Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49215 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 246(@200wpm)___ 197(@250wpm)___ 164(@300wpm)
In a village outside Pasto, Luca had built up his own infrastructure that sure as fuck wasn’t visible on GPS. Including this well-lit aircraft hangar with white concrete flooring—it was glossier than my cousin Amelia’s lip gloss selfies on Insta—that housed two private jets.
We’d literally borrowed one to “freshen up” when we’d arrived earlier.
Four guards manned the hangar and the airstrip, and they’d greeted Adrien like royalty. Not even asking where we’d come from. He’d just requested to use one of the jets to get ready, and they’d let us board. They didn’t know we’d recently spent several hours lurking around in the rainforest.
Granted, we’d already looked fresh as fuck upon our arrival, but for a man like Rafael Delgado, a crooked tie could be enough to need a moment.
Marco’s men drove into the hangar in two nice SUVs with tinted windows.
Right on time.
And…action.
“Don Rafael—uhm, señor Delgado,” one of the goons greeted awkwardly, “vengo a llevarlo donde el patrón Marco Blanco. Por aquí, por favor.” He opened the door to the back seat of the SUV.
Adrien didn’t respond verbally. He merely inclined his head and handed me his briefcase.
I followed close behind, glad my duties had nothing whatsoever to do with opening my mouth. I was here to keep an eye out and study every threat.
Since I followed Adrien into the car, the other men simply assumed he wanted me with him. They didn’t question him or propose I ride in the other car. Adrien had warned that might happen.
Everyone knew their place in this lifestyle.
They hadn’t asked me for my weapons—yet. I didn’t know if they would.
It had to be a strange feeling for those who lived in my fake position for real. Guards who were disposable and rarely acknowledged, but still regarded higher than many others, based exclusively on who they worked for. Luca Blanco’s own guards were exactly the same. Low-men respected them but treated them like they didn’t exist.
I determined that I was somewhat free to move, so I checked the satphone and acted like I didn’t have cartel rules to follow, or whatever I was supposed to call them. ’Cause I knew they were coming. In no way were they gonna let us pass through the Blanco gates without giving some spiel. Right?
Come on, Elliott.
He hadn’t responded to my update. We were going on five hours since I’d gotten the satphone to work again. Five hours since I’d given him everything he needed to know in order to catch Carillo at his temporary safehouse in France.
The clock was ticking. Carillo was being moved to Spain tomorrow.
I peered out the window.
Dirt road and rainforest.
Then I eyed the two guards in the front seat. They didn’t strike me as militia, more like drivers with nice guns. They didn’t have the calculating sharpness in their expressions. They didn’t observe me much either. Men with violent occupations tended to assess their threats.
Hm.
It was a tough balance. I didn’t know exactly where the line was, between cartel members who were so sure of themselves that they moved freely and carelessly without thought of running into trouble…and those who were constantly on edge and waiting for shit to go sideways. Cartels lived on that razor-thin edge where arrogance and reckless behavior met utmost caution and discretion.
My grandpa had told me stories of what it was like living in Brooklyn in the seventies and eighties. Dad and Uncle Angus had some vague memories too. It’d been a little bit like this. How a laugh could morph into a death glare in two seconds. How the mafia families of New York had shaken the core of the city. How, for generations, ordinary people lived by rules and not laws. Like, my grandmother could still to this day tell me to avoid a certain street or restaurant ’cause “so and so ran that place.” Then she’d stop herself and remember that it wasn’t like that anymore.
You didn’t find dead mafia bosses on the streets of Brooklyn. You found froyo cups and the occasional syringe.
I checked my phone again, wondering why nobody had fucking responded. Elliott must’ve received the update. Squeezy had seen it, right? She’d added the number of the satphone to the chat five minutes after I’d reached out to her. But I didn’t wanna use my other phone—I’d left it in Adrien’s jungle shack. I had no signal on that thing, regardless.
I’d missed out on a lot, judging by the number of new people added to the server.
Two initials brought me nothing but dread.
GF and CF1.
If Gramps had called my dad…and Uncle Greer…
I didn’t know who EP and DP might be.
The texts had been scarce for the past forty-eight hours.
When the crew was so scattered, it made sense we sent more private messages to those who really needed the info, but it wouldn’t kill people if we reconnected a little. And how much of a hypocrite was I to think that? I’d scattered with the fucking wind. I’d fucked off completely.