I’ve watched the three of them for four days straight now, each of them coming and going, in and out of a small manufactured-looking home set in the woods, off the highway in Hankamer, about an hour from Houston. Nothing special at first glance, but the exterior is wired with cameras, alarms, and enough explosives and weaponry to take out an army. Anyone not connected to them would have one hell of a time breaching those defenses, but thanks to a mutual connection, Castellano thinks I’m an interested buyer. A man willing to pay a significant amount of cash for a young immigrant slave.
A ping on my cell phone draws my attention to a text from a guy called Adrien, the slimy middle man who arranged my meeting with Castellano.
2006 Ford Mustang. Cherry red. Low mileage. $40K or $500/mo. Let me know if you’re interested.
The text is code. The girl was born in 2006. Only fifteen years old. A virgin. Forty thousand dollars to buy or five hundred for an hour with her.
I’m interested, I promptly text back.
Good. Meet off highway 10. Exit 814. Valero gas station. One hour.
To keep from being noticed, I’ve shacked up in a rundown motel, about ten miles from the safe house. But it’s up the street, in the abandoned lot of a boarded-up liquor store where I’ve made one final sweep of the files, and pulled the trigger, so to speak, setting the game in play. I gather up all of the papers and exit the vehicle. Alongside the dilapidated building sits a rusted trash can, into which I toss all but the picture of El Viejon. Flipping my Zippo, I light the corner of his photo, staring down at those sunken, lifeless eyes as his face ignites into flames. Once fully engulfed, I toss it onto the others, and the flame explodes into a full-on fire that flickers out the top of the can.
I was trained not to have any emotional attachments to the kill. To eliminate by command and nothing else.
Even so, I look forward to watching a bullet sail into this man’s skull.
Adrien is an annoying little prick who likes to talk. As he sits in the passenger seat, prattling on about how bored he’s gotten with Houston nightlife and would love to visit New York someday, blah, blah, blah, I have to fight the urge to cram a gag down his throat and throw him in the trunk.
Thankfully, we’ve reached the safe house.
The vehicle’s headlights bounce along the long, gravelly driveway that’s shrouded by a line of trees at either side of it.
Chipped paint and ratted out screens tell of little maintenance to the house’s exterior, giving the impression that it sits unoccupied, if not for the garbage piled up on the porch, the sight of which has me wishing I’d brought a hazmat suit.
“Look, these guys? They’re fucking hardcore. Hardcore. Let me do the talking, okay? You got the cash?”
At my slow nod, Adrien rubs his hands together, clearly nervous. “Okay, and not that you’d be so stupid, but no weapons, right?”
I shake my head in response. In truth, at the bottom of the cash bag, in a zippered compartment beneath, is a gun with a silencer. Being stupid, as he called it, is walking into a cartel’s safe house completely defenseless.
Aside from the initial introduction at the gas station, I haven’t spoken a word. Couldn’t, even if I wanted to, with him rambling on and on about himself.
Traffickers are strange people.
Perhaps his victims find his noise endearing initially, but all I can think about is how high pitched that voice would get if I were cutting him open right now.
“Just park in front of the garage. They already know we’re here.”
Of course they do. After throwing the car in park, I lift the console for the black pair of gloves inside and slip them over my hands.
Wearing a frown, Adrien nods toward them. “Why the gloves, man?”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness. Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
Snorting, he shakes his head. “Ain’t no god in this place.”
The two of us exit the vehicle, and while gathering the cash-filled leather bag from the back, I flip on the portable cellphone jammer. A pricey little gadget, but the range covers up to a mile, and I don’t need the entire cartel chasing me out of Texas. This little piece of equipment will essentially render their cellphones useless.
Adrien leads the way, practically skipping up to the house, and I realize something is off about him. He’s not all the way there, which probably explains how he can serve as a middle man in these exchanges. The cartel must find him to be harmless. It’s only his connections to high profile and powerful individuals that make him valuable, otherwise I suspect he’d be dead.
One of the men I recognize from the files as the bodyguard greets us at the door with an assault rifle hanging off his hip. I’ve watched the house long enough to know no one else consistently comes and goes but the three. Occasionally, there’s a female, or coyote, in tow, but no one else, as far as I’ve seen.
Those naturally pissed-off eyes give me a onceover before he sets to work, directing me to face the wall, and when I do, his hands pat me down in search of weapons.
“What’s with the gloves?” the bodyguard asks in a thick Spanish accent.
“Germophobe,” Adrien answers for me, rolling his eyes. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, as he awaits his turn. “Which reminds me. He wants to see the girl first. Make sure she’s clean.”
In the next breath, the bodyguard wrenches his smaller frame toward the wall, as he’s also checked for weapons.
“Hey! Easy, man, you’re gonna leave a bruise.”
Once finished, the bodyguard sweeps his gun over the bag on the floor, a silent order for me to pick it up. When I do, he zips it open to show the cash inside, using the barrel of his rifle to move the stacks around. The compartment beneath is designed to be sleek and subtle, and I’ve taken care to ensure the zipper moves soundlessly. Effortlessly. While I hold the bag up for inspection, I slowly, cautiously, unzip the hidden pouch beneath, one tooth at a time, careful not to move too abruptly and draw his attention.
Just wide enough to slip free the gun I’ve stored there.
Adrien meanders down the hallway, unwittingly gifting me the guard’s distraction, when he snaps his head toward the idiot.
“Where do you think you’re going, pinche gavacho? Stay put, or I’ll blow your fucking kneecaps off!” he barks, while I slide out the stashed gun.
“Damn, dude. You don’t have to get all violent. You already fondled me for weapons.”
The moment the guard snatches the bag from my hand, I rack the chamber and put a bullet square in his head. Eyes bulging, he drops to the floor. Boom.
“What the fuck!” Adrien flies backward into the wall beside him, hands up and eyes scanning from the dead body to me, and back to the dead body. “You fucking crazy, man?”
As I take shelter around the corner, backing against the wall inside the living room, I sweep my gun over the surroundings for any sign of the others, catching a flicker across the wall from a candle set in the corner. The image of an accompanying skull and scythe indicate Santa Muerte--a common shrine in safe houses.
I swing my gun back toward the hallway and peer around the wall.
Two shots fire from one of the rooms up ahead, and seconds later, Adrien drops, crying out.
Kitty corner from me, he drags himself toward the entrance at my back, blood trailing after him. The fabric of his pants is torn where the bullet hit him, blood saturating his shirt at the site of another presumed hit, and his outcries echo down the hallway.