“Is that right?”
“I’ll replace the eight hundred kilos and give you a name, but I want ten percent.”
“You want double?” I laughed. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can cover it.” Which was a complete lie. I didn’t have seventeen thousand, much less seventeen million. If I did, I wouldn’t have come crawling to this dickhead instead of the main Carrera supplier.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You don’t know anything we don’t know.”
“You know what? I’m done fucking with you,” Carlos shouted, the corners of his eyes pulled tight with annoyance. “If you’d get your head out of your ass for five seconds, I’d tell you I had a run in with the Muñoz Cartel two weeks ago.”
My blood ran cold. “What did you say?”
“I thought that’d get your attention.”
Muñoz was a name I hadn’t heard in a very long time, and quite honestly, didn’t think I’d ever hear again.
A year and a half ago, the Muñoz Cartel blackmailed me by threatening my sister. It was why I enjoyed watching a bullet tear through their leader’s heart and seeing them crumble. Afterward, they were reduced to shambles while we consumed more and more power. If they’d somehow resurfaced and reorganized enough to push me out of Chicago, I needed to know everything.
However, I also wasn’t stupid. I’d walked into too many traps to watch someone bait a hook, toss their line right at me, and then just swim straight to it.
Instead of reacting, I tilted my palms up and offered a smug smile. “The name sounds familiar.”
“Cut the bullshit, Harcourt. You think I don’t know you were there with Valentin Carrera when his wife shot Manuel Muñoz?” he hissed, slamming a palm against the wood. “The Carreras might have crippled them for a while, but they’re under a new command and stronger than ever.” Downing his shot, he slammed the empty glass on the table and cut a hard stare at me.
“Who’s calling the shots?”
He balanced his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t know. They sent one of their lieutenants to try to strong arm me into canceling all my Carrera shipments and selling to them, but I don’t take orders from anybody, much less a group of cabrones who don’t know their dicks from their assholes.”
“So, I’ll ask again. Who’s calling the shots?”
“Information has a price tag, amigo.”
“Give me a name, and I’ll think about it.”
“Fuck your mother.”
I shrugged. “Freudian shit isn’t my thing. However, if that’s what lifts your sails…”
“Do I look like an idiot to you, Harcourt? I’m calling the shots here, not you. I have what you need. All you have is a missing shipment and an eight-hundred and fifty thousand-dollar debt.”
“And a link to Ronan Kelly. I’m not stupid, Carlos. You’re just the mediator. A man he doesn’t know exists. Without me, you’re just a second-rate supplier holding his dick in his hands.” I sat back with a satisfied smirk. Why should I cave so easily? This was his fault. If he’d informed me of Muñoz involvement two weeks ago, we wouldn’t be sitting here in the first goddamn place.
A tense breath whistled through his teeth, and another line creased his forehead before a slow smile parted his lips. “The man’s name is José Rojas. I don’t know how much you can find out from that, but that’s all I got. We both know their reach extends far beyond border walls. They’ve already infiltrated Chicago. If you ask me—”
“I didn’t.”
The smile on his face faded, irritation flaring in his eyes. “If you ask me, whoever has the balls to rebuild is hiding in plain sight. It’s the last place people ever look.”
I raised an eyebrow as he stood. “What’s in it for you?”
He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt. “This isn’t a Colombian problem. This isn’t even a Sinners problem,” he continued. “What we have is a cartel rivalry that needs to settle their shit out of Chicago. I’m sure Ronan doesn’t care if you bomb each other to hell and back. But, obviously, considering our recent arrangement, I have a stake in seeing the Carreras win. You get the Muñozes out of my way, and I’ll replace the eight-hundred kilos they stole.”
“What’s the catch?” There always was one. No one did shit for free in this business.
The corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smirk. “You find this José Rojas and make him give you the name of the pendejo in charge. I’ll take it from there.” Carlos held up a hand before I said a word. “Or I keep the kilos and you can explain to Valentin Carrera why you forged a partnership with a family he strictly forbade and then lost seventeen million dollars of his money.”
I winced hearing Val’s name.
“You wouldn’t contact Val,” I said, calling his bluff. “Then you’d have to admit to selling against his main Colombian supplier. That would be a death sentence for you.”
Carlos’s only response was to lean forward so that his elbows rested on the table, a patch of graying hair falling over one eye.
“Let’s get one thing straight, I’ll do anything I want. That being said,” he continued, the fire in his eyes calming. “I don’t make a habit of getting involved in shit that isn’t my business.” Lifting his drink, he paused, holding it inches from his face as he watched me. “However, I’d bet the payout from my last job that Val has no fucking clue he’s doing business with the Sinners.”
And he’d walk away from that bet an even richer man.
I’d tried multiple times to force an alliance with the Chicago syndicate but always backed down when the heir to the Carrera empire swore he’d cut my balls off and shove them down my throat. He never explained his reasoning, but he didn’t have to. Nobody threatened a man quite like Valentin Carrera.
I was screwed either way. If I agreed and Val found out, he’d kill me. If I refused and Val found out, he’d kill me. However, accepting Carlos’s offer bought me time that refusing it didn’t.
“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”
“You don’t.” Without another word, he stood and extended his arm across the table. “Although this has been entertaining, I have better things to do. Am I to assume we have an agreement?”
Did I really have a choice?
Allowing Carlos to dictate the dealings of the Houston leg of the Carrera Cartel was nothing less than suicide. However, calling up the head of said cartel and explaining my actions didn’t fare much different of an outcome.
In our world, black and white didn’t exist. Even though we lived our lives in shades of gray where lines always blurred and actions had no consequences, there was still an unspoken hierarchy. A drawn line in the sand separating the royal blue blood of Mexico’s underworld and the common red blood of those who served them.
The ones trusted enough to walk the line but forbidden to cross it.
After leaving him standing in silence a few more seconds, I slowly shook his hand. “Provisional agreement.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning provisional—arranged or existing for the present, possibly to be changed later. You know how we operate, Carlos.” Cocking an eyebrow, I added in a low tone, an arrogant smile tugging at my lips, “So, don’t fuck me over.”
I’d never seen anyone go from smug to furious so quickly. Instead of responding, he flipped his middle finger and stormed toward the door.
“Carlos?” I called out.
He hovered halfway in and halfway out, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles turned white. “What?”
“You didn’t pay for your drinks, you cheap ass.”
A slew of curses followed him out the door as it slammed behind him.
I chuckled to myself.
Being underestimated was the biggest advantage a man could have over his enemy. I’d lived long enough to know that given the right incentive, even the strongest ally could be an enemy.
Raising my glass, I conceded round one.
But it was round two, and the gloves
were coming off.
I didn’t go from an assistant district attorney in Houston to first lieutenant of the Carrera Cartel by waving a white flag at the first sign of a threat.
I ran that motherfucking city.
Chapter Two
Brody
Houston, Texas
Rain pissed me off.
Not that I’d ever been a rainbows and sunshine type of guy. I preferred dark clouds and thunder. They usually brought everyone’s optimism and cheerfulness down a few notches, which always improved my mood.
However, today the muggy September rain conspired against me. As soon as I got behind the wheel, the sky opened up, and now it was coming down so hard, I could barely see the car in front of me. If I had half a brain, I’d take it as an omen and turn the hell around.
No, if I had half a brain, I never would’ve left home in the first place.
Squeezing the steering wheel with one hand, I rubbed a damp palm across my nose and swallowed the nausea trying to claw its way up my throat.
I didn’t need this shit right now. Last night, I drank my weight in cheap scotch, trying to forget my own name. Unfortunately, today, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl out of this car and throw up my spleen.
And punches. I wanted to throw punches.
It took longer than I expected for the call to come in. Forty-eight hours too long, to be exact. Someone’s balls would be overnighted to their mother for the time I spent pacing my living room while waiting for Rafael to collect a thief.
I was a lieutenant in the fucking cartel.
Second in line for the bloodstained Carrera throne.
And because of it, here I was, regardless of my lack of sobriety.
Besides, as my Colombian watchdog reminded me, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. It was either drive the final nail in the Muñoz coffin or climb inside my own. Since today’s agenda didn’t include a death wish, this seemed to be the lesser of two evils.
The more I drove, the more pissed off I became. Instead of driving on a road to nowhere, I should’ve been at the cantina, pretending to run it like a legitimate business instead of a one-stop-shop currency cleaner. I was the face of it, after all. Honest, trustworthy Brody Harcourt. An all-American civil servant dealt a bad hand. Righteous to his core despite being born into a band of psychos.
The pounding in my head synced with the rhythm of the rain slamming against the windshield, and my vision blurred until the whole car filled with static. I was positive I was going to have an aneurysm until the deserted service road appeared up ahead. Ignoring the railroad spikes driving through my skull, I turned right and hit the gas. Halfway down the long driveway, the car stalled. The more I slammed my foot on the gas, the more the tires spun, slinging mud across the windshield.
I couldn’t help but smirk. As if being stuck would stop me.
Not after how far I’d come. After all I’d done.
Killing the engine, I almost ripped the door off the hinges while stumbling out of the car, cursing as the soles of my handmade Italian dress shoes sank deep into the mud. Holding onto a thin layer of restraint, I made my way toward the building, calmly watching more expensive leather disappear into the earth.
Another piece of my identity soiled and ruined.
Just like everything else that mattered.
Lifting my chin, I glared up at the sky, a bitter blend of anger and alcohol swimming in my veins. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
In response, a streak of lightning lit up the sky seconds before the bottom fell out of it, turning the incessant rainstorm into a torrential downpour.
My lips twitched with a sadistic smile as I spread my arms out in acknowledgment. “Well played.”
Maybe challenging God wasn’t the smartest move, but recklessness had quickly become my drug of choice. It was an addiction more compulsive than gambling, producing a high twice as deadly. However, it wasn’t the eventual payout that kept the cycle in perpetual motion. It was the thrill of the hunt. The crave of the kill. One hit, and it thrummed through my veins, seeking more.
Needing more.
Always more.
And more is exactly what stood a hundred yards in front of me. As I walked toward it, the rain slipped away, along with my conscience. Judgment waited inside four weathered concrete walls forgotten by time. A blood coated foundation covered in so many weeds it appeared to have grown from the earth beneath it.
Inside those walls, I unleashed the man they created.
My breathing came faster and harder, and a few steps later, I found myself standing in front of a wooden door. The white paint peeled from every groove and edge as if mirroring the scars inflicted behind it. Unlocking it, I tucked what was left of my conscience inside a box and walked inside.
A man dangled from an overhead beam with his mouth wide open. To be fair, he didn’t have much of a choice with his sock shoved in it.
Nice touch.
I slammed the door extra hard and made a show of turning the lock. Whether the move was induced by alcohol or ego didn’t really matter. Once his widened eyes met mine, I committed them to memory.
Was it sadistic to savor the moment? Probably. But any benevolence I might have had disappeared when I remembered the pain the Muñoz Cartel caused the people I loved.
Rafael tilted his chair back on two legs and greeted me with a curt nod. “Boss.”
That was the extent of his small talk. Not that I expected much more. My trusted soldier was a man of few words, which was fine with me. He did his job without asking questions and followed orders without expecting a pat on the back. He knew his role and respected the hierarchy.
We were associates, not friends.
And just by looking at him, I could see my associate had started the party without me. His white button-up was rolled up at the sleeves and splattered with blood, and the lines in his young face were pulled taut. A cold-hearted killer with a thirst for blood.
Quite the acquired asset.
Turning his attention back to his charge, Rafael kept one foot planted on the floor and kicked the man’s shin with the other, sending him spinning in a useless circle.
“Efficient as always, Suárez.” He nodded again as the chair’s front two legs slammed against the concrete not far from where José Rojas still swung like a pendulum. “What’s the status on the Chicago replacement?”
“Carlos came through. All eight hundred sold and distributed. After we split it up and give it a good wash through Caliente and Carrera’s real estate shell, we should see a profit.”
Thank God.
Step one down. Step two…well, I suppose he was still up.
Walking past our guest, I smirked. “José, glad to see you hung around for me.”
Rafael’s groan quickly turned into a cough as I glared at him over my shoulder. “Problem?”
“Nope.”
Giving my associate a curt nod, I circled José, his leather jacket brushing against his ripped jeans as he spun. The man looked like hell. His breath came rough and labored, which didn’t surprise me, considering the lead pipe that lay discarded at his feet. His nose was broken, his lip was split open, and blood dripped down his chin like a leaky faucet. I suspected broken ribs—maybe a punctured lung.
Rafael tended to be heavy-handed.
I couldn’t decide if I appreciated the preemptive gesture or resented being denied the pleasure of inflicting the pain myself. After all, it was my business he’d screwed with.
“José,” I acknowledged, clasping my hands around my back and walking a full circle around him. His swollen eyes tracked every move I made, and I had to give the guy credit; he didn’t plead for mercy. Most of the assholes who’d been in his position had already pissed themselves twice by now.
Of course, he was still gagged.
The legs of the chair slammed against the concrete again. “He kept trying to give me bullshit excuses,” Rafael explained with a shrug. “I didn’t want to hear any more.”
; The attorney in me decided to let him plead his case. Years of litigation were too ingrained in me. Plus, I couldn’t walk away from a trial without a closing argument. Stopping in front of him, I jerked the sock out of his mouth.
“Where’s my shipment, José?”
“I don’t have your fucking blow.”
I should’ve punched out his teeth. Instead, I smiled. “Let’s try this again. Where’s my goddamn shipment?”
“Harcourt,” he rasped, licking his lips through a labored wheeze. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. I thought the sicarios would’ve taken you out by now.”
I gave his cheek a tap, sending him spinning again. “José, you’re acting real fucking stupid for such a smart man. I’m first lieutenant. You know I only answer to two men.”
He spat at the floor by my feet, smiling with blood-stained teeth. “Rezarás por tu vida a nuestros pies, Americano.” You will pray for your life at our feet, American.
Two steps forward and we stood nose to nose. “I’m not the one hanging from the ceiling, dumbass.”
José’s forehead wrinkled, and I didn’t bother hiding a smirk.
“Didn’t expect that, huh? Well, seeing as how I run an entire stateside cartel, I thought knowing some of the language might come in handy someday.” I tapped his cheek again. “What do you know? It did.”
“Pinche pendejo.” Fucking asshole.
“You know,” I noted, hooking my foot under the bloodied lead pipe and kicking upward into my hand. “The disrespect seems to have gotten out of hand. Maybe Rafael needs to beat some manners into you.”
José’s eyes widened as Rafael rose from his chair with his arm outstretched as if we were running some sort of demented relay race. “It’d be my pleasure.”
“No!” José yelled, twisting violently. “I swear I didn’t do shit!”
“You really shouldn’t swear unless it’s under oath. But I don’t blame you. I know you’re just the ‘yes’ man, José, so tell me who’s trying to reorganize your psychopathic bunch of assholes, and I might let you keep your eyeballs tucked inside your face.”
Carrera Cartel: The Collection Page 62