El Gringo (The Sicarios of Navolato Book 3) Read online

  Unless …

  “When you say ‘El Señor’, do you mean …” I run a thumb across my throat to see if my guess is correct and when she nods, I chuckle.

  That’s the other thing about cartel country—you end up running into the bosses when you least expect it.

  And this one already has a chink in his armor.

  Chapter Two

  I place the cheap sunglasses I bought inside Maria’s store on my face before I twist the cap off the bottle of soda. I figure the least I could do for the valuable information she gave me was to throw some pesos at her. She wouldn’t accept it though, so I bought a couple of baubles and then left.

  Now, if I were a death car, which way would I go?

  With a shrug I decide to make my way back up the block and head in the same direction I last saw it crawling through. Chances are I’ll either find the car or some trouble.

  Either way, I know it’ll be something to do and will keep me busy for a while.

  I take another swig from the bottle as I cross the road. It’s only now dawning on me that I should probably go back for my car, since the traffic in this part of the procession seems to be picking back up, but I don’t mind staying in Navolato for a while.

  Besides, I know I’m going to need to make money to get my car out of impound—wherever the fuck that happens to be.

  A small group of little kids runs past me, laughing and yelling, with a young couple chasing after them. They’re trying to hush them up from what I’ve been able to pick out of what’s been said. I guess whoever this fancy guy is, he holds more sway here than the regular bosses normally do.

  Not that I’ve dealt with many in my time. I actually try to avoid that bullshit at all costs because I can be a mouthy bastard when I want to be, and these guys don’t tolerate backtalk of any kind.

  It’s part of the reason I blew Tierra del Fuego when the opportunity presented itself. I was hoping to buy my way out on a cargo ship, but I ended up bullshitting with some pirates at a bar and they agreed to get me the fuck out of there.

  But that’s neither here nor there, anymore, and I’m curious about the whole dead thing.

  More specifically about the hot little piece of ass that seemed to be hiding under her dramatic black garb.

  Maybe having a chat with her if I can get her away from her bodyguards will take my mind off Inez, doing some lines, and whatever else seems to be clogging up my logic these days.

  I raise my hand and wipe away the sweat underneath my nose. Normally that’s reserved for when I’m flying, but it’s so goddamn hot right now that I want to look somewhat decent when I crash the funeral.

  I crack my neck as I continue walking, then stop for a moment and grin. It seems that the slow rolling death car didn’t get too far away and that means I have plenty of time to watch what’s going on.

  Granted, I’m not gonna try to rip a chunk out of my sac again for the sake of tears but thinking about how long it’s been since I’ve done a line will more than likely do the trick if I need it to.

  I start walking again and when I get just close enough to make out the silhouette of tonight’s entertainment—if I can just get my hands on her—I get a great idea.

  I glance at the stores around me, then run into one across the street that looks like it may have what I need.

  After doing a little speed shopping, I pay for the suit jacket, shrug it on, then quietly slip into line. I’m probably going to sweat to death before this is all over but the way she’s swaying her hips when she walks is worth the risk.

  I raise the bottle of soda to my lips and drink down what’s left before I slip it into the inside jacket pocket and pray for the will to see this through to the end. I’m also curious as to how the guys on either side of me haven’t broken a sweat yet, but I’m assuming it’s because they’re more used to this weather than I am.

  Not that I ever noticed it before, it’s just that trying to stop the fucking line habit has me seeing things differently.

  And speaking of seeing things …

  A smirk creeps up the edges of my lips when the procession comes to a halt. There isn’t a cemetery in sight, but the important guy and his arm candy are taking a moment to talk to mourners.

  It makes me wonder what’s so hot about the people on this side of the town, that aren’t on the other end, but whatever. I’m not here to argue or ask questions about that.

  I’m just feeling frisky and have decided the best way to scratch my itch is to put myself in harm’s way.

  I take a deep breath and let it out in a huff as the guy on my left walks by me and goes to stand behind the odd couple. I feel kind of lucky that so far, they haven’t acknowledged me, but I’m fairly certain they have noticed my presence and are just waiting on the opportune moment to do whatever it is they do.

  I impatiently run a hand back through my hair, and just like that, the important people walk back to the death car and the procession starts up again.

  My eyes go back to her ass.

  Watching the way she sways her hips.

  The curves of her body that are being hugged so goddamn tightly by that little black dress.

  The way she limps ever so slightly.

  Even her imperfections seem to make her fucking perfect.

  “Quién eres tú?”

  I sigh as I glance to my left.

  Seems that the same bodyguard I was thinking didn’t realize I didn’t belong, seems damn near sure of it now. It’s obvious by the way he lifts his sunglasses and is staring at me through narrow, beady eyes.

  “A friend,” I reply with a sly grin.

  “De?” he asks, narrowing his eyes even more.

  I shake my head and chuckle quietly, “No hablo mucho Español.”

  He looks me up and down for a moment before he grunts and lowers his sunglasses again. When his body goes stiff almost instantly, I turn my attention back to the death car and the odd couple, and swallow hard.

  The man, El Señor, or whoever he is, is watching us over his shoulder. But his arm candy doesn’t seem to be bothered one way or another because she hasn’t looked back at us.

  At me.

  And that bothers me.

  Not in the sense that I feel like everyone needs to look at me, but in the way where I’m starting to feel like shit for being in this damn parade.

  Whoever is in that casket obviously means a great deal to them both, but more to her because I can see her shoulders shaking gently now.

  So, I push my shoulders back, stand up straight and do my best to maintain the mournful look on my face.

  When he turns back toward the death buggy, he slips his arm around the hot little number’s shoulders and continues the procession, which suddenly begins to go left. I let out a sigh of relief when I see the large, iron, cemetery gates are only a few yards away.

  Of course, at the speed we’re going, it’ll be tomorrow or even the day after before we get there.

  The guard dog that attempted an interrogation at an inappropriate moment breaks rank in the line and walks over to the fancy guy.

  He places a hand on his shoulder and whispers something into his ear, causing them both to turn back and look at me.

  And this time, so does the arm candy.

  I still can’t see her face behind the veil but something about her is starting to feel a little familiar, when I hear the one thing I was hoping I’d be able to avoid for a while.

  “Abrazarlo,” Mr. Fancy directs the rest of his bodyguards, with a nod in my direction.

  I roll my eyes behind my shades and decide that it’s best not to put up a fight just yet.

  Besides, I was the one who went looking for trouble, and I guess I found it.

  I’ve been sitting in the back of a car down the street from the cemetery for about half an hour. My hands were promptly bound before I was shoved inside and not a damn person standing idly by even bothered to ask what I had done.

  This Señor person holds a hell of a lot more s
way than most bosses do.

  Towns are usually afraid of their terrorizers, either that or they love them; in this instance, it seems to be an equal helping of both.

  I should have fucking stayed home, I think irritably as I shift in the seat.

  Another hour passes of me baking in the backseat before a tap on the car window grabs my attention. I arch an eyebrow and smile sheepishly when one of the bodyguards opens the door, and the fancy guy rests an arm on the frame. He takes off his sunglasses and leans down close enough to be able to look into my eyes.

  “Who sent you?” he asks in a low, even tone.

  “Sent me?” I ask in confusion.

  Oh, fuck. He thinks I’m DEA.

  “Myself. I was bored at home and wanted to go for a ride. Ended up getting caught in traffic so I decided to go for a walk,” I say with a shrug.

  I know how it sounds; lame as fuck and I can tell by the way he grinds his teeth that he doesn’t believe me, but it’s the truth. Isn’t that supposed to count for something?

  He stands back up to his full height, folding the sunglasses quickly, then slips them into his fancy front jacket pocket. Running both hands back through his hair, he looks at his bulldog and sighs.

  “Let him go.”

  He says it in the one language he knows I’ll understand more than the other. He wants me to realize that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity and that I’m being spared whatever hell he probably had in store for me.

  Although …

  “Thanks,” I begin casually as the bulldog grabs me by the lapels and yanks me out of the car. He reaches back for a second, then produces a large hunting knife, shoves me against the car and cuts my hands free.

  I should walk away now …

  “Excuse me,” I call out to the fancy man who’s almost at the backdoor of another car. He pauses for a moment to glance at me. I make my way toward him, rubbing my wrists in turn to try to take some of the bite off where the binding was digging in, and give him a big smile. “Who’s that fine little side piece who was walking with you?”

  I grunt a few seconds later when something blunt is cracked on the back of my skull, leaving my question unanswered.

  Chapter Three

  What the fuck?

  I’m groggy when I open my eyes again and my head is fucking killing me. As I shift, I realize I’ve been tied up for the second time. Only now the hard, broken wood driving splinters through my jeans up into my ass tell me it’s not the comfortable car I was in earlier.

  I blink a few times to see if I can regain my bearings when I hear the sound of metal scraping along whatever goddamn floor my chair is on.

  I let my chin rest against my sternum as I take a few deep breaths.

  Somewhere in this room there’s at least one other person and they must think that I’m a wounded animal, which is fine with me.

  Wounded animals tend to bare their teeth and strike hardest when they’re cornered.

  Not to mention I’ve been thinking about blow all fucking day, so whoever thinks this is gonna be that easy, has another thing coming.

  “Punk,” I manage to grunt out.

  I’m in no position to antagonize the metal grinder, but I want them to know that I’m willing to do my part in this.

  Which will hopefully end up with me ripping them open from gullet to groin and pissing in the wound.

  The leg of my chair is kicked, and I chuckle. Considering I can still hear the sounds of metal being sharpened, that means I’m not the only toy in the playroom.

  I turn my face to the right and grimace as the slight movement sends pain reverberating through my head.

  Well, hello.

  Beautiful, naturally tan skin, with blood dripping from her lip, and narrowed chocolate-brown eyes. However, the pair of oculars that’s giving me the dirtiest look right now from the chair a few feet away from me, tied up like I am, is kick-starting the libido inside of me.

  God, I’d love to fuck that once or twice, I think as I try to scoot my chair a little closer.

  “What are you in for?” I joke under my breath.

  She shakes her head then jerks it so that I follow her lead and look, but since I’m already battling one wave of nausea, I just scoff and turn my head back so that I can rest my chin on my chest again.

  I’m going to be pretty useless to the both of us until I can get my head to stop throbbing.

  Granted, if I decide to take her when I leave, she’s going to have to thank me in the best way I can think of.

  A long, hard fuck.

  I sigh and close my eyes again when I hear the sound of footsteps shuffling along the wooden floor.

  I took in the room as best as I could when I looked at small, tanned, and beautiful. This place looks like a shack—not too big, but not too small. The floor is dusty and dirty, and there’s a pool of dried blood underneath my chair.

  The cool touch of the newly sharpened blade that’s used to wedge my chin away from my sternum makes me smile. It’s nice to have a little cool down before the fun begins.

  Honestly, I welcome it.

  I was worried I was starting to get heatstroke at this point.

  I clear my throat and decide to go with the flow. I mean what’s the worst that could happen? I get even more turned on than I am now?

  I let my eyes slowly begin to trail the statuesque body in front of me. I take in the curves, the tattoos, the—

  “Ow, fuck!” I shout when my would-be assassin jerks my head up violently with the edge of the blade.

  I’m fairly certain that some skin was broken and that—

  No. Fucking. Way.

  A smirk creeps up one side of my mouth, curving my lips dangerously, as I lean back in my seat and look up into her eyes.

  Her eyes.

  The bitch that’s been haunting me for a fucking year and some change, now.

  But it’s only now just dawning on me how pretty she is. I’d had an idea before, however, being as sober as I can possibly be at the moment, I can see why it’s so easy to fall under her spell.

  Her eyes, though.

  While serious right now, they hold such a fucking pain that I bet she had to be fucking whoever was in the death buggy.

  “Remember me?” I ask with a confident chuckle.

  She raises the blade she’s been clanging away on, which I can now see is a butcher knife, and continues to run it along the sharpening steel.

  “Shut up,” the girl next to me hisses.

  “Hm?” I ask, giving her a quick glance.

  My eyes have finally landed on the grand prize again and I don’t want to look away too often.

  I worry that she’ll disappear again if I do.

  “Why were you walking with us?” the woman asks, and I’m kicking myself for forgetting her name. Granted, the circumstances could be better, and fear—even in the smallest of slivers—can make one forget the most menial things.

  Like a fucking name.

  Sarah? Sandra? Selma? No wait, what the fuck was it … um … Sofi?

  “Sofi, right?” I ask, sidestepping her question. “I didn’t know you lived in Navolato. What’s it been? A year, or something like that?”

  The chair next to me scrapes slightly on the wooden floor, before a dull thud gets both of our attention.

  Sofi lets out a heavy sigh as she goes over and pushes the chew toy back up on the chair’s haunches, then holds the blade to her throat.

  “Do that again, y te mato,” she warns her in a low tone.

  The girl turns her face away but not before I see a tear fall. I never did understand why people get so goddamn emotional when threatened with death.

  Big fucking deal.

  It comes with the territory of being alive.

  “You know, I never did think of you as a kidnapper,” I continue thoughtfully. Maybe it’s best to ignore the fact that there’re three of us here and just focus on me and her. “But, I will say that I’m one hundred percent up for a repeat performance of your
last show. What do you say? Fuck her and I’ll watch?”

  The girl next to me gasps as Sofi’s eyes go dark for a second, then narrow almost immediately.

  She glares at the girl and holds a finger to her lips, then draws it across her neck.

  Apparently, her being a pussy eater isn’t common knowledge, and I just blew it.

  Oops.

  “Or … ,” I say, thinking quickly, “I can fuck her, and you can watch? Unless you want me to fuck you, which can totally—”

  Sofi turns the knife in her hand with expertise and lightning precision, using the handle to pop me one in the jaw.

  Normally that would piss me off, but I kind of welcome it right now. I don’t know if it’s nervous energy, arousal, or feeling that familiar pain starting to growl in my belly that’s made me into a Chatty Cathy. Either way, shutting up doesn’t seem like a bad idea.

  A knock at the door draws the hot tamale’s attention, and she gives me one final withering stare before she walks off to answer it.

  “Papa,” she says softly as she pulls it open and takes a step back.

  I crane my neck to see who she’s talking to then arch an eyebrow when I realize that it’s the fancy guy.

  The hot Señorita with the knife is the daughter of the cartel boss. Which means she had to be the side piece I was eye fucking, once I decided to play the token, mourning white boy.

  “Has he talked yet?” he asks her gruffly as he enters the room and gives me the same goddamn withering stare that she did.

  “He just woke up,” she answers in a soft tone. One that I would never think she was capable of, considering I’ve only ever heard her moaning with some whores or trying to get me to fuck off.

  “Who sent you?” he asks me for the second time, and I sigh. Experience tells me that nothing I say will make him happy because at this point, I’ve seemingly crossed a fucking line somewhere back in the death march.

  “No one,” I reply truthfully with a shrug. “It’s like I said earlier; I was bored at home and went for a drive.”