Chapter 9
CHAPTER 9
AMALIA (PRESENT)
I’d been sitting on the upper floor of Zakaria’s penthouse for the last fifteen minutes, patiently waiting for him to show up so that I could quench my boredom.
I’d landed in Azilah two days ago after Barrera had insisted I visit the farms he owned in the Anfa mountains, which were east-south of the city. He’d ordered me to check on the progress of our products, making sure harvest would be ready on time and that none of our farmers had stolen from us like what had happened during the last reaping.
I’d tried to argue that I’d just been there last month and me visiting again would be pointless, but he’d brushed my valid point and just raised his voice, saying that I was under his payroll.
I would have reminded him that I hadn’t seen a rial ? 1 since I’d started working for him, most of my money coming from the stash the Agency had given me when I started and the deals I’d made over the years with smaller drug dealers on the side to keep Barrera’s cartel actually functioning.
But I’d decided against it, not wanting to bother having to hear his pestiferous voice grate on my nerves any longer.
I’d noticed Barrera had been more tense recently, but I still couldn’t fully figure out why. At first, I’d thought it was a result from the loss of his only son, Matheo, but Barrera wasn’t sentimental.
He’d lost his wife, Faouzia, two years ago and had barely flinched when I’d given him the news. All he’d said was to make sure she’d be properly buried and to find a nice place next to her parents for her grave.
I’d grown accustomed to his reckless decision-making process over the years, but he’d always at least consulted with Hamza before making any final decisions.
Now, especially over the last two weeks, his decisions had increasingly become more impulsive and he’d been equally more trigger happy than usual with anyone who even dared look at him the wrong way.
Come to think of it, both Barrera and Hamza seemed to be a lot more on edge than usual and that asshole Hamza seemed too familiar with our prisoner.
I knew Noah had been on the case investigating the cartel years ago, but although he’d gotten close, he’d never been able to overthrow Barrera’s operations after his partner and his partner’s wife died in a tragic fire.
My gut had always told me that nothing about that fire seemed accidental, but the incident had happened before my time at the Agency. The files were sealed so even when I’d tried to access the files on the investigation of their death before going undercover, I’d been denied access.
I had clearance for everything Noah and Agent Aguerd had compiled, except the investigation on the fire. I’d brushed it off to bureaucracy, but maybe I should’ve dug deeper.
Barrera’s change in behavior might have been because we’d taken an Agent prisoner, but it wasn’t like this was the first time we’d had that happen. Now, the others were either much easier to turn if we’d made their pockets a little heavier or I’d been simply tasked to get rid of them after a few days.
Which Barrera hadn’t asked me to do yet, something that had never happened in the three years I’d worked as his enforcer. I hadn’t asked any questions and it was a slight relief since killing him wouldn’t bode well for me when I went back to my position at the Agency at the end of my assignment.
Are you sure that’s the only reason? My mind deadpanned.
I pushed the mocking remark away and walked over to the banister. I leaned my forearms against it, my dagger hanging from my fingertips. It swayed from side to side as my eyes scanned over the space to make sure nothing was out of place.
On the left of the all-white minimalistic marble kitchen, plump cushions dressed in warm and rich tones, an array of brown and gold pillows to match were atop long wooden frames arranged around three sides with intricate designs carved onto the front and side panels.
A rectangular low brass table stood in the middle, two matching smaller side tables sitting on each side of the center segment where the other two shorter sofas met. A few ottomans were placed at the end of each side segment, their tones matching the draping of the sofas.
A large overhead gold brass lantern, adorned with handcrafted details to match the other elements in the room, hung from the high ceiling, cloaking the ground floor in warm patterned shadows.
I’d studied the floor plans and Zakaria’s routine over the last few months every time I visited the cannabis fields. I’d hacked into his security systems so that I could access his cameras and make sure he wasn’t present when I came over to learn the ins and outs of his apartment. I also didn’t want to bother picking the lock every time I stopped by.
My gaze flitted over the mantel to the large brass clock that matched the tables in the living room, to see I had seven minutes left until he came home. Which still gave me plenty of time to do what I came here for and catch my flight back to the compound.
I was technically in the region for official business, but since I had some extra time to spare, I’d decided to pay Alaoui’s underboss a little visit to teach him a lesson about hindering my shipments. So once my scheduled visit had been over, I’d driven the eighty-six miles that separated our territories.
If I had been anyone else, Adil Alaoui’s men would have flagged me the second I crossed over and hunted me down, but since my role in Barrera’s cartel was to remain anonymous, it worked quite well in my favor.
Besides, nobody would suspect a woman to be the one behind all the bodies the Barrera cartel left behind. Well, at least in recent years.
Right on time, footsteps approached the front door and I walked into his large dressing room. After the jingle of his keys plopped down on the entryway table, I began counting the seventy-two steps he would take to his bedroom to shower after his time at L’Oasis, a cabaret he religiously visited every Wednesday.
I waited for the sound of his footsteps to hit the clay curved staircase on the left side of the living room, but instead, the echo of a thud and Zakaria’s groan reverberating against the tiles made its way up to where I was on the upper floor.
My brows pulled together, confused.
What the hell is that?
I moved to reach for my back pocket, but before I could grab my phone to see what was happening downstairs from the cameras I’d installed there on my initial visit here, I heard him move again, finally making his way upstairs.
I watched him closely from the slight gap formed between the ajar door of his walk-in closet and its hinges. Zakaria stripped from his tan suit, throwing the discarded clothes somewhere to the side of the room until every inch of his naked body was exposed, his flaccid cock dangling as he turned to admire himself in the large mirror next to the bathroom door.
I rolled my eyes and reined in the bile burning my throat on its way up. Pathetic.
He then walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The sound of his shower stream came on and I took the opportunity to take my phone out to see what he’d dropped downstairs.
Maybe it was cargo that I could take as a bonus payment from my visit. He didn’t care about having his men steal from us, so why not repay him the same courtesy.
Pulling up the cameras, I tapped on the screen that showed his living room.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Instead of a duffle bag, most likely filled with bags of cocaine like I’d presumed, a man with his hands bound behind his back was lying unconscious on his side like he’d been carelessly tossed. Half of his body rested on the patterned tile floor while the other half was right on the edge of the rug.
The man in question couldn’t be older than mid-twenties. His clothes were torn and disheveled, cuts and fresh blood painting almost the entirety of his body. Black matted hair stuck to his bronzed skin, a large bleeding gash right above one of his bushy brows peeking through his dark strands.
The shower cut off and I brought my attention back to the task at hand. I pocketed my phone and grabbed my dagger. Steam billowed into the room as Zakaria cracked the bathroom door open and I padded into position, ready and waiting.
He was completely oblivious to my presence as he stepped inside the closet with a towel fastened around his waist, so when he walked past me, I brought my dagger down hard and sliced against his right Achilles tendon.
His screams pierced my ears, and the corner of my lips briefly quirked up in satisfaction as I relished the pretty sound. I never thought I’d enjoy someone’s suffering, but being in this field for so long, I’d learned to enjoy it instead of dreading it, especially when they came from someone who’d earned their fate.
“ Wa n3al din moh ? 2 ,” he shouted as he fell to the ground, crying out in agony as he reached for his feet. Then he brought his hands up to his eyesight and his screams hitched to a higher note.
I took a moment to savor the look of horror casting over his face at the sight of the blood dripping down the sides of his hands, trailing down his forearms.
Then I stood, arms at my sides. My knife dangled from my fingers, blood dripping from the tip and adding itself to the fountain gushing from Zakaria’s severed heel.
He lowered his hands when he took notice of my presence and when he found me staring at him, his facial expression morphed into surprise.
Most likely from finding a woman at the other end of his misery. That look on men’s faces when that happened never got old.
“Who the fuck are you?” he yelled between angry sobs, trying and failing to stand up.
“My name is none of your concern,” I said quietly. “What’s important here actually concerns you .”
“Do you fucking know who I am, kah —” I stepped on his injury, cutting him off, and an agonizing scream filled the air, replacing his demeaning insult.
I shook my head and cleaned the bloodied tip of my boot against a clean part of his towel.
Men and their inflated sense of worth to call a woman by her name.
I approached and loomed over him, noticing the shift in his eyes. He was preparing himself to attack me, but before he made the grave mistake of underestimating me, I pressed my foot over his throat and leaned down so my weight could bear onto him.
Tears loomed in his eyes from the pressure and I dragged the tip of my knife over his face until it found the hollow part of his cheek. I titled my head and raised a brow, grinning. “I do know who you are, but why would that matter when I have you at my mercy?” I asked mockingly.
His words were muffled since my foot was still crushing his windpipe.
“Oh yeah, sorry about that.” I shifted my foot to relieve some of the pressure but pressed the tip of the blade harder against his skin. “You were saying.”
“What the hell do you want?” he spat out.
“God, thank you so much for asking,” I deadpanned. “It’s just you keep stealing from me and I thought I’d stop by to say hello and introduce myself so you remember not to do it again because I quite hate it.”
“I never fucking stole from you,” he grunted, tears free-falling down his cheek and onto the side of my dagger.
“Here’s another thing I hate: liars,” I confessed, making a shallow cut on his cheek to test the tensility of his skin.
“ Ya rabi ? 3 , I’m not fucking lying, you crazy bitch,” he screeched. “I don’t even fucking know you.”
My chest twisted violently with annoyance. “See, actually,” I drawled, pressing my sharp dagger a little more into his skin. “We have a friend in common that tells me you’re the one who’s been stealing weapons from my shipments.”
His eyes swam with confusion, so I added, “The name Mehdi ring a bell?”
His pupils dilated and his nostrils flared at the name, a sense of understanding washing over him. He cursed in Arabic under his breath.
“Ah, so you do know who I work for,” I stated.
“Listen, you bitch ,” he scoffed in disgust, attempting to glare at me through his pain. “If Alaoui finds out you’re on our territory, he’ll?—”
I cut him off. “He’ll what? Kill me? Gosh, I’m so scared, especially when you have no clue who I am or how to find me. And you know if you step one foot on Barrera’s territory, he’ll unleash a war against your pathetic little cartel before you can ask God for mercy.”
He pressed his lips together.
That’s what I thought .
“So next time your foolish mind decides to hijack my shipments and steal cargo that isn’t fucking yours, think of the gift I’m about to give you so that you remember not to lie when asked a simple fucking question.”
I technically wasn’t allowed to kill freely unless ordered to since there was a system in place, some old rule to keep some sort of peace. Although I wasn’t a stickler for rules, I knew I couldn’t kill him since terminating another cartel’s underboss would only create drama.
So I did the next best thing I could do that would most likely only leave me with a harsh warning not to do it again.
With that, I pulled my other hand up and gripped his jaw to steady him. He trashed under me and jerked forward, but before he reached me, I slid my dagger from one of his cheeks to the other, cutting through the skin and muscle and carving until the line of his lips extended closer to his temporal bone.
A blood-curdling scream erupted around us as blood spurted from the gash and warm liquid poured over my skin. His pleas mixed with every curse word in darija you could think of faltered into quiet cries, his hands flying back and forth between his face and his heel, unsure which wound to tend to.
I sighed, my shoulders relaxing, and stood. The sight was quite enjoyable, but I didn’t have time to stay over and enjoy it longer like I wished I could. So I walked back into his room and paused for a moment.
I let out a deep sigh and moved over to the pile of clothes he’d discarded earlier. I picked up his suit jacket but didn’t find what I was looking for. I then made my way downstairs to the other possible place he might have left it.
I passed the still unconscious man and walked over to the entryway table. Once I found what I was looking for tossed next to his car keys, I jogged back upstairs to where he was still lying in a pool of his own blood, his towel now wide open and exposing him.
My stomach recoiled at the sight as I stood at the entry of the closet. “Consider this a favor,” I said before tossing his phone into the growing crimson pile he was wasting and walking away.
I knew I didn’t have much time before his reinforcement would show up, so I quickly stopped by the bathroom to wash my hands and blade, not wanting to spend the journey home with his filth on my body.
I tied my hair again into a ponytail and changed into a clean pair of black cargo pants and a white tank top that had been in the small duffel I’d stashed under Zakaria’s bed earlier while I’d waited for him to come home.
Once done, I shouldered my bag and rushed downstairs to leave. Sheer curiosity halted my steps when I reached the limp body. I crouched down, my elbows resting on my knees, inspecting his features more closely to see if it would spark any recognition.
Nothing.
I knew he didn’t work for the Alaouis because I knew everyone in their ranks, both official and unofficial. So what was he doing here and what had he done to get this treatment from Zakaria?
The fact that he wasn’t dead could only mean one thing. He was still valuable.
I hadn’t planned on taking his prisoner, but he might have information that could be helpful. As if I’d conjured him from the depth of his consciousness, he stirred, a pained breath leaving his lips. His eyes fluttered a few times but didn’t open.
They must have drugged him with something potent for him to still be under its effects. I could drag him out, but that would only attract many unwanted peering eyes that I didn’t have time to deal with.
In a hurry, I reached for the side pocket of my bag and grabbed the nasal spray, then peeled it out of its package. I rolled the stranger on his back as much as I could since his hands were still tied and tilted his head back. After inserting the tip of the nozzle into one nostril, I pressed the plunger firmly to release the naloxone into his nose.
Time felt like it stretched infinitely as I waited until he fucking finally jerked awake.
“Wh-what happened?” he whispered, his voice hoarse like he hadn’t used it in days.
I turned to his side and cut his restraints before helping him sit, but he wavered, so I slapped him across the face.
He brought a hand up, rubbing the reddening area. “What the fuck was that for?” he tried shouting, but his voice cracked at the end.
I opened the zipper of my duffel and grabbed a hooded jacket. “Listen, we don’t have time for explanations or formalities. Put this on and get up,” I ordered him, throwing the piece of clothing to him.
It fell in his lap and he looked at it, bewildered.
“Did you not hear me? Hurry or this place will be swarmed with more of the men who brought you here. I don’t think you want that to happen, do you?”
His gaze met mine and a haunted look shadowed his eyes. I didn’t know what they’d put him through nor did I care, but my warning must have woken him up from his trance because he tugged the jacket over his head, wincing while doing so.
He pulled the hoodie over his head and moved to stand, only to fall to his knees.
God, I’m already regretting my decision to take him with me.
I switched my bag to my other shoulder and reached for his right arm, wrapping it behind my neck. He was much taller than my five-foot-seven frame, but I used both hands to grab his waist and helped him make another attempt at standing.
Once he was up, I hurried us out the door and to the service elevators that led to the back doors because if Zakaria had enough energy to call anyone, they’d use the main door to get in.
The service elevators needed a special key that each owner of a penthouse owned, and to my scarce luck, the building only gave one to each tenant, which I’d grabbed from his wallet on my way out.
When we made it to the back streets, we walked to where I’d parked my car and helped him inside. The overnight 3assas ? 4 walked over to me and before he could say anything to try to help me pull out of my parking spot, I stashed a purple bill in his hands and climbed into the driver’s seat.
I plugged my phone into the rental car and shot a quick text message to the pilot, warning him about the addition to our flight plan. Then I tossed it in the cup holder and beelined for the airport hangar where Barrera’s private jet was waiting for me to take off.
1 ? Old Moroccan currency. It was used between 1880-1921, but the word is still commonly used when describing money whether in stores when purchasing items or when conversing with others about money.
2 ? Ah, motherfucker.
3 ? Oh, god.
4 ? Person (usually a man) who watches over cars on the street and “helps” you park them in exchange for a small fee of your choosing.