Minion (24 page)

Again, none of the team challenged her when she left the room, and she made it down the hall with a thousand thoughts on her mind. If it was going to be bad, so be it. Bring it.

 

The mountains north of Beverly Hills were always his favorite place to think. It was where wealth and its owners secluded themselves and did their unseen little deeds. The temperature even dropped here, and darkness was a cloak. Trees stood like giant pillars. Crickets and other things of the night made their own music.

He'd gone everywhere, and threatened every council, and had probably brought a war upon himself. But his weapons remained unfired. Carlos looked into the blackness as he sat alone in the northern hills listening to the night. A double-barrel shotgun leaned on the floor and on the gear shaft beside him, and an AK-47 nestled in the passenger seat like his favorite sweetheart after a night out on the town. He held his custom-made, silver-plated magnum in one hand and the steering wheel of his black
Lexus sedan with the other. He would drop a body tonight or be damned.

The Asians had been traditionally gracious, as expected, and even offered to professionally assist him—of course his hundred-thousand-dollar bounty helped raise their pledge to help in his search. They understood the situation was a matter of honor; that was their way. Their territories didn't encroach—they moved heroin and women, he moved everything else. What had happened was bad for everyone's business. It was a cool truce; all wanted it kept that way—better for business. Small bills, one briefcase. Easy money for info to turn over a few bodies—the law of the jungle, done for lesser offenses, albeit smaller payouts. Let the bounty and the punishment fit the crime.

He'd told them all that, with each day that passed now that the offer was made, the bounty figure would decrease by ten grand. Expediency was, therefore, in everyone's best interest. The Russians had shrugged, and he'd almost taken one of them out. Their blasé demeanor had been disrespectful—then he'd reconsidered it, since that was their style . . . besides, a lower henchman was not worth jail time. He needed to be on the outside to exact his revenge. The Italians, Dominicans, Jamaicans, and the brothers, all had the same response—for a hundred Gs, they'd do the Pope. So, he waited—without a weapon fired. This would take time.

He thought of sending a message the old-fashioned way. Just flat blast a few establishments his competitors owned. Take out several lower levels and wait like bait for the fight to come to him. But he needed to get to the dons to tell them what was interrupting business at the lower levels, rather than have his message diluted by a level below them. That had been the message. He wanted a meeting. This situation warranted a breach in protocol. He had a right to come before them to state his
case. Someone had done his brother and his inner circle. Someone would pay.

Carlos breathed out slowly and watched his breath turn to steam in the frigid night air within the car. Patience was not his virtue. It never had been. But shrewdness had argued with him as he sat calming himself in the quiet. Money—the root of all evil—always turned evidence and he knew how to grow a tree from it.

“Yes, Alejandro . . . I pledge to avenge your death.” He closed his eyes and let the sound of his own voice echo back to him. They didn't just take his brother's life. They'd mutilated him.

Carlos thought over the options. A shootout would not only send the slime scattering and into hiding, it would also create new vendettas against him, clouding the issue, making the perpetrators harder to find. Word was already on the street that he was looking for those who'd committed the unpardonable sin of killing his family—and he'd bankrolled the hunt, very publicly, within the circles of those who needed to know. He just wanted to see the look in the man's eyes who had done this, and had ordered it. His bounty would have to draw out the offenders to his brother's honor. Then he would hunt them down, and give them a slow death.

He sat with the plan, frustrated, shivering from the cold and hatred, but blanketing himself with the satisfaction of the horrific tortures he'd visit upon the ones that would be finally given up. He'd unearth them, and make them know that there were things worse than death. His cell phone rang and he let his lips curl into a cold half smile. The digital display showed the code he had given to the hunters in order to collect their bounty.

“Speak to me,” he murmured in the darkness.

“We have your man—a meeting is in order.”

“You will be handsomely rewarded.”

“We'll bring him to the designated place we discussed in the northern mountains—bring the money.”

Carlos smiled again. God was hearing his prayer. Something had led him to sit here in the darkness where he often came to think and wait.

“You know the location. Keep him alive until I get there, or the bounty will be cut in half. I want to look into a dead man's eyes.”

 

Driving deeper into a more secluded area of the mountains, Carlos turned his sedan off the winding, single-lane road and his wheels connected with orange clay, bumping the vehicle chassis as he drove further into the new section of woods. Following the rows of taillights that slipped beyond the tall pines and redwoods, he felt another transition as his wheels sank and moved against dark, moist earth.

Yes, this was a perfect place to finish a kill. He loved the woods, even more so than the beach, for it offered the cloistered environment of secrecy . . . it was where wolves hunted and the true force of nature could be felt.

His every nerve ending was on fire; anticipation made him lick his lips. He breathed in the forest, allowing the scent of pines, raw earth, and broken blades of grass to enter his nose—along with a hint of sulfur.

Carlos narrowed his gaze at the semicircle of black sedans. Pure rage made his hands tremble as he gripped the wheel. Sulfur. If they already did his kill, there would be a price. He glanced at his AK-47, and the thought of taking them all out in a spray of bullets made him breathe faster. If they did his kill . . .

All senses painfully heightened, he watched the configuration, studied the ritual. Five black Mercedes sedans had come to a stop
first, dousing their lights. A long black stretch Mercedes limo made the sixth vehicle. Carlos eyed his shotgun, wishing he'd brought something with a heat-seeker mount. If this was a setup, his magnum and the automatic could get him back to the car. He was the last one in, so he could be the first one out—and the shotgun could take out a pursuing driver, blow an engine, ignite a gas line—maybe enough to blow and flip the first vehicle if it gave chase, blocking the others behind it. So he waited, to see what package they'd brought, then turned off his headlights.

Slowly, one by one, the doors of the sedans opened, and he watched through his black tinted windows, using only the quarter moon as light. An eerie mist seemed to exit the cars with the passengers. One bodyguard got out of each driver's seat, and each went to the backs of their cars to open a door for a higher-ranking boss. Cool. They had brought the upper levels. He stared at them intently, and began recognizing faces he knew. But he waited.

The Italians were represented, then the head of the Asian mob who he'd never met—he had always conferred with his underlings. But if the don had come, then perhaps he was in trouble. Carlos pushed his magnum into his waistband and watched, taking up the automatic in its place. A high-baller Dominican got out, and then a Russian, and a Jamaican. He knew these men. Their bulky guards stood beside them. Still he waited and stared at the headlights of the limo that were aimed at him, but he relaxed when they went out. All right.

It was odd, but even in the darkness he could see. The moon cast a blue ray into the clearing, and owls could be heard hunting, sending their mournful call out into the trees. The limo had a series of small flags, making it appear to be a diplomat's car. What the fuck—high-level government? Carlos kept his motor running. Suddenly a hundred Gs didn't seem to be enough
money, and a setup felt like it was in the offing. He couldn't identify all the countries on the tiny flags. He squinted. Southwestern states and European countries? What was the one with a five-pointed star with an emblem in the center? The assembled team smiled in the darkness. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him as the strange moonlight seemed to made their teeth whiter, longer than normal.

He was about to put his gears in reverse when the limo door opened and two men were thrown from it. They hit the ground with a grunt so he knew they were still alive. Excellent. Their hands were bound behind their backs by nylon tie-strips. Carlos breathed out slowly, steadying his impulses. He continued to study the situation as a tall, light-skinned brother got out next without assistance, looked directly at his windshield, and then nodded and smiled.

“I have the beginning of your hunt, Rivera,” the man he didn't know called out. “We are all invested in this, like you are. Bring your weapon, if you'd like—but also your money.”

Carlos opened his car door, and carefully got out, packing two weapons, and reached for the silver metal briefcase in the backseat to bring with him. But he left his doors open, and his car running.

“Speak to me,” Carlos called out, leveling his machine gun at the men on the ground, and then swinging it up toward the unknown man.

The others in the circle raised their hands, stepped forward to show they were unarmed, and made a half circle around the mystery man, who grabbed the two struggling forms on the ground—bringing them to their knees.

“Carlos, let me formally introduce myself. I am Fallon Nuit. I own Blood Music—and these men here,” he said, nodding to
the dark suits surrounding him, “are my associates, my brethren—and yours.”

Carlos nodded and lowered his weapon, glancing around at the faces he knew.

“The problems with your organization are bad for everyone's business.”

“Yes,” the aged Russian said. “It makes people wary to go out at night. Makes it hard to make a killing, and drives down profit.”

“Makes people ask unnecessary questions,” the old Asian said.

“We cannot have that,” the elderly don said with a sinister half smile. “Especially in the music and club industry. We need bodies at night.”

“As do we all,” the graying Dominican agreed, casting his gaze to the Jamaican who nodded. “We need them to keep coming like cattle.”

“Ayree.”

“So,” Nuit said, as he walked around the two kneeling men, coming closer to Carlos, “we are all here to form an alliance. Your cause is our cause. A very simple matter of practicality and business. We heard your call to arms, and responded—the way family should when there's an outside threat.”

Carlos nodded. He appraised the man who had spoken with a smooth, controlled voice. His vibe was one of pure confidence, arrogance. He liked his style. He couldn't place his race, though, as he looked into the blackest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. It was like staring at a very tall version of Prince . . . could be Latino, could be black, could be a mixture, skin as pretty as a woman's, no matter. The man named Nuit smiled as though reading his mind, and a flash of brilliant white escaped his lips and caught in the moonlight. Carlos had to shake off the eerie tremor that
staring at this brother produced. He had an almost feminine quality about him, but at the same time his vibe was cold business and very male. Wealth and power oozed from his pores. The man put one finger to his lips, just as Carlos was about to yell a question, and smiled a half smile.

“I'm unarmed. Let's discuss this with finesse,” Nuit crooned as he slowly came nearer. “I'll come close enough to hear you, but not close enough to make you draw your weapon,
sí?
”

“A hundred Gs seems too little to split amongst so many,” Carlos said across the clearing to Nuit, and gestured toward the group. “But that's the bounty.”

Carlos studied the headman's smooth, relaxed demeanor, and the way the silk of his voice had more easy threads running through it than his black, custom-tailored suit. The wealth that surrounded the brother was in the billions, and yet it was evident that this relatively young man was in charge. Intrigued, Carlos lowered his weapon and stepped forward two paces—drawn to his sheer power.

“Oh, no,” Nuit said with a wave of his hand. “We can't claim this bounty. We came to add to it, and offer you ten times that to finish the job for us.” The man nodded as one of the black-suited guards retrieved a leather briefcase from the limo, walked forward, and handed it to Nuit.

“I prefer skin—leather,” Nuit said with a smile, his manicured hand stroking the case. “Silver is so . . . passé. You keep it. I bet what's inside my black bag is bigger than what's in yours anyway.” Then Nuit laughed.

A million dollars? Nothing came for free. Carlos lowered his briefcase to rest beside his leg and studied the group harder, noting their every detail so that he could remember each one if this shit went down wrong. Moonlight glinted off Nuit's gold cuff links and huge ring that also held the same crest as the flag
he couldn't identify. Without a word, the men behind Nuit held up their hands showing their rings as if to answer the unasked question again. The others had the same ring. He hadn't noticed that before. The shit was beginning to spook him.

“What's the deal?”

Carlos felt suspicion riddle him as he looked at a henchman grab the men on the ground by their suit collars and thrust them forward before Nuit, then step back in line with the others who were watching the transaction.

“These two,” Nuit said, putting a foot on one man's back, “are from the FBI. They used to be our helpers—then made some foolish decisions. We still have others inside, and the Minion is inviolate. Not to worry. These are ours—so we cannot accept your money in good faith. Fair exchange is no robbery.”