Drawn Blue Lines: A Carrera Cartel Novel Page 4

  Let it go, Nancy. For your sake.

  “Oh, well, maybe you just have one of those faces,” she whispered, her skin growing pale.

  We both knew I didn’t. However, it seemed Nancy had a brain as big as her mouth. She knew she’d screwed up. She also knew she’d screw up even worse by saying a word.

  Call it women’s intuition. We understood each other.

  Maybe there was hope for our gender.

  I didn’t offer a goodbye and neither did she. I walked out of the district attorney’s office on a mission. Nancy could think whatever she wanted, but Brody Harcourt wasn’t just a bar owner. Every fall from grace came with loose ends. If I tugged hard enough on one thread, the whole tapestry would unravel.

  The former public servant had sold his soul and roughened up that shiny penny exterior.

  He’d appointed himself my executioner.

  And now, I was his.

  Chapter Four

  Brody

  “Adriana Carrera,” I growled into my phone, the sound of my wet shoes clapping against the dusty tiles as I pushed the door open to Caliente Cantina. “I don’t know how, Carlos. But a man with a bull’s-eye on his ass isn’t going to throw out a name like that for no reason.” Approaching the bar, I snapped my fingers at the dumb bitch behind it playing on her phone. “Yes, I’m on it.” I listened to him go on and on until the last thing he said made me come to a dead stop. “Another shipment? Shit, okay. I’ll handle it. I said I’d handle it!” I ended the call without waiting for a response.

  Another two million dollars intercepted near Chicago. This was getting out of control and covering my ass while pretending it wasn’t on the line was getting harder. How did people do this shit day after day without staying permanently drunk? Maybe anger and guilt could coexist in some people’s world, but not in mine. Spinning a wheelhouse of emotion was nothing but suicide. The only way to survive was to commit to an extreme and never look back.

  Pocketing my phone, I glanced up to see the latest in a revolving door of bartender bitches lift her chin and stare at me, her red lips pressed into a thin line. I couldn’t tell if it was out of intrigue, fear, or brazen pity, but I didn’t give a shit. She needed to mind her own business—a point I made by meeting her curious gaze with a steeled glare and holding out my hand.

  “My drink.”

  In response, she slid a glass of scotch toward me, eyeing my shirt while arching an eyebrow.

  I glanced down and gritted my teeth. The white button-up shirt underneath my navy-blue suit was splattered with José’s blood. I always kept a spare in my car for situations like this, but my mind hadn’t exactly been focused lately.

  I calmly stared back and waited for her to speak. She didn’t, and neither did I. A successful prosecutor controlled the narrative by forcing the defendant’s hand. So, we stood in silence. The longer we stood, the more unsettled she became.

  Most people considered silence to be peaceful. I found it to be a necessary evil—one I masterfully manipulated to my advantage. Quite the impressive family trait. Reserve was a façade we were forced to wear like a crown.

  And by the look on bar bitch’s face, I was still the king.

  As expected, she broke first, narrowing her heavily lined eyes. “Did you cut yourself?”

  “No.” My lips twitched while attempting to hold in a smirk.

  Her mouth fell open, and the sound of metal crashing against tile shot through the cantina. My smirk widened. Shock value always delivered a guaranteed pick-me-up. However, as much as I enjoyed a good blindside, I also had a business to run. I couldn’t have what’s-her-name using this as an excuse to be late for work.

  I made myself a mental note to buy her a new cell phone.

  Once I remembered her name.

  The thin skin underneath her eye twitched, and her whole demeanor changed. With a weak smile, she offered a courteous nod, fighting to keep her gaze impassive and failing miserably.

  Not that most people would’ve picked up on it. Years of working in the DA’s office taught me to notice the slightest involuntary human reaction. The twitch of a witness’s eye told me more than their entire testimony. Hers told me she’d heard the rumors about me. She wanted to ask if they were true, but she wouldn’t.

  Even she knew curiosity killed the cat.

  Our conversation ended as she turned her attention back to whatever the hell it was she did every day instead of her job. I wasn’t offended. As long as she kept her mouth shut, I would too, and we’d both live to see tomorrow.

  Continuing down the deserted hallway, I realized being stuck at a dive bar in the middle of the day had its perks. At least I’d have a few hours of privacy before the booze brigade rolled in. Houston’s town drunks were more punctual than any of its so-called professionals. They wouldn’t flood the cantina until at least three o’clock.

  Which gave me plenty of time to call in a favor.

  Plus, we were still short-staffed, so I wouldn’t have to deal with nosy waitresses who didn’t know their place. That wasn’t a generalized chauvinistic statement. It was a brutal fact, considering the last two employees I vouched for ended up in the obituary column.

  Needless to say, women had crossed over to my shit list months ago.

  Making my way to my office, I unlocked the door and collapsed in my chair. In the solitude of my own space, my lungs finally began to heave much-needed air into my body, and I clicked on the desk lamp, bathing the tiny office in dim yellow light and shining a spotlight on the reason I was going to hell.

  Well, one of them anyway.

  Sinking into the chair, my fingers flexed around the picture frame as I dragged it toward me. Even protected by the glass, the photo was worn and faded. Destroyed by time just like each one of us.

  Four smiling Harcourts. One living on borrowed time.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. “None of us had to end up like this.”

  Sure, if my mother hadn’t sold us out and my sister had trusted me with the truth then one wouldn’t be in jail and the other wouldn’t have wound up in the obituary column.

  Unfortunately, it was too late by the time I saw through my family’s carefully constructed personas. Maybe if I had, things would’ve ended differently. Bitter laughter rumbled in my chest.

  Should’ve. Could’ve. Would’ve.

  But didn’t.

  Story of my fucking life.

  Of course, none of that mattered now. Things had changed, and so had I. My job wasn’t to protect and serve anymore as much as manipulate and destroy. Preferably, before anyone else beat me to it.

  Like the Muñoz Cartel.

  Opening my suit jacket, I pulled out my cell phone and rolled it over in my palms. Carlos said he would take care of things, but I didn’t like leaving my fate in someone else’s hands. If there was one valuable thing I learned from my mother, it was that political officials’ morality had a price tag. Luckily for me, the consulate general at the Mexican Embassy was just as corrupt as she was, only with half the intellect.

  I scrubbed a hand over my face and dialed Leo Pinellas’s private number. It took two rings for him to answer, his voice a satisfactory mix of fear and unease.

  “Hola, Señor Harcourt, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

  I’ll bet, considering the last time we spoke, he put up so much resistance to my request, I had to threaten him. To be fair, he did end up betraying his own country.

  “Yeah, well, I have a problem—which means you have a problem.”

  “Vete a la mierda,” he grumbled. Not that I expected a warm greeting, after all this time, but telling me to fuck off was a bit over the top. “I can’t be involved with you anymore. It’s too risky.”

  “It’s riskier for you to ignore me.” On edge, I tossed the picture frame onto the floor. “I already made one widow today. Don’t force me to make another.”

  Silence filled the line while I assumed he weighed his options. He really didn’t have any, but I humored him
and spun a full two revolutions in my chair before he came to his senses.

  “Tell me what you want,” Leo hissed through clenched teeth, his broken English slipping as his anger grew. “But this has to…” The rest of what I presumed to be a futile demand trailed off as a muffled voice laced with huskiness and an edge of insolence filtered through the line.

  Son of a bitch.

  I had enough on my plate without having to worry about some jerkoff in the Mexican Embassy hearing me spell out the details of someone’s murder.

  I closed my eyes and cursed. “Is someone there?”

  “Just my puta secretary who doesn’t know how to fucking knock,” he yelled, the two words punctuated by the sound of a slamming door. “As I was saying, this has to be it. The Harcourt name isn’t too popular around here and unsealing Adriana Carrera’s birth records for you turned too many eyes my way.”

  I winced at hearing her name again. It had been months since I’d thought about her, and now she was the ghost who wouldn’t go away. An unwelcome pang of guilt settled deep in my stomach. The woman nearly assassinated my boss then walked out of a Houston safe house like a fucking queen. She made my life hell for months. A Muñoz creation whose mind ticked with only one emotion—hate.

  Until I blew her life apart by revealing her entire life had been a lie. Marisol Muñoz was Adriana Carrera, Val’s not-so-dead sister.

  After she disappeared off the face of the earth, I assumed she was buried in a shallow grave somewhere. It was inevitable. She never would’ve stood for her family’s legacy to be dismantled, and they never would’ve accepted a Carrera.

  I assumed wrong.

  Dragging myself out of that lethal rabbit hole, I changed the subject. “Unfortunately, you don’t call the shots, Leo. However, I’ve had a bitch of a day, so I’ll make this brief. The Muñoz Cartel has restructured. I’ve already had a chat with a man named José Rojas. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.” I didn’t wait for a confirmation. I didn’t need one. “He’s given me some interesting new information on Adriana Carrera. I need you to do some recon on her last known whereabouts.”

  “Why don’t you just blackmail it out of him?”

  Smartass.

  “He’s missing.”

  “Shouldn’t you be trying to locate him?”

  “No.”

  That’s all that needed to be said. Leo Pinellas was an arrogant bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. Reading between the lines wasn’t a hard skill to master. Especially when his fat ass would be the next.

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “You have twenty-four hours.”

  Probably even less for me if Adriana was motivated enough.

  “You’d better know what you’re doing, Brody. Every time you try to fuck over a cartel boss, a woman pays the price. First, your sister, then Carrera’s girl, then Carrera’s sister.”

  My hand tore through my hair, ripping the strands at the root. “She wasn’t his girl!” I let out a dry laugh. “But he sure as hell made sure she didn’t have any other option.”

  “That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”

  The coil that had wound tighter and tighter in my chest since returning from Chicago snapped. “Twenty-four hours, Pinellas.” Grinding my teeth, I jerked the phone away to disconnect the call, but at the last minute lifted it back to my ear. “Make that twenty-two just for being an asshole.”

  “You used to protect the law, Brody. You were a good guy.” He paused, his breath uneven. “What happened to you?”

  My fingers clenched around my phone, my earlier smugness brittle and hollow. “I opened my eyes.”

  I didn’t wait for a response. Ending the call, I slammed my phone onto my desk, not giving a shit if I cracked the screen. This wasn’t supposed to turn into such a clusterfuck. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. Life had delivered one giant middle finger after another since I sank into cartel quicksand. No matter how hard I tried to claw my way out, it kept pulling me under, deeper and deeper each time. Eventually, I gave up the fight and sank to the bottom.

  Now, here I sat, completely submerged, trying to fight more than one invisible enemy. How long would it be until I just stopped breathing?

  “It won’t be today.” With fire in my chest, I spun around, ready to fire bar bitch just to make myself feel better when a glint of silver caught my eye.

  Without thinking, I crouched next to the picture frame I’d tossed like a grenade and picked it up. My white-knuckled grip on it tightened. I’d be damned if I’d go down like this. Straightening my shoulders, I stood and placed the frame back on my desk.

  Tugging my tie loose, I shrugged off my jacket and unbuttoned my soiled shirt, reaching for the spare I kept in the tiny closet in the corner of the office. As I rolled the sleeves of the freshly laundered shirt up to my elbows, I heard the back door slam and what sounded like a bulldozer tear through the kitchen.

  I glanced at the clock and threw my head back with a groan. “For fuck’s sake, Kiki, this is the third time this week. Your shift started three hours ago. Do you not own a goddamn clock?”

  Tearing out of my office, I punched the wall on my way out, more than ready to hand a certain brunette waitress her ass and then toss it out the door.

  It was bar bitch’s lucky day.

  Chapter Five

  Adriana

  How the mighty have fallen.

  The phrase sat on the tip of my tongue as I rounded the building and opened the door to a pathetically empty Caliente Cantina. The symbolism wasn’t lost on me, and if I had more time, I might have relished in how things had come full circle. However, I didn’t come here to bask in others’ misfortune.

  I came to rectify my own.

  Although I did my best to blend in, my high heels clicked against the cheap floor, announcing my arrival like a grenade. Stopping mid-stride, I winced and waited for the collective gasp. Surprisingly, the handful of patrons scattered in the worn booths never bothered to look up, much less acknowledge me. Returning the favor, I ignored them, focusing all my attention toward the bar.

  It didn’t take long to find him. Slumped in a stool at the farthest end, Brody Harcourt scowled into his beer, gripping the glass mug as if he were squeezing out its last breath. The move might have intimidated a normal woman, but I wasn’t most women.

  Besides, I knew more about him in a glance than I suspected most of his “so-called” friends did in a lifetime. The simple key to reading someone was to study their body language. Yeah, he looked ready to kill someone, but his hands were his tell. The glass he held took a level of unsurmountable punishment clearly meant for someone else.

  Of course, there was also the obvious alcohol he downed like water. Men tended to use liquid therapy as a crutch rather than dealing with their problems. I’d seen it all my life. Not that it was a bad temporary fix for a highly publicized fall from grace, but killing brain cells just stalled the climb back to the top.

  And through all this analysis, here I stood in the middle of this god-awful piece of shit cantina like a flashing siren. Only, like the other customers, Brody found my existence irrelevant. Not that it mattered to me. I wasn’t here to have my ego stroked. There was only one thing I wanted, and I’d traveled too long and too far to hinge it on an obstinate male mood swing. Still, observation was a useful skill, so I continued appraising him from a distance.

  The way a man dressed said a lot about him—who they were; what they did; where they’d been. According to Brody’s clothes, I deduced the answers were: a burden on society, two lines up the nose, and saddled up at the twenty-four-hour stripper emporium. The wrinkled white button-up shirt he wore was half tucked in toward the front and wild and chaotic in the back. The sleeves were uncuffed and rolled up to his elbows, exposing ridiculously toned arms.

  At some point, he’d undone the first button at his collar, got frustrated, then ripped the next four clean off. The evidence was scattered across the floor with one resting against the so
iled toe of my high heel. I kicked it to the side, continuing to study him. With a grunt, one hand flew from his mug and yanked off the tie draped around his neck. The muscles in his forearm tensed as he balled it up and pitched it across the bar railing.

  Nice throw.

  This version of Brody Harcourt looked nothing like the man I remembered. Then again, I doubted he gave a damn if he lived up to dress code since his mother tried to murder his entire family.

  I should know.

  Bits and pieces of the last year flashed through my head. The confusion. The loneliness. The pain. Refusing to lose control, I closed my eyes and blocked the darkness from rolling in.

  No emotion. Not today.

  With renewed determination, I made my way to the bar, my sleek dark hair dusting over my shoulder as I slid into the chair beside him. Before I could say a word, a bleach blonde bartender in a skimpy uniform rolled her eyes as she walked toward me with a cell phone suctioned to her ear and a groan on her lips.

  “I guess I’ll have to call you back.” Cocking a hip, she braced one hand against the bar while shoving the phone in the back pocket of her cut-off jean shorts with the other. From the way she glared at me and then Brody, I could tell her crush on him was just as big as her attitude. “So, do you know what you want or what?”

  A year ago, I would’ve had her choking on her own tongue for that.

  “Añejo tequila in a stem glass. Room temp, only.”

  I met her stare just in time to catch her raised eyebrow and quick glance to my right. When it went unacknowledged, she swallowed a few times and turned away. I sat in comfortable silence, refusing to blink. Even missing a second of this was too much.

  It wasn’t long before the bartender returned with my drink and a brand-new attitude. With eyes downcast, she carefully placed it in front of me and disappeared.