This thin, zipper-lipped creature isn’t just some freak the cartel keeps on payroll.He’s a weapon they take out when they want a clean, wordless transaction.
They could’ve taped my mouth shut and put a hood over my head.But that would’ve sent me into a fist-swinging struggle, ready to turn and burn and run.
Instead, they put me in a car withthisguy.
His appearance alone disarms and intimidates.By design.Every time his haunting eyes flick toward me, I feel the weight of him measuring what I am, how I bleed, and how loud I’d scream.He hums as if already composing it.
Consider me officially unsettled.But I’m not running.Wherever we’re headed, I’m ready to be there.
The convoy speeds through checkpoints that open without question.Eventually, the driver speaks a code word into the radio.We veer off the main road and onto a narrow strip of cracked asphalt that snakes between shanties and the black sprawl of jungle.
Up ahead, the neon glow of a club sign pulses pink against the night.Music leaks from every direction, low bass crawling through the ground.
We pull around to the back, where dumpsters steam and rats scatter.Two guards in tactical black wave us through an iron gate.
Frizz exits first and gestures for me to follow.He leads the way through a narrow corridor and down a stairwell, the concrete walls wet to the touch.As we pass under the bulbs, his stitched grin glints.Creepy as fuck.
I stay close, scanning corners, counting exits, doing the math of survival.
He stops before a door at the end of the hall.A heavy steel thing, painted black.Raising a pale hand, he taps twice.
The door opens with a mechanical buzz.
My heart hits overdrive, no permission given.
Turning toward me, Frizz hums a few cheerful notes, ushers me into a private lounge room, and locks me inside.
I’d be lying if I said I’ll miss his face.
In the room, lamps glow amber behind red-tinted glass, turning the smoke-dense air into shades of blood.It smells like sex, booze, and money.The cartel’s holy trinity.
A man sits on the couch.An empty chair waits across from him, a coffee table between, littered with ashtrays, a half-empty bottle of tequila, and a pistol.He rolls a toothpick between his lips, eyes steady on me.
Yeah.I know that face.The scar bisecting his cheek makes him look homemade, not born.Steel-cut jawline.Gunmetal eyes.Brutally handsome.
The toothpick rolls lazily between his lips.Calm.Too calm.The kind of calm that comes from killing enough people to find peace in it.
Van Quiso.
He doesn’t introduce himself.No need.His reputation fills the room.
“Sit,” he says, voice a slow rasp that could pass for civility if not for the dominating demand behind it.
I drop into the chair opposite him, every nerve stretched tight.
A fitted Henley clings to his muscular chest, the sleeves pushed to the elbows.His black jeans show no dirt or wear.Can’t say the same for his heavy combat boots or the knife sheathed at his thigh.
He studies me.The toothpick spins.“Welcome to Colombia,Vigilante.”
The alias sounds wrong coming from him, like he’s trying it on to see if it fits.
I say nothing.Pretend I don’t know who he is.Pretend I haven’t read every classified whisper about the man who kidnapped, tortured, and trafficked humans in Texas.
“Relax.”He smirks.“I don’t bite.Not unless you’re naked and bound to a rack.”
I shiver.
In another life, I might’ve pursued that bite, even knowing what he is.
