Chapter 7 – Tristan
Chapter Seven
Tristan
“I fucking hate drug trafficking,” I muttered.
We remained hidden in a darkened alley that was littered with large cylinder drums, which made it possible for me, Cyrus, Aidan, Apollo, and Drago to go undetected by the parties inside the shipyard warehouse.
Drago laughed softly. “You’re a shitty mafioso, Uncle.”
“Yeah, whoever heard of a Godfather who didn’t want to traffic drugs or people?” Apollo snarked.
“I’m the kind who recognizes that I can make more money moving guns, providing mercenary work, and setting up gambling dens all over the world. The money the mafia now makes from sports betting alone in one month rivals any income they could ever make from trafficking people in one year. We own teams in every team sport, sometimes several to ensure we carry the championship each year. Not to mention the risk inherent in trafficking any merchandise. And I just fucking hate that shit.”
“Is this why you want to eliminate these Cartel operatives?” Aidan wanted to know.
“No,” I gritted out. “Yes, they have been waging a war against the mafia here on the West Coast and winning in the past few months. But I want to kill these assholes because they pedal fucked-up drugs, and their brand of brutality is fucking barbaric.”
“You burned an entire room of Angolan rebels last month,” Aidan muttered. “How the hell is that any less barbaric than what these bastards do?”
“Those assholes raped women and children, forced young boys to rape their own mothers, and slaughtered an entire village,” I reminded him. “They deserved to die. What I did wasn’t barbaric; it was a fucking cleansing.”
“So, these assholes die?” Apollo wanted to know.
“Fuck yeah, they die,” I confirmed. “Painfully.”
With our enhanced senses, we could hear every word of the negotiations between the Triad and the Cartel. They seemed to be getting along better than I thought two of the most deadly and territorial crime organizations usually got on. Too bad, they would all be too dead to enjoy their knew comradery. We came here to intercept a large shipment of human and drug cargo. The Cartel was providing the drugs, and the Triads were providing human cargo and cash.
We hadn’t been able to find the human cargo yet, and that was the only reason these fuckers were still alive. Whatever holding place the Triads were keeping them must be cramped and airless with no opening to the outside, because we hadn’t sensed them, or they were simply not here yet. We’d searched every container, warehouse space, and boat along the pier and had found the money and the drugs, but no smuggled humans.
“My men collected the merchandise,” the Medellin lieutenant from the Cartel was saying smugly.
I wanted to kill the drug lord himself, but his lieutenant would have to do tonight. The Cartel obviously had the human cargo and had already moved them into their possession. “I guess we have to keep one of the Cartel assholes alive long enough to tell us where their ‘merchandise’ is,” I said with disgust. Everyone knew that meant that I would be drinking the lieutenant’s blood tonight.
We didn’t waste another moment before we entered the warehouse. There were over twenty men between the Triads and the Cartel, so I didn’t really need any help in annihilating them. However, this was a training exercise for Apollo and Drago.
While my vampiric skin is impervious to a bullet and so is Apollo’s, which has an energy shield that can repel anything, Cyrus’s, Aidan’s, and Drago’s skins were not. A bullet alone couldn’t kill them, but it certainly could pierce their skin, and it would hurt like a bitch. And if they got shot in the head or heart with high-powered weapons, it could be enough to circumvent their self-healing. Apollo and Drago were usually inseparable, so they needed to learn to fight both together and separately. While Cyrus and Aidan were more than eight hundred years old, had fought in many wars—human and immortal—they didn’t need the combat lessons. Apollo and Drago, although adult dhampirs, were still teenagers in human years and hadn’t learned enough yet to avoid being killed by dangerous humans.
Despite the entire Petrov family being engaged in twice-weekly training sessions at the castle in an enclosed battlefield that was at least the size of a football field, training for any possible attack, Apollo and Drago needed real-life application to keep vigilant.
The mafia certainly provided a great training field. Yes, my nephews were gifted, and more powerful than humans, but they were still learning to control their powers that seemed to get stronger and stronger as they got older.
As soon as we entered the warehouse, the Cartel and Triad men started firing at us. I didn’t feel even a flicker of emotion at their stunned expression on seeing us. Having my emotions muted once again, after my frenzy of emotions with Kali, was a balm to my sanity. It happens every time. As soon as I see Kali, I will suddenly start feeling shit that made me lose control. However, without her around to mess with my mind, I revert to the block of ice I had become since Papa’s death.
Apollo expanded his shield over Drago, Cyrus, and Aidan, and their bullets bounced off the shield. Apollo could have let the shield repel the bullets back on them, but then what was the fun in that? Or he could have had the shield make them invisible, but again, it wouldn’t have served our purpose.
The boys needed hand-to-hand combat, and that is what we allowed them.
Apollo and Drago beat the crap out of the men, with Aidan, Cyrus, and me looking on. Our only contribution was to ensure no one left and avoided a good beat-down. Although Apollo and Drago could easily have killed the human males, we didn’t let them. It was either Aidan, Cyrus, or me who would end their miserable life.
As expected, we saved the lieutenant for last. I bit into his wrist. It took only one drop of his blood on my tongue for me to know everything about him. Every experience. Every thought. Every memory.
With a swift flick of my wrist, the karambit slit his belly cleanly open from sternum to hip. I left the lieutenant trying to stuff his innards back in his body while screeching and whimpering in pain.
Two hours later, we had rescued thirty women and twenty children, boys and girls packed in a trailer like sardines in a can. Some of the children were as young as five years old. I hate prostitution and human slavery, but I hate fucking pedophiles even more.
No matter how many times we rescued people from those cargo trailers, I could never get used to that odor. It wasn’t just the stink of unwashed bodies and grimy sweat; it was the smell of desperation, fear, and anguish, which are impossible to ever dismiss.
Yeah, I know, I’m a shitty mafioso. Blame Papa for that.