by AJ Adams
"I don't understand." I was in a fog, unable to think clearly. "They said there was no evidence."
"Not enough evidence to prosecute," Smith corrected me.
My chest was so tight that I was seeing spots. "But I told them how it was. This proves it. Why didn't they say?"
"No point," Smith shrugged. "With your history, a lawyer would make mincemeat out of you. And the Stevens boy's reputation was excellent."
I gazed at the photo. Maybe it would have been different if my family had seen this. It was agony, but I steeled myself to go through the rest. I made it through two more, each as graphic, each as horrific.
I only just made it to my wastepaper basket.
After throwing up until my guts ached, I sat on the floor, weak and shaking. Horror and shame drenched me in sweat. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Give me Santos and I'll see your case reopened," Smith said. "I'll jail the lot."
The evidence was there. All that pain. All those years knowing my family hadn't believed me. It killed me. But I wouldn't sell out Jorge.
Smith saw the answer in my face. "I'll give you a day to think about it," he whispered. "But if you turn me down, I'll leak these."
"What?" I couldn't believe my ears.
"When Santos sees these, he'll kick you out," Smith threatened. "And the papers will go to town on you, too. I'll send them to Laura Griffin."
It was my secret dread. If these went public, the world would know my shame and degradation. I felt sick. But most of all, I was raging.
Before he could move, I was up and moving. "Give me those!" I snatched the photos out of his hands. Then, I marched across to Jorge's office, throwing open his door. "Sorry to interrupt." Zeta command were in meeting mode, all four of them gazing down at a map. "Detective Inspector Smith has something to say."
Smith had followed, but he stood silent.
"Not sharing?" I taunted him.
Sensing my anger, Jorge got up and switched to Rottweiler mode. "What is it, fresa?"
"You asked about my past." I tossed down the photos. "This is it."
Four dark heads bent over the spill of horror. They were silent as they fingered through my shame but the tight mouths and narrowed eyes signalled their fury.
"What the fuck is this?" Jorge snarled.
"I snuck out to a party. Turns out, I was the actual party." The words tore from me, each a drip of acid. "Afterwards, their mates put me to work as a child whore."
Jorge picked up the grainy photo from that barbeque, his eyes black with murderous rage. "Tell me these sons of bitches are dead."
I was crying, tears just running down my face. "No, they weren't even prosecuted."
He flashed over, sweeping me into his arms. "Pobrecita."
His embrace shored me up. So did the steaming fury from the others.
"Detective Inspector, if you need help, I am available," James said tightly.
"We all are," Paco growled.
"Fucking paedophiles," Lencho raged. "Life in jail's not good enough."
"Yeah, you ought to shoot them while resisting arrest," Paco agreed.
Smith looked chagrined. "Right," he said bleakly.
The plod's tone sent an unequivocal message. Jorge stiffened instantly. "What the hell?" he breathed. "Smith, how long have you had these?"
The copper flushed and didn't answer.
"He's not interested in prosecution." I dropped him right in it. "He thinks you'll kick me out."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"
"And tomorrow he leaks these to the press."
"Hijo de puta!"
Jorge's rage spilled over. Before I quite got it together, he'd dumped me in his chair and reached for the copper. Smith tried to dodge and failed. Jorge had him by the throat. Smith struggled and tried to punch him but it was no use. Oblivious to the office beyond filled with witnesses, Jorge just squeezed. The Zeta was going in for the kill.
Paco reached him first. "Stop, Jorge."
Lencho was pulling the Detective Inspector away, trying to break Jorge's iron grip on the man's jugular. "Not here. Not now," he urged.
They weren't getting through. I threw my arms around Jorge's neck. "Let go, love," I whispered. "Don't let temper get to you."
Jorge sucked in a sharp breath and then the plod fell to the floor, gasping and retching. I took immediate advantage, accidentally on purpose treading on his hands and kicking him in the ribs. Yes, I know. But I was steaming mad.
As the Detective Inspector groaned with very satisfactory pain, Jorge snapped, "Throw this filth out."
"Jorge Santos," Smith croaked. "I arrest you -"
"Blackmail, intimidation, abusing a victim of child sex trafficking and rape," James was ice. "Smith, you will be hearing from my client."
"Nobody will believe you," the copper sneered.
I picked up the envelope. "You took these from official files." I pointed to the stamps and case file numbers on the back of the photos. "We have all the proof we need."
"Those are mine!" Smith wailed. "Give them back!"
"Out." Jorge spoke quietly. "Leave."
Smith paled at the disgust in his voice. "You don't play by the rules, why should I?"
"You didn't protect a kid and now you want to use it against her," Jorge hissed, "You’re an hijo de puta coward."
Smith took one look at the vengeful Zetas and another at the office filled with shocked witnesses. We had exposed him and he knew it. He put back his shoulders and sneered. "I'll be back." It was an excellent line, but it sounded hollow.
I stood tall, knowing that staring him down would infuriate him. "Goodbye, Detective Inspector."
Smith turned on his heel and stomped out. I was alone with the Zetas.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jorge
She stood tall as he walked out. Then, still superbly in control, she began to gather the photos, carefully putting them back in the file. Her pride was steel but her hands were shaking.
Paco, Lencho and James left, closing the door behind them silently, giving us space.
I put my arms around my girl, gathering her close to me, wishing I could take away the pain and horror. "Fresa, why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought you w-wouldn't w-want me."
"Are you out of your freaking mind? I love you!"
She was trembling, unbelieving. "Really?"
"Corazón, I'm crazy about you. I can't live without you. When you're with me, it's like I'm in a bubble of happiness that nothing can touch. You're my heart, my soul."
"Oh, Jorge!" And that when the dam broke. My brave girl dissolved into floods.
I held the shaking body, cradling her. "Let it all out, corazón. There you go. Preciosa." Talking nonsense, I carried her over to the sofa, loving her, letting her know I was there for her. "You have a good cry."
I sat with my girl, just holding her and stroking her hair. At last I understood the jefe's rule didn't make us weak; it had come from true recognition of what we Zetas are.
When you're a player, you know what you're signing up for. It's a high stakes game: success and riches beyond your wildest dreams if you win - and imprisonment and death if you lose.
I'd made the choice, knowing exactly what I was committing to. Persia had not, yet she was as tough as any Zeta. It had puzzled me but now it all fell into place: she took whatever shit was thrown her way because she'd been to hell and back. It horrified me that this woman with the little bones and sweet curves had survived a darkness as a child that would kill most grown men.
Holding my girl, the lesson that bystanders were out of it was driven deep into my bones. I'd never question the jefe's rule again.
"I'm sorry. I must look a fright," Persia sniffed.
"You're beautiful." I meant it too. Even with red eyes, she was the most gorgeous woman in the world. "Here, have my handkerchief."
"Thanks." She dabbed away the tears but she couldn't look at me. The woman who'd kicked me in the balls and shot
me, who'd fought like a tiger against all the odds, couldn't raise her eyes to mine. I recognised that look: shattered pride.
That knife was in my gut again. I didn't know what to say. We're in a deadly business and rape is a weapon but to hurt a child… Black helpless rage rose up again. I couldn't fix her past but I would kill every single fucker in those photos. They'd go screaming.
But first, I had to reach through that shame. "Corazón, you really thought I'd blame you?"
"I know it wasn't my fault, and that I was a kid," Persia swallowed nervously. "But if people knew, they'd look at me differently."
"They might but they'd be fucking idiots."
"Uhm, thanks?" That sparkle was coming back. "I appreciate the PC line, Jorge, and people say they get it but really, they don't. It's better to keep it private."
"Is that what your family told you, corazón?"
The hurt flashed. "Yes."
It was easy to understand what had happened. Her people had adopted a broken kid, thinking they'd fix her, and feeling good about themselves for taking her in. But that attack had spoiled their comfortable self-regard. Rather than chalk it up to bad luck, the crime that happens randomly to so many, they'd blamed the victim.
It made me sad for her. My poor Persia had been unwanted by her blood kin and abandoned by her adopted family. As a further kick in the teeth, they'd put her back in hell again. "Your fucking brother!"
"Don't kill him!" The green eyes were hard. "Don't you bloody dare, Jorge!"
"He deserves it."
"No, he doesn't," she countered. "When that video went out, they bullied him at school. It soured him and I think that's when he started dealing."
"It's not an excuse."
"But it's a reason."
She was a much better person than I. "Okay, fresa. I don't agree but okay." Because I owed her. Dear God in heaven, did I owe her. "And I'm sorry." It had to be said. "I'm a bastard."
"Ah, is that guilt back?" Persia smiled and kissed the tip of my nose. "You are indeed a bastard, sweetie. Me too, actually. Birth mum wasn't married."
Making fun under pressure. That's class. "So, we're bastards together?"
"I can't believe you love me," Persia said diffidently. "I fell for you ages ago but I didn't dare say."
"You're loca, you know that, right?" I kissed her. "You're brave, clever, loyal, beautiful and I'm crazy in love with you."
"I enjoy being loca." She nestled into my side, snuggling comfortably. "You make me happy, Jorge. These few weeks have been wonderful."
"Really?"
She had no trouble reading my thoughts. "You said it: life's a battle, and it's no holds barred. But kids are out of it."
I was truly forgiven. I didn't deserve it but I took it gratefully.
Then reality rushed in. "We can't be together." It killed me to say it.
"Steady on," Persia exclaimed. "Where's that coming from?"
My sins would catch up with me and I wasn't dragging her into my shit. "We're too different."
"No, we're not. We're actually well matched," she countered.
I wanted her in my life, yearned for it, but I couldn't be selfish. "I can't talk about this." Hello, pendejo! "I mean, you have to take my word for it." Yes, I was truly fucking up.
"Jorge, you're shaking. Calm down, love." Catlike eyes looking straight into my soul. "You're worried about the future?"
"It's a rough life," I hedged. "You should be out of it."
"I'm a magnet for trouble," Persia shrugged. "I don't fit with all those nice people in suburbia, Jorge. I'm home with you and the Zetas."
"I've screwed up." It was hard to say. "I'm not delivering." That hurt. "And I broke the jefe's rules."
"And I guess he doesn't dock wages or put a note in your employment file."
"Exactly."
The silence stretched as she thought it over. I felt the darkness of despair envelop me. All that love and laughter, just out of my reach. Because of my own stupid arrogance.
Then Persia smiled. "Well, it doesn't worry me," she decided. "You're the most capable man I've ever met, Jorge. You work like a demon and you're cunning, determined and slippier than a bucket of eels."
"Thanks?"
"Twisted, too," Persia added happily. "I'm not fussed, love. You're a winner, everyone knows that."
"The jefe takes a hard line. He has to. In our business, there's no other way."
"He's short of people, just like you are, so he won't want to be chucking the baby out with the bath water. He's your cousin, so you get a break on that too," Persia itemised. "Stop fretting, Jorge. Focus on delivering, and everything else will fall into place."
"You think?" I dared to hope.
Her hand stole into mine. "We're smart and we're strong. Together, we can do anything."
A ray of sunshine burst from the clouds, giving her a halo. "Corazón." I was harder than my Magnum.
Her eyes lit up. "Ooh? Right here, right now? You want a game of Hide The Sausage?"
Not an angel. A fun sensuous loving woman. "Come here, fresa." Then, with laughter bubbling through me, "I have a hot chorizo just for you."
Tearing off my shirt, stripping off her top, tossing clothes in a hasty heap, our excited laughter turning to gasps and moans, we made love on the sunlit sofa.
"Hmm, nice." Persia lay on top of me, collapsed in happy abandonment. "I could lie here forever."
"Me too." I was filled with tenderness, steeped in it. "Love you."
"Love you too." She kissed me softly. "I feel whole again." Shutting her eyes, she pressed herself against me. "Finally, I can let go of the past," she murmured. "With you, I'm home."
It was the most important moment of my life. I'd grown up with great parents, loving grandparents, a sister I adored, and aunts, uncles, cousins and friends who made life sweet, but this was a soulmate. I was awash with protective tenderness, my love for her filling every fibre of my being.
I floated back to earth when Persia checked my watch. "Oh lord! I've a model waiting for me."
We threw on our clothes, giggling like kids as we hunted down my tie (flung over a filing cabinet) and her bra (hooked on a picture frame).
"We tore a button off your shirt and my top looks as if cows trampled it," Persia chortled. "It's a new twist on distressed fashion."
She rushed off, her laughter echoing through the office. I pretended to ignore the knowing grins and went back to my desk. I moved aside the map that detailed our war. This business took priority. I couldn't fix Persia's past but I could ensure retribution.
Picking up the police file, I got to work. I'd stick to my promise and leave the brother untouched but I'd deal with the rest of the scum, Zeta style.
First, I called Rovero to come and see me. Five minutes later, I was on my laptop and in through a backdoor in the system, searching the national crime database. The file included full names and dates of birth. A quick search led to social security numbers and home addresses. Double checking tax records added places of employment.
There had been seven of them. Rick Stevens, the ringleader, had been stabbed in a street fight a year earlier. Reading the report, I was glad he'd suffered, lying in a back alley for a day and bleeding slowly to death.
The surviving six were still in London. From the string of dropped charges for sexual harassment and criminal damage, I understood they had continued their career. But unlike real men who go into the game, these cowards were bullying thugs who picked kids and women.
The men who'd attacked Persia were already dead. As for the cop who'd investigated and then buried the case, an Inspector Spalding, the bastard had lucked out; he'd died of a heart attack a year before.
I had my list. I wanted to add Smith to it but my good sense told me it was lousy strategy. Alive, Smith was proof that crossing me meant a few bruises and no more. Dead, and I'd attract the attention of Scotland Yard and probably Interpol. It infuriated me but I was sensible. Smith would wait.
But the others
were gone. Back home, I would simply have picked up my gun and taken care of it. Even dozens of witnesses wouldn't matter; in Nuevo Laredo, we rule.
But London was different. I could take them out, nobody would stop me and they'd never find enough evidence to prosecute, but it would unleash too much attention. I recognised it, accepted it, and knew it wouldn't stop me. But as I worked, the knowledge had me reappraising the way I ran my operation. Soon, I'd need to make changes.
By the time I printed out names and locations, Rovero was waiting in the outer office. I called him in right away. "My friend, how are you? And how was Mexico?" I'd not seen him since they had knifed him. "I hear you took twenty stitches."
"I'm well, patrón, thank you."
He was thinner than before and a little pale but moving well. "Let me see?"
Rovero lifted his shirt, and we admired the thin red line.
"It's healed beautifully," I complimented him. "And the bikers are still in hospital, just as they should be."
Rovero's quiet satisfaction was evident. "I'm ready to go back to work, patrón."
"Good." I invited him to sit down. "I have a job for you." I handed him the list. "Can you take care of these?"
Rovero scanned the seven names. "Si, patrón."
"Smith will be watching, so be careful."
"Si, patrón."
"How long will you take to set up?"
"Do we need to send a message?"
I dearly wanted to but we couldn't afford the attention. "No. If you can, make one or two look accidental."
The sicario thought for a minute. "I will take care of the five myself today. The other, the one in Wormwood Scrubs jail, a phone call and it's done."
Working with a pro is always a pleasure. I handed him a wad of cash and an airplane ticket. "I want to thank you, Rovero. Your work is excellent. There's a suite waiting for you at the Four Seasons in Paris. Fully furnished." Meaning the luscious brunette I'd ordered would be stripped and waiting. "Do the job and then take the weekend. We'll see you Monday."
Rovero glowed with pride and purpose. "Si, patrón."
The moment the door closed behind him, James was in. "Don't shoot me, but please don't tell me you're bumping off Smith."