Joaquin looks at me since I’m leading this mission. “What do you want to do with it? If it’s shit, do we want to burn it or sell it but pass it off as theirs.”
“I certainly don’t want our name associated with poor quality. Burning it is a waste though. It’s probably going to Clyde anyway. We can give it to him for free.”
Fifty kilos isn’t that much. We can grab it and go fast. We’ll divvy it up among all of us and carry it in our go bags. As long as no one’s stupid driving back to Hisham’s, the police will be none the wiser. It’ll be out of our hands before noon.
“Who’re we blaming?”
I point toward a motorcycle in the parking lot next door. “Hell’s Angels. They can take it up with the locals here or the branch back home.”
None of the O’Rourkes are in a motorcycle club, but they have plenty of affiliated members. Let them spin their wheels—shitty pun intended—while they sort it out. For all the fucks I give, Dillan can pick a fight with the largest chapter in Oakland. California’s nice this time of year for a visit.
“Then let’s get on with it. We’ve been here long enough. I’m not getting a good feeling about being here any longer.”
Alejandro’s intuition is just as sharp as the rest of ours. When one of us gets a tingly feeling that something’s about to pop off, the rest of us listen. The three of us switch our radios back to the main frequency. I give the first command.
“Mascarillas puestas y tapones para los oídos puestos.” Masks on and earplugs in.
I inch along the wall to the open bays where the two trucks are parked. I use my cell phone camera as a mirror to show me inside the warehouse. The men who must be the drivers are smoking what smells suspiciously like a product they likely didn’t buy from their bosses but rather stole.
I don’t know how Alejandro got a powder sample out of there for Jesus to test because almost all the bricks are in boxes. Then again, he and his men waited more than an hour for us. I see some mobsters on patrol, but they look like they’re on more of a Sunday stroll than alert. If they were, they’d have spotted us by now.
I pull the clip from the smoke grenade and toss it inside. Tear gas explodes, and a moment later, I dash inside. I lob another farther into the warehouse, catching all of them by surprise. With our gas masks on, the polluted air doesn’t bother my team. We launch our attack from all directions. Alejandro and his men head to the office. Joaquin’s team goes for the guards. My team takes out the drivers and grabs the boxes with the product.
We’re in and out far faster than the previous half of tonight’s mission. It’s real guns and real bullets for this campaign. There’s no stunning or capturing the men here. They’re syndicate men. They know—knew—the risks. By the time we’re done, two men from my side have knife wounds, and one had a bullet graze his thigh. Nothing that requires more than the stitches Joaquin andI’ll give them once we get away. He, Javier, and I are all trained paramedics. Our skills come in handy far too often.
Once we’re certain we’ve left no witnesses, we retreat to the SUVs. Turns out there wasn’t just some white powder waiting for us. My guys found some leafy greens too. The shit those two fuckheads were smoking.
“Torch it?” Alejandro’s looking back over his shoulder as we arrive at the vehicles.
“No. One big fire tonight is enough. No need to risk the authorities connecting the dots. We did a good enough job with the smash and grab, plus there’s no one left. We did what we set out to do. You leave the calling card?”
“Yeah. Wheeled the bike into the middle of the floor myself. I spotted a pair of scissors on a desk when I tossed the office, so I even cut out a little angel from printer paper. Left it next to the bike.”
“Artsy.”
I grin at my cousin. The man can’t draw a line with a ruler. The best he can do is color by numbers.
“We can’t all be Fernando Botero.”
He’s a famous Colombian painter and sculptor known for his rather—uh—voluptuous— figures. That’s probably the most tactful way of putting it. His art is a bit too whimsical for my taste, but I sure as fuck can draw a shit ton better than my cousin.
My brother and I each climb into the back of an SUV with a stabbing casualty each. We’ll do what we can while in moving vehicles. It’s a good thing we both have surgeon-like steady hands. Before putting on gloves, Joaquin and I switch our frequencies over to the one Alejandro joins us on.
“Thank God Hisham and Noor own the house next to them and have no renters right now. The guys can go straight inside. We need to clean up before Liesel and her family see us.”
Luck hasn’t been on our side since I got here—except for meeting Liesel. But at least we have that going for us. We have a place for the guys to stay. Before dropping Liesel off, we decided we should all relocate to Hisham and Noor’s until this is over. Now none of the men have to drive to the safe house for their shifts. The shorter the distance between our men and us, the better.
“I can’t wait to get this shit off my face. I call first shower.”
Alejandro’s not just naturally the pretty one. He’s the one who actually takes any kind of skin or hair care seriously. Alejandro and the word metrosexual don’t go in the same paragraph—not even the same conversation. But he’s the most particular of us. I have sensitive skin and need the special shaving cream, or I break out. My cousin has actual contact allergies to shit. He has to have special camo paint, or he winds up with more than just hives. They’re practically blisters.
The house has two full bathrooms, so it’ll be like conveyor lines for showers. But everyone learns to be fast and to tidy up after themselves—that includes disinfecting all surfaces in between turns. The men will work out who’s responsible for burning all the clothes, so we leave no evidence behind.
By the time we arrive, all three guys who got injured are patched up. Everyone implicitly understands the hurry I’m in to get next door. Normally—despite Alejandro’s claim—my family and I would be among the last to clean up, putting our men ahead of ourselves. But they all insist I take one of the first showers. I scrub myself until my skin’s red and my scalp tingles. Then I’m into fresh clothes.
Hisham has a guard outside the front door since it’s barely dawn, and the neighbors are unlikely to notice. The guy greets me before knocking. It’s another guard who opens the door. I appreciate the precautions our family friends take.
“Jorge?”
