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They each make their concessions, and Roe gives me these puppy dog eyes. “Do we have to hug again?” He sounds half wanting, and half horrified. “Are we supposed to hug? Do I have to give you a big fat sloppy kiss since the Doc isn’t here?”
“Fuck you.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “Del, Em, you there?”
“We got you, baby boy,” Em says. Funny how now the pet names will start.
“Sorry, I kept that as long as I did. It was fucked up, but I was dealing with my feelings and shit. If something happens, help Doc with Ciara.”
“Shut up and get this done. Show that guy we got our shit together as we should and collect that cash. We’re gonna need it.” Em says, and I’m pretty sure she nabbed the comm because I can hear Delia protesting in the background.
Looking like the white trash millionaires that we aren’t, it’s time to pile out and go into hanger eighteen.
My head is high, and my eyes are straight ahead. While ordinarily, I’d look on full alert, Sully reminded me that a man in my position should always appear calm and as if he feels untouchable. That I need to trust my brothers to be my keepers. I know how to fake it until I make it, but after this morning, I’m on fucking edge and don’t trust fucking easy.
It’s quiet on the private tarmac, but as we reach the hangar, I hear the hiss of the mechanicals, and the door begins to lift. I can already see three sets of feet, and the guys go on alert. The now opened door reveals that the space was getting used. Fuel barrels, some crates, which I am to assume are for us, a small but comfortable looking private plane. The guys that opened the door are all strapped with automatic weapons. So it’s to be a typical Tuesday afternoon. Got it. We are each stopped, and I quirk a brow.
“Please relinquish your weapons.” One of them, let's call him Frick, asks with all the demands of a petulant child.
“Not fucking happening.” Monroe steps in front of me. The guy lifts his weapon, and Monroe grabs it by the muzzle. “G’head, pull it. I promise you before I drop, so will you.” The guy gasps, and my eyes travel south. Monroe has a pig sticker against his ribcage. “It takes longer for me to drop than it will take to gut your wetback ass.”
“Santino, lower your weapon.”
Is tha—?
“Mister Westmoreland and his people are our guests. I’m sure they mean us little harm. Isn't that correct?” Hector Alvarez says from somewhere beyond.
Santino pulls back, and Monroe lets go of the gun. The men glare, but then Santino steps aside. We enter, and I expect to see another holding a tablet, as has been our usual practice. Instead, I hear a low laugh and find a buffet table set off to the side. It is covered in a white cloth and set to receive guests. Chairs on the side closest to us, but none other than the one at the far center where Hector himself sits.
There is food with wine glasses and actual flatware.
“I wish you had said something. I would have dressed for dinner.” I crack a short smile.
“Yes, I am curious about your odd matching garments.” Hector licks his lips before popping what looks like a white grape from the tablescape.
“Sorry, laundry day.” I quip, and he laughs.
“Laundry, heh. Sit. I have a gift for you.” He motions to the seat directly in front of him, where at the center of the table is a huge domed platter. “Please, do help yourself.”
As I get closer, I notice something is very off about the food. Sausages are piled high, in rounds, with hand twists, and the ribs are thin but not very meaty.
Monroe nudges me as Hector Alvarez smiles broadly. “Dude, it’s actual finger food.” He whispers, and I realize that the bowl of breadsticks is actually fingers. Human fingers. I had heard the stories that the cartel’s leader had strange appetites, but this?
“Did you know that the natural bite of the average human is more than strong enough to snap a finger in two?” Hector asks as he lifts an apparently deep-fried digit to his lips. “They are best hot, hence the hibachi. I learned the art in Japan while looking for delicacies and new trade routes.” He takes a bite, and my stomach lurches at the sound of the snap.
He laughs as I try not to turn green. “Not many men have the constitution to devour their enemies, but I find it has a very circle of life feeling. Their hate is turned into my nourishment, and I am made stronger as I adapt. I have many souls in here. Will you be one as well, or will you join me?” He lifts the dome, and I am now face to face with Garcia’s head, the top has been razored clean, and the skull cracked. Inside the cavity are actual red beans. “Just as you ordered it, though we have another special on the menu. Would you care for a side of stuffed father figure?” Another dome is lifted, and I am faced with the chest cavity of Calen Westmoreland. I know this to be him because of the Gatekeepers tattoo on his tanned hide. I hear Drysten scoff and hold a gag.
“No? Perhaps a bit of pickled bodyguard?”
“How did you find him?” I keep my voice calm and level, but I’m checking for all exits.
“I had my concerns after our last conversation. I suspected your uncle—rather, father may have had something to do with it. Garcia confirmed before I sauteed his tongue and fed it to him for speaking out of turn. He also revealed your parentage, which I found intriguing. I was in conversations with another group of runners, but they would not break bread with me. Will you, Saint? I mean, you are a Catholic and believe that the host transmutes to the flesh and blood of our Savior Jesus Christ. So consuming the body and blood is not unknown to you.”
For fuck’s sake. I”m going to have to do this. We’re all going to have to fucking do this, and fucking hold it without puking. I calculate all the ways this can go, but the only way this works without us dead is if we eat with him. I look to my right at Monroe and nod before doing the same to my left, where Drysten and Sully stand. Pulling out our chairs as one, we sit.
