Page 7 of Jagger's Remorse
The weight of the leather settles across my shoulders like armor or a shroud.
The compound is quiet except for the prospects on gate duty.
They nod as I pass, recognizing the insomnia that comes with wet work.
Kill enough men, and sleep becomes negotiable.
The chapel doors are already open.
Squirrel's massive frame takes up the president's chair, his scarred face set in hard lines.
Digger, our sergeant-at-arms, leans against the wall, cleaning his nails with a butterfly knife.
Hammer, Mouse, Poncho, and the others fill in around the table.
But it's the man standing in the corner that makes my hand drift to my Glock.
Joaquin Morales. Los Lobos cartel.
The man who brokers our deals with the Sinaloa.
"Jagger." Squirrel's voice carries the weight of bad news. "Sit."
I take my place at his right hand, eyes never leaving Joaquin.
The cartel doesn't make house calls unless someone's fucked up, or unless they want something.
"Brothers," Squirrel starts, "we have a situation."
Joaquin steps forward, gold teeth flashing in the candlelight.
We keep the chapel dark, lit only by candles.
Some say it's tradition. I think we just like conducting our sins in appropriate lighting.
"The Delgado debt," Joaquin says, and my blood turns to ice.
It's been five years since I put a bullet in Miguel Delgado's head.
The debt was paid.
The cartel got their money back from his accounts.
Case closed.
"What about it?" I keep my voice steady. "Miguel had a brother. Pablo. Ran girls in Culiacán."
Joaquin's smile is all predator. "Seems Pablo developed expensive tastes. Gambling. Cocaine. Younger women. Owes us two million."
"Not our problem," Digger growls.
"It is now." Joaquin snaps his fingers.
The chapel doors open.
Two sicarios drag in a figure with a black hood over their head.
Female, based on the curves beneath the torn clothing.
