“Ma’am, shut the hell up and move out of the way!” the lead agent growled, coming from behind the boxes that partially shielded him. His gun was no longer trained on me.
When he approached Paris to shove her aside, she tumbled forward, pulling a hidden Taurus .32 from under her skirt. She placed a single shot through the back of his skull, sending a fine red mist spraying out of the chasm that was once the front of his forehead. His partner hesitated, deciding now that Paris was more of an immediate threat than my men. By the time he’d trained his gun in Paris’s direction, his partner was falling over, deconstructed, face-first. When he squeezed off at her, she was no longer there.
Dropping to one knee, Paris leveled two quick shots, one missing, but the second catching the agent directly through the bottom of his jaw and exiting his skull at an odd angle. He collapsed, slumped over his car door, blood flowing down its dark painted surface before collecting in a dark puddle amid the dirt on the ground.
Paris walked over to both bodies, calmly examining them as we ran over.
“What the hell is wrong with you? It’s not bad enough that you’ve killed your last couple of boyfriends? Now you’ve resorted to killing Feds?” I yelled with more anger than I thought possible.
“Nope. I’d never be that stupid,” she responded with a wicked smirk so typical of her.
“What the hell are you talking about? First, you kill Miguel; then you kill not one, but two Feds, and now you stand here and say that you didn’t? Have you lost your motherfucking mind?”
“Daddy,” she said, still as calm as if we were discussing the weather. “Those aren’t Feds. Those are hit men. Look at their shoes and their guns.”
Junior and I both looked down at the bodies to see what she was talking about.
“Those are hard-bottom shoes, Daddy. What Fed do you know wears hard bottoms? And I don’t know any Feds issued TEC-nines as their service revolvers.”
I bent over and studied the guns. I’d be damned. That girl was right. They weren’t Feds. She had saved our lives and her own ... for now.
Orlando
37
“You okay, man?”
After about eight hours of calling, I finally reached Rio. I’d never been so happy to hear his voice, to know that he was alive and well. I’m not going to lie; I’d pretty much written him off when he didn’t answer the phone last night. I had a sick feeling in my gut every time his voice mail picked up—probably the same way Alejandro was feeling every time he asked to speak to Miguel and was denied. So, hearing my brother’s voice gave me some relief, though I wouldn’t truly be satisfied until he was back on the East Coast, safe and sound, eating my mom’s home cooking.
“I’m doin’ all right,” Rio replied in his typical laid-back, “everything’s good” tone. I wasn’t sure if everything was really okay or if it was for show, just so those sons of bitches couldn’t sense fear in him. He had to be scared. I knew I’d be scared if I was in his position, but at least I’d had some training. This type of shit was far from his usual job description.
“Have you seen Alejandro? Is he treating you all right?” I asked.
“Yeah, I seen the man, and his people ain’t treating me bad. At least not yet,” Rio answered. “I’ve had men treat me much better, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I chuckled, only because he was trying to make light of the situation—and I damn sure needed a light at the end of the tunnel.
“I hear you, man. So, what’s the weather like out there in Cali?” It might seem strange that I was making small talk at a time like this, but I was still trying to get a sense of what his situation was without asking him outright. I had no idea who was surrounding him as he spoke.
“Sunny skies, palm trees. Just like a postcard, bruh,” he replied. “Only the postcard’s written in blood—my blood.”
Okay, so now I knew he was alone and we could talk openly.