“You’re telling me I’m not passionate enough anymore?”
Julio chuckles and takes a sip of his liquor. “I would never insult your artistic expression, but this man … he deserves a more divine sort of punishment. Take out the other two, and don’t worry so much about cleaning up, but bring the third back to me.” He runs his finger over the barrel of the gun resting atop his thigh, his eyes lost to whatever thoughts churn behind them. “Do not incline my heart to any evil thing. To practice deeds of wickedness with men who do iniquity; and do not let me eat of their delicacies.” A quote from the Bible, I’m guessing. For as ruthless as they can be, the cartel tends to be excessively religious, as well as superstitious. They’ll rip out a man’s tongue for disrespecting the Lord with the same conviction as if someone stole from them. “My brother was a priest. Did I ever tell you that?”
“No.” I’ve known Julio since I was eighteen years old, and for the most part, he’s been something of a father figure to me after my old man skipped town. A violent, sometimes unpredictable father figure. But I can’t say I know much about him on a personal level.
“He was leaving the church one night after a late mass, when a car drove up and gunned him down on the front lawn. I wasn’t fully indoctrinated into Matamoros yet, but I remember the night those men who gunned him down sat on their knees in front of me. Gags in their mouths. Hands tied behind their backs. I felt my brother’s presence very strongly that night, urging me to show mercy to these men and set them free.”
“And did you?”
Still staring off, he shakes his head. “I’ve killed many people throughout the course of my life, but none so brutally as what those three men suffered at my hands. With the help of a local bruja, I ensured their souls would never be saved.”
Superstitious, as I said. What other modern-day criminal hires a witch to sanctify a kill? “They deserved it, for what they did.”
“Perhaps.” Breaking from his reverie, he lifts his gaze to mine. “I understand this is a big favor I’m asking of you, but you’re the only one I trust to carry it out well. The best. It’s a shame you’re so good with numbers, or I’d employ your services more often.”
It’s only because of my rapport with Julio that I was able to transition to the laundering desk job, at all, otherwise the cartel would’ve had me running hits until I was shot dead, or died of old age. Either way, they don’t give a shit. I’m nothing but another layer to the big boss. One of many skin and flesh tiers designed to protect him.
Julio glances toward the man still bleeding onto my carpet beside him. “He’d have fucked things up, and then we’d have war. So I consider this a great favor to me.”
He says this as if the alternative of declining the job isn’t staring me in the face right now, with vacant eyes that only a few minutes ago were probably imagining a good skull fuck. There is no walking away from this life. Walking away is no different than stabbing the leader in the back, and in that case, you’re not just a dead man. You’re punished in ways that would turn even the most hardened criminal’s stomach. I’m grateful that I was able to transition. Most men in my position don’t get that choice. A reminder to be thankful when he asks for a favor.
“I’m on it.”
“Good man.” He lifts his glass before kicking it back. “As for the carpet, what do you think of a darker shade?”
4
Céleste
Go for the gut.
Peering through the scope, I line the crosshairs over the flank of the wolf. Even from just shy of a couple hundred yards away, I eye the glisten of Noya’s blood still shimmering across the monster’s jet-black fur. I baited the bastard by leaving bits of my dog’s already spilled entrails in the woods where I found her, hoping it’d draw the wolf back. That and a cow horn wolf howler I found left in an abandoned blind a few years back.
I’ve heard black wolves are common in the north, but this is my first encounter with one. Tears blur my vision, widening my view of the animal, and I drag my arm across my eyes to clear the moisture there, before snapping my attention back to the scope.
Hit the gut.
Visuals of Noya’s mutilated body play on rewind inside my head. Have for most of the night, because I didn’t even bother with the pills, so hellbent on getting up early to find that damn wolf. Recalling the sight of my dead dog fuels me, igniting a rage from somewhere deep in my chest. So much blood. In her fur. On the ground. It coated my hands when I lifted her head into my lap, as if she needed that kind of comfort anymore.
I curl my finger over the trigger, holding the arrow steady.
Footsteps crunch from behind over the snow.
Hurry.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Noya.
I squeeze the trigger, and a flash of movement in my periphery is the only warning before the crossbow’s barrel flies upward. The arrow slices through the air. An explosion of birds shoots out from the canopy of trees overhead, squawking and flapping about.
The wolf darts off into the thickness of trees.
Fury rises into my throat as I stare across the snowy hill at where Russ stands. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Bent forward, he rests his hands to his knees as he heaves. Pushing sixty-five is bad enough on his body, but the man has never bought into the idea that his is a temple and, therefore, has treated it more like a rundown trailer in the last few years.
“Told ya … a million … times.” Every word is punctuated by his lack of breath, and yet still carries that flat, nasally sound.
Like a northerner.
And I hate that I sound like him, too.
My longtime accent was the first thing to go when we arrived in this place, because anything that was a part of who I was doesn’t matter anymore. Took months of practice to rid myself of it, only to replace the distinct southern drawl with that godawful Midwest sound. And for what? Not like there was any evidence of my existence from my old life, anyway. No one knew who I was, because there’s no record that I was even born.
“He killed Noya,” I grit, the sting of tears in my eyes again. “He’s a murderer.” The crack of my voice only exacerbates what I know is irrational anger. That’s how life is in the north, after all, but she was my only friend.
“And that is unfortunate. But you do not kill a wolf.” Though he’s white to the core, Russ grew up on a Cherokee reservation somewhere in North Carolina. Just like the native feather arm band I’ve seen tattooed on his bicep, along with the turquoise and leather band he wears on his wrist, the man still honors traces of their heritage, and he believes that to slaughter the animal would bring a bad omen, or something. It’s said that the wolf’s spirit and all his kin would seek revenge for such an act.
He told me the same thing when I was thirteen years old—the first time I ever spoke aloud of wanting to kill another human being.
“I don’t believe in your stories.” Slinging the crossbow over my shoulder, I snatch up my sack that I dropped on sighting the wolf and tromp through the snow toward the cabin.
“Now, just wait a minute, Céleste.”