Page 120 of Damián

It has a combination lock, and inside there are gloves, a change of clothes, handcuffs, scissors, small specimen tubes inside a fake, hollow bottle of shaving cream, a fucking gun, and… what is this?

I pull out a small plastic toy, turn it around, and it is… a SpongeBob SquarePants Pez dispenser.

Oh, my God, Zara… what the hell are you putting in my murder bag?

I never should have given her the lock code.

“Everyone will be here in ten minutes.” Castor limps toward the driver, while I put on the gloves and double-check that the gun’s safety is on. “Take her to the front of the yacht. There’s a bar there, so offer her a drink and make sure she stays away from the back. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Castor,” the driver answers, and he immediately goes to collect Zara, who is currently playing up her oblivious Instagrammer persona perfectly.

I place my hands against the van’s trunk and close my eyes, centering myself and praying for one last time that this all ends well.

“How many men?” I ask.

“Three of ours, two from the yacht.”

“The yacht’s staff will want to stay close to the guest areas,” I tell him, which he knows, but when you want something like this to go without any losses, it’s always good to remind him of things like that. “Put the staff on guard duty at the bow and the main deck, and keep our guys in the back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want our men on the sides and one at the bar. You will guard the stairs leading down to the cabins. No guests go past the main area, and absolutely no one goes down those stairs. Are we clear?” I ask.

He nods.

I draw my gun, keeping the safety on, and press it hard against Castor’s hip. “I said, no one goes down the fucking stairs. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once we stop, I want all three of our men to make sure everyone, including the staff, stays at the front of the boat. The captain has the boxes of fish bait; I want you in charge of throwing them into the ocean… I don’t want any of that shit getting on my clothes.”

I move the gun away from his hip, but keep it pointing in his direction as I talk.

“And as always, once the cargo is in the water, we leave immediately, and you and your men are free to drink or do as much coke as you want,” I explain, and to add an extra touch of fucking cray-cray, I smile. “Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

“Great.”

I shove the gun into the front of my waistband and pat him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s have some fun.”

And just like planned, our men keep Zara distracted while Castor and I escort the man and his family onto the yacht.

Once inside, I shove the family into the main room, pull out a magnetic doorbell camera, slap it onto the center of the door, and check my phone screen to make sure the video feed is working fine.

“To your fucking station, Castor.” I glare at him from the doorway, watching him limp down the corridor until he is completely out of sight.

Only then do I step inside, lock the cabin’s door, and turn on the music.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask, moving quickly to help the husband untie his hands.

“We are fine,” he whispers, glancing nervously at the door.

“Oh, don’t worry. No one is going to come in here, but if anyone gets close, we can see them.” I prop up my phone to show the live feed of the empty hallway, and they noticeably relax. “See? All good.”

The husband helps me untie his wife, and I walk over to the closet and open the mini-fridge. “You guys have water in here, some juice for the kids, and in that drawer, you’ll find some toys.”

“Thank you,” the wife cries, rubbing her bruised wrists. “Thank you for doing all this.”