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A bald door bouncer looks me up and down, “Name?”
Having already made the decision, I say, “Dom Lopez,” and hope to hell it works.
For a brief second, Baldy’s narrowed gaze studies me. It’s been years since Dom Lopez died. Apparently, he snorted one too many lines from a bad batch of coke and ended up drowning in his bathtub. A kinder death than the fucker deserved.
I keep eye contact with the man who equals me in height and weight, readying myself for a fight, but it doesn’t come. “Dom Lopez, huh?” he questions.
“There a problem with that?” I ask, matching his tone.
“Hey, Marco, boss needs you in the office,” another, younger security guard says as he pats Baldy on the shoulder.
Baldy’s expression changes to one of calm determination as he turns and heads into the red glow of the club.
The new guy tips his chin toward the door, “You’re good to go,” he says, extending his hand.
With a nod in thanks, I take my first steps into Inferno and take in the scene.
On the dancefloor, barely clothed men and women dance and grind to the beat of techno music while bright red and white strobe lights pulsate in time with the beat. Thick, dry fog seeps from either side of the dance floor as though smoke is escaping from the pits of hell. Flickering orange and red flames appear as holographic images that surround the entire dancefloor.
As I make my way to the bar, I’m groped and grabbed by wandering hands that I push away, keeping my eyes on the sleek, black bar top where I’ll sit and wait for my prey. Tonight, I’m hunting a sinner of a different kind. It’s time to send Santos a message.
I’m two bourbons in when I spot my prize. A man I recognize as one of Santos’ confidants.
With Bullet’s help, I could have had this information at my fingertips in hours. Lucky for me, it wasn’t hard to get online and do a bit of research of my own. A simple search of the Demonio de Hielo cartel yielded an extensive list of results of known criminals on multiple wanted lists, to suspects in past and recent crimes. The news outlets were even so kind as to provide recent pictures online.
Lorenzo Garcia is one of those men. Wanted for drug dealing, the guy’s been evading the cops for almost six months according to the news report I found. No doubt Santos has more than a few law enforcement officials on his payroll, and I’mbetting it’s thanks to more than a few dirty cops that Garcia isn’t rotting behind bars right now.
Garcia sits at the end of the bar, his head down, hands clenched around a glass of what looks like bourbon. Sliding onto the barstool beside him, I clear my throat. “You look familiar,” I say.
He lifts his head, dark brown eyes stare into mine, then he slowly takes in my appearance. “Yet I’ve never seen you before,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Dom.” I extend my hand and he reaches out to shake mine. “Dom Lopez.”
Suspicion has him drawing his brows together. “You a cop, Dom Lopez? Because heads up, the owners don’t take too kindly to those on that side of the law.”
I huff out a laugh. “Not a cop.” I make a show of glancing around the bar, a look of disgust on my face. “Heard you’re the guy to see about some blow,” I lean in closer so he can hear me over the music. “How much?”
Brows still drawn, his jaw clenches. “Yeah? And who’d you hear that from?”
“Daniel Perez,” I say, remembering one of the newly incarcerated cartel members. “We go way back.”
Garcia clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “See now, that’s strike two for you. Perez is currently serving time, so now I know you’re talking shit.” He stands and moves closer to me until he’s almost on my fucking lap, and when I feel the barrel of a gun pressed to my side, I stiffen. “So you’ve got one last chance,Dom Lopez,who the fuck are you?”
My body is humming with anticipation and itching for a fight, but I have to remember that this isn’t my domain and because I apparently have something to prove, I have fuckall reinforcements if shit goes south.
I know the type of man Lorenzo Garcia is, and I’m fully aware that I need to keep him under the illusion that he’s in control of the situation. I hold my hands out at my side to show him I’m unarmed.
“Where the fuck you think I met him, dumbass? You got what I’m lookin’ for or not? Like I said, I heard you were the guy to go to for whatever I craved.” I say, hoping to stroke his ego and de-escalate the situation.
Something in my tone must convince him because he holsters his weapon and nods toward a door at the back of the club, and I follow him out.
Lorenzo Garcia might think he’s the scariest man at Inferno, but he just made the biggest mistake of his life. He walked into the dark with a Demon.
***
An unconscious Garcia is covered with an old tarp in the back of my SUV as I head down the highway. Music blaring, I think about how I’m going to torture the son of a bitch before I end his life and send a warning to Manuel Santos; his time has run out.
“What are you doing, Zain?” Sara sits in the passenger seat beside me, judgment in her tone.
