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Chapter Forty-Three
Maceo
It’s been two days since I last talked with Esteban and Josephine. Time is running out before the twins’ arrival.
Flay insists on checking my blood pressure—it’s fine. I guess not acting out when I’m at my wit's end has all of them boggled, scratching their heads. The need to take my anger out on anything seems moot at the moment.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let it out when I come face-to-face with Esteban,” I promise my brothers.
Why bother holding back?
For Josephine.
Only for her will I funnel my frustration into something constructive. I owe it to myself to be better than the man who claims to be my father. My wife, unborn children, and crew deserve better.
Piero was reliable, putting the necessary measures in place to get us the manpower we need. Twenty-four hours after I made the call asking for assistance, he had twenty-five trained gunmen meet us in El Huecú. He nearly tripled our numbers at the snap of his fingers.
For a long time, I questioned if it was wise to get involved with a Bianchi mobster. I don’t anymore. He’s more than proven he’s our ally, and I’m grateful for his help and the extra soldiers.
Since leaving San Rafael, we’ve continued our hunt of every marked cash crop on Esteban’s map along the Andes, minus the destructive hellfire. Every house, every building, anything resembling a habitation for humans has been searched.
The further south we go, the more my heart tugs. It’s like it knows its other half is near, beckoning to be reunited.
When our team reaches Las Lajas, we discover a makeshift warehouse from a converted old airplane hangar in a clearing from the forest we have been moving through.
My hand rises and halts my crew. From our vantage point, we can make out men guarding the building’s perimeter, but no idea of numbers.
Gauge looks through his binoculars. “There’s at least a half dozen outside.”
“More are sure to be inside,” Punk says next to us.
“Triple,” I call in a half-whisper.
He marches to the front. “Prez?”
Triple is the best man for this job and the only one of us who can pull this off; he can sneak in anywhere without being seen. “Do what you do best,” I tell him.
“Yes, sir.”
I look over my shoulder at Chase. “Get Triple outfitted with a body cam, front and back. I want to see what we’ll be walking into.”
Fifteen minutes later, Triple has snuck down the valley and scoped the outside. “There are eight armed men around the perimeter of the building,” he whispers over the comms. “I have an opening to go inside. Permission to move forward? Over.”
“Permission granted. Over.”
Chase and I watch the body cam live feed on his tablet, monitoring his back for unwelcomed guests.
“Ah, Fuck. Triple incoming on your six. Get the hell out of sight. Over,” Chase says into the earpiece.
Like a spider, Triple scales the walls, perching himself up in the corner of the hallway between the doorway and the walls. The guard doesn’t even glance up as he continues down the corridor. When the guy rounds the corner, Triple drops to the ground without a sound.
“How the fuck does he do that?” Chase muses aloud.
I shake my head in disbelief. Had Triple not become a SEAL, he could have easily made a life for himself as a thief. He’s a real-life Ninja.
The body cam shows Triple moving around the perimeter of the building filled with shelves. “Six armed guards inside, constantly rotating. Over.”
“Good job, Triple. Pull back. Over.”
