Drawn Blue Lines: A Carrera Cartel Novel Page 2

  Despite being the head of stateside operations for the most powerful cartel in the world, I was still an outsider amongst my own men. I couldn’t blame them. They were born into this life. They lived and breathed it, working their way up the ranks in hopes of one day reaching a position of power. To them, I was a gringo. A traitor to both sides of the law who made a deal with the devil and shit all over their sacrifices in order to secure himself a seat at the top.

  They weren’t wrong.

  The line I walked with that devil these days was thin at best. Valentin Carrera didn’t have friends; he had strategic alliances. When the kingpin gave an order, he expected it to be followed and dared anyone to defy him. Especially a man who had put half his men behind bars.

  But here I sat with a noose tied around my neck, waiting to hang on my own ego, and since I wasn’t looking to die today, I made sure to scan the perimeter again, rolling my phone around in my hands as I memorized faces.

  “You know this place has state-of-the art cameras, right?” Slouching back into my chair, I looked up to see an explosion of blonde hair falling in a halo around two strips of sequins I assumed was supposed to be a dress. Suspicion came second nature to me, so when I narrowed my eyes, she placed her palm on the table and leaned in close. “With audio so clear, you can hear the stroke of a dick under a table.”

  “That’s…” Shaking my head, I raised my beer mug to my lips. “That’s too much information.”

  She slid into the chair across from me with a sultry wink. “Looking for a little pleasure before business, handsome?”

  “No. I never mix the two.”

  Especially in Chicago.

  “A shame,” she mused, drumming her blood red nails on the table. “You look like you could stand to loosen up.”

  As the suggestive R&B song playing changed to the hard beats of a bass guitar, I wondered how hard I’d have to kick her chair to send her sailing to the other side of the club. It wasn’t very gentlemanly, but social etiquette and conformity weren’t high on my priority list.

  Plus, being kept waiting had worn my patience paper thin.

  “Lady, it’s been a long day, and with all due respect, I don’t have time for this shit. Is your boss even here, or does he plan on dicking me around all night?”

  As the dollar signs faded from her eyes, her façade dropped. Her flirty smile curled into a snarl, but before she could hurl out the insults waiting on her tongue, she glanced over my head, her eyes widening.

  On instinct, I twisted around. “It’s about fucking time.”

  However, instead of the smoky Irish brogue accent I expected to hear, a gravelly Spanish one surrounded me like rusty nails on a bullet-ridden chalkboard. “That impatient to see me, Harcourt?”

  Carlos Cabello stood behind me, his gray goatee framing a smirk I wanted to punch off his face. Turning back, I shot an accusatory glare at the traitorous woman just in time to see her sequined ass disappear into the shadows.

  Even rolling my eyes took too much effort.

  “Fuck you.” Tossing my phone across the table, I let out another slew of curses. “I’m supposed to be meeting with Ronan.”

  I thought I was meeting with Ronan Kelly, head of the Northside Sinners, the Irish mob in charge of every piss Chicago took. I didn’t like surprises, and I sure as hell didn’t like them being hand delivered by a middleman who had no direct contact with the Sinners.

  “Well, now you’re meeting with me.”

  “Oh, well, that explains everything.” I tracked his every move as he slid into the chair opposite of me. “By all means,” I said, motioning across the table. “Have a seat.”

  I expected a smartass retort, or at least a thinly veiled threat. Instead, Carlos offered an obligatory nod then lifted a finger and motioned to a passing cocktail waitress. I suppose the meaning was unspoken because her response was a simple nod.

  Carlos let out a loud laugh. “That’s what I always liked about you, Harcourt. You don’t waste time with pointless small talk.”

  We were wasting time. This ridiculous civility dance only postponed the inevitable. “Cut the shit. What the—”

  I paused as the waitress appeared by our table, placing a shot glass filled with clear liquid in front of him. As soon as the woman came, she was gone, her presence so fleeting, if she hadn’t left the drink as evidence, I’d question if she was ever really there.

  “Vodka?” I asked, nodding toward the shot glass.

  Carlos snorted. “Americans.” Picking up the shot, he tipped it back and slammed it. “It’s aguardiente. In English it translates to firewater.” He glanced at my half-empty beer and smirked. “Want one, gringo?”

  “I’ll pass.” Time was money, and this small-talk bullshit had gone on long enough. “It seems I’ve wasted my time. However, I’m also not driving another eleven hundred miles, so unfortunately, you’ll have to do.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “My Chicago shipment never arrived.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” His dismissive tone grated on my nerves as he held his empty glass in the air and raised an eyebrow at the flustered waitress. Again, the woman bowed her head in swift acknowledgment. “By the way, you owe me my eight-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” When my jaw dropped, his lips twitched at the corners. “Five percent distributor fee. Did you think I was going to forget?”

  I slammed my palm onto the table. “You greedy fuck. Did you have something to do with this?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Think with your brain instead of your dick for once. That’s my product coming into your port. Why would I fuck with my own blow?”

  Damn. He had a point.

  “Besides, if you hadn’t spent the last week working your way through a bottle of scotch and paid more attention to your business, maybe you wouldn’t be so fucked right now.”

  Because of the seventeen-million-dollar shipment that never arrived in Chicago’s port. A deal I signed with my own blood.

  I was in such deep shit it would take a forklift to haul my ass out of it.

  “You’ve got Ronan Kelly and Valentin Carrera on your ass, so the way I see it, you only have two options.” Holding up two thick, calloused fingers, he ticked them off. “One, pull my eight hundred and fifty K out of your ass, or two, come up with an alternative.”

  “What kind of alternative?”

  “Find the man who stole it.”

  I laughed. I had no idea what the hell was in aguardiente, but after the crazy shit he just said, I suspected LSD. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  His eyes flashed dark with irritation. “It’s pretty crystal fucking clear. Pay me my money or find the pendejo who intercepted your shipment, take back what he stole, and end him.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  He shrugged. “This is a lucrative arrangement for me, so I prefer Ronan not kill you. Plus, I don’t take well to being threatened.”

  “Threatened?” An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. “You know who this asshole is.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  A knowing smirk crept along his face. “Possibly. And I’m feeling particularly generous, so I’ll make you a deal.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’ll replace the eight hundred kilos and give you a name, but I want ten percent.”

  “You want double?” I laughed. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can cover it.” Which was a complete lie. I didn’t have seventeen thousand, much less seventeen million. If I did, I wouldn’t have come crawling to this dickhead instead of the main Carrera supplier.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You don’t know anything we don’t know.”

  “You know what? I’m done fucking with you,” Carlos shouted, the corners of his eyes pulled tight with annoyance. “If you’d get your head out of your ass for five seconds, I’d tell you I had a run in with the Muñoz Cartel two weeks ago.”

  My blood ran cold. “What did you say?”

  “I though
t that’d get your attention.”

  Muñoz was a name I hadn’t heard in a very long time, and quite honestly, didn’t think I’d ever hear again.

  A year and a half ago, the Muñoz Cartel blackmailed me by threatening my sister. It was why I enjoyed watching a bullet tear through their leader’s heart and seeing them crumble. Afterward, they were reduced to shambles while we consumed more and more power. If they’d somehow resurfaced and reorganized enough to push me out of Chicago, I needed to know everything.

  However, I also wasn’t stupid. I’d walked into too many traps to watch someone bait a hook, toss their line right at me, and then just swim straight to it.

  Instead of reacting, I tilted my palms up and offered a smug smile. “The name sounds familiar.”

  “Cut the bullshit, Harcourt. You think I don’t know you were there with Valentin Carrera when his wife shot Manuel Muñoz?” he hissed, slamming a palm against the wood. “The Carreras might have crippled them for a while, but they’re under a new command and stronger than ever.” Downing his shot, he slammed the empty glass on the table and cut a hard stare at me.

  “Who’s calling the shots?”

  He balanced his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t know. They sent one of their lieutenants to try to strong arm me into canceling all my Carrera shipments and selling to them, but I don’t take orders from anybody, much less a group of cabrones who don’t know their dicks from their assholes.”

  “So, I’ll ask again. Who’s calling the shots?”

  “Information has a price tag, amigo.”

  “Give me a name, and I’ll think about it.”

  “Fuck your mother.”

  I shrugged. “Freudian shit isn’t my thing. However, if that’s what lifts your sails…”

  “Do I look like an idiot to you, Harcourt? I’m calling the shots here, not you. I have what you need. All you have is a missing shipment and a six-hundred-thousand-dollar debt.”

  “And a link to Ronan Kelly. I’m not stupid, Carlos. You’re just the mediator. A man he doesn’t know exists. Without me, you’re just a second-rate distributor holding his dick in his hands.” I sat back with a satisfied smirk. Why should I cave so easily? This was his fault. If he’d informed me of Muñoz involvement two weeks ago, we wouldn’t be sitting here in the first goddamn place.

  A tense breath whistled through his teeth, and another line creased his forehead before a slow smile parted his lips. “The man’s name is José Rojas. I don’t know how much you can find out from that, but that’s all I got. We both know their reach extends far beyond border walls. They’ve already infiltrated Chicago. If you ask me—”

  “I didn’t.”

  The smile on his face faded, irritation flaring in his eyes. “If you ask me, whoever has the balls to rebuild is hiding in plain sight. It’s the last place people ever look.”

  I raised an eyebrow as he stood. “What’s in it for you?”

  He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt. “This isn’t a Colombian problem. This isn’t even a Sinners problem,” he continued. “What we have is a cartel rivalry that needs to settle their shit out of Chicago. I’m sure Ronan doesn’t care if you bomb each other to hell and back. But, obviously, considering our recent arrangement, I have a stake in seeing the Carreras win. You get the Muñozes out of my way, and I’ll replace the eight-hundred kilos they stole.”

  “What’s the catch?” There always was one. No one did shit for free in this business.

  The corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smirk. “You find this José Rojas and make him give you the name of the pendejo in charge. I’ll take it from there.” Carlos held up a hand before I said a word. “Or I keep the kilos and you can explain to Valentin Carrera why you forged a partnership with a family he strictly forbade and then lost seventeen million dollars of his money.”

  I winced hearing Val’s name.

  “You wouldn’t contact Val,” I said, calling his bluff. “Then you’d have to admit to selling against his main Colombian distributor. That would be a death sentence for you.”

  Carlos’s only response was to lean forward so that his elbows rested on the table, a patch of graying hair falling over one eye like some kind of demented pirate.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, I’ll do anything I want. That being said,” he continued, the fire in his eyes calming. “I don’t make a habit of getting involved in shit that isn’t my business.” Lifting his drink, he paused, holding it inches from his face as he watched me. “However, I’d bet the payout from my last job that Val has no fucking clue he’s doing business with the Sinners.”

  And he’d walk away from that bet an even richer man.

  I’d tried multiple times to force an alliance with the Chicago syndicate but always backed down when the heir to the Carrera empire swore he’d cut my balls off and shove them down my throat. He never explained his reasoning, but he didn’t have to. Nobody threatened a man quite like Valentin Carrera.

  I was screwed either way. If I agreed and Val found out, he’d kill me. If I refused and Val found out, he’d kill me. However, accepting Carlos’s offer bought me time that refusing it didn’t.

  “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

  “You don’t.” Without another word, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Although this has been entertaining, I have better things to do. Am I to assume we have an agreement?” All my attention focused on the huge pulsating vein in his neck as he extended his arm across the table.

  Did I really have a choice?

  Allowing Carlos to dictate the dealings of the Houston leg of the Carrera Cartel was nothing less than suicide. However, calling up the head of said cartel and explaining my actions didn’t fare much different of an outcome.

  In our world, black and white didn’t exist. Even though we lived our lives in shades of gray where lines always blurred and actions had no consequences, there was still an unspoken hierarchy. A drawn line in the sand separating the royal blue blood of Mexico’s underworld and the common red blood of those who served them.

  The ones trusted enough to walk the line but forbidden to cross it.

  After leaving him standing in silence a few more seconds, I slowly shook his hand. “Provisional agreement.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning provisional—arranged or existing for the present, possibly to be changed later. You know how we operate, Carlos.” Cocking an eyebrow, I added in a low tone, an arrogant smile tugging at my lips, “So, don’t fuck me over.”

  I’d never seen anyone go from smug to furious so quickly. Instead of responding, he flipped his middle finger and stormed toward the door.

  “Carlos?” I called out.

  He hovered halfway in and halfway out, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles turned white. “What?”

  “You didn’t pay for your drinks, you cheap ass.”

  A slew of curses followed him out the door as it slammed behind him.

  I chuckled to myself.

  Being underestimated was the biggest advantage a man could have over his enemy. I’d lived long enough to know that given the right incentive, even the strongest ally could be an enemy.

  Raising my glass, I conceded round one.

  But it was round two, and the gloves were coming off.

  I didn’t go from an assistant district attorney in Houston to first lieutenant of the Carrera Cartel by waving a white flag at the first sign of a threat.

  I ran that motherfucking city.

  Chapter Two

  Brody

  Houston, Texas

  Rain pissed me off.

  Not that I’d ever been a rainbows and sunshine type of guy. I preferred dark clouds and thunder. They usually brought everyone’s optimism and cheerfulness down a few notches, which always improved my mood.

  However, today the muggy September rain conspired against me. As soon as I got behind the wheel, the sky opened up, and now it was coming down so hard, I could
barely see the car in front of me. If I had half a brain, I’d take it as an omen and turn the hell around.

  No, if I had half a brain, I never would’ve left home in the first place.

  Squeezing the steering wheel with one hand, I rubbed a damp palm across my nose and swallowed the nausea trying to claw its way up my throat.

  I didn’t need this shit right now. Last night, I drank my weight in cheap scotch, trying to forget my own name. Unfortunately, today, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl out of this car and throw up my spleen.

  And punches. I wanted to throw punches.

  It took longer than I expected for the call to come in. Forty-eight hours too long, to be exact. Someone’s balls would be overnighted to their mother for the time I spent pacing my living room while waiting for Rafael to collect a thief.

  I was a lieutenant in the fucking cartel.

  Second in line for the bloodstained Carrera throne.

  And because of it, here I was, regardless of my lack of sobriety.

  Besides, as my Colombian watchdog reminded me, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. It was either drive the final nail in the Muñoz coffin or climb inside my own. Since today’s agenda didn’t include a death wish, this seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

  The more I drove, the more pissed off I became. Instead of driving on a road to nowhere, I should’ve been at the cantina, pretending to run it like a legitimate business instead of a one-stop-shop currency cleaner. I was the face of it, after all. Honest, trustworthy Brody Harcourt. An all-American civil servant dealt a bad hand. Righteous to his core despite being born into a band of psychos.

  The pounding in my head synced with the rhythm of the rain slamming against the windshield, and my vision blurred until the whole car filled with static. I was positive I was going to have an aneurysm until the deserted service road appeared up ahead. Ignoring the railroad spikes driving through my skull, I turned right and hit the gas. Halfway down the long driveway, the car stalled. The more I slammed my foot on the gas, the more the tires spun, slinging mud across the windshield.