Page 23 of Miguel
My prez sat behind his desk, going through his phone when I barged in. He took one look at me and whistled low. “What crawled up your ass?”
“Do you wanna come with me to fuck someone up?”
Loco’s eyes glowed wild at the prospect of violence. His smile widened and his phone dropped from his hands onto his desk as he cracked his knuckles. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
I knew he wouldn’t say no.
He rarely ever did.
Just then, his office door opened and Chema walked in, staring down at his phone and presumably the text I’d shot him. His thick-rimmed glasses slid down the ridge of his nose and he sniffed, his nose scrunching, as he looked up at us.
“What do you need from me, Migue?”
“I need everything you found on Ramón Angeles when you did a background check on all the teachers,” I ordered. “Everything from where he lives, who he fucks, and how many times a day he takes a fucking shit.”
Chema nodded, his full lips twitching with a smirk. “On it.”
“What’d the bastard do?” Loco asked. There was curiosity, but he wouldn’t hold me back from what I wanted no matter how ridiculous my anger might’ve seemed to him. “Has to be something grave if you’re out here ready to fight him.”
I smiled at my president, and for the first time ever, I felt what he might feel. The prospect of violence boiled deep down into my bones. The vicious need I had to extract it. It was almost feral, wild. Uncontrollable.
My hands closed into fists.
“Let’s just say he has no idea that he poked the fucking devil.”
Breaking into homes was fucking child’s play. There were no dogs blocking our entry, no chismoso neighbors looking out the windows at this time of night.
It was almost too fucking easy.
Better for us as we slipped in through the back door after breaking the lock.
On quiet feet, we slid into the house Ramón lived in. Bastard lived with his parents and his married sister and her four kids. My hermanos would be in charge of making sure nobody came out while I did what I needed to do.
It was going to be quick.
Get in, grab him, get out.
Easy as shit.
And as we loomed over him while he lay in bed, disgust rolled in my gut. I had the massive urge to spit on his face in rage, but held myself back. I slammed my palm down against his mouth, the cloth filled with chloroform choking him.
His eyes shot open, palm closing over my wrist, legs flailing. My hermanos were already on him, restraining him until the chloroform took control and rendered him useless. He didn’t even get a good look at my face before he was knocked the fuck out.
Once he was completely immobile, we hauled him between us, moving slowly and quietly across the house so as to not wake up any of the other inhabitants. The good thing about Mexican house construction was that the floors–at least in this house–were made of fucking cement. No squeaking floorboards, and no one wandering down to investigate the fucking noises.
Not that we made any.
Once we were outside, we hauled his heavy ass into the cage, tossing him into the trunk before we drove miles out into one of the abandoned factories in the middle of corn fields that we kept as club property.
A great place so no one could hear him fucking scream.
Once there, we dumped him unceremoniously onto the ground, and I took sick fucking joy in hearing his head crack against the ground.
“Damn,” Loco murmured, glee in his voice. “That’s going to hurt when he wakes up.”
“Which should be soon,” I added. “I didn’t give him that much chloroform.”
“Yeah, well, he’s a pussy.” Loco nudged his foot onto Ramón’s body. “Wakey wakey, hijo de puta. Time to meet your maker.” He nudged harder until Ramón finally stirred. “Ah, he’s awake!”
