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“On his way back from picking up a new business partner.”
“Are you taking them out for a game of soccer?” The asshole smirks, understanding the meaning behind the words, and extends his hand out while those sitting to his left await my response. To show their amusement or run. Because while I don’t know them personally; they know me. Know of my no-patience reputation.
Of my cruelty. Of my shoot-first policy.
I keep my expression neutral. “Something like that.”
“By the way, the kiddo’s been asking about his uncle Nando.”
Taking my time, I leave him hanging while pulling my two 1911s out and place them down atop the table, the barrels facing Daniel. He doesn’t flinch. My guests don’t so much as breathe.
“Tell him patience is a virtue.”
“You try telling that to a spoiled five-year-old.” He laughs, and I let out a chuckle of my own before taking the offered hand. One tug, and I pull him half over the glass tabletop and slap his shoulder. I’ve known him since primary school, and when my family fell from grace and my father was arrested, his parents took us in without a second thought.
No questions asked. No rebukes.
It’s why I brought him along with me after establishing my business. It’s why he can joke with me, and I’d never kill the fucker for it. I’d shoot him, but never end his life.
Daniel Armando is the head of my transport division in Cali and is loyal. A brother.
“You’re just jealous he thinks I’m the coolest person alive.”
He pulls back, the grin on his face letting me know he’s about to say something stupid. “That little shit has bad taste and doesn’t know any better, güevon.”
The men at this table don’t know our past. They’re here because I need someone with their specific skill to do a job for me, and it’s comical how their eyes widen. How they move back in their seats, their chairs scraping against the floor roughly, screeching as they do.
“Relax.” One word and they ease up, the tension in their bodies less prominent. “We’re all friends here tonight.”
Taking my seat opposite of Daniel, I pour myself a drink while giving Geronimo a barely perceptible nod as he enters a minute later. He takes his place a few feet behind me, hand on his gun.
There’s a beat of silence that follows. They look at me while I wait. Their body language is nervous while they find the courage to ask me the one question that’s been bothering them since Daniel extended my invitation.
And it’s the pudgier of the two that sits forward a bit after a few minutes, sweat beading at his brow. “Mr. Lucas, why are we here? How can we be of assistance?”
“You’re here because I need a hacker.”
3
“NOTHING IS OFF-LIMITS for the right price,” the same fucker answers quickly, and it’s clear he’s the more vocal of the two. He’s intrigued, curious, while his friend’s posture becomes falsely more relaxed.
Another mistake.
They shouldn’t trust me. Not even for a split second.
The two culicagados sitting in front of me are no older than twenty, but with a reputation that precedes them.
They’re not natives to my country. They’re not from this continent. The two fugitives are American citizens hiding in Colombia while evading what other nations call justice.
Jason Thorn and Shawn Bosdell are wanted men in both the US and Europe for high-profile cybercrimes. For selling confidential information on the black market belonging to the clientele of Fortune 500 companies spanning the globe.
From L.A. to Shanghai.
From London to Mexico.
It’s cost each company trying to right these wrongs millions. It’s also made their governments scared. And they should be…
Secrets never stay hidden for long.
