Page 8 of Hostile Rival
“How about we figure something out, Fisher?” I propose, thinking on my feet. “Let me work off my debt selling molly for you. I know where all the decent parties are. I’m sure I could sell coke too. Easy.”
The last thing I want to do is push ecstasy or cocaine for the Blanco cartel, but I’m all out of options.
He stares at me, considering my offer. “How do I know you won't sell the product and try to run off with the cash?”
“And where would I run to when I haven’t even buried my mother yet?”
He nods, looking a little more convinced by my proposal. “If you do try to fuck us over, it won’t be me who shows up. Castillo doesn't have patience for lying putas. He’d bury you alive before your mama’s casket even hits the dirt.”
I shrug, my stomach flipping and my brain racing, knowing this is a big mistake. But if I manage to pull it off, I could borrow a bit more money to pay for Mama’s funeral. “Do we have a deal?”
“Sure.” He looks about the room as if he’s looking for something of value. But there’s nothing worth taking here. “I’ll have a guy drop the stash off later. You start tonight. Work the bars and clubs. Stay on this side of town.”
When he slots his gun into the holster under his jacket, I cross my arms over my chest and keep my chin high. I don’t want him to see the dread and grief that’s weighing me down.
I’ve never been to a club before, let alone sold drugs.
4
MATHEUS
PRESENT
I was sitting on the terrace alone, a towel wrapped around my hips, my hair wet, and a pair of airpods in my ears when the text message had landed.
The only information I have is an address, one name, and the words ‘hands on,’ which means this mission isn’t for a long-distance sniper.
Tonight, I have to kill a guy, on my own, give confirmation it's been done, and return to base, clean and unseen.
It sounds simple––as long as the target is alone.
I’ve no idea what the fucker did to warrant a visit from a sicario, and I don’t care either. This has been the cartel way for as long as I can remember. Fuck with my family and you won’t see the next sunrise.
Buffy had left the room shortly after supervising the removal of my rucksack from her bed. It gave me space to get my head back in the game, get dressed in a pair of utility pants, a base layer and a thin bulletproof vest.
Perhaps I shouldn't have snooped through her stuff, finding nothing out of the ordinary, but I can’t get the girl off my mind. It was a justifiable move to figure out who she really is and stay one step ahead.
From the quick search, all I found was a folded photograph of her and some woman who she resembled in many ways, a pair of fingerless leather gloves, and dark clothes. No identification, passport, or bank cards with her real name displayed.
Taking my time to psyche myself up for the mission, I check my matte black revolver is loaded, clip on the leg holster and slot it in. When the satellite phone buzzes from my back pocket, I instinctively know who’s calling.
“Dragon,” I greet my big brother and wander outside onto the terrace again, gazing at the horizon.
“You ready, Crow?” he asks.
“I was born ready.” I cover my eyes with a pair of dark sunglasses.
I exhale all the sexual tension I’ve been holding onto. The way Buffy affected me is extraordinary, and now I have to push all that aside and focus. Although I’m well-educated, I’m also an adrenaline junkie with an aim to match my brother Giovanni’s prowess.
Despite that, this is the first time I’ve had to creep into someone's house undetected to put a bullet in their skull. I know better than to ask questions.
We are the executioners.
“Okay. Leave your personal weapon behind. In thirty minutes, exit the villa on foot and walk to the estate’s main entrance. There you’ll find a Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle, a burner phone, suppressed firearm, and unmarked bullets waiting for you at the gates. We need proof of this one after termination. And remember, don’t come back until you're certain there’s no one on your tail.”
“Understood. And just one thing,” I say quickly before he hangs up. “You didn't mention Buffalo was a woman. Blanco has a daughter, doesn’t he? Is it her?”
“The daughter is called Sofia,” he tells me. “She’s a year younger than you and heavily guarded twenty-four seven. The soldier you’re bunking with goes by the civilian name Dani.”
