Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Was he the cartel boss?
With a grunt, he turned and lumbered into a room that was four times the size of her cell.
She stepped forward, and Garra closed the door behind her, shutting himself out.
Her feet carried her into the dark quarters, her senses shuddering at the overwhelming scent of spicy food and cigarette smoke.
Some of the interior concrete walls must’ve been removed to expand the space, though she couldn’t imagine how it would’ve been done.
The first ten-foot section was arranged like a dining room. At the center, the old man sat at a small table, surrounded by platters of steaming burritos, carne asada, and rice.
Random pieces of furniture encircled the space. Wooden bookcases, filing cabinets, and antique chairs—the furnishings were nicer than anything she’d seen in Jaulaso.
Stockpiles of guns and ammunition filled what would’ve been a neighboring cell. Beyond that, a heavy drape hung from the ceiling. The edge of a bed peeked out from behind it.
The scowling wall of muscle returned to the door and stood with his back to it and his arms crossed.
Was he a guard?
“Don’t mind Luis.” The older gentleman wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, his Spanish thick and hypnotic. “He’s my security.”
Where had Luis been during the riot? Had he been in here the entire time? Or out there killing people? Maybe she didn’t want to know.
“Okay.” Her hands trembled at her sides. “I…um… My name is—”
“Petula Gomez.” The syllables rolled off his tongue with old-world eloquence.
He knew her name.
The most feared man in Mexico knew who she was.
Her pulse quivered as reality crashed in.
She was talking to Hector La Rocha, standing three feet away from him, in the room where he slept. Sweet merciful hell, her mother must’ve been rolling in her grave.
“What do I call you?” Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.
“Call me Hector.” A smile touched his gentle eyes. “Please…” He gestured at the seat across from him. “Sit. Eat with me.”
Her stomach bucked with nausea. If she ate, it would all come back up.
“I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t prepared for this.” She rubbed a clammy palm on her jeans and lowered into the chair. “I didn’t know you were here. In prison.”
“Very good.” He lit a cigarette, watching her through a curl of smoke. “I pay a lot of money to a lot of people to keep my location a secret.”
Made sense. It would be easy for his enemies to send assassins into Jaulaso. Hector could only run as far as the prison walls.
She stared at his cigarette with longing. She hadn’t smoked since college, but the urge crept up sometimes.
It would calm her nerves, maybe make her look tougher than a high school Spanish teacher.
He tracked her gaze and held out a pack of smokes. “Go ahead.”
She couldn’t hide the tremors in her hands as she lit one. Somehow, she managed not to cough through the first drag.
Silence stretched between them, and he didn’t seem to mind. There was no expectation in his warm brown eyes. No judgment in his relaxed posture.
He was nothing like she’d imagined.
The stories she’d heard growing up had painted him as a raping, murdering, blood-thirsty tyrant. Maybe that was true when he was younger. But now? All she saw was a soft-spoken, unassuming gentleman in his sixties.
Silver streaked a full head of black hair, and the few wrinkles fanning from his dark eyes made him look mature and distinguished. Modestly dressed with a lean physique, he was too debonair to be a cartel leader. Too pleasant and fragile looking to fit in with the uneducated, vulgar gangsters who roamed the halls of Area Three.
His cream-colored shirt buttoned neatly over his narrow chest with the collar undone. No flashy necklaces or rings. Nice teeth. Clean hair. Smoothly shaved jawline. He took care of his appearance without coming across as pretentious.
He didn’t radiate cruelty like his guard at the door, and there wasn’t a trace of sexual interest in his gaze.
So why was she here? Maybe it was a test, one that would cast her out of Area Three if she failed.
But if she were allowed to stay, Garra would attempt to collect rent. She meant what she’d said. If he touched her again, she would kill him.
She desperately needed to belong to a structure that would keep her safe. To survive, she needed to be part of a group, a circle of trust that would support her when she defended herself and protect her when she couldn’t.
If Hector La Rocha truly owned Jaulaso, she needed him on her side.
Scanning his belongings, she searched for something that might help her connect with him and wriggle into his good graces.
An old record player sat in the corner next to a stack of vinyl records. Old-fashioned paintings colored the walls in Mexican landscapes. Handwoven rugs brightened the floor, and countless books lined the shelves. Books with Spanish titles about politics, war, technology, and religion.