Page 55 of Vicious Savage

“Not where your safety is concerned.”

“Why Attila? Why? Why do you care so much what happens to me?”

“I thought that answer would have been obvious by now,” he says, lifting his bag and leaving the room.

56

ATTILA

We have eight of our strongest men with us, all ex-Navy Seals who now serve on our security team. They may be only eight men, but they’re a formidable army; I’ve seen four of them take down two dozen gang members without so much as sneezing.

Maria answers her phone when the plane touches down in the private airstrip we left only a few days ago. She’s breathless as she speaks into the phone and tells Cesar that her daughter was giving birth so she had her phone off. We collectively breathe a sigh of relief that she is okay and Cesar asks her if she’s okay to talk now.

I’m second guessing only bringing eight men with us as she tells us the story she’s heard about the missing Castillo brothers. A thin rod of fire inches down my spine as the last shred of hope I had of finding them alive disappears.

“A year?” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “They’ve been missing a whole year? How did Luna not know this?”

I sit in disbelief as we drive through the countryside of Mexico, slowing down at a clearing to collect our bearings. This information gives us nothing, yet it changes everything.

“So Nestor took the boys and dangled them over Coyin’s head until he returned Luna,” Cesar repeats the words that Maria said. Even she didn’t know the boys were missing; she had seen them so rarely since they moved to the city, she didn’t think much of it when they no longer attended the country estate.

“That doesn’t make sense though. CoyinhadLuna; why wouldn’t he give her to Nestor in exchange for his sons?”

Cesar’s face blanches as the realization dawns on him. Nestor must have double crossed Coyin, who must have found out his sons were not coming back. They were dead. And the only way to spite Nestor was to sell Luna to the highest bidder.

“Why then, would he invite Nestor to the auction?”

“He didn’t. He had him removed, remember? Probably to be killed, but he somehow got away.”

“Which means he had someone on the inside working for him — how else would he have known about the party?”

“I think the best place to start would be Nestor’s residence. Do you have an address?”

Cesar pulls up a map on his phone and directs the driver there, before sending a text to the cars waiting behind us to let them know what’s happening. “The man’s dead — how far could we possibly get going to his home?” he asks.

“It’s a start, if nothing else.”

* * *

Nestor Gamboa’shome resides behind a high stone wall; the area is flooded with light as we approach it, holding back fifty feet or so when we see that the huge black wrought iron gate is open. We leave our cars concealed by the trees and walk stealthily on foot as we approach the house, using only our eyes and fingers to indicate. The sound of men shouting in Spanish carries on the night air as the sun slips behind the horizon. We stop and listen, attentive to every word; Nestor Gamboa may be dead, but it looks like his soldiers are well and truly still alive.

“Yo digo que los matemos. Eso es lo que Nestor hubiera querido.” (I say we kill them; that’s what Nestor would have wanted.)

“Nestor se fue, pendejo. Why dirty your hands with this filth!” (Nester is dead, asshole)

“Someone has to take over.Estoy tomando las decisiones ahora.” (I’m making the decisions now)

“Manuel, I Implore you, brother! Let’s…”

A shot rings out, followed by a bellow, before more voices join in the conversation and chaos ensues. We can’t see from our vantage point, but by the sound of it, there’s a power struggle going on behind the wall, and there could be bloodshed. Bloodshed which may lead to more questions and none of our current ones answered.

“Go!” I hiss, sending the Seals in, before Cesar and I crouch and follow. We fall through the open gates, hidden within the shadows, as we survey the scene quietly. The house is relatively close to the gate, and we get a bird’s eye view of the front stairs, where four men are on their knees, their arms extended behind their heads, execution style. Four men on their knees, four missing brothers. It doesn’t take much for us to connect the dots as I do a silent count of the men with guns pointed in their direction. One man is on the ground curled into a ball, obviously the man who was arguing, having taken a bullet to his knee.

“Careful not to hurt the Castillo brothers,” I whisper, before adding, “Take them now.”

My men work in perfect symphony, each turning their gaze on one man then training their gun in that direction. A cacophony of gunfire ensues, and I watch as the Castillos fall forward, flat on the ground as they protect themselves against the spray of bullets.

It takes less than a minute to disable the armed men; two of our men run forward, guns aimed, as they check that the remaining members of Nestor’s firing squad are dead. All except the man with the bullet in his knee, who now cowers into the darkness, his arms up in surrender as a spray of blood gushes from his shattered knee.

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