Remember Jorge? He appears in Songbird, when he's taking over London from Escamilla, and then again in Dirty Dealings, when he's shot by an assassin. Well, the next book is his story.
I'm not sure what I'm going to call it, my working title is F*cked, but here's the draft of the first chapter.
Chapter
One Jorge
Fuck with
me and if you're lucky, I'll shoot you. If you're unlucky, I'll make you
goddamn suffer first. Jamal Blake had pissed me off bigtime and so I was
determined to make him pay.
He’d
rented an apartment under an alias, thinking it would be a safehouse, but the
unthinking pendejo had paid the
deposit by bank transfer. If he’d paid cash, he might have lived. But he didn’t
and as I had a tap on his bank account, I knew straight away he was up to no
good.
After a
few days of watching him, it was pretty clear what his plans were. I let him
run with it because, you know, give a man enough rope. By the time he was ready
to rob me, I was two steps in front – and waiting for him.
I heard him
run up the stairs, chuckling all the way, thinking he'd outsmarted me. Entering
the apartment, he threw down a backpack, slammed the door shut and bolted it
before even realising he wasn't alone. "What the fuck?"
"Hello,
Jamal."
He posed
against the door, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to look cool.
It would have been a fine effort if his hand hadn’t been shaking. "Boss.”
It came out in a frightened squeak and he had to focus to get a manly baritone
going. “What are you doing here?"
I let him
see the cricket bat in my hand. "I came for my coke."
He sprang
at me but I was faster. Being built like a barn didn't help him because I've
been in more fights than Tyson Fury. As he pounced, I stepped aside lightly and
whacked him in the gut with the bat. As he collapsed to his knees, I punched
him down again.
In the
movies, he'd be up and ready to go again. In real life, not being able to
breathe means it's game over. He was on the floor, gasping and retching, giving
me time to bash him again. It was a light blow to the back of the head,
carefully calculated to put him out but not kill him. I didn’t want him taking
the easy way out.
When he
came to, I had him gagged and strapped to a kitchen chair. His eyes bulged as
he saw me rip holes in the top and sides of a garbage bag. "I don't mind
splatter," I told him, "but this is my lucky shirt and I have a
meeting after this."
He tried
to break through the bonds but I'd used an entire roll of duct tape. That stuff
is so awesome that it can hold a revving car in place - if the lamp post or
gate you tether it to is strong enough - so I just waited until he figured out
it was no use.
It took
him a good few minutes, Jamal was always a slow thinker, but he got to it
eventually. He sat there, the gag distorting his mouth into an O of surprise.
With his shaven head and eyes wide open, he looked like a bowling ball.
I hefted
the bat. "You really are a stupid son of a bitch,” I informed him.
"Did you really think you could rip off twenty kis of my coke? And get away
with it?"
He shook
his head, denying it with eyes rolling frantically.
"Don't
lie to me. You were supposed to process the consignment, not steal it." I
was mad because I'd trusted him. "I gave you a job, money and
responsibility," I reminded him. "A life of respect, handed to you on
a plate, and you fucked me over at first opportunity."
He was
jerking around, nodding hard. It wasn't agreement; Jamal was trying to buy his
way out of trouble. Told you he was stupid.
"Yes,
my coke is in your backpack," I sighed. "Giving it back won't
help." But I set it aside, just to make sure it stayed out of the way. I
didn't want my revenge messing up my product. "You betrayed me, you
disloyal hijo puta and now you’re
going to make amends," I told Jamal. "Your death is going to show
everyone what happens when you fuck with me."
Jamal
moaned and pissed himself. I guess he was remembering the stories of how my
family deal with the people who cross us. Crucifixion, boiling, dismemberment;
we're very versatile. For this one, I was taking a leaf from the classics.
"Do
you remember how Al Capone dealt with Scalise, Anselmi and Giunta, the disloyal
scum who were going to betray him?" I asked. He hadn't but he was eyeing
my bat and getting the message. "Capone was quick-tempered and he had them
finished off with a shot to the head." The chair was rocking again,
convincing me he was visualising his future just fine. "I’m very patient
and so you'll have lots of time to consider your mistakes."
Having
laid it out for him, I swung the bat, bringing it down on his right wrist. “You
shouldn’t have tried to steal from me, Jamal.” All the little bones shattered
in an audible crunch but his scream was muffled by the gag. I gave him a second
to pull himself together. "I don’t like thieves." His forearm went
with a second swing. Then I shattered the elbow, his upper arm and followed
through with a swing at his collarbone.
Intense
pain is interesting because it silences. Step on a man’s toe and he’ll roar;
smash it to pieces and all you’ll get is a squeak. Also, while a whacking load
of it will paralyse you, it won’t easily lead to unconsciousness, especially if
you stay away from bashing them on the head.
Even so,
I was careful to give him lots of time to recover and when he turned blue, I
removed the gag. "Deep breath," I told him. "We've a ways to
go."
There are
more than two hundred bones in the human body and I was aiming at breaking as
many of Jamal's as possible. I worked my way up one side and then back down the
other side. His knees, ankles, and shins were tougher but I play a bit of golf,
so I reversed the bat and practiced my drive shot.
The bat
crushed bone and cartilage but with having a fantastic swing, we got lots of
splinters breaking through the skin. With his heart pumping away, the splatter
got as far as the walls. I was glad I had suited up.
Because I
took paced myself, he was breathing great when I started on his ribs. That's
when the odd splash became a constant spray. I'd whack, he'd cough, and so it
got real messy real quick.
Twenty
minutes later, he made an ominous rattle. I stopped, ready to give him a
breather, but the weak son of a bitch died on me. Looking around, there was
gore galore but the scene was still lacking that iconic touch. I wanted my
message to send shivers of fear throughout the country, and this was too tame.
It came
to me as I took in the fact that the window had escaped the splatter. I stepped
back, took aim at his head, and got a terrific rain of brains. Inspired, I
whacked a couple of times more, and got an eyeball to pop out. It was perfect.
Quentin Tarantino couldn't have done better.
Rinsing
the bat under the kitchen tap and packing it away with my makeshift poncho in a
bag took seconds. Nobody was on the stairs, or in the hall, and I didn't
attract any attention as I walked down the street. Thanks to a light rain,
typical damn English weather, my hat, scarf and coat would obscure any CCTV.
A bus
took me across town in fine anonymous form, delivering me right to a butcher’s
dumpster. The bag went in, certain to be obscured by all the other gory refuse.
The bat slipped into a sewer. Rounding a corner, I dived into the underground
and fifteen minutes later, I was stepping into my office building, dropping off
my coke and picking up my ride.
I'd
treated myself to a Lexus just the week before and so it still had that awesome
scent of new leather. With Shakira’s sultry voice keeping me company, the drive
to the Boltons in Chelsea was a snap.
Kowalczyk
House was rigged out with Greek columns, marble statues and a fountain big
enough to float a battleship but the guards on the gate needed a shave. They
were sloppy as well, checking under the chassis with a mirror but forgetting to
look under the hood. They didn’t x-ray the present I’d brought, either. Lucky
for them I was there for a friendly visit and so they didn’t end up piled up
dead under the fancy hedge an artist had trimmed into a row of peacocks.
Fifteen
minutes later, I wasn’t feeling so friendly. A starched-up butler had led me
into the house quickly enough but he’d poured me a cheap vodka and fucked off,
leaving me to kick my heels in a lounge.
The room
was dominated by an ego wall, covered with photos of Kowalczyk with the rich
and shameless. I counted two supermodels, three billionaire businessmen and a
minor royal. There were also shots of his boat, his chopper and his racehorse.
I patted a sofa cushion. Surprisingly, it was stuffed with feathers, not cash.
I didn’t
like what I'd seen of the rest of the house much either. It was loaded with
more marble, gold framed paintings and topped off with crystal chandeliers. It
was way too sparkly for my taste.
In an
effort to avoid permanent eyestrain, I was looking out at the garden. Eyeing a
marble goddess, probably stolen from an ancient temple, I spotted a girl popping
out from the leafy peacocks.
She wore
a loose tunic of blue-green silk that covered her from neck to knees but evoked
an aura of lushness. As she paused by the statue, I had to fight for breath.
She was a heavenly vision, all right: long legs, a sweet swell of delicious
curves and a cloud of copper curls.
The body
was a dream but I couldn’t see if she had a face to match. The French windows were locked tight and as I
pulled at the levers, rattled them, the girl darted across the gravel and dived
into the house.
Shooting
across the room, wrenching open the door, thinking I’d catch up with her in the
hall, I collided with the butler. “Hell!”
The
starch was frosty. “Mr Kowalczyk will see you now.”
I was
cool, “Yeah, sure,” and very disappointed to see the beauty was nowhere to be
seen. We trekked in silence across the hall, down a bling filled corridor and
finally, I was ushered into an inner sanctum.
The room
was just like the rest of the house, opulent and stuffed with expensive
show-off bling yet cold, empty and lifeless. The owner, Eryk Kowalczyk, was
pretty much the same. I took in the chalky skin, washed-out blue eyes, dull
pale hair, and tell-tale pinched look around the thin-lipped mouth. Also, while
he was no older than thirty, he was running to fat. His belly bulged and hung
over his belt.
I didn’t
take to him but I didn’t let it show. "Mr Kowalczyk, it's a pleasure to
finally meet you."
The
disrespectful bastard had kept me waiting and now he wasn't smiling or
apologising as he should have. Instead, he offered a half-hearted handshake and
waved me to a chair - leather, luxurious and comfortable but a far cry from the
sofa setup by the window he used for VIPs.
He didn't
dismiss his soldiers, either. Four of them, all packing, and hanging by the
door where they could hear every word, instead of at a discrete distance as
they should when men of respect meet.
I
considered walking out but decided against it. Back home in Mexico, my rep
meant only a man on a suicide mission would fuck with me but this was London
and I was a newcomer.
Only a pendejo mistakes insult for ignorance
and so I made sure he understood who he was dealing with. "Jorge Santos,"
and in case that didn't ring any bells, "I am head of Nuevo Laredo Import
and Export Incorporated, London branch."
"I
know," Kowalczyk sounded offhand. "It's a cover for the Zeta cartel.
Your cousin, Arturo Vazquez, is the head of your organisation back in Mexico. I
have heard of him."
Great.
The implication that Arturo would have been welcomed with open arms stung.
"Your
cousin wants to talk to me?" Kowalczyk rumbled.
As if I
were a goddamn messenger boy! "No," I said quietly. "But I will
tell him you spoke of him with respect."
There was
a pause, and then Kowalczyk nodded. "All right. What is your business with
me?"
It was
abrupt to the point of rudeness but I kept my cool. Eastern Europeans don't
smile much and Kowalczyk was known to be particularly sour. Or perhaps it
was the stained teeth. “I am here on business but it’s a small matter. Mainly, I
came because my club stands right next to yours. Being neighbours, I thought it
was time we met.”
The pause
was infinitesimal. “I see.” There was no life in those faded eyes. “I’ve heard
of you, of course. It’s good to put a face to the name.”
It was
grudging but I could live with it. “Same here!”
The lips
stretched but it was more a rictus than a smile. All in all the man was a
disappointment.
Eryk Kowalczyk
had grown up unconnected but after a short period of working for a gang in
Prague, he’d come to London. He’d learned his basics because he’d built up a good
business for himself, based on the classic foundations of narcotics, women, and
bootleg booze.
On paper Kowalczyk
looked good but I wasn't getting that vibe that comes from power and success.
The Armani suit would’ve been class if it had fit right but there was no
sparkle in the man. I'd expected wolf and what I got was blobfish.
Kowalczyk
didn’t have any manners, either. He should have offered me a drink, at least.
As I was not dragged up from a Polish sewer, I smiled and presented my gift.
"A small token of friendship." I handed over the case, opening it so
he and his soldiers could admire the lighter inside. It was plain gold but
what made it interesting was the inscription, plata or plomo.
I took it
out and showed it to him. "I thought you'd enjoy this. It was Paolo
Escobar's." Seeing Kowalczyk look blank, I explained. "That was his
favourite line, you know. Silver or lead." Typical Escobar, it had
explained his work ethic: you took his money and stood aside or took a bullet
and let him step over your dead body.
"I
know." Kowalczyk's voice was just like him; flat, dull and thuggish.
"The
lighter was originally a gift from Pershing Kolikowski." But even the
mention of Poland's biggest crime lord didn't seem to register.
"Thanks."
He took the box and set it down. "You mentioned my club. There’s an
issue?"
Right
down to business. "Yes." I settled in the chair and realised right
away he'd rigged it, cutting the legs short so that he dominated the room. It
was a cheap trick and I didn't let it bother me. "Your club, The Grand,
and mine, Bubbles, are back to back. There's just an alleyway dividing
them."
"So?"
"We
had the land office round recently. They say there was an error in their
documentation. The original property line was a little off." I brought out
my phone and showed him the map. "Your private car space is on our
property and our south wall is on yours."
Kowalczyk
frowned. "Is that so?"
"It's
no big deal," I assured him. "My lawyers tell me that if we sign an
agreement to leave matters as they stand, the problem goes away."
"I
don't like lawyers." His fingers tapped a cheery tattoo on the oak topped
desk. "I can park on the street but you will have to rebuild your
wall." He grinned, his lips pulling away from yellowing fangs.
"You'll need to close your club."
I wasn't
mad because in those few seconds I'd learned all I needed to about his
character. Kowalczyk was a nasty piece of work, which was expected. He'd built
a criminal empire, and you don't do that by being nice. What surprised me was
that he was stupid. Wars cost a fortune and therefore cooperation is always a
better move. "We're neighbours," I pointed out. "And we're in
the same business. I would prefer to be allies."
His shrug
spoke volumes.
“We appeal
to the same demographic: young, wealthy urbanites, looking for a good time.” I’ve
got a business degree from Cornell. “We could cross market, help each other
along.”
“I don’t
need your help!”
That took
me aback. “Forgive me, sometimes my English isn’t up to speed.” It was a lie
but I thought he’d misunderstood me. And, as I am all about business, I don’t
mind making an apology if it nets me a nice profit. “What I meant was, we could support each other.
Like, you might want access to some of our bands.”
His club,
The Grand was dead compared to Bubbles because I had cornered the market on two
dozen of London’s finest live music bands. While his staff could take breaks whenever
they liked, mine were manning lines of patrons and working full out their
entire shift.
“I don’t
need you. My club’s better than yours.” Kowalczyk looked as if he were ready to
spit. I’d always thought envy was green but the Pole was turning puce. “Anything
else?” he raged.
"You're
paying top dollar for your coke because you buy from middlemen." I played
my ace. "Buy it direct from me, and you can make an extra ten percent.
It'll be better quality too."
He didn't
even blink. "No."
I'd
approached him with respect, offered friendship, and the fuck had thrown it in
my face. It took an act of will not to shoot him on the spot.
"You'll
have to shut up shop," Kowalczyk sneered.
I
wouldn't but I wasn't telling him that. It's stupid to telegraph your
intentions. Kowalczyk wasn't very smart.
"Rebuilding
that wall will take year." The lips thinned. "Even if you get
permission, it'll cost a fortune."
“Maybe.”
“You can’t
afford it,” Kowalczyk sneered.
It was beyond
the line. “We Zetas have deep pockets.”
Another
shrug. “You might be a power in Mexico but this is London.”
It was
too fucking much. I had to grip the chair to stop myself from launching at him.
The four thugs lounging against the wall chortled, openly enjoying themselves. That
settled me. I didn’t flinch because they were dead men. I don’t tolerate
disrespect, not ever. They’d be gone by sundown.
“I might
buy you out,” Kowalczyk mocked. “If the price is right.”
“I’ll be
sure to consider it.”
He didn’t
even respect me enough to try and take me out. Keeping my temper in check was
easy because the cabron would soon be
six feet under. Kowalczyk liked partying, and if I blew him away in his own
club, his terrified customers would run next door, into my place. I do like a
win-win.
There was
no point in staying but as I got up to go, she walked in. The tunic fluttered
and rippled, drawing attention to the rich lines. To my delight, she had a face
to match the poem of a body: huge hazel eyes, a little nose with an enchanting
upturned tip and flawless skin.
One look
was all it took. I saw her and knew I wouldn't rest until she was mine.
Kowalczyk
was on his feet in an instant. "Persia." The way he drank her in told
me he was solid. “Come here.”
The eyes
flickered but after a long second, she undulated over, putting one foot in
front of another as if she were strolling down a catwalk, curves shimmering
under the silky dress.
He put a
paw around her waist, pulled her in tight against his overfat gut and, looking
me right in the eye, growled, "We're done. The answer is no."
He was a
dead man, so I was ice. "I'll be seeing you."
She was
so close, that her perfume drifted over, a sweet, rich, exotic scent that
hinted at silk sheets and decadent passion. She didn't even look my way but his
radar warned him I was coveting his woman. His fingers splayed, digging
into her soft flesh and whitening as they pinched.
Curiously,
she didn't say a word. She just stood there, as devoid of emotion as the statue
in the garden as he mauled her.
“Where
were you?” The question was loaded with entitlement. “I sent for you an hour
ago and they couldn’t find you.”
“I was in
the garden,” the low tones were distant.
The hand
gripped her admonishingly. “Next time, take your phone.”
“Of
course.”
This
wasn’t a wife or girlfriend, this was a possession. She looked like an angel but
the ugly fingers claiming her told me she’d sold herself to the devil. I've a
strong stomach but surprisingly, the knowledge revolted me.
Kowalczyk
knew. The lips were a narrow line as he opened his mouth and screwed himself.
"You're a loser. Do yourself a favour and go back to where you came
from."
I had my
hand on my gun before conscious thought kicked in. "What the fuck?"
The
soldiers were between us a heartbeat later. Kowalczyk just talked on.
"Everyone knows you're a fuckup. Your cousin got you the job. And when you
got shot, by a fucking amateur, they sent a low-ranking flunky from Mexico to
save your arse."
Fury
flooded through me, turning the hot desire for revenge to ice. The insult was
too much to bear. Death was too easy. I'd destroy him, rip him apart, bit by
bit.
He
mistook my silence for cowardice. "You can't take care of business."
"If
you're quite done, I'll be seeing you."
He
shrugged, completely oblivious to the underlying threat, but the girl's eyes
lifted and locked on mine, little flecks of green and gold lighting up as she examined
me. The swift appraisal packed a boxer’s punch. This was no empty-headed slut
for sale; she radiated intelligence.
It
decided me; I'd destroy Kowalczyk, ripping away the business he'd built, the
house he was proud of, the celebs that flocked around him, and when he went
into a pauper's grave, he'd go knowing I was boning his woman.
I nodded
at her. “Be seeing you, too.”
The girl
saw right through me. Her eyes narrowed with comprehension, the sparkle
darkening. “I don’t think so.” Registering her disdain in every inch, she
shrugged off Kowalczyk's iron grasp, threw back her shoulders and then,
mockingly, she laughed. At me!
The
stolid Pole and his goons had been bad enough but to have a girl mock me was
the last straw. Somehow I got out of that house, her contempt haunting me as I tore
out the gate. I don't remember the drive back but as I pulled up in my VIP
reserved parking spot, the humiliation had seared into white hot need for
revenge.
I was
decided: as they shovelled dirt over Kowalczyk's corpse, she would be in my bed,
screaming. I’d make her life hell and I’d see to it she’d suffer an eternity. I’d
make the bitch pay.
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The Los Zetas Cartel series
