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“Get out of my home. Now.”
“Disrespect me again, culicagado...” the smirk on his face as he takes a puff from his cigar pisses me off “...and I’ll personally kill your mother.”
“Threaten her ever again, and the next bullet goes between your eyes.” My response makes him laugh, but I fire again. This time, to his left and hitting the soldier holding my brother by the hair in his chest. He drops Emiliano who is less hurt, just a split lip and swollen eye, falling back and onto his ass. My brother moves too, crawling toward me at a slow pace and with the now dead soldier’s weapon. “Mamita, leave.”
“She stays—”
“I didn’t ask you, General. She leaves.”
“You insolent güevon,” he sneers, looking toward my father’s banged up form and then back at me. The dislike in his expression can’t be missed, and yet, I don’t know this man. Other than the ranking badge on his uniform, he’s a stranger to me. To us. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“And you, my patience.” From behind me, I sense movement and tilt my head just enough to see my mother exit with my sister in her arms. Our nation’s military doesn’t stop her or complain, which I’m thankful for, and I only hope she leaves through the underground bunker on the other side of the house. It’s a passageway my grandfather installed when he sat at the head of Cafe’ Paisa and the Finca was raided by thieves looking for money and jewelry. “Why are you here?”
“We’re here to take possession of this plantation and all assets within, by decree of President Almendra after Jose Quintero brought forth evidence of your father’s misdeed. Your family’s cartel operations are finished, Alejandro.”
“What the hell did you just say?” I hiss out, confusion coloring my tone as the gun slips a bit in my hold. Before it falls, though, I tighten my grip. “Are you crazy? Cartel? We’re coffee growers.”
“Not according to the Colombian government, Alejandro. As the order signed by the current president with the help of the future leader of the republic states, we are to destroy your family’s operations and apprehend your father, exposing him for the low-life criminal he is.”
2
Four months ago...
“PATRON, WE’RE HERE,” Geronimo says from behind the wheel of my armored SUV as he parks in front of a popular club in Bogota. The capital city is alive tonight, busy with an idiot or five laughing—celebrating the end of a long, grueling workweek.
It’s the Friday-night ritual that every country has: get paid and get drunk.
To forget. To live. To fucking breathe.
In and out like a revolving door, they slip inside of restaurants and bars like tired sheep in this busy intersection at the heart of our colorful capital. Many of them look my convoy’s way. Many of them wonder who’s inside and if I’m famous.
Moreover, being curious is a stupid habit. A manageable trait if a person applies itself.
Because the curiosity that humans must feed at all costs—even if it ends with their fearful gaze staring at the barrel of a gun—is avoidable.
Many of them ignore that we’re born with two very dominating responses to danger, though. They pay no mind to their fight or flight instincts; to that nagging little voice inside their heads screaming—blaring signals to run and hide.
It’s there for a fucking reason.
It’s there to warn. To save you.
Because true evil doesn’t hide. It doesn’t cower. A killer will expose himself without a second thought or remorse because he knows most will never pick up on the cues. They understand how a soft smile and pleasant demeanor are far greater weapons than any knife could ever be.
And I am the definition of the wrong person to cross. The monster that plays from the shadows and rules in the light.
“Thank you.” My eyes shift to his in the rearview mirror, and I hold back a chuckle when his gaze drops immediately. But then again, he’s always been a very respectful man who takes his job seriously. It’s the reason why he’s been around almost as long as my second-in-command. “Please have all vehicles moved to my private parking area for the evening, and then join me inside.”
“Si, señor,” he responds immediately, and I nod before opening the car door. Tonight he’s my right hand while Chiquito, the owner of that title, travels to Barranquilla on a retrieval assignment.
Exiting, I stretch my neck from side to side while adjusting the weapon hidden beneath my suit blazer. It’s nestled within a custom leather holster, a favorite within my collection for a very particular reason. This Cabot 1911 Sacromonte is a beautiful piece with a story to match, but more than being a one-of-a-kind gun, its accuracy and handle make it my favorite go-to weapon.
I’m not one to waste bullets, and this makes me what I consider to be a conscious killer.
Good for the environment as each bullet within its magazine equals a body.
Doors open and close following my lead as I look up at the marquee. Codicia is a large building—unavoidable as it sits at the center of this busy intersection.
It’s an upscale establishment. Ostentatious and seductive. An undercover whore house without technically serving women to the lowlifes that frequent this restaurant/bar. It’s the owner’s business plan to draw out those with lower morals and deep pockets, a smart move in most instances by the son of a foreign leader—an ally of Colombia—that resides here instead of his native Venezuela.
