Page 142 of When Lies Unfold

Play stupid fuckin’ games, win stupid fuckin’ prizes.

Nobody’s expectin’ us—that much is evident by the lack of security here. We walk right inside, ignorin’ the barely clad, dancin’ women and the white powder linin’ various surfaces. Everybody’s outta their fuckin’ minds.

I walk up to where Andro’s got some easy lay grindin’ on his lap. His eyes are glazed from whatever combo of shit he’s taken.

I shove her off his lap, ignorin’ her protest as she lands in the corner of the large leather sofa. Without givin’ him a chance to even blink, I pull the trigger, and his brains and blood decorate the leather cushions.

All conversation ceases while the music continues blarin’. My men take out the other shitheads before they can even draw their weapons. Everybody else stays deathly quiet, showin’ they at least have some sense.

Turnin’ from Andro’s dead body, I signal for one of my men to kill the music. Once the place has descended into tense silence, I survey the crowd of survivors.

None of ’em dare to look me in the eyes. Terrified whimpers come from the women as they cower, shyin’ away from the mess we’ve made.

Accompanied by the subtle plop, plop, plop of blood drippin’ from the bodies on the smooth tile floor, my voice booms through the otherwise silent house.

“Let this be a warnin’ to any motherfucker who dares to test me. Don’t fuck with me, my family, or my business. ’Cause this”—I gesture with my gun toward a dead Andro and cohorts—“is what’ll happen. Understood?”

A timid-soundin’ chorus of Understood follows.

I stride out, eager as fuck to get the hell away from this shit and plan how to get my daughter back safe and sound.

It’s time to send a clear message to Hidalgo Carrera once and for all: Don’t fuck with Santiago Hernández.

63

SANTIAGO

Juarez shows up just as Lola and Doc finish tendin’ to the handful of survivors. My staff went above and beyond to clean this place up, so it looks a shit-ton better than it did. They’ll be gettin’ some generous bonuses after this.

Exhaustion lines Lola’s face as she stretches, her muscles undoubtedly knotted to hell and back after all the work she’s done helpin’ Doc with my wounded men.

I know she feels guilty as hell about what happened, but it’s not her fault. All the security footage confirmed that.

My eyes drift over her from head to toe. Damn if she doesn’t look similar to how she did the first time she stepped foot in this place. Covered in someone else’s blood but still beautiful as hell.

She heads outside toward where Juarez and I are. We’ve been leanin’ against his Land Cruiser, watchin’ the staff clear away the last of the evidence.

In reality, I’m avoidin’ the inside ’cause I keep expectin’ Alma to race down the hallway at any second. The reminder that she’s not here, that an evil bastard has her, has made me far too raw.

“We need to figure shit out. I can’t just pull my team and have them back you up without a solid plan.” Even though I know Juarez’s got a point, it grates on my nerves.

“They have Alma.” I grit my teeth. “Are you tryin’ to tell me after all this, you’re gonna punk out on me?” A harsh laugh breaks free. “You might be fuckin’ CIA”—I jab a finger at him—“but you and I both know you wouldn’t be where you are right now without me.”

Irritation flares in his eyes ’cause he doesn’t like bein’ called out on his shit even though it’s true. “I know, Santy.” He blows out a long breath. “But we can’t go in there with guns blazing. We’ll be on his turf, and he’ll have home-field advantage.”

He massages his temples. “What we need is a Trojan horse. A bargaining chip. Something that’ll catch him off guard.”

“I might have an idea.”

Our heads jerk in Lola’s direction as she stops in front of us.

Suspicion coats Juarez’s voice when he challenges, “And what’s that?”

“Offering to give him back his black book.”

64

LOLA

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