The Pimp (Colombian Cartel Book 2)

by Suzanne Steele

  An ominous sense of danger wraps itself around us and I wonder if she embraces the darkness like I do. It’s an adrenalin rush, not knowing what awaits us. I pull over by an abandoned log cabin and take some surgical gloves from the glove compartment. I hand Brook a pair and she grins.

  “Only true cartel would think of keeping gloves for times like this.”

  “I prefer to do what needs doing and disappear without a trace. Oh, I’ve got a flashlight too.” I reach down beside my seat, holding it up for her to see as I waggle my eyebrows her way.

  “You’re such a contradiction.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In private with me, you’re kind, you’re sweet, you’re funny. But to everyone else, you’re known as a real badass. A killer.”

  I cut the engine and look over at her. “Then stop fucking crossing me, Brook. I’ve got enough to deal with without having to always watch you. Although I must confess, I enjoy watching you…sleeping…coming…”

  “And I love you watching me.”

  “Yeah, until I catch you doing shit like stealing.”

  “I said I was sorry about that. Damn, this place is creepy. You sure someone isn’t filming a horror flick out here?”

  “Good thing you’ve got me to protect you.”

  “Your idea of protection is more like obsession. I’ve got my own gun, you know.”

  “What you’ve got is someone to watch your back.”

  “So do you.”

  “I’m realizing that. You’re the first woman I’ve ever encountered who has no problem blowing someone’s brains out.”

  “Just don’t underestimate me because I’m a woman.”

  “Oh, I don’t, believe me. You’re fierce. It’s sexy as hell.”

  “Even you admitted that female killers are more dangerous.”

  “Even me?” I smirk. “Don’t get me mixed up with the rest of these egotistical assholes. I love women and I’ve always known how ruthlessness they can be. Wait here while I get a crowbar to pop this lock.”

  She joins me at the front door to the cabin. After briefly working the crowbar against the lock, I step inside with her close behind me. It takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  “Gross, there are cobwebs everywhere,” she blurts out as she swats at cobwebs in her hair.

  “Not everywhere,” I tell her. “No cobwebs over the door. Someone’s been here recently.”

  Over in the far corner of the room sits a shrine to Malverde. We cross the room to take a closer look. Brook says what I’m already thinking.

  “Sinaloa. Whoever owns this cabin is Sinaloan. The superstitions run deep in our culture and never leave us. You can take the boy out of Sinaloa…”

  “Or Colombia. Yes, our traditions follow us throughout our lives.”

  “Do you have any family, Diego?” she asks as she bends down to peer at the decorations that are carefully arranged on the little table.

  “Yes, I do. I have you. You’re my family now.”

  She looks up at me from where she’s crouched on the floor by the shrine. “The same goes for me.”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Brook

  This place is giving me the fucking creeps. It looks like an abandoned shack from a horror flick. When we open the door, it’s so dark inside that it takes a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. As the room’s details become more distinct, what I see is not encouraging. Dust lays thick on every surface and cobwebs hang from the rafters in heavy clusters like big, messy globs of gray cotton candy at the fair.

  The only clean thing of interest in here is the shrine of Malverde in the far corner. Fear and greed motivate those who set up shrines to the patron saint of Los Narcos. Everything else could be falling in but shrines are always kept in pristine condition. I prowl over to it, and we confer about the power Sinaloan superstitions and family.

  “If he’s a good Sinaloan boy, then we’ll probably find more useful information here than anywhere else,” he says. “It’s the one place people reveal their true selves in the form of prayers.”

  In the center of the altar is the statue of Malverde. Flowers, candles, even food, surround it as offerings to the idol. We start going through the scraps of paper and we’re about halfway through when a name we’re both familiar with pops up. I hold the paper and begin reading aloud a prayer so disgusting that it makes my skin crawl.

  Santa Malverde. I pray you protect me from los federales, from my enemies, and from being caught or killed for the drugs I transport. I pray for favor though my sins are many.

  No one but you knows the heinous things I do to the women I bring here. My secrets are dark and vile. I’m sick in my mind. I enjoy hurting women. I like the power of making them think I’m going to be their salvation and then bringing them here to reveal to them their final truth: I am their worst nightmare. Slicing into their soft, delicate skin makes my cock hard.

  My whole life is cartel. It’s only fair I have something of my own, something just for me. I’m always killing for cartel. I have discovered that my deepest pleasure comes from killing for myself.

  Have mercy on me, Malverde. Pray for me, a lowly sinner. Pray my soul makes heaven and I’m not caught as I slake my bloodlust with these innocent, unsuspecting women.

  Your devoted servant,

  S.S.

  “Three guesses who that is… I guess he knew Malverde wouldn’t mistake him for someone else,” Diego snorts with derision.

  “You don’t believe in this stuff, do you?” I say, more a statement than a question.

  “I believe if you cover your ass and do your job right, you probably won’t get killed or put in prison. That’s what I believe.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I step tentatively through the filthy kitchen. The squalor is beyond words: Food containers are piled on counters that probably haven’t been cleaned in years. The sink is full of dirty dishes. Flies are thick in the air.

  I cover my mouth and cross the floor quickly, trying not to gag at the putrid stench of rotting food. “Here’s a door, probably leads to a basement,” I choke out in a thick voice.

  “Wait a minute.” He pulls me back, going in front of me down steep stairs that lead to a musty basement reeking of water damage. Diego continues down the stairs in front of me, using his flashlight like a machete to cut through the cobwebs.

  “Oh. My. God.” I stand in the middle of the room, making a slow turn as I struggle to take in what I’m seeing. Santiago’s mancave is the equivalent of a medieval torture chamber.

  The furniture is arranged along the walls. There’s an interrogation chair, which I’ve seen before but never one like this with tiny spikes all over it. There’s a rack that does exactly what it implies—pulls the body from end to end until joints are pulled out of socket. There’s an oversized wooden hanger where you could, well, hang someone, I guess. I begin examining items laid out on a small workbench, working quickly with my gloved hands.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “It’s a head crusher.”

  “Wouldn’t a vise work just as well?”

  “Oh, sure. I once watched Antonio Wayne Ramirez put a man’s head in a vice and apply so much pressure that the man’s eyeballs popped out.”

  “So he’s a sadist. Must come in handy when his brother needs information. What on earth is this?” I ask as I hold up an oddly-shaped copper device.

  He takes it from me and slowly opens it as he answers, “This a pear.” He stalks slowly toward me, observing me with a mixture of danger and humor. “You insert it in a woman’s pussy and turn the screws. It slowly expands, opening up like a bulb. I understand it causes excruciating pain. In medieval times, some of them had spikes. They called it the Pear of Anguish, for obvious reasons.”

  “Rough sex, fear, pain mixed with pleasure – those things, I can go for. Excruciating pain? That does nothing for me.”

  “I’m more about control, myself. Whatever it takes to get that c
ontrol works for me. You’d do well to remember that, bonita.”

  “No worries; I’m convinced.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other, Arroyita.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Diego

  Once again my barrio upbringing has served me well. My gut instinct is proving to be correct. It’s only a matter of finding where he’s disposed of the bodies. If they had been thrown in the river, they would have washed ashore and it would have been in the news. Santiago’s brand of crazy surpassed cartel standards long ago; he’s in a freaky league of his own now.

  This has to be his dirty, little secret because his Sinaloan bosses would have a problem with something like this. My bosses would have a huge problem with it; Santiago would be at the receiving end of a torture session from hell, compliments of Antonio Wayne. The man loves women and he would love nothing more than to make Santiago pay for his crimes against them.

  It’s obvious Santiago is bringing women out here who don’t comply with his wishes so he can torture them. The question is why? And does he enjoy it? Although I don’t think he’s your typical serial killer, he’s walking a tightrope that puts him damn close. How does a man go from being a murderer to a serial killer?

  “We need to see if there are bodies here somewhere.”

  She follows me upstairs and we head toward the front door.

  “What makes you think there are bodies here, Diego?”

  “We don’t know that there are, yet. Believe me, I’d love to be wrong.” I’m hoping against hope there aren’t, but my gut knows better than that.

  “I can’t imagine any woman living through what we just saw. Even if she did, she’d be in no shape to work the streets, whether she’s peddling drugs or pussy.”

  “We need to know if there are bodies here; we’ve got to have something to hold over Santiago. I need proof. I’ve got two guesses: shallow graves nearby or that old well we saw when we pulled up.”

  “He’s going to know we’ve been here. That busted lock is going to tell on us.”

  “It isn’t the first time it’s been busted. There were other screw holes where the lock had been repositioned and there were old scratches on the doorframe. Transients are always a problem on river property anyway. There was no food in there or I would have taken some to make it look like a homeless person had been here. The food on the altar was moldy so that wouldn’t work.”

  I head toward the back of the house toward the old well. Brook calls out after me in a quavering voice, “I don’t know if I can stomach this, Diego. This guy’s one sick fuck. He gets off on some seriously morbid shit. Listen, if that well is full of dead women…”

  “I don’t know if I could stomach it either. I got a cell phone picture of that so-called prayer Santiago wrote. I call that a confession, so if I can get a picture of dead bodies in this well then we’ll have him. We’ll never have to worry about him coming after you because he’ll be dying a slow death at the hands of the Ramirez brothers or maybe even his own crew.”

  Branches and dead leaves crackle under our feet as we walk toward what I fully expect is going to be a burial site of sorts. It’s just too easy: torture the women then throw them in a readymade dump site. Cover the well and, voila, the perfect crime – well, almost. Brook’s right, Santiago’s one sick son of a bitch. I already had every intention of protecting her, but now that I know he’s a closet killer, I’ll never let him near her.

  We’re going to have to kill him. Simple as that.

  As fucked up as he is, this could cause problems for us because of the cartel peace treaty. Cartel has a habit of covering up for their own. He brings in a lot of money. As ludicrous as it is, they might let him live even knowing he’s been butchering women. No, that won’t be enough to end him. We have to prove he’s stealing cartel money and then they’ll kill him.

  The only problem is, I don’t have time to wait that long. Every day he lives is a day my Brook is in danger. I’ve got to take him out myself if that’s what’s required to end this. I’ll deal with the fallout of breaking the peace treaty after my hands are stained with his blood. I haven’t waited a lifetime for this woman only to lose her.

  It’s an old well, not much more than a hole big enough to draw water with a large bucket. I remove the plywood and lumber that have been stacked over the opening and the stench of death and decomposition is unmistakable – and overwhelming.

  Brook runs over to the closest patch of trees and throws up. It takes everything I have not to do the same.

  “Babe,” I say, trying to distract her, “I need your help here. Hold the flashlight so I can get pictures of this shit, then we’ve got to get out of here. We’ve been here too long already.”

  She returns and holds the flashlight as far from her body as possible, turning her head away so she doesn’t have to see the bodies. The mind has a way of holding onto the things that traumatize us, forcing us to relive them over and over. As heinous as this is, it will be the kind of shared experience that will bind us together for a lifetime. No one can understand the ugly side of the cartel better than someone who has lived it. You go to your grave with gruesome secrets that you try to convince yourself don’t torment you every time you look in the mirror. Sometimes the only consolation you have is the partner that’s by your side.

  The well has been dried up for years. The body count is anybody’s guess. I snap a few pictures we hurry back to the car. We’re on River Road heading back to The Club when my cell vibrates with an incoming call.

  “Diga me.”

  “Santiago’s here again. He’s asking for you.”

  “Keep him there, Foxy… Do whatever it takes, you know what works with him... I don’t give a fuck, go spend time with him and get him drunk, on the house. Don’t let him go anywhere. Tell him I’m on my way. I’ll be there in a few.”

  I hang up and look at Brook. “You’ve got to put on your game face. When we sit down with Santiago, forget what you’ve seen. We’ve got to set him up, so you’ve got to be convincing. We’re going to let him think he has the upper hand and play to that Sinaloan ego of his.”

  “That, I know how to do. Are you going to kill him?”

  “Yes. It’s inevitable. Most likely, not tonight. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  Chapter Thirty One

  Brook

  Sitting across from this piece of shit is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. The gun at my side reminds me of what this sick fuck has been doing. Each woman was disposed of in a different way. One had plastic over her head secured with duct tape. The only thing all the women had in common was the expression of pain and horror on their faces. They had known it was the end of the line, and that it would be a slow, agonizing death. The whole thing was like something out of a horror movie.

  Diego’s voice grounds me in reality, pulling me from the gory images in my mind. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I look over at Diego to see how he’s reacting to what Santiago is saying to him. His face is, as usual, calm and inscrutable.

  “You don’t have a choice here, Diego. If you want to guarantee her safety after what she did to me, then you have to back up your words with action. I’m simply asking for a small favor in return.”

  “I’d hardly call flying into Colombia in a plane loaded with cocaine a small favor.”

  “No one knows those airstrips like you do. And as much as I hate to admit it, no one else can handle a run like this better than you. You have quite a reputation for flying under the radar, getting in and out undetected. You’re an asshole, but you’re the best and I want the best.”

  “I don’t fly anymore, everybody knows that. And as far as Brook’s safety is concerned, she’s with me now. It doesn’t get any safer than that.”

  “I need you for this delivery, Diego. It may be the most important deal I’ve ever struck. The big one, for me anyway.”

  “You need something from me, eh? And I’m supposed to just give you what you want. I hardly think
that’s fair, do you? You were supposed to bring Brook to me but you betrayed me when you tried to keep her. You tried to use her. You threatened to harm her. Now how am I supposed to feel about that, eh?”

  Diego is using that deceptively soft voice that a wise man would recognize as a very, very bad sign. I reach up to casually scratch my ear and my heart jerks hard in my chest. My earring isn’t there. I oh-so-casually feel the opposite lobe, confirming that one earring is still there. So, where’s the other one?! I manage to control my facial muscles so I betray no alarm; however, Santiago is watching me with narrowed eyes.

  “I’m growing tired of this discussion. You test my patience, Diego. You know as well as I do that I’m going to get you to fly into that airstrip one way or another.”

  Diego leans in, meeting Santiago’s flat, dead eyes with more hostility than I’ve seen him show during this whole meeting. It’s intense enough to prompt Santiago to lean back and look away.

  “You have the audacity to come into my establishment and threaten me?” Diego says, raising his voice. “Get your ass out of here and if you ever come back, I’ll see to it that you leave in pieces.”

  Chapter Thirty Two

  His Discovery

  “Who the fuck did this?!” I scream, my chest heaving.

  I look around the dank, musty room, feeling violated at the deepest level. To make matters worse, the woman I’ve got tied up in the corner is looking around the basement with wide, disgusted eyes, like she doesn’t think my vacation home is good enough for her. I think of it as a vacation home because it’s where I come to unwind and have fun. My kind of fun.

  “You think you’re better than me, bitch?” I bellow as I lean down and get in her face. “You’re nobody, you hear me? Nobody cares enough about you to even look for you. Hell, nobody’s even going to notice you’re dead.”

  When she starts crying, I straighten, satisfied that I’ve made my point. I continue to search for clues that will help me figure out who violated my sanctuary.