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For protection.
For the rights to a simple visit, and that fee was imposed by the tombos at the jailhouse.
And while my mother cried at night, I worked harder. Smarter. Made the right connections with a man that I’d kill near the end of Quintero’s second term and overtake his illicit throne.
The day I took possession, I personally sent Quintero a gift via a car bomb outside of the presidential palace. Just one car. The exact replica of his. The message was loud and clear on my behalf, but if by any chance he still didn’t understand, I called him. My phone call didn’t last long, just a few seconds, but I made sure that he heard the one word.
My name and the date of my father’s arrest.
That’s it.
Jose Quintero became president off the back of false accusations toward his honest opponent. Off a man that refused to play dirty. A man that served six years for a crime he didn’t commit, and after a visit from myself to the newly appointed leader, I persuaded him to see things my way in exchange for a financial contribution to the national debt.
And while Quintero fled the country with his entire family, I bided my time. To this day he hasn’t come back, but I know where he is. Where he hides beneath a pile of rocks like the snake he’s always been.
Guatemala isn’t far enough.
“Now, back to something a bit more important...”
“What’s he asking for this year?”
“You hungry?” he asks instead, standing with a bottle in his hand when I shake my head. “Then let’s head upstairs. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“You sure you don’t want to eat?”
“After my surprise.”
With a brow raised, I wave a hand in the air. “Lead the way.”
The moment I rise from my chair while taking my guns, the soldiers with me move toward the entrance and open the door. Two walk outside with their weapons drawn, while the others stand between me and the hallway. A quick search finds everything clear and they step aside to make room for my exit.
We go back the way we came in but stop midway where a hidden panel resides behind a painting. With a flash of my keycard across the oil medium the wall parts, exposing a vintage elevator shaft with exposed metal and a manual door you push aside to open—and secure it closed with a hard pull and a latch. It fits three people, and I signal Geronimo to head inside while looking over at the others.
“Take the stairs across from us and meet me on the rooftop.”
“Yes, Patron.” They’re gone before I fully turn around, and the sound of a door opening meets my ears while Geronimo stands waiting to close the metal entrance and then pull the lever.
Three floors separate the clientele here, and while the first floor is quieter and more reserved, the next two are festive—open-bar settings with small dining tables littering the floor, and the kind of music playing is a little more Criolla. From old school to top hits. From vallenato to cumbia.
The elevator passes and stops. This one is for the younger crowd.
The rowdier hipsters of the country, and the music reflects that.
Urban Latino blares from the speakers of this rooftop club for a throbbing sea of bodies. Men and women all blur into each other, their bodies grinding—moving to the beat of reggaeton as one at the center of the room. It’s a depraved gyration that catches the eye of every person within as hands wander beneath short skirts. As heads are thrown back in bliss and the smiles on glossed lips are one of dirty satisfaction.
No hiding. No pretending.
And while the lighting is minimal beneath the cool night sky, I stride across the room toward a small VIP section toward the back. There are two private seating areas and my men are already there on the left, standing guard as a waitress places a few bottles of liquor atop a table between the arranged seating.
A few people try to get my attention: women and men for similar reasons. To talk shop or offer me easy access to pussy. I’m interested in neither and at the sight of my glare, they step back.
Not tonight. This isn’t the time to try to make a deal.
I’m the first to take a seat. The oversized red gothic chair between sofas gives me a view of the entire floor, from the large bar, the DJ’s station, and the dance floor where now a woman is on her knees with a cock down her throat, bobbing her head as those around her cheer the petite woman on.
“Are you keeping with the same drink or…?”
“Rum.”
