The former public servant had sold his soul and roughened up that shiny penny exterior.
He’d appointed himself my executioner.
And now, I was his.
Chapter Four
Brody
“Adriana Carrera,” I growled into my phone, the sound of my wet shoes clapping against the dusty tiles as I pushed the door open to Caliente Cantina. “I don’t know how, Carlos. But a man with a bull’s-eye on his ass isn’t going to throw out a name like that for no reason.” Approaching the bar, I snapped my fingers at the dumb bitch behind it playing on her phone. “Yes, I’m on it.” I listened to him go on and on until the last thing he said made me come to a dead stop. “Another shipment? Shit, okay. I’ll handle it. I said I’d handle it!” I ended the call without waiting for a response.
Another two million dollars intercepted near Chicago. This was getting out of control and covering my ass while pretending it wasn’t on the line was getting harder. How did people do this shit day after day without staying permanently drunk? Maybe anger and guilt could coexist in some people’s world, but not in mine. Spinning a wheelhouse of emotion was nothing but suicide. The only way to survive was to commit to an extreme and never look back.
Pocketing my phone, I glanced up to see the latest in a revolving door of bartender bitches lift her chin and stare at me, her red lips pressed into a thin line. I couldn’t tell if it was out of intrigue, fear, or brazen pity, but I didn’t give a shit. She needed to mind her own business—a point I made by meeting her curious gaze with a steeled glare and holding out my hand.
“My drink.”
In response, she slid a glass of scotch toward me, eyeing my shirt while arching an eyebrow.
I glanced down and gritted my teeth. The white button-up shirt underneath my navy-blue suit was splattered with José’s blood. I always kept a spare in my car for situations like this, but my mind hadn’t exactly been focused lately.
I calmly stared back and waited for her to speak. She didn’t, and neither did I. A successful prosecutor controlled the narrative by forcing the defendant’s hand. So, we stood in silence. The longer we stood, the more unsettled she became.
Most people considered silence to be peaceful. I found it to be a necessary evil—one I masterfully manipulated to my advantage. Quite the impressive family trait. Reserve was a façade we were forced to wear like a crown.
And by the look on bar bitch’s face, I was still the king.
As expected, she broke first, narrowing her heavily lined eyes. “Did you cut yourself?”
“No.” My lips twitched while attempting to hold in a smirk.
Her mouth fell open, and the sound of metal crashing against tile shot through the cantina. My smirk widened. Shock value always delivered a guaranteed pick-me-up. However, as much as I enjoyed a good blindside, I also had a business to run. I couldn’t have what’s-her-name using this as an excuse to be late for work.
I made myself a mental note to buy her a new cell phone.
Once I remembered her name.
The thin skin underneath her eye twitched, and her whole demeanor changed. With a weak smile, she offered a courteous nod, fighting to keep her gaze impassive and failing miserably.
Not that most people would’ve picked up on it. Years of working in the DA’s office taught me to notice the slightest involuntary human reaction. The twitch of a witness’s eye told me more than their entire testimony. Hers told me she’d heard the rumors about me. She wanted to ask if they were true, but she wouldn’t.
Even she knew curiosity killed the cat.
Our conversation ended as she turned her attention back to whatever the hell it was she did every day instead of her job. I wasn’t offended. As long as she kept her mouth shut, I would too, and we’d both live to see tomorrow.
Continuing down the deserted hallway, I realized being stuck at a dive bar in the middle of the day had its perks. At least I’d have a few hours of privacy before the booze brigade rolled in. Houston’s town drunks were more punctual than any of its so-called professionals. They wouldn’t flood the cantina until at least three o’clock.
Which gave me plenty of time to call in a favor.
Plus, we were still short-staffed, so I wouldn’t have to deal with nosy waitresses who didn’t know their place. That wasn’t a generalized chauvinistic statement. It was a brutal fact, considering the last two employees I vouched for ended up in the obituary column.
Needless to say, women had crossed over to my shit list months ago.
Making my way to my office, I unlocked the door and collapsed in my chair. In the solitude of my own space, my lungs finally began to heave much-needed air into my body, and I clicked on the desk lamp, bathing the tiny office in dim yellow light and shining a spotlight on the reason I was going to hell.
Well, one of them anyway.
Sinking into the chair, my fingers flexed around the picture frame as I dragged it toward me. Even protected by the glass, the photo was worn and faded. Destroyed by time just like each one of us.
Four smiling Harcourts. One living on borrowed time.
I closed my eyes and sighed. “None of us had to end up like this.”
Sure, if my mother hadn’t sold us out and my sister had trusted me with the truth then one wouldn’t be in jail and the other wouldn’t have been declared dead.
Unfortunately, it was too late by the time I saw through my family’s carefully constructed personas. Maybe if I had, things would’ve ended differently. Bitter laughter rumbled in my chest.
Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve.
But didn’t.
Story of my fucking life.
Of course, none of that mattered now. Things had changed, and so had I. My job wasn’t to protect and serve anymore as much as manipulate and destroy. Preferably, before anyone else beat me to it.
Like the Muñoz Cartel.
Opening my suit jacket, I pulled out my cell phone and rolled it over in my palms. Carlos said he would take care of things, but I didn’t like leaving my fate in someone else’s hands. If there was one valuable thing I learned from my mother, it was that political officials’ morality had a price tag. Luckily for me, the consulate general at the Mexican Embassy was just as corrupt as she was, only with half the intellect.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and dialed Leo Pinellas’s private number. It took two rings for him to answer, his voice a satisfactory mix of fear and unease.
“Hola, Señor Harcourt, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
No surprise there, considering the last time we spoke, he put up so much resistance to my request, I had to threaten him. To be fair, he did end up betraying his own country.
“Yeah, well, I have a problem—which means you have a problem.”
“Vete a la mierda,” he grumbled. Not that I expected a warm greeting, after all this time, but telling me to fuck off was a bit over the top. “I can’t be involved with you anymore. It’s too risky.”
“It’s riskier for you to ignore me.” On edge, I tossed the picture frame onto the floor. “I already made one widow today. Don’t force me to make another.”
Silence filled the line while I assumed he weighed his options. He really didn’t have any, but I humored him and spun a full two revolutions in my chair before he came to his senses.