Page 456 of Devil’s Disciples

“If that note pad is filled with some kind of code, he can break it.” I considered what might be written in it, and then gave Crip a look. “What the fuck’s in there that you want?”

“Never know,” he said. “But I’ve got a hard time believing we’ve killed two members of the Tijuana Cartel and that nothing’s ever going to be said or done about it.”

I hated the thought of the night’s events not being over, but Crip was right. The cartel might not give a shit about losing two members, but they’d sure investigate the loss of a million in cocaine.

“What about the dope?” I asked. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Not sure,” he replied. “It’s a million bucks worth of uncut coke. Somebody’s going to want it back. Might keep it for a bargaining chip. In case this ever turns into a pissing contest with the cartel.”

“Good idea.”

“Yeah, until I get caught with that shit.” He scratched the scruff on his jaw. “I’ll think about it.”

I glanced around the shop, and realized I needed a ride to get my bike. “Fuck. I need a ride back to Chula Vista.”

“That’s one loose end I don’t like,” Crip said. “Our Mexican waitress knows what happened. I don’t get a warm, fuzzy feeling about that.”

“I don’t think she’ll say a word.”

He cackled a laugh. “Based on what? When neither she or the two dip-shits return to Mexico, the first goddamned place El Alacrán is going to look for his dope—and for his thugs—is at that restaurant. After he cuts off a few of that bitch’s fingers, she’ll scream ‘Filthy Fuckers’ faster than you can say ay, chihuahua!”

167

Carma

Slumped in a booth at the far end of the dining room, I stared blankly at Reno’s motorcycle. On Monday, my biggest worry was remembering to pay my cell phone bill. By Tuesday night, things were vastly different.

In the four hours’ time that I waited for Reno to return, the reality of him killing El Pollo sank in.

People were going to die. There was no denying it. Angel would avenge the murders of the two men. He would spend whatever time and money he must to find out where his drugs were.

My life had gone to utter hell and there was nothing I could do to alter the course. Before the weekend arrived, my headless corpse would be hanging from the bridge by its ankles. Children for years to come would have nightmares at my expense.

Headlights brought me out of my daze. My eyes shot to the window. Reno got out of a Jeep, thanked the driver with a nod of his head, and sauntered across the parking lot. Nearly immobilized by the weight of the situation, I shuffled across the dining room and unlocked the door.

He came in, glanced at his motorcycle, and then looked me over. “Damn, your mood went to shit, huh?”

“I hate enclosed spaces.”

He glanced around the dining area. “Ought to be happier than fuck, then. This place is huge. Especially when there’s no one else in here.”

“Never mind,” I murmured.

“What the fuck are you talking about, then?” He looked at me like I was crazy. “Enclosed spaces?”

I lowered my head. “My funeral.”

“What?”

“Caskets. I don’t want to be stuffed in a casket. Small spaces freak me out.”

“You know something I don’t?”

“I know Angel is going to come looking for his drugs.”

“I’m one step ahead of him.” He grabbed the handlebars of his motorcycle and kicked up the stand. “Mind getting that door for me?”

He seemed overly cheery, considering he’d likely be dead before me. Angel would keep me alive long enough to rape me a few times before he cut off my head and suspended me from the bridge. Reno, on the other hand, would be killed quickly.