Corrupt - Elena M. Reyes Page 0,21
push it in and out a few times. “Don’t feed me the mierda you sell your clients. The truth this time.”
“I stole from you.”
“And how would you categorize that move?” Releasing the blade’s handle for the moment, I pat his cheek, the slap loud in the quiet backyard where the only sounds you hear are those coming from the pool’s water and my dogs nearby. “Successful or idiotic?”
“Not my brightest idea.”
“I’ll agree with you there.” My eyes snap to Chiquito and I nod toward the exterior dining area not too far from us. At once he walks in that direction, disappearing a bit from view as he picks up a nondescript box and brings it over. “And what, pray tell, did you take from me? What’s it worth?”
“Street value is high in the US via Mexican traffickers. I met with—”
“A hired transporter, Santiago. He wasn’t a capo, nor was he important.” That knowledge is like adding salt to an open wound, the proof of his stupidity slamming into his processors. “The man you met is here to deliver a payment while exchanging merchandise. He’s someone I know, and immediately came to see me after you interrupted a meeting.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his head down now. It’s a cop-out. It pisses me off. “Had I known...”
“You wouldn’t have?” I finish for him, gripping the knife once again and tapping the carved wooden handle. With each second that ticks on the clock, my drumming becomes rougher. Less patient. “Is that the bullshit you’re trying to feed me?”
“Señor Lucas, I did what any man in my position would.” And yet as he says this, the man in question still won’t look me in the eye. Doesn’t have the cojones to.
“Look at me.” My grip tightens. “At the very least have some fucking dignity while spewing that weak explanation.”
“It’s the only truth that I have.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Marin.” One tug and I pull the bloodied blade out, slicing down his flesh with the motion—the gash from shoulder to elbow is quickly bathed in red. His blood is pooling on the floor below as a pain-filled fuck leaves him. “You did what stupid men do. What all ignorant culicagados do.” Chiquito brings forth the box and places it on the floor beside him. At his proximity, Santiago tries to pull back, but my knife at his temple puts a pause to that. “You underestimated the law.”
“No more. I get it.”
“You underestimated me.”
“I’ll never do it again.” He’s sweating profusely, fighting the instinct to bolt. “I swear.”
Oh, I know he won’t and just smirk. My head tilts toward the box. “Open it.”
“Please don’t make me.” His hands are trembling, knees shifting on the terra-cotta floor, but he doesn’t make a move to follow my instructions. That won’t do. From temple to just below his chin, I dig in the jagged edge, slicing down his face. It’s deep enough that the skin flaps a bit at his chin as I move it across to the other side. “Son of a bitch...fuck!”
“What was that? You’ll open it now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“God boy, Santiago. I’m proud of you for using your words.” And to show him that I mean it, I sit back with a now-closed blade in hand. “Go on. It’s my gift to you.”
He’s trembling so hard his teeth chatter, pulling the strip of tape off and then opening it one flap at a time. His entire body goes rigid, eyes horror-stricken as he takes in the contents inside.
Two heads. His idiot accomplices.
“No...NO!”
“This is the result of stealing a shipment of poppy extract meant for the Mexican Cartel near the US border.” Standing, I tower over him and fist his hair, pushing his face closer to the proof of my appreciation. The rivulets of red dripping from his facial lesions fall over their shocked expression, mixing with the dried splashes already there. “You fucked up, Marin. You decided to play God and killed the driver—my employee—delivering my merchandise, and then tried to sell it as your own with the backing of a secret investor.” Placing the blade at his cheek, I push it in and come out on the opposite side of his face, twisting the handle. He’s skewered. He’s also pissed himself. Nasty. “You ended a good, hardworking man’s life and left a two-year-old without a father and a poor woman without her husband.”
“I didn’t—”
“Think I’d catch you, asshole.” From the corner of my eye, I see Chiquito pull out his gun and empty the magazine before