21. Hope
21
HOPE
V aughn would be losing his mind right now. I felt like the world’s biggest piece of shit for hiding those trackers in the airplane restroom’s trash, but my conscience couldn’t handle Vaughn or any of his teammates losing their lives because I’d led them to possibly the most dangerous place in Mexico.
But I had another reason for going it alone: It gave us the best chance of completing the mission. Not because I was smarter or more capable than anyone on the team, but because I could get close enough to Carlos to kill him.
My father was no normal target, and the team’s plan to assassinate him was doomed for failure. As soon as the first gunshots were fired during the siege, Carlos would scurry to a concealed escape route and evade capture. The compound might fall, but as long as my father lived, so did the Pacific Coast Cartel.
If I’d told Vaughn what I intended to do, he’d never have let me go through with it. I doubted Brandon or Sage would’ve supported my idea, either. Deceiving them all was a crappy thing to do, but what choice did I have? I refused to put another life at risk when Carlos’s kingdom could be felled without war.
My father’s sudden death wouldn’t be the killing blow for the PCC, but it would throw the cartel into turmoil. As much as Jorge was touted as their future leader, he wasn’t well liked within the organization, and Carlos had never officially announced him as his successor. Infighting and discord would run rife among the ranks, and as they squabbled over who should be in charge, their disunity would leave them vulnerable for Vaughn and the team to sweep in and finish the PCC once and for all.
I wouldn’t try to stop them from doing that—lord knew it wasn’t within my power to hold those men back—but I hoped that after taking out the most challenging target, the remainder of the op would be easier and safer.
I wasn’t delusional about the risks involved. If each step of my plan were a slice of Swiss cheese, a lot of holes needed to align for me to pull this off. Jorge’s presence was already an unwanted complication.
Our convoy approached the entry to some kind of delivery center. After inspecting the truck in front of us, the attendant at the security booth waved us through as if we were VIPs, then closed the boom gate.
We passed rows and rows of stacked shipping containers before arriving at a busy trucking depot. Along the front of the large, modern warehouse were a half dozen trucks backed up to loading bays. Several white vans moved about—some arriving and others leaving—and it wasn’t lost on me that they looked exactly like the vehicle I traveled in.
The convoy slowed. We entered the building’s receiving area and drove deeper within. When we reached a closed roll-up door, armed guards disguised as depot workers spoke into radios and quickly opened the door, giving our vehicles the all clear to pass .
Once through, the vans came to a stop. We exited our vehicle, and Jorge led me through a rabbit warren of vacant corridors, down into a basement, then through a second guarded checkpoint.
“Adónde vamos?” I asked as unease crept under my skin. Where are we going?
“To see your father,” Jorge replied, providing my rapid heart rate with no relief. “You’ll be reunited soon enough. It’s not much farther.”
Not much farther?
Wasn’t Jorge going to swap us to a different white van, then leave the depot with a bunch of decoys? The simple but effective technique was a cartel favorite. It was what Brandon and Vaughn had anticipated and the reason they’d fitted me with the trackers. But Jorge only led me deeper and deeper into the belly of this warehouse.
He tugged me along until we reached a steep stairwell. After descending, we arrived at a solid steel door, and Jorge entered a code followed by his thumbprint on a touch panel. With a hiss and a whoosh, the door opened, revealing a tunnel wide enough for a small car. Concrete floors, smooth walls, fluorescent lights overhead. The whole setup looked like something from a spy movie.
Jorge led me to a six-seater golf cart, the kind resorts used to ferry guests around, and once his enforcers had taken up the rear seat, a driver transported us through the cool tunnel.
The journey went on and on, and when we reached a signpost that read 1 kilómetro , I had to wonder if that was how far we’d already traveled or how much farther there was to go.
As we drove, Jorge ignored me, giving his attention to his phone. He’d already peppered me with questions on the plane ride to Manzanillo. I’d dodged the trickiest, namely where I’d spent the last three years. There was no way I’d give that information up and risk this monster paying Playa de la Palmera a visit. The rest of his questions I’d answered as truthfully as possible without going into detail.
I’d lived with a female friend.
I’d earned money by working at a restaurant.
Yes, I was still upset about Simon, and no, I didn’t want to know what tool he’d used to make him beg for death.
Jorge was the same twisted bastard he’d always been.
The golf cart slowed and came to a stop at the end of the tunnel. But it wasn’t truly the end. Other tunnels converged here, too, with armed men coming and going between them. There had to be at least a dozen doorways. Most were closed, but the open ones revealed living quarters full of bunks; supply rooms packed with weapons, water, and food; and even a kitchen and recreation zone with a pool table, huge TV, and couches.
Jesus H. Christ. There was an entire cartel army living underground.
Jorge hustled me up several flights of stairs, and when the door opened, giving way to blue skies and sunlight, what I saw caught me off guard.
Not narcos with weapons.
Children everywhere .
A dozen girls and boys kicked a soccer ball on a field while another group played tag between the arched columns of the gallery where we stood. A pair of nuns acknowledged Jorge with a nod as they walked by with two long lines of children in tow.
Why would my drug-dealing, human-trafficking father’s compound be so close to so many children?
“What is this place?” I asked through gritted teeth as my initial shock turned to anger.
“An orphanage. Built and fully funded by the Pacific Coast Cartel,” Jorge announced proudly.
Slowly, I turned to face him. “And where is my father? ”
“There.” He pointed to a white wall topped with razor wire, at the far side of the soccer field. Beyond the wall lay a grove of palm trees, and peeking between the lush green fronds was a grand hacienda-style mansion. I couldn’t be certain, but it looked strikingly similar to the one I’d seen in the background of Carlos’s video calls.
Motherfucker .
The orphanage grounds surrounded the compound like a moat, which had to be a strategic move to prevent attacks, at least from anyone with a shred of decency. Other cartels might not care about the lives of orphans, but the authorities would think twice before storming in and risking so many children. I knew a certain team of mercenaries who would feel the same.
I’d made the right decision to tackle my father on my own. If I’d stuck with the team’s plan and my trackers had led them to the compound, how could they have waged war on the cartel with a hundred innocent hostages acting as a buffer?
Jorge frowned when he noticed my dour expression. “Why do you look unimpressed? I thought a do-gooder like you would approve.”
Unbelievable.
I almost choked. “Approve that my father is using children as human shields?”
“These kids would have nothing if it weren’t for this place. We feed them, provide a roof over their heads. Without us, they’d be living on the streets, doing God knows what to survive. They’re safe here.”
“Safe?” I scoffed. “Is that why there are guards with automatic rifles patrolling the perimeter?”
I could see two of them from here, but there had to be more given the size of the property.
I looked around the courtyard, surprised to find that the children appeared clean, healthy, and happy. One thing stood out, and it intensified the churning in my gut .
“Where are the older children?” I asked.
I’d heard they were the hardest to place and usually outnumbered the younger kids in an orphanage. There were none here above the age of twelve or thirteen, at a guess.
“We welcome them into the cartel. The boys get training to become soldiers.”
“And the girls?”
Jorge’s silence was deafening.
“You sell them.” This wasn’t an orphanage. It was a slave farm. I swallowed the bile creeping up my throat. “How could you? They’re children.”
“We all have to grow up one day. The sooner they learn that the world is a cruel place, the better.”
“Are you even trying to find homes for these kids?”
Jorge’s pathetic shrug told me all I needed to know.
I shook my head and lowered my eyes. “Cowering behind innocents while profiting from their misery. You disgust me.”
“The demand for slaves exists. People will either buy them from us or find another supplier. If you want to blame someone, blame the ones who purchase them.”
I didn’t accept that excuse for a second. “You’re enabling their cruelty, which makes you just as bad.”
“Get used to it, Elena. We sell drugs and people, we launder money, and we kill anybody who gets in our way. You returned home because you didn’t want to be poor anymore.” He held his arms out wide. “Welcome to the family business. Whether you like it or not, now that you’re here, you’re a part of it, too.”
I wanted to tell him Like hell I am . If I fought Jorge too hard, he might question my motives for returning to my father. Then again, if I acted too agreeably, it would be out of character. I walked a fine line trying to manage this shrewd and violent man.
We made our way along the gallery, sidestepping a game of hopscotch, and came to a steel door guarded by two men with machine guns slung over their shoulders. Jorge punched a code into a keypad, and we entered.
Once inside the walls, I immediately recognized the grounds Carlos had video called me from years ago. The concrete statue in the center of the bubbling pond, the immaculately trimmed hedge surrounding a flower garden, the bench seat in the shade of tall palm trees. All of it was painfully familiar and reminded me that evil men still controlled my life.
But not for much longer. Once Carlos was dead, I’d never have to worry about being dragged back into the cartel world again.
Jorge led the way along a stone path toward the mansion. Vines scaled the off-white adobe facade right up to the orange clay tiled roof.
As I passed through the carved double doors, I took in the interior’s earth-toned furnishings, exposed timber beams, and potted tropical plants. I followed Jorge up a terra-cotta tiled stairway, my trembling hands gripping the cool wrought-iron handrail.
We made our way down a wide hallway, passing several closed doors. Jorge stopped by one and raised his hand to knock, but paused and glanced back at me. “Your father is…different from how you remember him,” he said quietly.
What the hell did that mean?
I frowned. “Different how?”
“You’ll see.”