Chapter 10
Enzo
It’s the day after Christmas, and I haven’t been able to shake my encounter with an actual fucking serial killer.
That was not on my bingo card of life. And what an odd fucking bird he was.
Who the hell becomes a serial killer for a good cause?
Is it a good cause? Fuck no. That guy’s insane.
He’s gotta be. Strangely, I feel sorry for him.
He’s become his stepfather, and he doesn’t even realize it.
I couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous he was with those huge blue eyes that seemed almost innocent, especially when his fallen bangs were swept over his brows.
When I first saw him in the bar, I felt the same way, but without his little disguise, he’s more attractive.
Too bad he’s got more than a few screws loose in that brain of his.
But, fuck, I can’t really blame him either after that story he told me.
When you’re abused for so long, it’s hard not to lose a part of yourself. At least I had someone to lean on.
“Enzo!” Mario snaps, yanking my attention back to my job. Jesus. I really needed to get that little crazy bird out of my head. “Bring one of the gun cases over here.”
We’re dealing some fully automatic rifles and sawed-off shotguns to a cartel out of Mexico today. The meeting place is being held in an abandoned underground parking garage. For obvious reasons, we never use the same place twice.
“Yes, sir,” I say and walk to the back of the SUV to pull out one of several crates of guns. I heft one over to Mario and several other hard-looking men.
I set the box down and pry open the lid with a crowbar before stepping back. That is the extent of my job. Mostly, I’m there for backup. Sometimes I do the dealing, but Mario is better at it. He’s also second in command. If something happens to Alfonzo, Mario Rivera will be next in line to lead.
The leader of the cartel bends down and lifts a rifle, feeling the weight of it, and then he raises it eye level, aiming it at the graffiti-covered wall.
“There are five M1918 Browning automatic rifles, ten M16s, and five sawed-off shotguns of various types,” Mario explains.
“How much for all?” the other man asks, placing the rifle back into the crate.
“Nine hundred thousand and I’ll throw in free ammo.”
“Free ammo and six hundred.”
And so the negotiations went on until they agreed on seven hundred and fifty thousand with free ammo.
When it’s over and the crates are being transferred to their vehicles, Mario grips me on the shoulder. “What’s up with you, man? You’re out of it. Is it Enrique?”
That’s only part of it, but I don’t tell him about Constantine. He’ll only tell Alfonzo, who will then hunt Constantine down. I still haven’t figured out why I give a shit. Who cares if Alfonzo takes him out? The asshole tried to kill me, and he’s killed many others, for fuck’s sake.
But I do care. He’s been through hell and back. I get it. I relate to it. Not that I’m fucking innocent. I don’t murder, but I’m still a criminal. I help sell weapons that do kill others.
I look at Mario, who’s thirty, a year older than me. His hair is curly, set in waves below his chin, which complements his face, a third of which had been burned when he was a child after a rival gang torched his childhood home. It hardens his look.
“Yeah, Enrique’s death is hitting hard.”
“We’re all upset.”
“I just wish we’d find out who did it.”
“Halcón will find them.”
I simply nod.
“When we do, they will pay in blood and pain. I swear it.”
I give him a half-hearted smile. “Thanks, Mario.”
I’m restless when I get home. After talking with Mario, Enrique’s death is fresh again. Between him and the thoughts of Constantine, I need a distraction.
After changing into a paint-spattered T-shirt and worn jeans covered in holes, I step into the spare bedroom barefoot, the painting still waiting for me to finish it.
If I hadn’t lost my mom to drugs when I was an infant, if I’d known who my father was, and if I hadn’t been sent into the dismal foster care system, I wouldn’t be selling guns or fighting in underground fights.
I would’ve been an artist. Those are dreams I never dared to have, but they couldn’t help but sneak into my brain when I was a kid.
My dreams had been small, but they kept me going and moving forward.
Now that I’m on my own and a grown adult, I paint like I’m about to be seen in a gallery. I’ve been creating a theme and plenty of canvases, but it’ll never happen. Not for someone like me.
I pick up my palette and squeeze out several bright colors of acrylics. I like this type of paint, so I don’t have to wait forever for it to dry on the canvas. Whatever I mess up can easily be painted over.
At least I’m attempting to paint, which I haven’t been able to do for over a week. I usually try to get in some painting at least once a day, but after losing Enrique, I couldn’t be bothered to lift a brush. My creative well has gone dry.
As my brush hovers over the image of the woman I’d been working on, I change my mind about finishing her.
I want to start something fresh. Setting the paints and brush down, I remove the painting, put it aside carefully, and replace it with a pre-gessoed canvas on the easel.
Then, I pick up the palette and exchange the smaller brush for a bigger one.
I swipe assorted blues over the canvas in a haphazard way, letting my mind go blank and my hand do all the work. Once I’m satisfied with how it looks, I go in with varying colors, painting in large, rough strokes until an image starts to emerge.
I don’t know how long I’ve been painting, getting lost in the process. That’s always a good sign. I take a step back to assess my creation. His face still refuses to leave my mind. I see it so vividly, and now he stares back at me in abstract chaos.
Constantine.
Rarely do I paint faces. Usually, it’s a silhouette of a head with objects in the center.
But fuck if I can’t get his out of my damn brain.
Why did I paint him? What’s my fascination with him?
I guess I should be happy that it was enough to distract me from Enrique.
Maybe painting him will get him the fuck out of my head.
I sigh out a low growl, dump my brushes into the mason jar of water, and clean off my palette.
After I clean up and shower, I crawl into bed and try to rub one out, but I’m not in the mood and can’t get it up, so I roll onto my side and close my eyes.
All I can see is him. I don’t know why, except that night had been insane. I nearly died. If it weren’t for my quick reactions, I would’ve. It has to be that, right? Nothing more, right? It’s not him I’m getting obsessed over, but what happened that night… right?
Right.
Sal and I tap-dance around each other in the ring at the gym.
He’s my usual sparring partner and trainer.
Sal is a former UFC fighter and was hired to keep me on my toes.
Alfonzo only hired the best for me. No, not really for me, but for him.
He likes to place bets on my fights, and he wants me to win so he can win a fuckton of money.
Once I did, he became drawn to me. Protective, like a father.
My specialties are Muay Thai and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.
I spent just over a decade studying these martial arts.
I took some classes here at the gym after Enrique first brought me here.
Because I’d taken to fighting like a natural with quick reflexes and reaction times, I was encouraged to fight for sport.
I especially liked Muay Thai because it’s a great striking art, and I can use knees and elbows when I’m in close contact.
My favorite move, although hard to pull off, is the flying knee.
The objective is to leap forward to give a knee strike to the opponent, preferably to the head, to knock them out.
It requires tremendous amounts of power, exact timing, and luck when fighting someone skilled.
The crowd fucking loves it, too. They’ll scream for blood.
If I can pull that off, then even more money trades hands for higher bets.
That is, unless I’ve knocked out my opponent first. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is great for grappling, but I’m not as strong in it as I am in Muay Thai.
I’ve been good at focusing today, not letting Sal get too many hits in. But we’ve been going at it for a good twenty minutes, and it’s time for a break.
I slip out of the ring, wipe my sweaty face, and chug some water as my body calms down and my breathing gets under control.
Then, I peel off my gloves and unwrap my hands.
Once the adrenaline wears off, I begin to feel the blocks and hits, but I’ve learned over the years how to tune them out.
It’s a hell of a lot worse after a real fight.
Still, Sal doesn’t hold back when we’re training.
Movement near the glass front door suddenly catches my eye as I drink out of my water bottle. Half of a familiar face, along with familiar light brown hair, peeks out from the corner of a wall near the lockers. Behind glasses, his eyes grow wide, and he ducks away.
That little fucker.
Is he stalking me again? I thought we were over this song and dance after I told him to stay the fuck away from me.
I set my water bottle down and storm over to him, reaching in five long strides. His wide blue eyes grow even rounder as he quickly backs away from me until his back hits a locker.
I fist his jacket with one hand and drag him into an empty shower stall, slamming his back against the tiles, pushing the air from his lungs. My forearm presses against his throat, and he grips me, trying to remove it, but it’s useless. He’s strong, but not as strong as I am.
We’re both panting and staring at each other, not saying a word. When he starts gasping, I ease my arm off his throat, but I don’t fully remove it.