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“I appreciate the input.” For some reason they both let out a sigh at this, becoming less rigid. It’s the wrong move, and on their next intake of breath, my 1911 is in my hand and I’m pulling the trigger. Two bullets, and screams rend the air. Two holes that ooze blood and pool on the floor below.
It’s a clean entry and exit that leaves one man with a horrified expression and the other crying, a whimpering mess down on the floor where he’s slipped to. A bit overdramatic, but then again, I expect that from men like him.
A cocky, overbearing, and idiotic frat boy with the common sense of a roach.
“Quiet, or the next one will be to your head,” I hiss out and Shawn bites down on his bottom lip, hard enough to break the skin. A few drops of blood roll down from the torn skin, but he does remain quiet. “Much better.”
Looking over at Geronimo, I signal for him to play for them a recording from last night. It details the night, the people at their table—the talking and laughing. You can hear clearly when Bosdell tells Thorn to be quiet and live a little.
“We work for El Patron, fucker. We’re untouchable.” There’s a small gasp or two, the sound of chairs scraping against the terrazzo floors of the establishment. People are moving, Shawn’s voice becoming louder as less noise surrounds them. “I could literally piss on the owner’s cash register and still be protected, Jason. It’s a dream come true.”
“Jesus, Shawn! Shut up!”
“It’s not like people don’t know Alejandro Lucas is a corrupt son of a bitch.” There’s a bit of a slur in his response, followed by a harsh smack to a solid surface. “He has no morals, so why should we?”
“You’re stepping out of line—”
“Sweetheart, suck his dick and remove the stick from his ass while you’re at it.”
“That’s enough, Geronimo.” A click follows, and I arch a brow. Waiting. “Anything you’d like to say?”
“I apologize, Mr. Lucas. We messed up and should’ve been more responsible.”
“Jason, I appreciate your acknowledgment and apology.” My eyes turn to his associate, a man whose eyes are closed and writhing in pain. “Mr. Bosdell?”
“I’m sorry.” That’s it. No remorse. What he’s sorry about is getting caught and chastised like the toddler he is.
Standing from my chair, I walk the few steps that separate us and look down. “Not good enough.” His eyes snap open at my response, and now we get an emotional response. Fear flashed across his eyes as my finger twitches over the trigger and it engages, a bullet exiting the chamber. One second. One blink. The projectile enters his skull and his head bounces, the lifeless eyes stuck on horror as they gaze at me.
His blood bathes—splashes across the men standing present, each wearing a fragment or two on their pants as it pools beneath Mr. Bosdell. The puddle becomes larger with each passing moment.
“You were right about choosing the hand, Mr. Thorn. You’re useful while your partner was a liability.” Placing the gun back in its holster, I smile. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“No, s-sir. I won’t.” His entire body is shaking, face ashen.
“Let’s hope so.” I look over at Geronimo. “Get him the cleanup kit and walk him through the disposal process. It’s time Mr. Jason Thorn learns something other than hacking if he’s to be of use to me.”
There’s something eerily calming about taking a boat into the Amazon jungle early in the morning. It’s quiet and peaceful and meant to give a false sense of calm. It’s untrustworthy yet lulls you into the serene landscape as predators watch from behind the cover of trees.
Or beneath the surface of the calm water. They watch while you lose yourself in the silence.
And if you’re not careful, they take your life before a call for help can be screamed.
It’s a danger I recognize in myself. A yearning for blood that I welcome.
“We’re almost to the embankment, Patron. Will you be calling Mr. Emiliano?” Geronimo says, bringing me a bottle of water and a moist towel to wipe my face. We’ve been on this river for a few hours now, navigating through the densest section of the Amazon that’s within the Colombian border. It’s an uncharted area, unexplored because of the dangers it possesses when the nearest hospital is hours away and the chances of something going wrong are high.
Taking the cold bottle of water, I twist the cap and take a few sips. “Bring me the SAT phone. I want him to be there when we disembark.”
“Right away.” He’s gone maybe a minute at the most, coming back with the satellite device and placing it on the bench seat. Geronimo doesn’t linger, heading downstairs so I’ll have some privacy while the boat’s driver is far enough not to hear me.
Opening the case with the phone, I pull out the device and turn it on, leaving the antenna pointing toward the sky. It comes to life within a few seconds and I press the number three, bringing it to my ear as it starts to ring right away.
“Are you close by, hermanito?” My brother’s voice is gruff, always sounds annoyed, and I chuckle at the fact he still calls me his little brother. The asshole works for me but uses the term to show some bullshit hierarchy when it comes to siblings.
“Forty minutes or so.” I stand from my seat and walk over to the back where the water ripples, the motor slicing through as it propels us deeper into the jungle. Off to the left, there’s a caiman on the embankment sunbathing, while another swims up close and then stops. They watch each other, not moving an inch as they wait for an opportunistic moment to present itself.
“Are we meeting by a large tree with the machete embedded?” There’s shouting behind him, the sound of a group creating a formation and rifles being shifted in unison. Hands grabbing the metal, it slaps against their palms as they continue to perform a drill and can be heard clearly through the line. “That works?”
