Page 40 of Tainted Blood
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Jesus Christ,” RJ mutters. “We were being watched the whole time.”
The chime of a text message diverts my attention. It’s not mine. I have no idea where my phone ended up, after being blown to fuck and back. Everyone turns to where my father’s head is bowed at the lit screen in his hand.
“Díos mio. What now?”
“The New Haven fire department was just called to Celtic Stone.”
“That’s Mahoney’s place.”
“Not anymore.” Lifting his chin, he catches my eye. “Mahoney was inside.”
I’m beginning to understand the power Villefort wields. Its dirty reach extends into all four corners of the world. There’s no place to hide from them. Nothing our two cartels have done has ever gone unnoticed. Thalia and Lola were always living on borrowed time.
“They knew we were coming for Mahoney. They made sure he didn’t talk.”
Sirens and horns wail in the distance, drawing Grayson’s attention toward the street where a crowd of onlookers are starting to gather, their eyes fixed to the orange flames licking the skyline.
“We need to get out of here,” he says, motioning to the vehicles. “Fire department is three minutes out.”
We’re right back where we started, at square one with nothing but a handful of assumptions and theories. I’m not going anywhere until we realign our strategy.
“Mahoney is a pile of ash. How the hell do we get answers now?”
The corners of Grayson’s mouth twitch. If I didn’t know him any better, I’d swear he was smiling. “We offer a little cartel incentive. I’ll deal with the fire department and meet you on Canal Street in an hour. There, we’ll ‘persuade’ our Villefort friends to talk together.”
Taking his lead, RJ nods to where our sicarios are reconvening. That sure as hell isn’t going to go unnoticed. “We’ll head back to base, and I’ll fill Rocco in.”
“Good. Go.”
Meanwhile my father hasn’t taken his eyes off his phone. I clasp his shoulder, understanding, now more than ever. “Go to máma. There’s no guarantee Legado won’t be next.” ´
* * *
An hour later, I’m being greeted by the scent of copper and rotting meat. It doesn’t take me long to find the source. Two steps into the Canal Street warehouse, and I’m ramming the toe of my shoe into a dead Italian’s face.
He’s not the only one. They’re everywhere—dumped like discarded toys on the floor of a killer’s playground. Twenty…maybe thirty. I stop counting the moment I encounter a line of Santiago guns, all aiming at my head.
“This is getting a little old,” I say mildly.
“Lower your guns, men.” Grayson follows me inside, unfazed by the carnage. “Carreras aren’t the enemy here. Do I make myself clear? Now, fill us in on the preshow.”
One sicario, more muscle than man, steps forward and gestures around the room. “Most are Ricci’s men. They were all wearing keys or tattoos. Those amenable to it, were questioned. Those who fired their weapons at us, died.”
“Have they told you anything?”
“Him,” the sicario clarifies. He nods behind us at the last remaining Italian. From the shades of his bloody suntan, he’s already been beaten half-to-death. The chair he’s tied to is more red than wood. “This one doesn’t have the same pain threshold as the rest.”
I don’t ask permission, mainly because I don’t give a fuck. Walking straight up to him, I inspect his neck. Someone’s jabbed a key pin in the center of the black ax tattoo.
“That looks unpleasant,” I note, with a grim smile. “Has he started singing yet?”
“He said he’ll only talk to a boss,” the sicario mutters.
Well then, let the games begin.
Joining me, Grayson, rips the Italian’s mouth gag down to his chin. “Name?”