Page 59 of Isaac

But before I can answer, Lonny's head lolls forward, consciousness slipping from his grasp like sand through fingers.

"Get him out of here," I order, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. Jeremy hauls Lonny's limp body up, dragging him away from my sight, leaving behind a question shrouded in uncertainty—did Lonny give us everything, or is there more he's hiding?

"And fucking Razor?" Jeremy’s voice echoes through the warehouse several minutes later when he’s back. "Can this guy be any less original? Huh, Blade?"

"If he wants to be me…sure… let him try," I supply with a dark chuckle.

These wannabes have no fucking clue what comes with bearing the Thoreau name.

"…these have quite the kick, eh, Blade?" Toro says while his hands work over the cold metal of a Russian-made pistol. "Like a mule."

I’m holding the identical piece and watching him, watching the harsh lighting carve deep shadows across his rugged face. His eyes gleam with a mix of admiration and greed as they trace the contours of the weapon in his grip.

I nod, chambering a round with a satisfying click. "Good balance, too."

"Si." Toro sets the pistol aside and runs a calloused finger along the sleek barrel of an AK-47, treating the rifle with the reverence of a lover. "Es una belleza," he murmurs. "The gun seems to preen under his touch, as if aware of its privilege. "I don't often cross the border, Isaac," Toro admits, "but I'm glad I did for this."

"They're making them well over there."

"They do," I agree, setting the pistol down and picking up a sniper rifle, inspecting the scope. The chill from the gun seeps into my bones, a reminder of the death these machines deal without prejudice.

"Solid product," Toro continues, each word measured, tasting of agave and iron. Rumors follow him like shadows—of bodies buried in the walls of his villa, of enemies vanished like mist over Rio Grande, whispers that even the devil tips his hat to Toro when they meet at crossroads.

"Reliable too." He lifts his face to mine. "And you need reliable right now. Especially after what happened with your boys." Toro's dark gaze meets mine, probing.

I return his look evenly. "A hiccup, nothing more. Didn’t think you’d hear about it."

"Si, heard it sang all the way to Juarez."

"We're handling it."

"Good." He steps closer, the air between us charged with the voiceless language of power and survival. "I don't need to tell you, Isaac, interruptions are bad for business."

"There won't be any issues." My hand tightens on the rifle I’m holding, a silent vow.

"You’ll make sure of that, right, amigo?" His tone is a velvet threat that hangs heavy in the air between us. It's a dance we'veperfected, steps choreographed on a floor littered with spent casings and lost lives.

"Always," I reply.

"Then we are all set," Toro says, satisfaction lining his features.

His men begin to shuffle in, bringing bags filled with currency and taking the crates with products away.

"The Russians—they're icebergs in vodka," Toro says all of a sudden. "What you see, amigo, ain't what'll sink you."

I nod.

"You sure they're tight?" Toro asks.

"Like a noose," I reply, but the assurance rings hollow even to my ears. The Russian group is a card shuffled into our deck—unfamiliar, untested.

"Because if they're not," he continues, "it's your neck in the loop ¿entiendes?"

I don't need him to spell it out for me. It has always been clear; dealing with the cartel is like dancing on the tightrope of mortality. One foot is in the perpetual grave.

"I do. We’ve bled more and smiled through it," I tell Toro, trying to infuse my words with casual confidence.

"I trust you’ll keep it under control." He doesn't sound entirely persuaded, but his lackeys have already finished lugging out the crates brimming with firearms. High-quality merchandise speaks for itself after all, no matter which side of the law you're on.

---