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The car begins pulling away from the gravesite. Hector doesn’t even grant me a moment to say goodbye—or to spit on his grave. Instead, he continues to discuss my upcoming demise.
Hector doesn’t see it—or he doesn’t care—but I don’t even need to look at Guillermo to know that he is absolutely full of shit. He has no intentions of disposing of me because he hasn’t quite tired of me yet.
The closest I’m going to get to disappearing will be the fact that Hector will likely never see me again.
I’ve handled Guillermo and Jorge for months.
I’m strong.
I can make it a little while longer—until I find a way to get free.
Just a tiny bit longer.
As much as it pains me to think it now, Hector was right. I had no idea how good I had it being his wife—how good he treated me, and how much he protected me.
Drugged to within an inch of my life and bound to this bed, I’ve become nothing more than a wet hole for Guillermo, Jorge, and more faceless men than I can count.
Sweat drips onto my bare chest from the man inside me. Desperately seeking his release, he’s working himself to exhaustion as I lie limp and nearly lifeless beneath him. He grunts his release into me, and the mattress shifts as he climbs from the lumpy bed. It can’t be more than a few minutes when my body jostles as another faceless man climbs onto the bed and between my legs.
Sometimes it’s minutes.
Sometimes days.
But there is always another one.
Death would have been better.
five
RAFAEL
Current Day
“These fucking Saltillos are grating on my last fucking nerve,” I huff as Diego and I both step from the car.
Relations with their cartel have plummeted since Luis died last month. His son-in-law, Hector, assumed control upon his passing and has no regard for any of the many arrangements we had made with Luis.
He's more concerned with getting his cock wet and making money as quickly as possible than he is with longevity.
Señor Marcano and Señor Ramirez aren’t giving him grace any longer. After attempting to infiltrate our cartel for a second time, it’s been decided that Hector needs to learn what it’s like to have someone fuck with his business the way he’s been fucking with ours.
Diego has offed a couple of nobodies, but it’s time to get Hector where it hurts—Guillermo and Jorge—his right-hand men. Only, these fucking bastards have been skipping around safe houses since Diego dumped Juan’s crispy, char-broiled body at Hector’s gate last week.
They know we’re coming for them.
I don’t have a clue how Diego found this place, but it’s fucking shithole. It barely looks habitable, much less like a place the second and third in command of the Saltillos would be hanging out. Quite certain the place is abandoned, we don’t spare any subtleties and walk straight to the front door.
Diego knocks twice and then abruptly kicks in the door. He takes a step inside and gags as he exhales, “Fuck!”
I barely make it over the threshold before catching a whiff of what caused his reaction. This place smells like absolute squalor. The lovely combination of squatters using it as an indoor toilet and death. The undeniable aroma of death.
A smell I’m all too familiar with.
The likelihood of anyone being here with what is likely a several-days-old body is slim, and as though we both had the same realization, we each lower our guns to our sides. Neither of us tuck them back into our waistband, as you can never be too certain or careful in our line of work.
Proceeding further into the house, the cloud of death only grows stronger. So thick that I can taste it on my tongue. Stepping into the open living room, we find the source of the stench flooding our nostrils.
Sitting in the middle of a blood-soaked couch is a bruised and bloated middle-aged man, or so I assume from his graying hair. His face is nearly indistinguishable. Even if it weren’t for the fluid filling his face out, he clearly had almost every bone in it broken before someone decided to use his body as a knife block.
