Page 80 of Blood Revealed

“You were responsible for the raid on his home.” It’s a statement, not a question. Scotch nods anyway. “This man, he was my most trusted, most loyal.”

“I get that.” Scotch picks up his drink, sipping on it.

“Let me finish. You know what I do to live this life.” He raises his hand, holding the glass to gesture around the sprawling estate, and Scotch nods. “Do you know how I’ve kept my power so long? My business isn’t personal. My products are a choice, but they aren’t personal. I tell him, Carlos, you put yourself and the rest of us in danger with this enterprise. People come looking. He promised me that I would not be touched, yet here you are in my home, making demands of me.”

“Not a demand,” Scotch corrects him. “A request. My brothers and I had yar back. Now we’re askin’ ya to have ours. Simple as that.”

His eyes harden as he looks pointedly at each of us. Whatever he’s about to say, the man means business. “You will go back across the border,” he says. “You will meet my men on Padre Island tomorrow at noon. They will lead you to Carlos’s beach house, where I’m sure he is hiding out. Together, we will end both our problems.”

“Thanks for bein’ a man of yar word.”

Anguino’s face softens then, pulling a complete mood turnaround, bows his head magnanimously.

Tomorrow. Padre Island.

Crossing back into the US, it doesn’t matter that they detain us again because it’s almost over. We take the highway and keep on driving up the coast to Corpus Christi to spend the night.

I can barely sleep knowing what we’re in for tomorrow, but I close my eyes and try to rest. The next day, we check out to make our meeting on Padre Island. Anguino’s men know exactly where to go. We get the hand signal to hang back as they enter the property—smaller and not nearly as impressive as the home outside Brownsville. Escalante’s men wave the Anguino soldiers in as we move in to the rear of the procession. There aren’t near as many as we fought before because what we didn’t kill, the FBI did.

Then it all happens like a blink before my eyes. Anguino’s massive army surrounds the small group of Escalante leftovers and draw their weapons. More soldiers move into the house and minutes later come out with Escalante—the man himself—jogging with his hands up and pressed to the back of his head. One of the soldiers uses the muzzle of his gun to force Escalante onto his knees along with the remainder of his men. Anguino’s soldiers raise their guns, but the man in charge calls over to us. “Would you like to give these men any parting words?”

I step forward and squat down to Escalante’s eye level. “Remember me, motherfucker? You took my wife. I want my face burned on your retinas as you die.”

He has the nerve to posture with a smirk. “She was wonderful,” he says, and I crack him in the jaw hard enough to make him bleed. He spits a mouthful of blood at my feet, then there’s the pop of bullets. With his eyes open, Escalante slumps forward.

The soldier in charge points his gun at me. “You have your proof.” Then he looks to Scotch. “Anguino’s promise has been fulfilled. Leave now. We’re cleanup.”

You better fucking believe we get the hell out of here.

It’s over.

Time to get my wife.

19.

Hannah

After Escalante’s death…

True to my word, I’ve been checking in with Raif once an hour, though he’s only actually answered his phone a couple of times. And last night when we talked, he sounded kind of off. I asked if he was okay and he told me he was great, but then he told me he had to go, and that was it. Raif usually likes to talk to me.

As is due, I pick up my phone and dial Raif’s number. It rings three times and I think it’s about to go to voicemail when I actually get a groggy, “Hello?”

“Hey, babe,” I rasp, my voice still scratchy—I don’t hold out much hope for getting back to where it was before. It’s dinner time and I miss him so much, and I’d just like to eat my soup and listen to him talk. “You busy?”

“Never too busy for you, baby.”

“Still want to go with everything’s okay? Because you don’t sound okay.”

“No, I wasn’t okay before,” he replies—I knew it. “I just didn’t want to worry you. But now, I’m more fucking okay than I’ve been in a long time.”

“Does this mean I can go home? We can go home?” I ask excitedly.

“Damn straight, we’re going home.” And he sighs. It’s a mixture of contentment and sadness and relief and a whole bunch of emotions all jumbled into one. Whatever happened today, I think it’s really over.

“Do we need to let you rest before we meet up?” I ask.

“Fuck, no,” he responds back instantaneously. “I’m not waiting another day to have you in my arms.”

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