Dickhead.
“Are you the one? Who set me up?” The question feels like jagged glass cutting the inside of my mouth.
“No. We think it was Raffi, but there isn’t any concrete proof. But you can fill in the blanks. Maybe we can piece together exactly what happened.”
“You still want me to rat?”
“You’re not going to like hearing this, but you still need to give up some dirt. There is a price to pay for your safety. I only got you out. I had to negotiate the rest.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable.”
“I know. I’ve been told on multiple occasions for various things.” His arrogant smirk is insufferable.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“You couldn't then, and you can’t now. Like it or not,Tiburona, you’re stuck with me.”
My frustration is mounting by the second. I could kick the windshield out I’m so mad. This whole situation is fucked.
“You should have just left me in jail.”
“I know,” Tate coldly agrees.
* * *
We pullup to a dumpy motel off the highway. There is barely anything around for miles. It’s dusty and dry, and my foreseeable future looks as desolate as the desert.
“How long am I supposed to stay here?”
“As long as it takes.”
Fabulous.
We climb the outside staircase to the second floor and walk all the way to the last door. There is a fire escape off the walkway with a sign that reads “out of order.”
“The government really splurged, huh?”
“It’s safe and clean, and that’s all you need.”
“Says you.” I push past him when he opens the door for me. The inside is just as underwhelming as the outside. It looks like the 1980s fossilized in here. Everything is brown. The carpet, the rickety-looking furniture, and even the paneled walls. The yellow-flowered bedspread a horrific complement to the décor.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll order some food. We’re going to have some company.”
“Who? More feds?”
“Just one. You’re going to tell us everything you can about the Deltoros and your supplier in Mexico. Where all your stash houses are, routes, shipping companies, everything.”
“You can go to fucking hell. 'Cause I’m not telling you shit.”
“You can be as stubborn as you want. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. I got you out of jail, and I can send you back.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A threat. A promise. You can interpret it any way you like. At the end of the day, I’m going to get the information I need.”
“I do know a few words in Spanish,” I seethe. “One, in particular.”
“What’s that?” Tate crosses his arms haughtily.
