* * *
“What doyou mean the truck never made it?”
The flannel clad warehouse guard shrugged, stopping to take a long drag off his cigarette before answering. “I mean it never made it. It was scheduled to come in off Highway 59 from Victoria, when it just went away.” He waved his hands in the air to simulate evaporating smoke.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, attempting to keep myself from reaching into my waistband and pumping an entire round into this asshole. “Eighteen-wheelers don’t just vanish, Enrique. It’s kind of fucking hard to get rid of an entire truck bed of shark bellies stuffed with cocaine. It’s not exactly underpass transfer cargo.”
He blew another smoke ring before stomping the butt out at the entrance to the stash house. “Don’t know what to tell you. No truck, no coke. You can search the place if you want.”
“Odio mi vida!”Fuck my life!Pissed at the second missing Columbian shipment in the past two days, I pulled my fist back and coldcocked the guy in the side of the face.
Knocked into the corner of the stash house, Enrique grabbed his face, wisely choosing not to retaliate. “Jesus, man, what the hell was that for?”
Shaking my fist, I swore as my knuckles throbbed. “For being a useless asshole. You’re lucky I don’t blow your dick off and make you smoke it.”
Muttering to himself, he quickly made his way back inside and closed the door, intermittently glancing in between the blinds to see if I’d left. Just to be a dick, I stood around, sizing up the property, wondering what possibly could’ve gone wrong.
Only one word made sense. Muñoz. The root of all things fucked.
Shit with Manuel Muñoz was escalating, and interference of this magnitude called for a face-to-face meeting. Resigned to what had to be done, I reached for my phone. Instead, my fingers pulled a long chain from my pocket, attached to a small medallion with a porcelain top. Running my thumb over the smooth face, I studied the design. It depicted a scene of St. Michael attacking and defeating the fallen enemy torn. Surrounding the image were written the words:
O St. Michael, give us your strength
To defeat our fears
And rise to any challenge
She’d given me a medallion for protection. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Here I stood, rubbing the image of an archangel, asking it to give protection to a murderer doomed to hell. On a whim, I brought it to my lips and kissed the smooth finish. No one had ever given me blind faith. I had no idea what to do with it.
Standing outside the warehouse alone, I could be honest with myself. She’d gotten to me a little. Fine. Fuck, she’d turned me inside out. I recognized the darkness inside her, and it called to me. Maybe it was wrong to fan the flame, but I couldn’t stop myself. It didn’t take much for her to transform from a tragic victim who begged for her release, to a cunning warrior, free falling into a world she knew nothing about, yet craved.
If we burned…now we burned together.
Swinging the medallion around my neck, I glanced at my watch and sighed. Ten-forty-seven p.m. It’d been a long drive to Corpus Christi, and it’d be a long drive back to Houston.
And there was still unfinished business waiting for me at the safe house.
Smiling to myself, I shook my head at the empty stash house and turned toward my Lexus. Lost in thought, I’d just reached for my keys when the ground shook beneath my feet and an explosion lit up the night sky, knocking me airborne.
I remembered feeling weightless before a searing pain crushed my skull and silence echoed into a dark hum of nothing.
Chapter Eighteen
EDEN
Mateo and Emiliosat at the small, wooden kitchen table, huddled together well after midnight. Their brows alternately raised and lowered as they talked in hushed tones. Occasionally, they’d glance over at me. Whether it was out of suspicion or concern, I had no idea, and, honestly, I didn’t give a shit. My mind raced, trying to catch every third word that passed between them.
Mateo’s hand brushed his mouth, as his other palmed his long dark hair. “Crew…there…now.”
“Flames? Any survivors?” Emilio shifted positions, still holding his bandaged ribcage.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out their conversation. Only one person’s whereabouts would have their phones ringing off the hook and hands scrubbing their faces every ten seconds.
Val.
My eyes closed, attempting to block out what had been unfolding. As they whispered, I paced, absent-mindedly rubbing the tender ring around my wrist where the handcuff used to rest against my skin. A war raged inside of me, and with every stride across thread-bare carpet, I chewed my nails to slivers.
