She's Got the Guns (The Suite #45 Series Book 1)

by M. O. Mack

  “You’ll have to ask him that. If he resurfaces.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t plan on hanging around long enough to see how that plays out.”

  “All right. But consider this: one of the deadliest, most violent drug cartels in Mexico now knows who you are. They have your picture. They know you work for Sampson. At this very moment, they’re probably trying to find out where your family lives.”

  She didn’t have any family. Still… “What the hell? I just answered the phone.”

  “Was that all you did, Miss I’m Having a Heart Attack?”

  She threw her head back and groaned. Why? Why did I have to answer that last call? She should have just walked away and gotten on the bus to Yuma. But no… I had to try to be brave. Idiot!

  “Fine.” She met his hard gaze, craning back her neck. “They have my picture. So does Walmart, the gas station, and every store I’ve ever been in. Doesn’t mean they can find me.” She knew how to disappear.

  On the other hand, maybe she was being a little too cocky. She’d only been off the radar for a month. Ed would use his position at the FBI to try to find her. Eventually he’d succeed.

  Not if I take Ed down first.

  But for that, she needed money, a steady job, and a safe home. A refuge. She needed to be the sort of woman people would look at and say, “She’s a good, hardworking person with nothing to gain from lying.” She needed to be credible if she was to stop Ed the right way.

  More importantly, she needed to stop his entire operation, each and every link of the chain helping to take those women from the poorest places in the world and lock them up in that building. The videos and tape recordings of Ed’s poker night conversations wouldn’t be enough. He and his friends had the power to make it all go away—the accusations, the human evidence, the noise. Anyone who doubted that simply had to look at a certain powerful Hollywood producer who got away with some pretty horrible shit for decades. And those women—his victims—they weren’t nobodies. They had voices, money, and fame. Still, none of that alone had been enough to take him down. It wasn’t until the public outcry became so loud that the facts couldn’t be ignored and buried any longer.

  Emily had learned from that case. It helped her look at every possible angle—what she was willing to sacrifice, how far she was willing to go, what was needed. Ed’s powerful friends could shut people up and make the women disappear. If she really wanted to stop him and his men, she needed the world to see the videos she’d made. They had to believe her story. She needed public outrage.

  Step one, though, Emily had to get the women, “the living evidence,” out of that building safely and bring them somewhere with warm beds and food. Somewhere they couldn’t easily be found while the story broke. Yes, time was of the essence—Emily knew that—but if she did this incorrectly, the most important evidence would all be dead, Ed and his associates would walk, and their clients would walk. The world would look the other way, and eventually, the sick and vile business would ramp up again.

  Emily looked up at this hit man who, despite his frosty exterior, no longer frightened her. His demeanor was stone cold, his words were uncaring, but there was a vein of honor coursing through that iceberg he called a heart. In short, she’d met worse. She’d married worse.

  “Look, Jane, I’m not going to tell you—”

  “Emily. I go by Emily.”

  He paused for a moment, perhaps suspicious of her motives for revealing her cover name. “Well, Emily, I’m not going to—”

  “And your name is?” she asked.

  He gave her a look—shrugged dark brows, his eyes twitching with curiosity.

  “Well,” she elaborated, “I need to call you something, and Mr. Cold Eyes is getting old.”

  He hesitated. “Charge. They call me Charge.”

  “As in, Charge it to my room? Charge the castl—”

  “As in, I’m in charge. Pleasantries are over now. It’s time to make a decision,” he demanded.

  “No, I’m not staying. The cartel is the least of my concerns right now.”

  “Then you must be in some pretty deep shit.”

  “Minus the pretty.”

  “Ever cross your mind that having forty guns at your disposal might come in handy?” he asked.

  “I don’t like guns, which reminds me…” She pulled the revolver from the back of her jeans and handed it to him. “Careful. It’s loaded. And it has a little ass sweat on the barrel.”

  He remained with his arms crossed. “I wasn’t referring to the physical weapons, Emily.”

  It took her a moment to grasp his intent. “Oh. You mean,” she lowered her voice, “hired guns.”

  He shrugged noncommittally.

  “The answer is still no. And even if it wasn’t, what the hell could I possibly bring to the table?” She sensed this was the type of business that required more than just understanding how to answer a phone. She didn’t know how to vet clients or do anything remotely related to “pest control.” Nor did she want to.

  “Like I said, Sampson always has a plan. I’m sure he’s just lying low until whatever bullshit he’s gotten into blows over. Until then, we need someone to help.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She resisted laughing. The entire thing was ridiculous.

  “We’re in the midst of a turf war with the cartel, and the team’s plates are full with back-to-back jobs on top of that. We don’t have many other options.”

  “What about vetting jobs?” she asked.

  “I’ll do it. You just deal with the clients, pass messages to the team, coordinate when we need assistance, make sure our gear is ready and stocked up.”

  Once again, her gut was telling her to cut bait. The last thing she needed was to get stuck in the middle of something shadier than she was running from. “I’m sorry, I want to help. I do. But I—”

  “You’ll get Sampson’s cut of the money. That’s the rule; we all get our piece according to the work we do.”

  Whoa. She’d seen the files. Sometimes Sampson made a few thousand. Most of the time, he made a lot more. “Why not just run everything yourself, or get one of the other operators?”

  “Because my talents are better put to use trying to take care of this cartel problem while we still can. Otherwise, that war raging a half a mile away, on that side of the border, will come here—for good.”

  Something was missing from his explanation, which she assumed was meant to appeal to her compassionate female heart; however, she already knew that these hit men weren’t all about defending the community, like Good Samaritans doing charity work. They were hired guns. She’d seen the files with the dollar amounts paid in exchange for killing a wide variety of dangerous sleazeballs. Sure, they had “rules,” but at the end of the day, they were in it for the cash, and this thing with the cartel was only a small piece of their business. Maybe it was even in defense of their business—they didn’t want the cartel in their sandbox. Did any of that matter to her? Not really.

  “Emily,” he said in that deep, gruff, authoritative voice, “I understand this is a big moment for you. In or out decides two very different paths. But if you say no, I can’t protect you. You know too much and there are some in our group who wouldn’t feel comfortable allowing you to simply leave. Not at a time like this. They might even think you’re the person who told the cartel where to find us.”

  And full circle: There is no out. They’d hunt her down and kill her. Sure, she could run, but this situation wasn’t like with Ed, where she intended to eventually expose herself and take him down. If these guys wanted her head, she would never be able to come out of hiding. Never.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! “Fine. I’ll do it. But only until this turf tiff is over and you find another person to answer the phones.” Between now and then, she’d have to figure a way out. Maybe it was as simple as convincing them she wasn’t a rat. Maybe it would be a question of finding some sort of leverage against them. She didn’t know. Bottom line, she needed to outsm
art them all if she was going to walk away.

  “I’ll see what can be done,” he said, “but I can’t make any promises regarding the terms of your employment.”

  “Yeah, well, I have my own war to fight, and I’m not about to give up just to be your receptionist.”

  “Office manager,” he corrected. “The role is officially office manager.”

  “Oh, goodie. A fancy title. That changes everything,” she rumbled. “So what’s next?”

  “The operators still have jobs to do—good-paying, important jobs—which means the show must go on, no matter what. Find us a new place. Near a main street with alternate routes, no other buildings within a hundred feet, somewhere people won’t get suspicious. You have forty-eight hours.” He turned and started walking away. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t go anywhere near that office. And don’t forget your duffel bag.”

  “Wait. What?” She glanced down at the bag on the ground. It was hers. She just hadn’t realized it since it was so dark.

  He got it for me? That was thoughtful, but why couldn’t she just go back herself and get—

  An explosion ripped through the air, rattling the dumpster’s lid and making her eardrums howl.

  She jumped. “Jesus!” The sound came from the direction of the office. When she turned her head toward Charge, he was gone.

  She walked toward the street at the end of the alley and saw flames bursting through the roof of the strip mall. Had the cartel done this?

  Suddenly, she heard sirens off in the distance. Cars were stopping and people were video recording the fire on their phones.

  Well, I guess now I understand why Charge said to find a new place with some distance between other buildings. Did this happen often?

  As she stood there watching the fire grow, she realized that her new life had just become as shady as the life she’d left. Except this time, she wasn’t standing on the sidelines. She was the goddamned manager.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Later that evening, Emily returned to her crappy apartment with her duffel bag and more questions than answers, some of which she had to get if she ever hoped to find a way out of this.

  In the meantime, she had a few other pressing doubts. Was it really safe to keep coming back here? If the cartel had her photo, should she be running around looking for a new office? Why did these hit men even want an office? Oh, wait. I guess they need a place to store all of their guns. Okay, if that was the case, why not store them somewhere else? Somewhere a little better hidden that wouldn’t end up burned to the ground if the cartel located their little HQ. If the men needed a place for money to be exchanged, and she assumed it was a cash-only kind of business, then wouldn’t it be easier to meet at different spots every time? Say, like, the bathroom at Target or a Starbucks?

  Wait. Hold on. Lots of cameras in those locations. Never mind.

  What annoyed her most about these questions was the fact that she had them at all. If these men expected her to coordinate, shouldn’t Charge sit down with her and share a few details?

  How to get a hold of him would be a great place to start.

  She filled her saucepan with tap water from the kitchen sink and put it on the electric stove to boil. Ramen. Again. I hate eating like a broke college student. But she’d bet even they had places nicer than this. The old stove and peeling paint on the ceiling were pretty special, but nothing outdid the wobbly toilet, falling medicine cabinet, and shower stall that leaked all over the bathroom floor. Going in there was like playing Mario Bros. Next level, please.

  And that’s another thing. Charge said she’d be getting paid. When? He also wanted her to handle the money. How was she supposed to pay the men? Did she need to buy a safe? Keep records? Something about being the keeper of their cash did not sit well. Charge had made it abundantly clear that he did not appreciate anyone messing with his money. He had threatened to shoot her if his payment was late.

  She dumped the brick of dry noodles into the water. Okay, I’ll start a list of questions for the next time I see Charge. In the meantime, she’d find out where the public library was.

  * * *

  Emily spent the next morning dying her red roots brown and then combing through commercial property listings on the computer at the library. El Paso actually had a wide selection of fairly nondescript, older buildings that had probably housed dozens of different types of businesses over time. The top contenders were a funky brown brick building that had once been a Quick-E Mart. The second was a pink and orange commercial space that looked like it might have been a small real estate office. Or possibly a crack house. Could go either way. Number three was an old warehouse with three loading bays, an office space, and a giant produce refrigerator. She’d only seen the photos on the internet, but the warehouse probably smelled like old cheese. Just had that look about it.

  On the bright side, all three properties seemed to be in areas where people wouldn’t ask too many questions—along a main road, plenty of traffic, no residential properties nearby where people might be keeping a lookout for suspicious activity.

  She sighed, staring at the computer screen. Honestly, these places were all dumps. I bet I can do better. She continued her search until she found something more to her liking, a place that wouldn’t make her skin crawl and had an actual bathroom. Gentlemen, your business is getting a makeover.

  She packed up her stuff—notepad with addresses, pen, water—and called for an Uber. Her bank account was getting frighteningly low, but she needed to check out all of the locations, take some pictures, and make notes.

  By the time she got to the warehouse—location number three—she suspected someone was following her. A black sedan with tinted windows kept popping up every time she hopped into another Uber.

  Maybe I should’ve brought that gun. It was still in her duffel bag back at her apartment since Charge had refused to take it. But what was the point of carrying a weapon? She simply wasn’t a violent person. Yeah, yeah. She could probably manage to point it at someone if it meant saving her own life, but actually puncturing a hole in another person’s body? Eeesh. No. It was too gruesome to think about. One more reason these guys shouldn’t want me as their “manager.”

  As for this black sedan, she had learned a few tricks about how to lose people—a necessity when she ran from Ed, who always had eyes posted at their house.

  “Hey, change of plans for my destination,” she told the guy driving and proceeded to update the drop-off on her phone.

  Shortly after, she arrived at the Sunland Park Mall, a busy place filled with shoppers from both sides of the border, from what she could tell from all of the Chihuahua license plates.

  I never met a man who could keep up with a woman at a busy shopping mall.

  She hopped out, entered the bustling mall, and crossed straight through the food court. Her mouth watered at the delicious scent of French fries. She’d never been so hungry. She wove between shoppers—mostly groups of young women and families with small children and strollers—and went out the door on the other side.

  Whoever was following, it would take them a while to realize they’d lost her. By then, she’d be several blocks away, picking up another ride over at the Whataburger. And some fries. I’m starving.

  She hustled down the sidewalk of the busy street. It was midday, June, and muggier than hell. Her white T-shirt stuck to her body like a wet rag, and a constant trickle of sweat channeled down her back into her jeans. Thankfully, there was no gun there.

  She cut through the parking lot of the Barnes and Noble, making sure that car wasn’t following. There’s the burger place. She stepped onto the driveway between the bookstore and the restaurant.

  The black sedan came out of nowhere and cut her off, screeching to a halt two feet in front of her.

  Her breath hitched. Her stomach dropped into her tennis shoes.

  The window on the passenger side lowered, and she fully expected to see a gun pointed at her.

  “Nice try lo
sing me. Next time, wait two minutes and come out the same place you entered. Most people expect you to try to cross the mall and leave from the other side.”

  Emily blinked and ducked down to see Charge’s large frame sitting behind the wheel. He wore black cargos and an army-green T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest. His dark hair was covered up with a black baseball cap, making his light gray eyes look even more intense.

  “You were following me?” she seethed.

  “Get in.” He jerked his head.

  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” She opened the door and slid inside. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Good. Maybe next time you’ll be more careful and notice sooner when someone’s following you…starting last night, all the way to your home.”

  I knew I should have switched rides somewhere. But she had been exhausted and desperate to get home.

  Emily shook her head at herself and looked out the window, away from him. She didn’t like this game he was playing. “What do you want anyway? I still have another twenty-four hours to find us a new home-horrible-home, and I haven’t even checked out my top pick yet.”

  “I have another task for you—an errand I need you to run tonight.”

  “Sounds terrible. What is it?” she asked.

  “Let’s see this property first.”

  “Fine. Suit yourself. Take a right, five blocks down, and then get on the highway heading east.”

  He glanced at her and raised a brow. That direction was toward some newer developments.

  “Hold your judgment until you see the building. Okay? If you don’t like it, there are those three other shitholes you followed me to. I take it you want to lease the place, right?” No sense in buying if someone is going to burn the place down and make you move again in a few months.

  “A lease is adequate.”

  “Great. So, any word on our friends? Any new attempts on your life?” she wondered.

  “No, but the day is young.”

  “I have to ask, does it bother you?” In this moment, he seemed so calm and collected. Maybe, a small piece of her was jealous. Knowing that Ed might pop up at any moment and chop her to tiny pieces was like being on a roller-coaster ride made of perpetual stress. There were moments when the anxiety faded to the background of her mind, but it was always there.