Their Cartel Princess: The Complete Series: A Dark Reverse Harem Box Set Page 64

  Like a proud father displaying to his daughter the expanse of their kingdom.

  His voice dropped low. “But these days, you don’t need a drug dealer to buy weed. You just go to a dispensary. And cocaine?” He shook his head, jarring her slightly. “Coke has to come all the way from Columbia or Peru. You can’t grow it in Mexico’s climate, or this.”

  He waved a hand to the poppies. A wind swept over the crop as if he’d beckoned it into motion, the flowers dancing like a Mexican wave. A few petals began falling, shed from the seed pods they were obscuring, and these fluttered in the wind like snow.

  “But heroin…everyone wants heroin.” Javier’s voice was a low murmur now.

  Cora could feel excitement coming off him like pheromones. It made goosebumps break out over her skin.

  It was so quiet here. No sounds except the wind. So quiet, she could hear him breathing. Would anyone hear if she screamed? Would the two sicarios waiting outside the chain link fence hear it if she did? Or had Javier instructed them to stay outside no matter what?

  Javier’s arm became heavier as he lifted his fingers and began stroking her shoulder. She swallowed, glanced at him under her lashes. But he was staring down at the poppies, perhaps not even realizing what he was doing.

  “They’ll be ready for harvesting in a few days. Our first shipment soon thereafter.”

  He looked down at her then, catching her staring at him. Taking her other shoulder in his hands, he turned her to face him and drew her close until there was no more room between them. His body was warm, firm, richly scented with cedarwood.

  Her heart began pounding.

  Javier slid his hands into the crook of her neck, and stroked her jaw with his thumbs. “So young. So beautiful. Birthed into a power you can’t begin to imagine.”

  He must have seen the question in her eyes. He smiled beatifically as he smoothed her hair over her scalp.

  “You just became the queen of a drug empire so vast, Pablo Escobar would be kneeling at your feet.”

  What the hell was she supposed to say to that? The best she could come up with was a mumbled, “But…I…I don’t want—”

  Javier released her, and lifted a finger in the air to silence her. Strange—he was only wearing one of his rings today. His hands looked surprisingly slim without them. He put a hand in the breast pocket of his linen suit and drew out her Taurus.

  “A queen should never go unprotected,” Javier murmured, twisting the gun so the light caught on its inscription.

  Then he reached around her waist. His fingers skimmed her skin as he lifted the back of her shirt.

  She shuddered involuntarily as the cold steel of her pistol slid down her spine and nestled in the small of her back. Javier’s face was so close, she could taste the sweetness of his breath.

  He turned his head to her. She closed her eyes, fully expecting that full mouth to brush her cheek, her lips, her throat.

  Instead, he whispered into her ear. “But if you ever try to kill me with this, I will flay your lovers alive.” He drew back, a twinkle in his dark eyes. “Which will seem a pleasure compared with what I’d do to you.”

  Epilogue

  A crow landed in a flurry of wings on the eave of an airport hangar’s glaringly-bright roof. It strutted for a few paces as if the corrugated steel was too hot for its claws and then cawed aloud.

  A second crow joined the first, landing a few feet away. They studied each other for a brief moment and then fluffed their wings. The first crow cocked its head, scanning the abandoned airport’s dusty ground in search of food.

  It found nothing.

  A third crow alighted on a nearby roof, cawing at the first two. They all fluffed their wings in way of greeting, and together studied the ground.

  The second crow hopped off the roof, alighting effortlessly on the dusty soil. It strutted a few feet, eyeballing the vast, empty blocks of steel. Then it hopped into one of the open hangars. Inside, it came to stop some feet away from a dark, dusty shape on the floor. The body lay in a large, uneven circle of congealing blood.

  The crow hopped around it before landing on a bare, dusty foot. It studied the body, cocking its head this way and that, and fluffed out its feathers a little. Flies buzzed over the shape, lethargic, as if they’d already spent their eggs in dark, moist places.

  The raven’s friend came into the hangar behind it, and approached another nearby bundle with the same predatory caution. This body was larger, swaddled in brighter cloth. The crow pecked at an unmoving finger and then hopped onto a shoulder as it studied the large, ginger-dusted head.

  It pecked at the closest staring eyeball.

  The third crow joined them a few minutes later, as the first bird was reaching the end of its inspection of the dark-clothed shape laying in the blood. It had just spotted its eyeball—this one still lidded—and was making a beeline for the tasty morsel.

  At its first peck, the shape under its claws twitched violently.

  All three ravens swept from the hangar with an offended chorus of caws, calling down doom and destruction on the man who dared play possum with them.

  They collected on the roof again, settling their feathers as one of them gave itself a quick preen.

  Seconds later, a trio of black vehicles pulled into the empty airport. The ravens watched unimpressed as men piled out of the cars and headed into the hangar were all their tasty treats lay waiting for their return.

  When the last of those bodies had been retrieved, and the vehicles had left, the ravens descended into the hangar again.

  But now, all that was left was a puddle of drying blood and a few of the braver flies.

  III

  Her Capo

  “If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”

  Niccolo Machiavelli

  1

  A lead

  Kane Price grimaced as he flicked away the butt of his cigarette. It spat sparks on the gravel road before disappearing between the shale. Jesus, he had to get around to quitting sometime. Five years he’d been smoking, and he could feel tar on his lungs like an oil slick on a puddle.

  He smoothed his shaggy brown hair back from his face, and adjusted the lapels of his work suit.

  There had been police tape on the door, but either a strong wind or a brave kid had torn it.

  This was his third visit in as many weeks.

  His glasses were tinted in the strong sun, but as soon as he stepped inside the white-washed farmhouse, they adjusted to the gloom inside. They were more only for show—at thirty-three, he still had stellar vision—but people tended to remember the fact that someone wore glasses more than a person’s hazel eyes.

  Helpful, when you were trying not to be noticed. People wearing glasses were also less intimidating; geeks weren’t known for their upper body strength.

  The farmhouse stank of spoiled meat and stale air, which was surprising. So many goddamn cops and detectives had worked their way through this place, they’d left smeared footprints over the dusty floor, but their presence did nothing about the smell.

  Floorboards creaked as he worked his way through the now familiar floor plan.

  Dining room with its partially boarded-up windows. Disgusting bathroom. A junkie’s guest room. And the crime scene.

  Decay and mold had long since replaced the lingering scent of roses.

  Kane lit another cigarette as he crouched a foot away from the blood splatter caking the carpet. There was more on the wall and the bed’s headboard.

  By the time he’d been flagged about Plata o Plomo’s telltale MO, he’d arrived barely in time to see them loading the body into the mortician’s van.

  He’d insisted to see the corpse though.

  Which was one of the reasons why his Captain had suspended him. Apparently, barging through forensic guys and then wedging a decomposing corpse’s jaw open with a pen to see if the tongue had been severed wasn’t considered ‘proper police etiquette’
. Especially when it happened outside of his jurisdiction.

  Kane shifted his weight so the rucksack hanging from his shoulder slid off and thumped onto the floor. He glanced around the room before tugging out the bent notepad he kept in his back pocket. It was a tight fit; the edges of the faux leather binding were rubbed raw.

  He flipped through it until he came to a neatly penciled entry that read:

  Noah Green

  Truth & Consequences

  Severed tongue

  Poss P.o.P hit

  Calling them PoP made the Plata o Plomo cartel sound almost cheery. What they did to rats was far from it.

  The severed tongue was their thing, but the gunshot wounds he’d seen on Noah’s wrecked face weren’t. They’d looked not only gratuitous, but almost amateur. His theory that a rival cartel had set this up to look like PoP was too convoluted; Noah Green was a nobody. A cartel thug, perhaps. A halcon at best. Why would another cartel go to such lengths to disguise the origin of the hit?

  It kept him up at night, this hit. It felt too personal, almost vengeful. And one thing he knew about the capo of PoP was that he wasn’t vengeful.

  No…a cold-blooded killer led PoP; he didn’t doubt for a second that Zachary West was a psychopath.

  He’d walked this scene so many times, but he made himself do it again. Most of the significant pieces of evidence had been removed: the bloodstained shards of a methamphetamine pipe, the empty 9mm shells of the Taurus PT-911 that had ended Noah’s life, the blood and semen-stained sheets of the bed.

  A dark patch had seeped into the mattress. It had dried a long time ago, and even that coppery smell had left the room.

  He got onto his knees, peering under the bed as he had so many times before. Glancing up, he took in the size of the bed with its old-fashioned canopy, and shoved his shoulder against it. It skidded over the carpet after a moment’s resistance, before clattering into the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

  Four perfect circles of green carpet stood out where the bed’s feet had protected them from sun damage.

  Kane lay on his side, ignoring the crunch of dried blood as his shoulder bent the carpet fibers inside the big stain beside the bed. Dust, a lone sock, some chocolate wrappers. A used needle. It wasn’t surprising they’d left it behind—there’d been a fucking plethora of the things for forensics.

  He trailed his fingers along the surface of the dusty carpet. There was a suggestion of something—so slight that it disappeared as soon as he felt it. Kane shifted, freeing blood dust with his shoulder as he leaned forward and reached deeper under the bed.

  Something invisible to him tickled his fingertip. He moved his hand until he found it again, gripped it, and came to a sitting position.

  He held a long, black hair between his fingers.

  It could mean anything, or nothing.

  He got to his feet, careful not to lose the hair as he went to his rucksack. Opening one of the many internal compartments, he drew out a roll of scotch tape and tore off an inch with his teeth. He opened his notebook, turned to a fresh page. Coiling the hair around his finger, he stuck it to the page with the tape and carefully penned:

  Noah Green

  Found under bed

  Anything/nothing

  He clicked his pen and was busy returning the notepad to his pocket when someone knocked on the farmhouse’s front door.

  Kane rose slowly, and peered around the edge of the door. From here, he could see all the way to the front door. He’d left it open, which meant he had a perfect view of the woman standing on the threshold.

  “Hello?” She turned her head, spotted him, and held up a hesitant hand. “Noah?”

  Kane shoved his pen in his jacket pocket and strode up to the front door. He drew his badge with a practiced movement, flipping it open for the woman as he arrived in front of her.

  “Kane Price, DEA,” he said.

  Of course, the badge wasn’t his official one. That had been taken, along with his state-issued weapon.

  But he’d be damned if he went around without a badge. Most people wouldn’t have the moxie to take down his badge number anyway and, even if they did, most of those wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with the information.

  “DEA?” The woman blinked owlish eyes at him. She was pretty, in a frumpy kind of way—no makeup, clothes rumpled and covered in dog hair. “What’s going on?”

  “You’re here to see Noah?”

  “I…I am.” She hugged herself then, and took a step back. “Is he…is he here?”

  “’Fraid not, ma’am,” Kane said, slipping into his best cop impersonation. It was only an impersonation because he was technically suspended, of course. He was still a DEA agent, even if he didn’t have the backing of the US Government behind him right that minute. “Noah Green was murdered a few weeks ago.”

  The woman’s lips slowly parted. She took another step back and then reached out as if she wanted to grab a hold of the door frame. But when her fingertips brushed against flaking whitewash, she flinched and curled her hand against her throat instead.

  “Murdered? That’s awful.”

  “How did you know Mr. Green, ma’am?”

  “Me? I…I didn’t.” The woman leaned to look past him, as if wondering if Noah’s decomposing corpse was still somewhere on the premises. “I mean…I’m here for an inspection.”

  “What inspection?” Kane asked as he dug his notepad out of his pocket and flipped it to a clean page.

  “For…from the pound. For his adoption. The dog.” The woman pressed a hand over her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, I’m probably not making any sense.”

  “Just start from the beginning, ma’am.”

  “It’s Tracey,” she murmured, taking her hand away. She looked a shade paler than before. “Tracey Highmore.”

  “What’s this about a dog?”

  “Noah. He wanted to adopt another pittie. We always come to do an inspection first, even if he’s adopted before. That’s the rule.”

  “You’re from a pound?” Kane asked, making a note of the woman’s name.

  She nodded. “He’s dead?” she asked, blinking up at Kane as if she’d never seen him before.

  “Unfortunately, ma’am.”

  “What happened to his pittie?”

  For a moment, Kane thought the woman had literally just had a mental breakdown right in front of him. Then their brief conversation played back in his head.

  There hadn’t been mention of a dog on the report. Although…would they have bothered to include it?

  “I’m not sure, ma’am.”

  “Tracey, please.” She gave her head a hard shake. “Did someone take her? Please, god, tell me someone’s looking after her!”

  “The dog?” Kane ventured, as Tracey spun away from him and headed for the back yard.

  “The pitbull he adopted a year ago. He kept her—”

  Tracey stopped as soon as she made the corner of the farmhouse. Kane strode up beside her, scanning the back yard with new eyes.

  There was a pole in the middle of the yard, with a chain attached. By the side of the house stood two dog bowls—one faded by the sun—and a mound of blankets that must have served as the dog’s bed.

  When he turned to Tracey, her eyes had welled up. “I knew it,” she whispered, putting a trembling hand on her mouth. “I told them he shouldn’t have her.”

  “Hey, Tracey? Can you look at me, girl?”

  The woman turned to him, blinking hard as if trying to hold back tears. “We never allow people to adopt if they’re going to chain their dogs up in their yards. This is—” she waved a hand at the backyard, her mouth quivering.

  Kane took her arm and led her around the side of the house again. “Was the dog chipped?”

  “Chipped?” She looked up at him, and then nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

  “You have records of that on your system?”

  Another furious nod. Then more tears welled in her eyes. “You think
someone took her in?”

  “I’m sure they did,” Kane said, urging Tracey to the front of the house. “Can I follow you to the pound and get that info from you?”

  Tracey gave him a vague wave as she headed for her dented sedan. He heard her breaking into sobs before she managed to close the car door behind her.

  As he sat in his car, waiting for Tracey to calm herself enough to drive, he flipped open his notebook and began thumbing back through the pages. He tapped his pen against an entry as he drew out his pack of cigarettes and shook one loose:

  Zachary West

  PoP capo (El Lobo)

  Approx 45

  Br eyes br hair

  Southern acc.

  Pitbulls

  It was a connection so tenuous, his Captain would have laughed him out of the office. But it was the only lead he had on a case he’d been working for almost a decade.

  And a lead was a fucking lead.

  2

  Warriors have scars

  Zachary West smoothed his fingers over Lady’s forehead. The white pitbull had fallen into a light sleep with her head on his lap. He didn’t often allow his dogs on the sofa with him, but tonight he’d felt the need for warmth beside him.

  It was the cold.

  The fire blazing a few feet away from him didn’t help.

  The right side of his body was always cold compared with the left. Ever since the burning oil had touched his skin all those years ago, his skin had been aflame. But, in comparison, the right side of his body felt constantly chilled.

  His fingers toyed with Lady’s short fur, rubbing it the wrong way before smoothing it down again. His fingertips encountered a small nub on the back of her neck, and he toyed with it for a few seconds before moving to her ear. She didn’t like him touching her ears—they flicked for a few seconds until she woke up and turned sleepy eyes on him.