“You didn’t pay for your drinks, you cheap ass.”
A slew of curses followed him out the door as it slammed behind him.
I chuckled to myself.
Being underestimated was the biggest advantage a man could have over his enemy. I’d lived long enough to know that given the right incentive, even the strongest ally could be an enemy.
Raising my glass, I conceded round one.
But it was round two, and the gloves were coming off.
I didn’t go from an assistant district attorney in Houston to first lieutenant of the Carrera Cartel by waving a white flag at the first sign of a threat.
I ran that motherfucking city.
Chapter Two
Brody
Houston, Texas
Rain pissed me off.
Not that I’d ever been a rainbows and sunshine type of guy. I preferred dark clouds and thunder. They usually brought everyone’s optimism and cheerfulness down a few notches, which always improved my mood.
However, today the muggy September rain conspired against me. As soon as I got behind the wheel, the sky opened up, and now it was coming down so hard, I could barely see the car in front of me. If I had half a brain, I’d take it as an omen and turn the hell around.
No, if I had half a brain, I never would’ve left home in the first place.
Squeezing the steering wheel with one hand, I rubbed a damp palm across my nose and swallowed the nausea trying to claw its way up my throat.
I didn’t need this shit right now. Last night, I drank my weight in cheap scotch, trying to forget my own name. Unfortunately, today, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl out of this car and throw up my spleen.
And punches. I wanted to throw punches.
It took longer than I expected for the call to come in. Forty-eight hours too long, to be exact. Someone’s balls would be overnighted to their mother for the time I spent pacing my living room while waiting for Rafael to collect a thief.
I was a lieutenant in the fucking cartel.
Second in line for the bloodstained Carrera throne.
And because of it, here I was, regardless of my lack of sobriety.
Besides, as my Colombian watchdog reminded me, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. It was either drive the final nail in the Muñoz coffin or climb inside my own. Since today’s agenda didn’t include a death wish, this seemed to be the lesser of two evils.
The more I drove, the more pissed off I became. Instead of driving on a road to nowhere, I should’ve been at the cantina, pretending to run it like a legitimate business instead of a one-stop-shop currency cleaner. I was the face of it, after all. Honest, trustworthy Brody Harcourt. An all-American civil servant dealt a bad hand. Righteous to his core despite being born into a band of psychos.
The pounding in my head synced with the rhythm of the rain slamming against the windshield, and my vision blurred until the whole car filled with static. I was positive I was going to have an aneurysm until the deserted service road appeared up ahead. Ignoring the railroad spikes driving through my skull, I turned right and hit the gas. Halfway down the long driveway, the car stalled. The more I slammed my foot on the gas, the more the tires spun, slinging mud across the windshield.
I couldn’t help but smirk. As if being stuck would stop me.
Not after how far I’d come. After all I’d done.
Killing the engine, I almost ripped the door off the hinges while stumbling out of the car, cursing as the soles of my handmade Italian dress shoes sank deep into the mud. Holding onto a thin layer of restraint, I made my way toward the building, calmly watching more expensive leather disappear into the earth.
Another piece of my identity soiled and ruined.
Just like everything else that mattered.
Lifting my chin, I glared up at the sky, a bitter blend of anger and alcohol swimming in my veins. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
In response, a streak of lightning lit up the sky seconds before the bottom fell out of it, turning the incessant rainstorm into a torrential downpour.
My lips twitched with a sadistic smile as I spread my arms out in acknowledgment. “Well played.”
Maybe challenging God wasn’t the smartest move, but recklessness had quickly become my drug of choice. It was an addiction more compulsive than gambling, producing a high twice as deadly. However, it wasn’t the eventual payout that kept the cycle in perpetual motion. It was the thrill of the hunt. The crave of the kill. One hit, and it thrummed through my veins, seeking more.
Needing more.
Always more.
And more is exactly what stood a hundred yards in front of me. As I walked toward it, the rain slipped away, along with my conscience. Judgment waited inside four weathered concrete walls forgotten by time. A blood coated foundation covered in so many weeds it appeared to have grown from the earth beneath it.
Inside those walls, I unleashed the man they created.
My breathing came faster and harder, and a few steps later, I found myself standing in front of a wooden door. The white paint peeled from every groove and edge as if mirroring the scars inflicted behind it. Unlocking it, I tucked what was left of my conscience inside a box and walked inside.
A man dangled from an overhead beam with his mouth wide open. To be fair, he didn’t have much of a choice with his sock shoved in it.
Nice touch.
I slammed the door extra hard and made a show of turning the lock. Whether the move was induced by alcohol or ego didn’t really matter. Once his widened eyes met mine, I committed them to memory.
Was it sadistic to savor the moment? Probably. But any benevolence I might have had disappeared when I remembered the pain the Muñoz Cartel caused the people I loved.
Rafael tilted his chair back on two legs and greeted me with a curt nod. “Jefe.”
That was the extent of his small talk. Not that I expected much more. My trusted soldier was a man of few words, which was fine with me. He did his job without asking questions and followed orders without expecting a pat on the back. He knew his role and respected the hierarchy.
We were associates, not friends.
And just by looking at him, I could see my associate had started the party without me. His white button-up was rolled up at the sleeves and splattered with blood, and the lines in his young face were pulled taut. A cold-hearted killer with a thirst for blood.
Quite the acquired asset.
Turning his attention back to his charge, Rafael kept one foot planted on the floor and kicked the man’s shin with the other, sending him spinning in a useless circle.
“Efficient as always, Suárez.” He nodded again as the chair’s front two legs slammed against the concrete not far from where José Rojas still swung like a pendulum. “What’s the status on the Chicago replacement?”
“Carlos came through. All eight hundred sold and distributed. After we split it up and give it a good wash through Caliente and Carrera’s real estate shell, we should see a profit.”
Thank God.
Step one down. Step two…well, I suppose he was still up.
Walking past our guest, I smirked. “José, glad to see you hung around for me.”
Rafael’s groan quickly turned into a cough as I glared at him over my shoulder. “Problem?”
“Nope.”
Giving my associate a curt nod, I circled José, his leather jacket brushing against his ripped jeans as he spun. The man looked like hell. His breath came rough and labored, which didn’t surprise me, considering the lead pipe that lay discarded at his feet. His nose was broken, his lip was split open, and blood dripped down his chin like a leaky faucet. I suspected broken ribs—maybe a punctured lung.