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Geronimo merges without looking and those traveling with us pass our vehicle while we get off two exits later. There, I house a private helicopter on a small landing strip which is already set in motion when we arrive.
It’ll take a few hours by car to reach my sister, but I’ll be there sooner. Watching over her. Killing those who stand in my way.
Geronimo’s nephew is there when the car swerves to a stop right in front of the aircraft; he’s holding our headphones and a few essentials Lourdes might need. “Patron, we can leave as soon as you wish. It’s refueled and ready.”
“Gracias, parce.” I take the headgear and climb into the pilot’s side. Once they follow, I check the gages and our communication line. “Strap in, and keep your weapons drawn, men. I expect blood will be shed.”
We’re inside of an unmarked vehicle a few parking spaces behind the men following Lourdes, watching, and taking account of everyone that comes within distance of their car. So far, there have been two other oversized hijueputas with AKs in their grip. They come, say something, and leave.
Not once do they survey their surroundings.
Not once do they turn down a free grope from a local whore.
“Ten minutes on the dot,” I muse, scratching my jaw as once again they do their rounds. My sister walked inside of an old hostel-looking building not far from here, her exhaustion palpable, and disappeared behind a closed door after hearing my call.
A sound we’ve made since kids that resembles a croaking rooster, but I saw her shoulders sag with relief.
“Looks like they’re delivering food and beers.” Geronimo’s right. All four stand outside and clinks bottles, placing their weapons on the hood of the vehicle without a care or worry. They’re eating and laughing—making lewd gestures at anything that walks by in a skirt.
“How far are the men out now?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Tell them to start cleanup the moment they arrive.” The last word hasn’t left my lips when Lino slips into the car, his lips thin and his eyes narrowed. “Report.”
“They’re on Cortez’s payroll and he paid the guards on patrol tonight a million pesos each to look the other way. Unfortunately for him, those two were sent home with food poisoning, and the substitutes were amenable to our request for half the price.”
“Good.” My 1911 Sacromonte glints under the streetlight right above our vehicle. I check the magazine and the other two men follow with their Glocks. “Any extra bodies to look out for?”
“Two more in a small bar not far from here. They’re on a rotation system.” As he says this, the group of men laughs at something and the one on the left fires a single shot into the sky.
“Drunk?”
“Yes, Patron.”
“Head there and end it. I want two dead bodies by the time you come back.”
“It’s a privilege.”
“Hagale, Mijo.” Geronimo looks on with pride as his nephew exits again without drawing attention, not that the drunk fucks take notice of anything other than a set of tits.
“Thank you for accepting him, Alejandro. It means a lot to me.”
“He’s a good kid and impresses me on merit, not familial ties.” Geronimo nods and we turn back to watch the idiots. The next ten minutes come and go with the men now passing a bottle of Aguardiente between them, and it’s when the first one drops his gun and it goes off, hitting a nearby parked car, that we exit.
Our doors open but don’t close, and before they notice our presence, two drop to the ground with bullet holes to the center of their chests. There’s a scream that follows; a woman walking the streets in a neon green outfit stumbles away and her face becomes ashen when it's my face her eyes land on.
I bring a finger to my lips, and she nods, scurrying away without another word.
“What the fuck! Show yourself, hijueputa!” the shorter of the two left standing screams, his stumbling form waving the gun in the air as if it were a sparkler. He’s too shitfaced to realize I’m but a few feet away, his friend all but frozen in his spot while Geronimo delivers a single gunshot to the head of each man struggling on the ground.
“You have five seconds to drop to your knees, asshole,” I grit out, my aim on his knees. This one I’ll be taking back alive; his bravado is amusing. “Three.”
“You’ll pay for…motherfucking son of a bitch!” he howls, dropping like dead weight to the asphalt when a bullet lodges itself into his right kneecap, then the left. He’s bleeding and crying, the gun and swagger long gone.
“What was that?”
“Lucas.” It leaves him in a faint voice and his hand trembles, the gun slipping from his fingers when the fear kicks in. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights and when fight or flight kicks in, his flesh scrapes against the jagged ground to flee. Three small movements, the trail behind him bright red, and he gives up. Theatrical and a waste of time. “I’m sorry.”
