bling, and then I was reminding the boss of his duty. “Papa passed away, shot while negotiating a deal for you.”

  “I remember; he was a good man,” Don Valentine agreed but there was a look in his eye I didn’t like. “Your uncle was a good man too.”

  Now we both knew where we stood. You see, six months after Aleja died, my papa and his brother went to see Los Osos to negotiate an alliance. When it went bad, they were gunned down. That meant the cartel owed me.

  In the battle that followed, my family were foremost in the field. I lost my second cousins and my last surviving uncle in gun battles, and when they torched our favourite club, both my aunts and their three daughters were trapped inside.

  When peace was declared, only my cousins Tonio and Javier, who were Gulf runners, were left. They were shot in a drive-by a week later.

  “You’re alone now.” Don Valentine was aiming for sentimental, but it came off badly. I had the feeling that he was reminding me I was the last of my family. I had no personal rep, only an inherited legacy of respect.

  “Yes, sir, I am.” I kept my eye on what mattered. “You’ll make Neto pay?”

  “Sure! Of course!” He was pawing me, the bling pressing into me. “Everyone has suffered. We need to make a peace.”

  That wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “Business is business, and I’m not asking that Los Osos pay for Papa or the others.” That may sound odd to you, but it’s the truth. “They knew the risks.”