Page 13 of Baja
I catch the moment a shadow clouds the man’s face, wilting his bravado, while a desperate look flickers in his gaze.
“Death and retribution.” The words spit out of him, sharp enough to draw blood.
Salem tilts back, arms crossed, his gaze laser-focused on the man, demanding answers. “Where’s the cash?”
Pulling a cigarette from my pocket, I lean against the cool, rough stone wall then flick my lighter. This is the make-or-break moment for those who come here seeking our services. Once the deal is made, there’s no turning back.
The businessman in front of us sweats under his tailored suit, and his fingers shake. He clears his throat and places the briefcase on the table between him and Salem, metal latches clicking as he flicks them open. When the lid lifts, the soft glow from the light overhead highlights the cash inside—stacks of crisp bills, more green than I’ve seen in a long time. He looks at Salem, his voice a rough, low whisper, “Five hundred thousand.”
I feel the smoke clinging to my lungs, burning like hell, and my eyes watering as I try not to choke.Did he say half a million?
“If you can seal the deal tonight.” The businessman’s words hang thick in the air.
This guy just grew a pair of brass balls.
I cross my arms, watching Salem’s stone-cold expression as his eyes lock onto the guy’s face like a bull ready to charge. The tension rises in the room—everybody’s on edge, waiting for our president to either snatch the deal or shove it back down the businessman’s throat.
“Who do you want to see six feet under, and what did they take from you?” Salem growls, his voice low and gritty. His intense gaze remains locked on the man.
“His name is Michael Clearwater. Everything you need to know about him and his location is in there with the money. He murdered my wife and daughter. He has police, lawyers, and judges in his pocket.” The man clenches his jaw, fists curling and uncurling in his lap. “He’ll do it again. He’s dangerous,” he says, sounding like a broken man.
I remember the name Clearwater. The news was buzzing with his story. This guy’s family and what they went through was straight-up brutal. Michael Clearwater is associated with a sick crime ring, an organization that zeroes in on the rich, squeezing them for every cent. The bastard walked away free, thanks to some clever technicalities and slip-ups in the evidence. Justice is a twisted game, and Clearwater played it better than the rest.
This dude’s entire world is flipped upside down. Now, he sits broken but unyielding, with fire in his eyes, tossing a cool half million on the table. “I want my pound of flesh for this nightmare I’m living in.” His words are heavy with bitterness, and rightfully so. The businessman swallows hard, clutching the table’s edge like he’s holding onto his last bit of sanity.
Salem nods slowly, the kind of nod that says he is all in.
From the shadows, Mystic emerges, stepping forward and taking the briefcase.
Like always, Salem slides a liquor bottle and two shot glasses to the center of the table. He pours the tequila. “You ready to seal your deal with the devil?” he asks, waiting for the businessman to make his final move.
The man nods, raising the shot glass to his lips with a steely gaze. Not a word is exchanged—none needed. They down their shots in unison, solidifying the grim contract of death.
After gathering all the intel we needed on our target, we hit the road. A half million dollars isn’t something to spit at, and we agreed to execute the contract immediately, something we’ve never done before, so we are moving fast.
The sting of the cold night air helps to keep me wide awake as we close in on Clearwater’s place, two towns over. Micheal Clearwater is bottom-of-the-barrel scum. He’s the kind of man who deserves to rot in hell.
We cut our engines, bringing our bikes to a slow stop outside the entrance to the upscale upper-class neighborhood.We push our bikes off the road, hiding them in the tree line. Clearwater’s house is in a neighborhood of big, expensive homes with manicured lawns and stone driveways. His lavish lifestyle undoubtedly paid for off the backs of the rich people he steals from.
“We walk from here. Keep your eyes peeled,” Salem says, keeping his voice low. “He might not be alone.”
Keeping to the shadows, we trek to Clearwater’s location, a two-story brick house hidden by a thick line of trees. We lay in wait, watching the place for over an hour, detecting no signs of movement in or around the home.
Salem signals for us to move in and get a better look, but we stop approaching as a car rolls up the street and into his driveway. The headlights flick off, and our target steps out.
He’s not alone.
Clearwater strolls around to the car’s passenger side and opens the door. He helps a blonde woman to her feet, who stumbles on high heels while hanging onto his arm.
“I don’t feel too good,” the woman slurs, but Clearwater keeps a steady pace, practically dragging her toward the house.
“It’s okay, baby. I’ll make you feel better in no time,” Clearwater says.
The woman looks like she’s had too much to drink, or worse, she’s been drugged. Clearwater leads her to the front door, and something in the way he grabs her arm makes me lurch forward, but Laredo pulls me back.
“Not the time to lose your shit, brother,” he says, his voice tight.
As they approach the door, she hesitates, shaking her head. “No, wait. Stop! I... I want to go home.”
