Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
RAFAEL
Six Months Later
I have to admit that I enjoy hurting people. There is something special about it. When I inflict pain on a person, it’s like part of their soul slithers into my heart. I own a piece of them by hurting them. That’s why this is so satisfying. I whip Jacob Jennings across his broad back. He’s tied to the ceiling by his wrists, blood weeping from his muscles: naked, alone, and afraid.
At least he should be afraid. But once the whipping ends and I walk around to his front, the big man just stares at me blankly, like he doesn’t feel anything. It took seven of our men, as well as a lot of luck, to even catch him. Jacob Jennings has always been a problem for men in my profession, but this past half year, it’s like a demon has possessed him.
“You will be dead soon,” I tell him. “Don’t you want to say something?”
“Why don’t you just let me know what sort of response you’d like,” he says, far more mouthy than he should be, considering all the whipping. “We can go from there.”
“So you’re that rare breed, then? A man unafraid of death?”
Several of my men are posted around the room with rifles and pistols. Even chained and beaten, people are scared of Jacob goddamn Jennings. The buzz from the whipping has already faded. There is little satisfaction when my partner refuses to cooperate.
“It’s got nothing to do with fear. I want you to do it.”
I laugh. “You want me to kill you?”
“It’ll make outrunning these demons easier.”
“Demons? Ah, I see. Your poor little heart bleeds for my product.”
He spits at me, a big globule of blood. Luckily, I see it coming and duck to the side. Even so, I have to dish out more punishment for this. We’re keeping his face clean for now—for hostage videos or ransom—but his body is fair game. I get him with a few punches and then step away. He’s breathing hard, but there’s too much fight in his eyes.
“Your product ,” Jacob says, shaking his head, even letting out a grim laugh. “If I had a canister of gas, I’d light a fucking match in here. You deserve to burn as much as I do.”
“Oh, you deserve to burn, do you?”
“For my own reasons,” he grunts, “which, even if they’re fucked up, are not even close to yours, you sick bastard.”
I pull out my pistol and aim it at him. He stares with no response. It’s absolutely sick and disappointing. “You believe your own legend, Jacob. You’re some superman, aren’t you? Some badass? Some American hero?”
“I’m a bad man, Rafael, but I don’t steal and sell kids. Most men would die before they did something like that.”
“Steal, sell. Such coarse terms.”
“Shoot me. Cut off my head. Parade it around in front of your Cartel buddies. One of these days, we’re going to get you, and you know it, too.”
“I don’t know a damn thing,” I snap.
“Sure, Rafael,” he says, completely unfazed.
I reach into my pocket and take out the photo. This is my last-ditch effort. Otherwise, it’ll be an anticlimactic bullet in the head. I wanted so much more from the famous Jacob Jennings, the man who’s gone after our operations like a demon these past six months, almost like he was chasing death.
“What about this little bald gentleman, then?”
I show him a photo of Mike Wilson with his daughter, taken a few days ago, outside their house. Jacob shows a flicker of fear for the first time since we caught him. I’m very good at reading fear, and this is real.
“You motherfucker,” he says, finally giving me what I want. “You bastard .”
“Before I put you out of your misery, I’ll show you a picture of their corpses.”
“Dropping bodies Stateside just to make a point? ” he growls, sounding almost like an animal. Despite his condition, I sense nervousness from the men. He is chained and naked, and yet the men are nervous. It’s absurd, but I know I’m reading their signals correctly.
“You are not some big bad bogeyman, Jacob. When my men see the videos of you weeping like a child over your little friend, they’ll say you’re a worm .”
“You won’t touch them,” he snaps. “Just like you haven’t got the balls to put a bullet in my head. There’s a reason you haven’t touched my face. You know Uncle Sam wouldn’t stop until he hunted every single one of you down and gutted you like pigs.”
“Don’t try to act tough now.” I march across the room and put my pistol against his head. “I already saw what a scared little bitch you?—”
I don’t know how it happens or how a man so injured and big can move so fast. He pulls the chain loose from the ceiling and slams it into me. I fire off a shot, but I must miss. Then he violently tears the gun from my hand and starts shooting. My ears burst from the closeness of the shot.
By the time I climb to my feet, two of my men are dead, and the door is swinging on its hinges.
“Get him!” I roar.
But it’s Jacob Jennings. Somehow, the naked, bloody, injured man gets away.
He’s just made this so much worse for himself. Two of my men are dead. He was right before. Causing any issues in the US is a bad idea, but killing two of my men is a statement I can’t ignore.
“He’ll regret this day,” I tell my men. “When he watches his best friend bleed to death in front of him, and I force him to kill his best friend’s daughter, he’ll regret it. He thinks he’s ready to die now, but he’s wrong, but I’ll get him ready!”
Later, alone, I stare down at the photo of Mike and Emma Wilson.