Chapter 24
Ared blur washed across his vision. Scott was underwater. At least his head was. Too dazed to understand much else.
His head was yanked out of the water?—
A churning sound. Or maybe it was a faucet. Laughing. Men laughing.
A slap across the face. More laughing. His vision began to clear. His head was being held over a bathtub, half filled with red tinted water. His blood.
Scott’s head was thrust back underwater?—
Bubbles blurred his vision as he screamed into the void.
His head was yanked out of the water?—
Someone put his face next to his: bad breath, red eyes, sweaty skin. “You want to fuck with us, gringo?” He recognized his torturer’s voice: Miguel.
A coughing fit overtook Scott. His lungs were ready to explode. Zip ties cut into his wrists behind his back.
Suddenly it was dark. Miguel released his grip on the back of his head. Was this it for him? The sound of dripping water and his own heavy breathing were all he could hear.
A small burst of flame ignited out of the corner of his eye. The smell of sulfur filled his nostrils, then cigar smoke. A cruel voice broke the silence: “Not such a good idea to steal from me, is it?”
Scott screamed: “Carlos, I never stole from you!”
“Scott, I really don’t care anymore,” Carlos said. The cigar illuminated the face of the Hyena, who was sitting a few feet away from him. “If I didn’t torture you before killing you, others might think I’ve gone soft.” The dark mass of Miguel appeared behind Carlos.
Carlos’s head tilted. Scott heard it too. Shouting outside, a woman’s voice. More shouting. “Let, him, go!” This time he recognized the voice: Contessa.
The voice of Chino was next. “Leave him alone, bastardos!”
Another voice. “He’s done nothing wrong!” Was that the barista? Then a flurry of voices, yelling over each other, all demanding that Scott be let go.
One of Carlos’s men barked back at them. “Back off, go home!” Gunshots ripped through the air, followed by the sound of screaming, then running.
Carlos laughed, deep and cynical. “Oh, the staff, they love you,” he jeered. “You’re their hero.” He blew another puff of smoke at Scott. Carlos moved his chair closer to Scott. Searing pain ripped through Scott’s face as he felt the end of the cigar being pressed against his cheek.
Scott screamed into the darkness, his voice raspy.
“By the way,” Carlos said, “I never finished telling you the story about my boss. The man who mentored me.” He stood over Scott. “You asked me how he died.”
A bullet clicked into the chamber of a gun.
“He trained me for many years, just like he was my father,” Carlos said.
“But when it came time for me to lead, he said I wasn’t ready.
Said I was too brutal for the job, too violent.
Can you believe it? Here he was, one day praising me as his top gunslinger then telling me I was too violent the next.
He was going to pass me over. But that’s where he made a mistake, the last mistake he would ever make.
“One day, when he was ordering me around in his condescending way, I shot him in the back. And what do you know, everyone—all the Dogs—fell in line behind me after that. From then on, they called me the Hyena. They said I couldn’t be trusted, like that wild African dog.
“At first, I thought it was an insult, and it probably was. But that reputation proved useful. All the other cartels began to fear me—and nothing motivates like fear.”
“By the way,” he went on, “what’s the name of that girlfriend of yours? Daniela, no?”
“Leave her out of this!” Scott yelled, shaking with anger.
Carlos laughed a deep, guttural laugh, ugly, twisted, hateful. “Don’t worry. I won’t harm her, much. I sent Javier to get her. After all, my son Cristiano needs a wife.”
The muzzle of a gun pressed against Scott’s head. He closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer.
Bang, bang, bang.
But the sound wasn’t coming from the gun. Someone was knocking at the door.
“That must be Javier now,” Carlos said, handing Miguel the gun. “Let him shoot the kid. He loves killing.”