Page 51 of Tainted Blood
He called me jefe.
I’ve led men into battle, but never into war. These are my father’s men. Mexican-trained sicarios. Jefe is what they call my father. It’s a sign of respect and honor. To hear him call me that flips a switch inside me.
I’m jefe.
I’m El Muerte.
I’m bringing my family home.
“Time to switch to radio. Send another twenty over. On my signal, have the sicarios take out as many guards as they can. Use silencers. No fanfare. In the meantime, we’ll keep the ones at the gate,”—I train my binoculars on the front archway where there are four men standing guard—"distracted.”
“Sí, jefe. When it’s clear, I’ll send a message.”
“I assume you have a plan for this ‘distraction’?” Grayson asks, taking the binoculars from me to scope out the situation for himself. “Ten minutes, and we can have snipers in place to take them out.”
“We don’t have ten minutes. Tell your men to cut the outside security feed and follow my lead.” I shoot him a look. “I know that’s going to make your head explode, Grayson, but try and keep up.”
“Cocky bastard,” I hear him mutter as we start to climb the rest of the road on foot.
I am a cocky bastard. If I was anything else, doubt would be creeping in by now. I can’t allow thoughts of what awaits us on the other side of those walls to dilute my focus.
A hundred feet out, I unscrew RJ’s vodka bottle. Taking a couple of deep swigs, I tip the rest down the front of my shirt as Grayson grabs my arm.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Thinking outside the box.”
It’s risky. It’s reckless. But other than going in, guns blazing, it’s all I’ve got.
His grip tightens as I go to push past. “I run slick operations, Carrera—”
“Hang back in the shadows. When I start firing, don’t fucking miss.” Wrenching my arm away, I raise the radio, and give my lieutenant the order to start shooting guards from the rear.
Sliding my gun into the waistband of my pants, I make my way up to the guards, holding out my hands in mock surrender, staggering like I’m a drunk on the Fourth of July. As predicted, I’m greeted the Villefort way—with their M27s aimed at my head, and a fuck load of angry Italian.
“I’m looking for the bar,” I slur, throwing out my demand like I’m not two seconds away from being more bullet than bone.
The tallest one glares at me with contempt. “Chi è questo imbecille?”
“Did you…?” I pretend to sway again. “Did you just call me an idiot?”
Meanwhile, there’s a faint commotion coming from the other side of the wall. I glance up to find half the parapet guards on this side have already disappeared.
“This is not a tourist stop,” the guard hisses in broken English. “You are trespassing on private property. I will enjoy—”
He’s cut off by an eruption of gunfire on the back side of the wall. Realization lights up his face as our sicarios spill out behind them, a spray of bullets announcing the arrival of the tempest. Before he can take aim, I have my finger on the trigger. With one shot, the back of his head is staining the road.
“You won’t be enjoying anything anymore, you piece of shit,” I tell the corpse, as the atmosphere thickens with the steady pulse of urgency.
The other three guards are down, courtesy of Grayson and RJ. But that was just the prelude. The real show begins as more guards come charging at us from every corner.
Grayson quickly reloads his gun, slamming the magazine in place. “Christ, they’re multiplying.”
Taking aim, I fire—sending another man to an early grave. “Go!” I shout, waving my gun toward the front entrance.
They take the lead and I follow behind, covering their asses as a bullet whizzes past, clipping my shoulder. I don’t stop to inspect the damage. I can’t allow anything to slow me down.
Through the archway, we find a network of narrow, cobblestone streets, with the silhouette of a castle looming large in front of us.