Sweet Collateral

The car pulls up outside Diablo’s. It’s a biker bar in the worst part of the city. The neon sign casts a red glow over the row of bikes outside, making the chrome exhausts shine demonically. Stepping out of the car, I take a cigar from my pocket and light it, inhaling the thick cloud of smoke.

Carlos shifts beside me, taking his gun from the back of his jeans. He looks like nothing more than a thug with his ball cap in place; hood pulled up over it. Samuel is my second, the one who takes care of the business, but Carlos is my guy on the ground. He knows everyone, hears everything, and reports back. The two of them are polar opposites.

“Let’s get this done and go,” I say. He nods and walks ahead of me, gun in hand. The doors swing open, squealing on their hinges. The second my shoes click over the worn wooden floorboards, the conversation drops to a low rumble until the music blares alone. Patrons sit at scarred and worn tables, huddled over their beer bottles and shot glasses. Strippers, a little too old to still be working, hang off poles and grind over sweaty, drunk men. Rock music rumbles through me as I cross the room, nodding to the barman briefly before we head for the door at the rear. The back of the bar is nothing more than a dingy hallway with an office at the end. Inside, I find the bar owner, Fernando, sitting behind a desk, his heels kicked up and a cigarette in hand.

“Ah, Rafael. How are you?” he asks, getting to his feet and hiking his dirty, oil-stained jeans over his gut.

I ignore him, focusing on the barely conscious waif of a girl, shaking and tied to a chair in the middle of the room. Long blonde hair, the color of pure gold hangs in her face. I approach her, taking in every minute detail of her frame.

“Is she hurt?”

“She’s not exactly in one piece.” My eyes trace over the array of bruises covering her exposed arms and legs. Her left ankle and foot are swollen, the skin blackening, and her wrists are circled in bleeding, open skin. I glare at Fernando, and he holds his hands up. “It wasn’t me. What do you take me for?” He scoffs and begins counting the wad of cash Carlos just gave him. “You asked for her. I like my limbs intact. I’m not stupid. You should know…before Espanoza got her, she escaped Dominges’ compound by getting in Psycho’s car...” He shrugs. “Psycho had a body in his car, thinks she’s seen too much.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Psycho is a sicario, and as his name suggests, a useful one, but he’s not mine. He’s freelance, which means my control over him is tenuous at best. “Just tell him she’s mine.” I turn back to the girl. “Untie her.”

Carlos takes a knife and cuts the cable ties from her wrists. Still, she doesn’t lift her head. Pressing a single finger beneath her chin, I force her head up until the curtain of hair falls away from her face, and I’m met with her glazed-over, blue eyes. Tears spill down her pale, clammy cheeks, gliding over the duct tape that covers her mouth. She’s so pretty and fragile, not to mention tanked on something. What could Nero possibly want with this broken little bird?

“What did you give her?” I direct the question at Fernando.

“Look, she was in a bad way. Withdrawing. I had some methadone.”

I clench my jaw so hard that my teeth hurt. She looks confused but aware. “How much did you give her?”

“Not much.”

“Bring her,” I tell Carlos and turn away, walking out of the shitty little room.

5

Anna

I flinch away from the gentle touch under my chin, but he ignores it. Taking a deep breath, I tilt my head back, my gaze slowly moving over the perfectly tailored suit clinging to a broad frame. His shirt is open at the collar, revealing a network of tattoos that creep up his neck as if the ink were trying to strangle him. When I meet dark eyes, the hairs on the back of my neck rise and my pulse picks up. The suit, the cold mask of ruthless indifference on his face; everything about him makes me feel like prey. My foggy mind swims through whatever drug they gave me. But even through my muted senses, fear beats away with every staggered breath until I’m drowning in it. I don’t know who this man is, but I can tell he’s someone important, and in Mexico, that’s never a good thing. I’ve seen too much. I know too much. They’re going to kill me.

Tears slip down my cheeks, and I want to be strong, I do, but this isn’t some Hollywood film. This is the cartel, and there are no second chances for a disobedient whore. The thought angers me just as much as it scares me.