GREED Box Set (Books 1-4)

by John W. Mefford

  All of his dreams were contained in the backpack. He unzipped it, nearly pulling his thumb off in the process. He rummaged through the bag and took out four stacks. He took off one rubber band and sifted through the cash. What's all of this green paper? He did the same with another stack, then another, and another. They were all the same. Plain, green construction paper with a real note mixed in here and there.

  “Jesus Christ, why me?” he screamed to no one. His hopes and desires were nothing more than pure fantasy, an illusion as worthless as the paper in his hands. He exhaled, releasing an exhausted breath and all of his implausible dreams. He dropped to his knees, unable to take another step in his miserable life.

  “Mira lo que la droga en el gato?” said a baritone voice. “What has the cat dragged in?”

  Benicio raised his head slowly, realizing his greatest fear stood before him.

  He stammered, “Pedro, I'm, I'm glad I ran into you. I found this bag of money and was bringing it to you.” Pedro looked at two associates who stood behind him and chuckled. He then put one of his large black boots on Benicio's hand, sliding it down until it rested on what was left of his thumb.

  “Ah, shit, please no!” Benicio begged.

  Pedro ignored the plea and shoved Benicio's fat ass backward, his weight forcing his body one way, while his thumb remained under the boot. Benicio's yells turned into high-pitched shrills.

  “Hey, ladron,” Pedro said, calling him a thief. “You don't steal from the Sangre cartel. Given your stupidity, you would die anyway. This way I get a souvenir for my hard work.”

  Benicio knew the end was near, although it was difficult to think straight, given his truncated appendage. Remorse, mostly from listening to his greedy self-conscious, consumed his every thought.

  “Stand up like a man,” Pedro said. With all four men now assembled on the bridge, Pedro's two henchmen held Benicio by either arm, fresh blood now pouring liked red syrup from his hand.

  Benicio had no more chances at life. He'd wasted every one of them chasing after an empty dream. He coughed, then a quick thought entered his mind.

  “Why do they call you the Pain Killer?” Benicio attempted to look into Pedro's eyes.

  “Because after seeing me, you feel no more pain.”

  Pedro raised his stainless steel, six inch Taurus M44 revolver, and squeezed the trigger. One shot pierced Benicio's forehead. Instantly, his body went limp. The thugs let him fall backward into the dirty moat that doubled as a narrow, polluted river.

  Benicio would blend in nicely.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  “Damn it, pick up the freakin' phone.” Andi paced a hallway adjacent to the emergency room in the local Puerto Vallarta hospital. Windows lined both walls. Looking out the east side of glass, she could see the sunrise's early morning glow reflecting off the nearby glass buildings.

  She'd dialed Summer's cell phone three times, and three times it rolled to some silly dance song by One Direction. No doubt her teenage roommate was either still drunk, high, or massively hung over. She gave it one last shot.

  Finally. “Hello, hello, Summer? It's Andi. Are you able to hear me?”

  “What the hell, girl? Is it even morning yet? Where are you? Did you hook up with Zachary?” Summer's voice sounded like she'd just smoked three packs of cigarettes.

  Andi was tired of the childish behavior, openly rolled her eyes and changed her tone of voice.

  “No, Summer, I did not hook up with Zachary. Look, I have a lot to tell you, but for right now, I need you to get Coach Wilson.”

  “Why? That pervert is probably in bed with half the soccer team,” Summer joked.

  “Listen, Summer. I'm at the hospital. Zachary was brought in by an ambulance. He overdosed last night.”

  Five seconds passed without a reply.

  “Oh my God, Andi. We can't have another one die, we can't,” she said, growing more frantic.

  “Summer, please calm down. He's on a ventilator right now, but stable. Since Coach Wilson is the lone chaperone, he needs to get his butt down here. Then he can call Zachary's parents.”

  Summer's hysteria subsided, but Andi could hear her gentle sniffles.

  “Summer, you there? Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you. I'll go to his room, call him...somehow I'll find him and get him to the hospital.”

  Speckles of dried sand clung to the window, but Andi mostly saw her reflection. Smeared makeup ran down her face. Her shoulders were tight. She'd been up all night and had not yet fully comprehended what she'd just survived. She felt guilty having stuck Zachary with that last needle. The drug injection might kill him. Still, she knew she needed to keep things in perspective. She palmed the glass with both hands and let her head hang between her arms, inhaling deeply, trying to reign in her thoughts and align them with reality.

  “The doctor said he's probably going to make it. And I was only defending myself,” she told herself, eyes closed.

  Almost immediately she heard another voice...speaking English.

  ***

  “Defending yourself?” I said, approaching my youngest employee.

  Initially shocked to see a familiar face, Andi quickly seemed relieved to let her guard down.

  “Long story, but Zachary is in a room on a breathing machine. They think he's going to be okay, but I was pretty scared last night when the ambulance got to us on the beach.”

  I gave her a perplexed look—I had no idea what the whole story was. Andi looked tired, but still had an aura of being in control. Then, she turned her head and I saw a large fat lip, and what looked like a red mark on the side of her face. My expression changed to empathy.

  She touched her lip. “He came on to me pretty hard, mostly from the mixture of drugs he shot up. He started getting physical, hitting me, even punched me in the lip. That little shit.”

  “You okay?”

  “I'll be fine, although I won't win any beauty contests any time soon. Anyway, Michael...Zachary was hitting me pretty hard and wouldn't let me go. I thought he might rape me, or worse. Being held down on the sand, I was desperate. I grabbed the needle he'd prepared for me and rammed it into his neck. I know it's ironic, but he OD'd on the drugs that were meant for me.”

  I breathed deeply, unhappy that Andi had put herself in that position but relieved she was standing before me.

  “Thankfully you're alive and okay. Listen, there's nothing to worry about. That was pure self-defense. If need be, we can have Brandon get a hold of our company attorney.”

  She brought her hands to her face, almost ashamed she was shedding tears. I put my good arm around her shoulders.

  “Michael, there's more. He did it. He gave the drugs to Courtney. He killed her, maybe by accident, but he's the one who dropped her at the hospital...like she wasn't worthy of being treated like a human being.”

  My facial expression couldn't hide the fact that this might be difficult to prove.

  “I know what you're thinking.” She stepped back and opened her purse, a tear still clinging to her cheek. She held up her iPhone, then she gave me a broad grin. “I have Zachary's complete confession recorded.”

  I couldn't contain my elation. I hurled my arms around Andi and spun her around...until I tweaked my sore left arm. She asked about my own haggard appearance, which then led to a rundown of all we'd been through in the last twenty-four hours. She simply shook her head in amazement that we were still alive. I did the same.

  “So, we brought Francisco here to get his wound cleaned up, and to make sure Trudy doesn't have any other internal injuries,” I explained.

  “And what about your arm?”

  “I'll run by the ER once we get back home. I'll survive,” I said, holding my arm close to my body.

  Andi then told me she was going to stay back one more day to ensure Zachary was okay, see if he'd go on the record about this entire sordid story, as well as open up to the rest of the group and tell her young friends who she really was. If Zachary spilled the
beans, maybe others would follow his lead.

  Despite my exhaustion, my mind made a mental switch to professional mode.

  “I think you need to get your thoughts on paper, nothing formal, just to make sure you don't drop anything. And make sure you touch base with Brandon as soon as possible today so you guys can work on the stories you'll be pulling together.”

  A satisfied smile lit up her battered face.

  “You earned it, and then some.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Pedro and his two associates carefully approached the rundown garage. Daylight illuminated splotches of burgundy scattered across the ground, all encircling a larger patch of dried blood.

  The proud chief security officer for the Sangre cartel led his contingent through the creaky garage door. At the back of the rectangular-shaped space sat one person, wearing only his underwear, propped up against a bed. The person's head was tilted backward. Pedro and his men looked closely, wondering if his eyes were shut.

  Without speaking, they walked purposely towards the person, hands resting on their respective weapons, all wondering what had taken place, who had survived, who had perished, other than that incompetent piece of shit, Benicio.

  First noticing an ugly wound in his left shoulder, Pedro used his boot to nudge Luis. His chest moved slightly, but his eyes remained closed.

  “Luis, you dead or alive?” Pedro chuckled, turning back to one of his buddies.

  Suddenly, Luis brought around his right arm and fired one shot at Pedro. It whizzed by Pedro's nose, grazing the shoulder of his fellow thug. Pedro instinctively whipped his boot forward, knocking the gun out of Luis' hand.

  “Ah, you motherfucker,” Pedro snorted, quickly leaping to stand on the free gun. “You think you can trick us? You are the lowest form of life.”

  Pedro spat at Luis, and thick saliva coated his filthy forehead, dripping down to his nose. Luis lowered his head between his knees.

  Pedro's injured sidekick stayed on his feet, gripping his shoulder with the opposite hand, fury painted on his face. “Please, Pedro, let me teach him a lesson.”

  As if he was judge and jury, Pedro flicked his hand, bestowing the honor to one of his subjects to mutilate and execute Luis.

  Pedro picked up the available gun and shoved it in his black jeans, then turned and walked slowly toward the garage door. Behind him, Luis screamed, first in jabbing spurts, then in one extended agonizing scream, trailing off at the end, taking his final breath. No shots were fired.

  Pedro was only mildly distracted, as his cell phone buzzed.

  “Hola, Pedro,” the voice said. “The Americans were here at the hospital. They just left, all three of them. Plus, there was another, a younger girl you didn't mention.”

  “They probably don't know we're looking for them. Gracias.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Pedro yanked on the stuck drawer. He violently jerked it twice more, tearing off the pull knob and knocking all sorts of shit to the floor in his humble apartment. He kicked the clutter away and searched the inside. Stuffed inside a brown pair of socks were two rectangular boxes, each the size of his fist. He shook both of them, and the metal contents rattled from side to side. They were full, which eased his mind.

  He sat on the thin, discolored mattress next to his black duffel bag and a hand full of clothes, and a flash of his recent time in prison shot into his conscious mind. He recalled the brown water that flowed from the one working sink, the smell of piss hanging in the air day and night. Man rape was as common as their daily meal of pig slop, sometimes using the splintered end of a mop. If he'd had an ounce of boy in him when he entered the brutal prison walls, he'd surely walked out all man, although he wondered if the experience had sapped what few human qualities he ever possessed.

  He blinked his eyes back to the here and now, then noticed a nylon string amongst the clutter. He picked it up and eyed what used to be one of his most prized possessions. He had forgotten his roots, and he felt a bit of anger at himself for not recalling every day the original sacrifice he'd made, how he'd first developed his reputation as the “Pain Killer.”

  He ran his thumb across the enormous gold plated molar that was attached to the necklace. It looked to be the size of an alligator's fang. He remembered the day when he took the risk that no one dared take, to stand up to the man who ran security for the cartel in Coahuila. Pedro was strong and well built, over six feet, mostly chiseled and a solid two hundred twenty-five pounds. But that monster hadn't been human...he must have been close to seven feet tall and well over three hundred pounds...and had an animal-like mean streak that buckled the knees of even the nastiest dudes around. The Beast.

  Only twenty years old, Pedro had been doing small favors for the Beast for about six months—assaulting four or five distributors who were keeping some of the product on the side for themselves. Nothing too strenuous or violent. One day, Pedro was called into a meeting with the Beast. Surrounded by five of his top lieutenants, the Beast, also known as Felipe, accused Pedro of taking a bribe from one of the distributors.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Felipe? I'd never do that. You have my allegiance,” Pedro said with sincerity. But Pedro knew once Felipe had any hint of dissention, he'd respond with a force so brutal everyone would take notice.

  Felipe snapped his massive fingers and heads turned to the door. One of his men brought in Pedro's little thirteen-year-old brother. One eye was nearly swollen shut, but he was cursing at anyone who looked at him. Pedro shook his head, knowing an example was going to be made.

  “Here, you shoot him...unless you want to be killed,” Felipe said, his face contorted in a scowl that filled up the room. He handed Pedro the steel weapon.

  Pedro brushed the gripped handle of the gun with his finger and then gazed at his brother, realizing he only had one choice. “Say your prayers, little man.”

  He held up the revolver and pulled the trigger. Click. But nothing happened. His brother dropped to his knees and looked to heaven, tears streaming down his face. Pedro glanced at the gun, wondering if it had misfired. Suddenly, a jagged blade flashed in front of his brother, slicing a two-inch gash in his neck. Blood gushed out in pulsating surges. Mount Felipe chuckled.

  Pedro now understood that it had been a test. He would live...but he felt betrayed, even dishonored. He was willing to kill his own brother to show his loyalty, yet Felipe, the Beast, wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Rage built inside Pedro as he stared at his brother still convulsing ever so slightly on the ground before him. He saw Felipe turn and yuck it up with his ass-kissing minions.

  He quickly realized that now was his time to guarantee his life or die next to his brother. Either was fine with him, but he wouldn't accept such humiliation. He inhaled, took four large steps, leaped three feet in the air, and came down with every ounce of force he could muster with the butt of the pistol, cracking the skull of the Beast, who fell like a mighty redwood tree.

  With the others watching with shocked faces, Pedro rolled the Beast over and pummeled the enormous face with blow after blow, his salty sweat dripping into the victim's bloody mouth. After ten minutes of beating him beyond recognition, Pedro grabbed pliers and extracted every golden tooth. The body was gutted, and Pedro was coated with blood. His heart raced with excitement, and he raised his fists in victory. He had his trophy—the dagger from Felipe's grill. He had conquered the Beast. And he knew from that moment on, everyone would respect him—fear him.

  Pedro dropped the fanged necklace around his neck and stuffed his few items in the duffel bag. After his year-long prison stint, he knew the process for reclaiming his rightful position on top of the respect mountain was well under way.

  Chapter Seventy

  Emilia had tossed and turned most of the night, unable to fathom what had transpired at her beautiful home. The still of the night had not brought any relief, only more anxiety on less sleep. The pictures from the news story served as caffeine shots, and she couldn't stop
the constant loop playing in her mind. Her body felt like it was in a perpetual state of perspiration, most noticeable above her lip.

  She had sent the code to her old employer, telling them to call off the shipment. They either hadn't received the text, or someone had changed the code, or one of the players had changed. Regardless, she became more convinced that employees from her old business partners were confronted by rivals in the new cartel. From the looks of it on the news, they had fought like wild animals, claiming their turf. Minutes later, after pulling herself together, she was sure she could provide a reasonable excuse to her daughter. And, given enough time, she felt convinced she could persuade her new business associate to give her one more chance. She'd oversee that next shipment herself, as much as she detested being around the drug runners—they were beneath her, in her mind.

  Emilia opened her bedroom door and took a few careful steps, hoping Marisa had already left for work. She rounded the corner and was surprised to see her daughter sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, and staring at her laptop computer screen. Possibly, the storm had passed.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Her daughter stared at the colored screen, rattling the keyboard with tremendous vigor.

  Emilia fixed herself a cup of coffee, taking her time, thinking Marisa would realize she was late for work and run out of the house without saying another word. She delayed as long as possible then brought a piece of burned toast back to the table.

  “Mother,” Marisa said, now moving her eyes to stare directly at her, “after reading the wire story in Michael's paper this morning, I did some more digging online. Apparently, they believe the killing on your property was connected to rival drug gangs.” Marisa remained calm on the exterior, although as she brought her coffee cup up to her mouth, her hand began to tremble.