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Chapter One
Carlos
Ashes to ashes.
Dust to dust.
An express shuttle straight to hell was exactly where I was putting that scum. Still more than the bastard deserved. I'd been waiting for this chance a long time. Today was the day for redemption.
With my right hand, I touched my forehead.In the name of the Father.
I dropped that hand to my lower chest.And of the Son.
Left shoulder.And of the Holy.
Right shoulder.Spirit.
Whenever I killed like this—with intent—such was my ritual. It wasn't for the life I took but for my own soul. Though I was so far from being saved, it was a meaningless task, as was carrying around my mother's rosary. But I did it anyway. Some things were instilled so deeply, I couldn't disregard them, whether they served a purpose or not.
The first time I'd put a bullet between a man's eyes, I'd felt significant regret. So much so, I'd drowned in tequila for days.
When that didn't work, I numbed the guilt by sniffing white powder up my nose until I was invincible and without feeling. Each subsequent kill got progressively easier. I had so much blood on my hands, I knew they would never come clean. That was by necessity, not choice. I'd become part of a world I hated; death was the centerpiece on which it spun.
But this . . .thiswas different. Erasing this life had to atone for some of the sins I'd committed. I’d wanted to take this one. There would be no remorse. Not one shred of guilt. Soon, this world would be a better place because a great evil would be erased from it.
I picked up the remaining gas can and poured some of its contents on the decrepit figure in the center of the basement. I'd tied him to the chair, but only because the rope would act as an incendiary device. The only limb the fucker had remaining was half an arm, and I’d left that to remind him of what he'd lost. To remind him of the power I had over him. But I guessed he’d realized that when I'd castrated him.
His hate knew no bounds—he’d ripped our family apart and left us with horrific memories. Juan Carlos Calderón was the devil himself—a diablo who would have no mercy for what he did to my mother, my sister . . . and me.
When he was sufficiently saturated in gasoline, I ran a trail outward from the chair and dropped the metal can to the concrete floor with a clang.
“It's just you and me now,Padre. No one to save you,” I snarled, feeling a slight satisfaction my father was now at my mercy and not the other way around.
“Neither of my children are fit to have my blood flowing through them. Both of you, traitors,” he spit back, barely alive. I was surprised he could even utter one word. The son of a bitch had his pride. Even sliced and diced, he wasn't going down easily, and his words touched a nerve. I ached to bleed out, be rid of the poison that ran through my veins.
I struck a match casually, as if lighting up a smoke. “This is for Mama.”
With a flick, the lit match landed on his lap. A burst of flames erupted, but he didn't scream. The motherfucker laughed.
I struck another match. “This is for Camila.” Bile rose in my throat at what he had done to my baby sister. She deserved this closure. To live a life free from the fear of our father’s torment. Given the chance, he would, and I hoped this slow, painful death would make him suffer to the fullest extent.
Another swipe of a match across the coarse strip and bright orange danced on the tip. “This is for all the innocent people you murdered. All the people you addicted to your drugs. All the people you've robbed of any kind of life simply for your own gain.”
The match landed on his head, instantly setting his hair on fire. He didn't scream. I wanted him to, begged him in my mind to do so, yet he wouldn't give me the satisfaction.
“I'll see you in hell,” he said. It was a weak threat that didn't scare me in the least. Hell couldn't be any worse than the life I'd lived up to this point.
The stench of burning flesh and hair was putrid, yet I welcomed it.Burn, motherfucker, burn.My father's eyes remained locked on mine as the life slowly drained out of them. The bastard was hanging on as long as he could. Good. The longer he drew breath, the greater his suffering.
The smoke got thick as I looked on at my father's baptism of fire. I actually smiled when his eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest. There was no way to get close enough to see if he had a pulse. He was one huge ball of fire, and I needed to leave before smoke inhalation killed me right along with him. I would see him in hell, just not today.
On my way to the stairs, I poured more gasoline on him and the floor, igniting the room into an inferno. The last I saw of the man I hated beyond comprehension was his lifeless body burning to ashes through a veil of thick smoke. I raced up the stairs, grabbed the bag I'd placed by the back door, and jogged out of the house without looking back.
Once I made it to the truck I'd parked close by, I drove a little farther away from the house before hitting the detonator stashed inside the bag. A series of explosions sent pieces of the house flying in all directions before turning it into a giant bonfire. As the blaze reached the other explosive devices I'd planted, they fired in succession. By the time they all went off, there would be nothing recognizable left.
I wasted no time driving to the airstrip near the back of the property where my jet was waiting. With the truck parked far enough away, I set it on fire and ran to the plane. It didn't take long for me to get into the sky, even flying solo.
I buzzed the compound, the house I'd lived in all my life already in ruins. Where sadness should have been in my heart, vindication that this was finally over took hold. There were no happy memories from that place. They'd been tainted long ago, buried as if they'd never existed.
