Twisted (A Zeta Cartel Novel Book 5)

by AJ Adams

  Twisted

  AJ Adams

  Text Copyright @ 2019 AJ Adams

  All rights reserved

  Kindle Edition

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  Final proof edited by Inkblot

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  Although many of the places mentioned in this book exist, all characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  License Statement

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Want To Stalk Me?

  Have You Read All The AJ Adams Novels?

  Flummoxed by the foreign words?

  Chapter One

  Jorge

  Fuck with me and if you're lucky, I'll shoot you. If you're unlucky, I'll make you suffer first. Jamal Blake had pissed me off big-time and so I was determined to make him pay.

  He'd rented an apartment under an alias, thinking it would be a safe-house, but the pendejo had paid by bank transfer. If he'd paid cash, he might have lived. But he didn't and as I had eyes on his bank account, I knew straight away he was up to no good.

  After a few days of watching him, it was clear what his plans were. I let him run with it. Give a man enough rope, you know? By the time he was ready to rob me, I was two steps in front – and waiting for him.

  I heard him race up the stairs, chuckling all the way, thinking he'd outsmarted me. Entering the apartment, he threw down an attaché case, slammed the door shut and bolted it before realising he wasn't alone. "What the fuck?"

  "Hello, Jamal."

  He posed against the door, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to appear cool. It would have been a fine effort if his knees hadn't been shaking. "Boss." It came out in a frightened squeak and he had to focus to get a manly baritone going. "What are you doing here?"

  I let him see the cricket bat in my hand. "I came for my coke."

  He sprang at me but I was faster. Being built like a barn didn't help him because I've been in more fights than Tyson Fury. When he pounced, I stepped aside lightly and whacked him in the gut. As he collapsed to his knees, I batted him down. For fun, I booted him in the ribs as well.

  In the movies, he'd be up and ready to go again. In real life, not being able to breathe means it's game over. He was on the floor, gasping and retching, giving me time to bash him again. It was a light blow to the back of the head, carefully calculated to knock him cold but not kill him. I didn't want him taking the easy way out.

  When he came to, I had him gagged and strapped to a kitchen chair. His eyes bulged as he saw me rip holes in the top and sides of a garbage bag. "I don't mind splatter," I told him, "but this is my favourite shirt and I have a meeting after this."

  He tried to break through the bonds but I'd used an entire roll of duct tape. That stuff is so awesome that it can hold a revving car in place - if the lamp post you tether it to is strong enough - so I just waited until he figured out it was no use.

  He took a good few minutes, Jamal was always a slow thinker, but he got to it, eventually. He sat there; the gag distorting his mouth into an O of surprise. With his shaven head and eyes wide open, he looked like an amazed emoji.

  I hefted the bat. "You stupid son of a bitch," I informed him. "Did you really think you could rip me off?"

  He shook his head, denying it with frantically rolling eyes.

  "Don't lie to me. You were supposed to process the consignment, not steal it." I was mad because I'd trusted him. "I gave you a job, money and responsibility," I reminded him. "A life of respect, handed to you on a plate, and you fucked me over at first opportunity."

  He was jerking around, nodding hard. It wasn't agreement; Jamal was trying to buy his way out of trouble. Told you he was stupid.

  "Yes, my coke is in your briefcase," I sighed. "Giving it back won't help." But I set it aside, just ensure it stayed out of the way. I didn't want revenge messing up my product. "You betrayed me, you disloyal hijo de puta and now you will make amends," I told Jamal. "Your death will show everyone what happens when you fuck with me."

  Jamal moaned and pissed himself. I guess he was remembering the stories of how my family deal with the people who cross us. Crucifixion, boiling, dismemberment; we're very versatile. For this one, I was taking a leaf from the classics.

  "Do you remember how Al Capone dealt with Scalise, Anselmi and Giunta, the disloyal scum who tried to betray him?" I asked. He hadn't but the way he was eyeing my bat told me he was on the right page. "Capone was quick-tempered, and he had them going out fast." The chair was rocking again, convincing me Jamal was visualising his future just fine. "I'm very patient and so you'll have lots of time to consider your mistakes."

  Having laid it out for him, I swung the bat, bringing it down on his right wrist. All the little bones shattered in an audible crunch but his scream was muffled by the gag. "You shouldn't have tried to steal from me." I gave him a moment to pull himself together. "I don't like thieves." His forearm went with a second swing. Then I shattered his elbow, a long pause, and I followed through with a swing at his collarbone.

  Intense pain is interesting because it silences. Step on a man's toe and he'll roar; smash it to pieces and all you'll get is a squeak. Also, while a whacking load of it will paralyse you, it won't easily lead to unconsciousness, especially if you stay away from bashing them on the head.

  Even so, I was careful to give him time to recover and I removed the gag when he turned blue. "Deep breath," I told him. "We've a way to go."

  There are over two hundred bones in the human body and I aimed at breaking as many of Jamal's as possible. As I'm methodical, I worked up one side and then down the other. His knees, ankles and shins were tougher but I play golf, so I reversed the bat and practised my drive shot.

  The wood crushed bone and cartilage. Thanks to my fantastic swing we also had lots of splinters breaking through the skin. With his heart pumping away, the splatter reached as far as the walls. I was glad I had suited up.

  Because I paced myself, he was breathing great when I started on his ribs. That's when the odd splash became a constant spray. I'd whack, he'd cough. It got real messy, real quick.

  Twenty minutes later, he gave out an ominous rattle. I stopped, ready to give him a breather, but the weak bastard died on me. Looking around, there was gore galore, but the scene was still lacking that iconic touch. I wanted my message to send shivers of fear throughout the country,
and this was too tame.

  I stepped back, took aim at his head, and got a terrific rain of brains. Inspired, I whacked twice more, and got an eyeball to pop out. It was perfect. Quentin Tarantino couldn't have done better.

  Rinsing the bat under the kitchen tap and packing it away with my makeshift poncho in a bag took seconds. Nobody was on the stairs, or in the hall, and I didn't attract any attention as I walked down the street. Thanks to a light rain, typical damn English weather, my hat, scarf and coat would obscure any CCTV.

  A bus took me across town in fine anonymous form, delivering me right to the fish processing plant on Wickham Wharf that we owned. The bag went into the dumpster in the alley at the back, certain to be obscured by the other gory refuse. Then, on the pretext of checking the boats were moored properly, the bat slipped into the river.

  After a chat with the foreman to see all was well, I strolled around the corner, dived into the underground and fifteen minutes afterward, I was at Zeta Towers.

  My office is a twenty-five storey building and as we designed it for our purposes, it’s more complex than an anthill. You can enter via four street level entrances, two skyway links and five carpark access ramps. Once you get inside, there are three elevator halls. As the cops couldn’t afford to set a dozen eyes on us 24/7 to monitor our comings and goings, I dropped off my coke in complete anonymity.

  As I told Jamal, I was wearing my favourite shirt because I had a meeting. I was humming as I picked up my ride because I'd treated myself to a Lexus just the week before. With Shakira's sultry voice keeping me company, and that awesome scent of new leather, the drive to Chelsea was a pleasure. On the way, I reflected on the man I was to meet, Jacek Kowalczyk, a Polish crime boss who ran a neat little empire in London.

  Unlike us Zetas, Kowalczyk enjoyed the limelight. There wasn't a week when he wasn't in the news, smiling as he wined and dined celebs at his house and on his yacht. He was so fond of seeing himself in the social pages that he hired a public relations firm to make sure his image stayed bright.

  It didn't sound a great idea to me, having people nosing about in your affairs is stupid if you're pushing product, but I was curious to see his home because it was rumoured to be a palace.

  Kowalczyk House was rigged out with Greek columns, marble statues and a fountain big enough to float a battleship. But the guards needed a shave. They were sloppy, checking under the chassis with a mirror but forgetting to look under the hood. They didn't x-ray the present I'd brought, either.

  Lucky for them I was there for a friendly visit and so they didn't finish piled up dead under the fancy hedge an artist had trimmed into a row of peacocks.

  Fifteen minutes later, I wasn't feeling so friendly. A starched-up butler had led me into the house quickly enough but he'd poured me a cheap vodka and fucked off, leaving me to kick my heels in a lounge.

  A painting that looked as if a toddler had done it dominated the room. The rest was of the decoration was shameless ego stroking; dozens of framed photos of Kowalczyk with the rich and shameless. I counted two supermodels, three billionaire businessmen and a minor royal. There were also shots of his boat, his chopper and his racehorses. I patted a sofa cushion. Surprisingly, it was stuffed with feathers, not cash.

  I didn't like the room much and what I'd seen of the rest of the house didn't impress me either. Loaded with marble, gold framed paintings and topped off with crystal chandeliers, it was too sparkly for my taste.

  To avoid permanent eyestrain, I checked out the garden. Eyeing a marble goddess, probably stolen from an ancient temple, I spotted a girl popping out from the leafy peacocks.

  She wore a loose tunic of blue-green silk that covered her from neck to knees but evoked an aura of lushness. As she paused by the statue, I had to fight for breath. She was a heavenly vision, all right: long legs, a sweet swell of delicious curves and a cloud of copper curls.

  The body was a dream but I couldn't see if she had a face to match. The French windows were locked tight and as I pulled at the levers, rattling them, the girl darted over the gravel and dived into the house.

  Shooting across the room, wrenching open the door, thinking I'd catch up with her in the foyer, I collided with the butler. "Hell!"

  The starch was frosty. "Mr Kowalczyk will see you now."

  I was cool, "Yeah, sure," and very disappointed that the beauty was nowhere to be seen. We trekked in silence through the hall, down a bling-filled corridor and finally, I was ushered into an inner sanctum.

  The room was opulent and stuffed with expensive show-off goods yet lacked charm and spirit. The owner, Jacek Kowalczyk, was the same. He wore a designer Armani suit and a gold Rolex watch but they did nothing for the chalky skin, washed-out grey eyes, dull hair, and pinched thin-lipped mouth. Also, while he was no older than thirty, he was running to fat. His belly bulged and hung over his belt.

  I didn't take to him but I didn't let it show. "Mr Kowalczyk, it's a pleasure to meet you finally."

  The disrespectful bastard had kept me waiting and now he wasn't smiling or apologising as he should have. Instead, he offered a half-hearted handshake and waved me to a chair - luxurious leather, but a far cry from the sofa setup by the window for VIPs.

  He didn't dismiss his soldiers, either. Four of them, all packing, and hanging by the door where they could hear every word, instead of leaving as they should when men of respect meet.

  I considered walking out but decided against it. Back home in Mexico, my rep meant only a man on a suicide mission would fuck with me but this was London and I was a newcomer.

  Only a pendejo mistakes ignorance for insult and so I made sure he understood who he was dealing with. "Jorge Santos," and in case that didn't ring any bells, "I am head of Nuevo Laredo Import and Export Incorporated, London branch."

  "I know," Kowalczyk sounded offhand. "It's a cover for the Zeta cartel. Your cousin, Arturo Vazquez, is the chief of your organisation back in Mexico. I have heard of him."

  Great. The implication that he would have welcomed Arturo with open arms, whereas I was a nobody, stung.

  "Your cousin wants to talk to me?" Kowalczyk rumbled.

  As if I were a goddamn messenger boy! "No," I said quietly. "But I will tell him you spoke of him with respect."

  There was a pause, and then Kowalczyk nodded. "All right. What is your business with me?"

  It was abrupt to the point of rudeness but I kept my cool. Eastern Europeans have a rep for surliness. Kowalczyk was known to be particularly sour, or perhaps he was trying to hide the stained teeth.

  I'm a friendly guy and so I smiled as if I were happy to see him. "I am here on a small matter. Mainly, I came because my club is in the street behind yours. As we are neighbours, I thought it was time we met."

  The pause was infinitesimal. "I see." There was no life in those faded eyes. "It's good to put a face to the name."

  It was grudging but I could live with it. "Same here!"

  The lips stretched, but it was more a rictus than a smile. The man was a disappointment. Given his party image, I had expected some social graces. Instead, what I saw was plain old East European mafia.

  Jacek Kowalczyk began his career as a dealer working for a gang in Prague. He got into hot water trying to blackmail a politician's wife and fled to Moscow. Unable to hack it there, he'd come to London. England had suited him because he'd built up a profitable business for himself, selling all kinds of product to his society friends and maintaining a big staff of street dealers.

  In terms of territory he had a good-sized plaza that made him rich but I wasn't getting that vibe that comes from power and success. The Armani suit would've been class if it had fit right but there was no sparkle in the man. I'd expected wolf and what I got was blobfish.

  As for manners, Kowalczyk lacked even basic courtesy. He should have offered me a drink, at least. As I was not dragged up from a Polish sewer, I smiled and presented my gift. "A small token of friendship." I handed over the case, opening it so he and his men could
admire the lighter inside. It was plain gold but what made it interesting was the inscription, plata o plomo.

  I took it out and showed it to him. "I thought you'd enjoy this. It was Pablo Escobar's." As Kowalczyk looked blank, I explained. "You know Escobar, he was Colombia's greatest drug baron."

  Kowalczyk just gave me fish eyes. "Yeah, Escobar. Okay."

  "Plata o plomo was his favourite line. Silver or lead." Typical Escobar, it had explained his work ethic: you took the silver, his money, and stood aside or he'd give you a lead bullet and step over your dead body.

  "I know." Kowalczyk's voice reflected his personality; flat, dull, and thuggish.

  "What makes it interesting," I persisted, "is that the lighter was a gift to Escobar from Pershing Kolikowski."

  I'd busted a gut to find a good present but even the mention of Poland's biggest crime lord didn't seem to register.

  "Thanks." He took the box and set it down. "You mentioned my club. There's an issue?"

  Right down to business. "Yes." I settled in the chair and realised immediately he'd rigged it, cutting the legs short so he dominated the room. It was a cheap trick, and I didn't let it bother me. "Your club, Empire, and mine, Bubbles, are back to back. There's just an alleyway dividing them."

  "So?"

  "We had building inspectors round recently. They say there was an error in their documentation. The original property line was a little off." I brought out my phone and showed him the map. "Your private car space is on our property and our south wall is on yours."

  Kowalczyk frowned. "Is that right?"

  "It's no big deal," I assured him. "My lawyers tell me that if we sign an agreement to leave matters as they stand, the problem goes away."

  "I don't like lawyers." His fingers tapped a cheery tattoo on the oak topped desk. "I can park on the street but you will have to rebuild your wall." He grinned, his lips pulling back from the stained fangs. "You'll have to close your club."

  I wasn't mad because those few seconds gave me some valuable information. Kowalczyk was a nasty piece of work, which was expected. He'd built a criminal empire, and you don't do that by being nice. What surprised me was that he was stupid. Wars cost a fortune and therefore cooperation is always a better move.