Chapter 2
Nash
“Pair of fours?” Pirro asks, a sly smirk on his scarred face. “You can’t win with fours.”
Several of the other guys around the table chuckle at my misfortune as Pirro shows his hand. Pocket aces as if he really thinks I believe that he’s lucky enough to get them the last four hands.
He’s fucking cheating, and if this was the only game I was playing, there’s a very good chance I’d put a bullet in his head.
But poker isn’t the main activity of the night.
I’m also not playing with my own money. This is business.
All overhead, including sitting at the same table as these pieces of shit and gambling away thousands of dollars, is provided by Angel Guerra, the owner of Mission Mercenaries.
Angel isn’t exactly my boss. He’s more like a facilitator.
He finds jobs and hires them out, paying the expenses and, of course, keeping a cut of the money for himself.
It’s his way of staying safe at home while others put their lives at risk.
I think a lot of people would be bitter about it, but I’m not.
I live for shit like this. The more danger, the better.
The greater the risk, the greater the pay, or however the fucking quote goes.
I’m not in it for the money, but the payout doesn’t exactly suck.
“This is my last hand,” I tell the men, as the guy to my right shuffles the deck of cards.
I don’t keep my attention on him. My scrutiny would make it harder to cheat, and I don’t give a shit about the cards I’m dealt.
“Going to be broke after this. I’m going to have to stop playing with you guys.”
“That’s what you say every night,” Pirro says as he lifts his glass of tequila to his lips. “And yet every night, you show up with more money.”
“This is really it,” I say, wondering if I’m playing my other hand a little too soon. “You guys seem to have an endless supply of money. How about giving me a job so I can keep losing to you guys?”
The goal was to get in with these guys and figure out where they’re operating their business.
Angel has it on good authority that they’re somehow connected to Raul Cortez, one of the most prolific cartel leaders in Mexico and South America in decades. The criminal runs guns, drugs, and is rumored to be in the skin trade.
Angel, as well as Liam, another one of the guys who he hires out for work, were taken on separate occasions by one of these groups. They’re certain that Raul Cortez was in the middle of it.
“You’d have a better chance of earning good money in the States,” Pirro says.
“I’m a wanted man,” I tell him, not for the first time, as an excuse for being in Mexico to begin with. I want them to think I’m here permanently, that I’m not just here for a good time before returning home.
We place our bets, my hand just as shitty as the dozen before it.
I can understand these guys not being willing to take a chance on someone they think doesn’t even speak Spanish. If Angel’s suspicions are true, they’re abducting and selling men, women, and children to make the money they’re gambling with tonight.
It’s the injustice as well as the thrill that made me step forward, volunteering for the job that was deemed more dangerous than others Angel has arranged in the past.
It doesn’t seem any more dangerous. If I were winning and taking their money, I could quite possibly end up with a gun to my head, but right now, all I have is a minor buzz from the tequila and a bad attitude because I think they’re honestly trying to get caught cheating.
I can’t tell if they want me to call them on it or keep ignoring it.
They haven’t once hinted that I may be given a chance with their organization, and I’ve been asking about it since the day we met two weeks ago.
I tried to get them to brag, to tell me why everyone gave them such a wide berth when they walked into the bar.
I knew there was something about them that no one was willing to speak about.
They wielded some form of power because everyone seemed afraid of them.
It told me I was on the right track, but I’ve gotten no closer since day one.
Angel is growing irritated with the wire transfers because I’ve lost so much money to these assholes.
I’m thinking it would be easier if this were more like a normal job.
If I had someone to rescue, some sick fucks to kill, then I’d have been done a long time ago.
But according to Angel, these guys don’t really matter to Cortez in the grand scheme of things.
I could kill them and get no closer to tracking Raul down, and the heat it would bring wouldn’t be worth it.
It could mean the leader might go underground and we’d never find him.
At the same time, I’ve been acting just like these guys, making crude comments to women, confessing crimes, and drinking more than my liver can honestly handle.
I’m not any closer to Raul Cortez and his organization than I was the day I drove into Monterrey.
I don’t even know if these assholes are part of the man’s team or if they just throw his name around because of the fear it puts in the local people’s eyes.
They could be playing me as much as they’re playing everyone else, and unless they actually come out and say it, I’ll never know.
We go around the table, all men but Pirro and myself folding. I know what to expect before the raise, but I go through the motions, sliding the last of my money into the pile at the center of the table.
He drops my hand, this one showcasing a pair of jacks.
The glint in his eyes, the one that speaks of victory, doesn’t falter, and I glare at him when he drops down the pair of aces.
These guys aren’t even bothering to use the ace of hearts or the ace of diamonds.
The spade and club mock me from in front of him, but what the hell can I do about it?
I have no doubt all the people in this bar will come to his defense if I so much as allow my hand to twitch, no matter how fearful they are of him.
“See you tomorrow,” Pirro says as I stand.
I shake my head. “Wasn’t joking when I said I was completely out of money.”
He nods his head once, a single dip of acknowledgment instead of taking the bait and offering me a job.
I walk away, knowing the plan now is to follow them when they leave. Something Angel warned me against doing until I knew that they wouldn’t let me into their organization.
Two weeks isn’t exactly long enough to gain the trust of hardened criminals, but it was the timeline I gave myself.
There’s a devious smile playing on my face as I walk outside. I know the next time I see Pirro, it will be when I press my gun to his forehead. I’ll remind him of all the times he cheated me out of Angel’s money before I pull the trigger.
The bar in the seedy part of Monterrey hasn’t invested much in the way of safety for their patrons, but the outside of the bar isn’t exactly welcoming either.
There are no flashing neon signs like you’d see on a bar in the States.
There isn’t an open sign in the single window.
They don’t want strangers showing up, and that’s what caused such curiosity when I arrived two weeks ago.
My presence in the bar was noticed by the locals and regulars.
Pirro saw me as a chump, someone who would be easy to cheat out of money.
He was right, in a way. I allowed it as much on day one as I did tonight.
I wanted him to see me as someone he could control, someone who would do what he demanded and not ask questions.
I pretended to be afraid of him, and it was harder than I ever could’ve imagined.
Angel said this job was more dangerous, but I didn’t take into account that he meant because losing my fucking temper on those assholes would be a test I was most certainly going to fail.
I want to kick the trash can out front, but it would only draw more unwanted attention in my direction.
I might have wanted to be on their radar the second I stepped into the bar, but now I need to become a shadow.
I need to be able to follow Pirro from this bar tonight, back to the place where he runs the day-to-day operations for Raul Cortez.
I’m fairly certain the man doesn’t work for the gun and drug running side of things. Not with the way his eyes looked over every woman he saw in a way that made me feel like he was calculating the money he could get for each and every one of them.
The sound of shuffling feet hits me a second too late for me to elbow my assailant in the gut. I blame Pirro and his uncanny way of making my temper flair for the mistake.
Getting mugged outside of this shitty bar would honestly just be par for the course with how unlucky I’ve been lately.
This guy is going to be incredibly pissed when he finds nothing but empty pockets.
But instead of him patting me down or demanding I give him money, I feel a fucking prick in my neck. It isn’t a robbery but an abduction.
I know who has me before I hear his raspy voice in my ear.
He curses at me in Spanish. Although I understand him calling me a fucking idiot, I’m a little regretful that I’ve spent so many years working jobs around Mexico and South America, and I haven’t been bothered to fully learn the language.
Learning to speak Spanish when all I ever do is shoot people has seemed like a waste of time up until this point.
As my body fights the drugs in my system, I find that it would really be helpful with where I’m going.
I wasn’t able to infiltrate the Cortez cartel the way I wanted, but at least this will put me on the inside.
I can’t help the sinking feeling that I may have bitten off more than I can chew, that this has no way of ending with my survival.