Page 2 of Volt
“You’d be a smart man,” Prophet says. “You can kill me, sure. But you’ll only bring a war to your doorstep. You kill me and the Pharaohs will make it their life’s mission to hunt you down and gut you.”
“You think so, do you?” Emiliano asks.
“I don’t think so. I know so,” Prophet replies. “Listen, your brother fired the first shots. He declared war on us. We finished it. Just leave it at that.”
Emiliano’s voice doesn’t carry one hint of his native accent. His words are precise, his tone cultured and educated. He’s not what I would have expected from a cartel boss. Emiliano unbuttons his jacket and starts to pace the floor in front of us, looking as if he’s contemplating something—and I don’t get the idea that letting us go is involved in his musings. My stomach churns, and my heart is racing. There’s something about the fact that he’s so refined that I find... chilling.
He stops pacing and turns to Prophet again. “I left Mexico when I was still young. I wanted a chance at a better life. I had no desire to get into the family business,” he says. “I went to school here. Graduated from Princeton with a master’s and have a very successful business, a commercial real estate development firm.”
“Great, you should go back to that,” Prophet says. “Nobody’s stopping you.”
Emiliano sighs. “You are. You’re stopping me from going back to my work,” he says. “And that is because I can’t stop thinking about the fact that you murdered my brother.”
“So, the fact that he tried to kill me first isn’t even a blip on your radar, huh?”
“You say he tried and yet... here you are while Miguel is in the ground.”
“It’s not my fault your brother was a failure.”
The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh fills my ears, and I see Prophet’s head snap to the side. Emiliano shakes the sting out of his hand, his expression growing darker. A thin rivulet of blood spills from the corner of Prophet’s mouth, and he straightens up, glaring at Emiliano as if he’s going to kill him. He spits a red glob at the cartel boss’ feet, a malevolent grin on his face. It’s as if Prophet doesn’t realize we’re not walking away from this. Or maybe he does and he doesn’t give a shit, refusing to give Emiliano the satisfaction of showing him fear.
When I was overseas, I contemplated my death many times over. I knew that every firefight I engaged in could be my last. Hell, things were so volatile over in the shit, I knew every second I spent over there could be my last. But since rotating home, I’ve never really given all that much thought to dying. Not until today anyway. I don’t want to die. There’s so much shit I still want to do and see. And being shot to death on the dirty floor of an old warehouse is most definitely not on that list.
“After you murdered my brother, I thought long and hard about it. And my anger was so great and so unrelenting, I realized I couldn’t let it pass,” Emiliano goes on. “I had lived my life in peace and had no desire to have blood on my hands. But your actions forced me to act and I cut a bloody path through all of the pretenders to my brother’s throne and took control of the cartel myself.”
“Any particular reason you’re givin’ us your life story?” Prophet asks.
“Because I want you to understand that getting to this point, to where I have you on your knees in front of me, was a sheer act of will,” he replies. “And because I want you to understand what I’ve given up just to be here with you today.”
“Fascinating,” Prophet mocks.
That feral smirk flickers across Emiliano’s lips, and I silently try to will Prophet to shut up. To stop speaking and stop enraging Emiliano even further. There’s still some small grain of hope that we’re getting out of this alive, but if Prophet pushes Emiliano over the brink, that chance goes down to zero.
“I heard a story and I’d like you to tell me if it’s true,” Emiliano starts.
“Aren’t you a little old to be believin’ in stories?”
“I was told that you had my brother down on his knees, put a gun to his head, and pulled the trigger. Is that true, Mr. Holt?” he asks. “Also, is it true that my brother said you would end up on your knees one day as well?
I’m so used to simply calling him Prophet that to hear Emiliano use his actual last name, it’s kind of jarring. It also tells me that he’s been looking deep into our backgrounds. Or at least, into Prophet’s. I find that sort of attention to detail disturbing as hell.
“It was a while back. And besides, there was a lot going on. I don’t actually remember everything that was said right now,” Prophet replies.
“Pity.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I wanted you to appreciate the irony of your situation.”
“Yeah, well—”
Emiliano’s movements are lethally fast and in one blur of movement, he’s withdrawn a .45 from beneath his jacket, presses the barrel to Prophet’s head, and pulls the trigger. The sound is muted but still echoes around the warehouse, startling a flock of pigeons that are hiding up in the rafters. As the sound of the shot reverberates through my ears, I watch in horror as Prophet’s head snaps backward, a spray of viscous gore splattering the ground behind him.
The scream of denial that’s torn from my throat seems louder than the gunshot but when I try to rise to go to Prophet, one of the sicarios drives the butt of his weapon down on the back of my neck. The pain is intense and immediately drops me to my knees. A vicious kick to my side sends me sprawling, and I curl into a fetal position and find myself staring at Prophet’s limp and lifeless body.
Emiliano stands over him, a strange expression on his face. Then he raises his weapon again and starts to fire. Prophet’s body jumps and twitches with each impact, and the cartel boss keeps firing until he’s dry firing, his magazine empty. He just stands there, looking down at his handiwork for a long moment, then slips his weapon back into the holster at the small of his back and straightens the cuffs and hems of his jacket.
My stomach is roiling, and I’m fighting back both the tears and the urge to vomit as I stare at Prophet’s body, watching the pool of thick crimson blood and gore spreading out around him. Emiliano smooths down his hair and turns to face me, his face a mask of cool indifference. His obviously expensive wing tips thump hollowly on the concrete floor of the warehouse as he approaches me, his eyes glued to mine.
