Page 7

Pistols, two that I knew and one that I did not. A rifle broken down into its parts. Suppressors. Boxes of ammunition, counted and stacked. Knives wrapped in cloth.

One politician. Zero had packed for a small war.

Zero did nothing without a reason. That was precisely what bothered me.

I closed the curtains. The neon pulsed through the gap, red and dark, red and dark, painting the wall in slow, bloody breaths. Beyond the thin wall a television laughed at its own jokes.

I sat on the edge of the bed facing the door, my phone on my knee, and waited for the message that would tell me where to find my target.

❦ ❦ ❦

The burner buzzed against my knee. I answered on the first ring and said nothing. Zero didn't speak for a moment either. I could hear him breathing, waiting for me to start. I did not.

“T?”

“Fucker.”

He began to chuckle.

“Is this how you thank me after I armed you to the hilt?”

“One hit, you said.”

“The location may have a third party present.”

“I'm listening,” I said, already weighing angles and positions, which weapons would travel and which would stay in the bag.

“If the target takes the bait, he'll be at the docks. Secluded, for the most part.”

“Who else is involved?”

“Just some local riff-raff.”

I waited. Silence was the oldest interrogation I knew, and Zero had never once beaten it.

Eventually he sighed.

“Fine. A local crew with links to the cartel. A man named Ibarra runs it. Careful with numbers, so I'm told. His second is Ezequiel Marrón. Zeke. Less careful. They answer to Los Contadores. There may be some import-export going on. None of our business.”

The accountants.

I would look them up in the morning. A crew with cartel money and a foothold at the port meant armed men, possibly a great many.

“Location?”

“Not confirmed. Port Houston. Your access will be arranged.”

“Target?”

“Side pocket of the bag.”

I grunted and ended the call. It wasn't wise to stay on a phone for long, burner or not.

The side compartment's zip rasped loudly in the quiet room. A grenade sat on top, olive and unremarkable, as casually placed as a pack of cigarettes. Beneath it lay a folded sheet of paper.

I lifted the grenade out, weighed it in my palm and set it on the bed beside the rest.

Zero's idea of a joke, perhaps. Or his idea of a warning.