the words she wrote.
“Yeah, because the last fixer you got was cut into fish bait with a chainsaw. It’s only the grace of God you escaped with your life. If you hadn’t gotten sick and missed the trip, you would have been running through the mountains of Colombia trying to get out alive. Have you ever thought about what some of those men would do to you if you were captured? It would be a fate worse than death. That stupid blog of yours is a waste of time, and now you want to go to Sinaloa, Mexico. It’s a never-ending cycle of mayhem for you. You’re going to get yourself killed!”
Page’s face settled on her friend as if in some way it would help her understand the heart of the matter. “You know they call these men who set up interviews with the cartel 'fixers,' but they also call them 'unsung heroes.' I need a cutthroat fixer who has cartel ties; a real bastard of an alpha male who is as determined as I am to tell the cartel story—the real story—the truth. I won’t die until it’s my time to go. The only way I can write a book about the cartel is to interview them face to face; research is everything.” Page did what she always did when she didn’t want to hear it and disconnected until Judy’s voice was white noise in the background of her thoughtful planning.
“It sounds more like you’re interviewing a man for a romance novel to me. Since you’re so compelled to write, Page… why don’t you write fiction romance or something?” Judy said, shaking her head with an expression of worry.
“I am compelled to write. If I did write fiction, it would be dark-romance. Not sweet, sappy love stories. So maybe the bastard of a man I'm looking for will be just the inspiration I need to write about how far cartel men will go to get the woman they want. Look at the interview that was done with El Chapo; his Sicarios made sure it was done safely. Having the right fixer is the line between life and death.”
“And El Chapo was locked up right after that.”
“And, I’m not snitching on anybody, so nobody’s getting locked up. I blur out faces on photos, and I don’t use names or exact locations, so no one goes to prison. It’s the reason the cartel and fixers trust me. I don’t burn bridges or people for one interview; I like to keep my options open.” She waggled her eyebrows in a playful manner attempting to relieve her friend of the anxiety she wore like a cloak.
“And you don’t know if it’s the right fixer until you escape with your life again. It’s like you have to dance with death, or you’re not happy.”
Page’s patience was wearing thin, and when she gave Judy the look. Her friend knew it was time to let it go. Talking to Page was like talking to a wall, or instead banging your head against it. Judy knew that, but her concern for her bestie wouldn’t allow her to stop harping.
“So…are you going to ‘The Club’ with me tonight?”
“You’re relentless—like a dog with a bone. You want me to go to a strip joint owned by the Colombian cartel? Where do you come up with these ideas, Page?”
“It would be rude of me not to ask,” Page stared at her friend, awaiting her answer. She smiled, an effort to convince her best friend to go with her. Judy might be a worrywart, but she was sharp as a tack and as smart as they come. Page had mad respect for the woman.
“Well, it is a classy establishment. Diego doesn’t allow any bullshit, and they have peace treaties with other cartel, so you’re safe there. I’ll go, but I’m only going to watch your back.”
“Oh please, you’re hoping you get a glance at Antonio Wayne like you did the last time we went.”
“That man is too pretty for words,” Judy swooned. “He’s got that whole GQ thing going on with that undercurrent of danger vibe; the man takes hot to a whole new level.”
“That man is a sadistic Sicario who enjoys his line of work,” Page warned.
“I can only imagine how hot that man is in bed,” Judy purred.
“His wife is a cage fighter. I wouldn’t recommend trying to move in on her man.”
“It can’t hurt to look.”
“It can do more than hurt; his woman Roxanne has a reputation for