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She tapped an image over her table, and I pulled it to me and Ben. It showed a triangle tattooed on the guy’s arm. It looked like the pyramid of the food chain showcasing six sessions. The base was one session of its own. The level above was divided in the middle, and the remaining three levels rose to the top.
The base, the fourth level at the left, and the third level were colored in black, leaving the other three blank, with only the lining defining them.
I traced the lines. “What does it mean?”
“It’s their hierarchy. They’re colored according to how the person becomes a member. If he’s starting from scratch, with no original connection inside, they tattooed only the lines. Once he becomes a potential member, butis still on probation, they paint the base. Then they add the coloring as things progress.”
Ben leaned over my shoulder to get a better look. “So, he’s an outsider?”
She nodded in agreement. “At first, he was. But then, after he did whatever to gain their trust—”
“Something terrible, I guess,” I suggested.
She nodded. “Most likely—they painted the left part of the fourth level. I believe that level means he’s privy to what happens on the streets, but he doesn’t know the operation.”
“Why is the fourth level divided? What’s the difference?” Ben’s question was legit.
“If you get in solely on your deeds, you get the left side. If you fund their operation, you get the right side.” She turned to me. “Remember that senator we arrested for money laundering right before I got canned?” At my nodding, she went on. “He had one of those pyramids. The fourth level on the right was colored on his arm.”
I rubbed my forehead, a light throb beginning in my temple. “I don’t know which is worse. Getting in because you did something outrageous, or funding the people who do. Okay, the middle level?”
“That’s where he is. He somehow rose through the ranks, and he’s now in an important position. Which is somewhat impressive, being that young. He’s not at the dome, though—only a handful of people are—that’d be the first level. And he isn’t yet a make-decision kind of member—the second level—but he’s important enough not to be just a disposable soldier anymore.”
I nodded along with her words, trying to absorb the onslaught of new information. “What happens if they get out?”
“The tattoo is cut off,” she deadpanned. “Literally.”
Ben raised his brows. “Like with a knife?”
She shrugged. “Or an ax. Whatever it’s handy. Then they’re killed.”
He puffed and slid his ass to the edge of his chair, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “What a fun way to start the day.”
I looked at the pictures again. “So, this guy is a sort of important member. That makes sense. He was one of the responsible members assigned to keep an eye on the girls before our raid. Why is this bothering you?”
“Actually,thatwasn’t my issue.” She pulled a file from the stack surrounding her and handed it to me. “This is.”
I sneered like I did every time I saw Matias. There were two pictures on the file. In the first one, he was photographed at a distance. Beside it was a zoom of his arm. It was grainy, but I could still make out the triangle, with only the second level at the top painted.
“The fucker is a hotshot,” I growled.
“Not only that. You see that none of the other bases are painted?”
“Yes. So?”
“He didn’t rise from the base. He was never an outsider. He jumped right into the level below the dome.”
“I’m still not getting it.” Ben pondered her words. We were almost too afraid of coming up with an answer. “You think he’s an heir?”
“I think it’s possible. Or at the very least, he’s related to someone significant in the cartel. Significant enough to have him close to the boss. From all my time investigating them, this is the first time I saw a single painted second level on this pyramid.”
“Have you seen the top painted?”
She nodded. “On Carlos ‘La Sangre’Gomes and Pablo ‘El Segador’Salazar.”
I was mulling over our conversation, neither of us wanting to admit what seemed to be right in front of us, when my phone rang. I answered the call, putting it on speaker.
“Aaron.”
