Chapter 24
SEBASTIAN
T he only thing keeping me held together right now is Isabella behind me on my Harley. I’ve never considered myself to be a murderous person, or a man that would commit any crimes necessary to protect the woman he loved.
That changed with Isabella.
I would have no hesitation striking the match to light the whole motherfucking world on fire if it meant she would be safe.
As I follow the unmarked white van through Boulder, then into Fort Collins, I’m growing angrier. Why? Because I fucking know Fernando Montoya.
I know him. Several years ago, I’d have considered him an acquaintance, maybe even a friend.
He came into my bar a couple of times a month, and we’d always end up chatting.
Never once did he give off a drug lord vibe, or that he was high up in the Salazar Cartel.
Maybe he wasn’t at that time. He was just a cool dude who I felt a commonality with because of our Hispanic upbringings.
Montoya, obviously, is from Mexico. We were both raised closely with our grandparents, both brought up in the Catholic faith.
We disagreed on sports, with me liking baseball, while Montoya stayed loyal to his first love, soccer.
We bonded over our mutual distaste for springtime tourism in Colorado, because out-of-state tourists, especially from the south, have no idea how to drive treacherous mountain roads during an unexpected snow squall.
I told him about my interest in owning a bar, and how RMRRMC came to be.
But I don’t think we ever talked about what he did for a living.
I wrack my brain, trying to remember where the connection is to Salazar, and how he got here. Have I been under surveillance all this time? Was the connection to Isabella completely coincidental, or did Montoya plan to use me once Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum got past the prospect stage in the club?
Isabella snuggles in closer to me, sliding her hands under my shirt.
Intrigued to see what she has planned, I let her hand wander.
She settles it over my heart, and I feel a long exhale against my back.
I can’t even begin to imagine how scared she must have been.
I take one hand off the handlebars, placing it tightly over hers.
It’s too loud to talk, and I’m not sure if I have the words to express my thoughts.
I want to put her over my knee for getting herself in danger.
If I thought she’d actually do it, I’d make her promise never to go anywhere without me.
While I get why Isabella essentially offered herself up to ensure my safety, that shit isn’t gonna fly again. Camila needs her just as much.
And mostly, I need her to promise — promise — to love, cherish, and honor me for the rest of her life. Legally. With a massive diamond on her finger, and maybe a tattoo on her forehead that says, “I love Sebastian Garcia.” If I thought she’d do it, I’d make her carry around a sign, too.
I’m surprised when we drive north of Fort Collins, around the Colorado State campus, and head west into the foothills.
As we slow into a residential area, I discreetly tap a tiny button underneath the visor that alerts Trace to my location.
I figure we’re gonna be checked for trackers immediately, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they completely destroy our phones as a precaution.
There’s no way Montoya is going to be fine with us waltzing in there.
When we exit the residential area, and continue on a gravel road, Isabella’s arms tighten around me.
“I know, baby,” I tell her. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“I’m scared,” she confesses.
Me too.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I assume it’s Trace responding to my location.
Hell, I’m surprised I even have service here.
Only a couple houses dot the horizon. We’d worked out a code phrase for us to say whenever we had to share a location.
The person at the Clubhouse would say, “Guys want to know if it’s tacos or enchiladas tonight.
” Then the one out responds with tacos, if everything seems to be on the up-and-up, or enchiladas if the Range Riders need to get to us.
The majority of the guys were with me when the van pulled over, and I assume they continued in the direction we headed.
If needed, I hope they can get to us within an hour.
What seems like an eternity passes before we reach a large, motorized gate with a guard on duty. The guard approaches the van, then rounds the vehicle to open the sliding door. He rears back when he sees the body, and Isabella stiffens. “There’s blood dripping out of the van.”
So there is.
Well, if all else fails, my guys can follow the trail of blood like some fucked up Scooby Doo case.
The guard quickly closes the door, then motions for me to follow the van. He stares me down, and Isabella tilts her head down so he can’t see her face. “Baby, you didn’t even flinch when that guy was bleeding out in the van, but now you’re scared to look a guard in the eyes? ”
“Adrenaline. I don’t know how I handled that,” she says quietly.
We continue for another mile before turning a corner to see a beautiful home built into the side of a mountain.
Floor to ceiling windows across the length of the home for all three stories look out onto the city of Fort Collins.
We can see all the way to Greeley from here, and I bet on a clear night, downtown Denver might be visible.
Turning off my bike, I quickly dismount, then take my time removing Isabella’s helmet. “No matter what you’re asked, act dumb. Put it all on me. I know how to handle a guy like this, and I’ve met him before.”
“Okay,” she whispers, and the sadness of her tone makes me stop.
“You know I don’t actually think you’re dumb, right? Or that you can’t handle yourself? I know you can, sweetheart. I’m honestly hoping my previous history with this guy can work to our advantage. I love you. We’re gonna be okay.”
“I trust you,” she says, a tiny bit of oomph back in her voice.
I hear someone approach about the same time metal hits the back of my neck. “This is an interesting turn of events.”
I slowly place Isabella’s helmet on my bike, then remove my own.
Turning slowly, but keeping Isabella behind me, I take a good look at Fernando Montoya.
It’s been eight or ten years since I’ve seen him, and the time has aged him tremendously.
In his early forties, he’d once been lively and youthful.
Now there are deep lines across his forehead, and what looks like a permanent scowl on his face.
But what gets me is that the fucker is wearing red silk pajamas while pointing a diamond studded pistol at me. “What? No comment about my outfit? You always had opinions before now.”
I shake my head, chuckling. Eccentric motherfucker always wore something odd.
I used to tease him about shopping at a consignment store straight out of the eighties.
Knit sweaters in odd geometric patterns, bright colored trousers, and almost always with boat shoes.
Who the hell wears boat shoes to a bar in Colorado?
“You weren’t supposed to come with Miss Santo, Sebastian Garcia. What am I to do with you now?”
“Listen to an old friend, I hope,” I tell him. “I always wondered what happened to you, Fernando. I never knew you were related to the Salazar family.”
Fernando sighs as he lowers his gun. “I’m not technically family. My mother’s brother’s illegitimate son married a Salazar girl. They wanted to build up the distribution in Colorado, and here I am.”
I feel like there is a lot more to the story, but I doubt he’s going to offer up any information.
“I’d really like to explain how Isabella got mixed up in this.
For old times’ sake, I hope you’ll give us a chance.
I know my word doesn’t mean much to you these days, but there was a time when I thought you trusted me. I’m still that same man.”
“And your amor ? Will she be participating in this chat, or have you decided you’re the only one who can talk?” Fernando asks, a glint in his eye as he waits for my reply.
“She can talk just fine,” comes a muted voice behind me. Isabella peeks out nervously. “Sebastian is worried. I was coming here with or without him. I knew I had to speak with you and plead my case.”
Fernando sighs again as his gaze strays to the side. “I own all of this land. Did you know that? Over ten thousand acres.”
I’m impressed, but even I know the Cartel can buy anything. “I had no idea. I always wondered what your profession was.”
He continues as if I haven’t spoken. “A Salazar son is trying to force me out. He whispers into the ears of the kingpin, spreading lies about my leadership. It’s only a matter of time before I’m sent to the gates of Hell with everyone else.”
I hear Isabella’s sharp intake of breath, and I know her heart is torn. She wants to feel hurt for the lost man in front of us, but also hates his part in wrecking our lives over the past handful of months.
“I can’t remember the last time a guest came to see me,” Fernando murmurs. I’m tempted to remind him that we are not, in fact, guests, but that information is irrelevant. He whips his gaze to mine with a look of determination. “Let’s go inside. The house is beautiful. You’ll meet my wife, Maria.”
Fernando turns, walking quickly up a cement pathway, motioning back at us with his gun. Isabella gasps, hiding behind me. “I don’t like the gun.”
“I’m more concerned with the fact that he’s got a wife hidden up here,” I mumble, trying not to move my lips. “Who the fuck would choose to live as a hermit with a drug lord?”
“I get wanting to be alone. I’m an introvert. But this is overkill. How do they get groceries? Drone delivery?” she asks quietly.
I snicker. “Somehow I think even the drones get shot down.”