Page 6 of Drawn Blue Lines

“Cut the bullshit, Harcourt. You think I don’t know you were there with Valentin Carrera when his wife shot Manuel Muñoz?” he hissed, slamming a palm against the wood. “The Carreras might have crippled them for a while, but they’re under a new command and stronger than ever.” Downing his shot, he slammed the empty glass on the table and cut a hard stare at me.

“Who’s calling the shots?”

He balanced his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Don’t know. They sent one of their lieutenants to try to strong arm me into canceling all my Carrera shipments and selling to them, but I don’t take orders from anybody, much less a group of cabrones who don’t know their dicks from their assholes.”

“So, I’ll ask again. Who’s calling the shots?”

“Information has a price tag, amigo.”

“Give me a name, and I’ll think about it.”

“Fuck your mother.”

I shrugged. “Freudian shit isn’t my thing. However, if that’s what lifts your sails…”

“Do I look like an idiot to you, Harcourt? I’m calling the shots here, not you. I have what you need. All you have is a missing shipment and a six-hundred-thousand-dollar debt.”

“And a link to Ronan Kelly. I’m not stupid, Carlos. You’re just the mediator. A man he doesn’t know exists. Without me, you’re just a second-rate distributor holding his dick in his hands.” I sat back with a satisfied smirk. Why should I cave so easily? This was his fault. If he’d informed me of Muñoz involvement two weeks ago, we wouldn’t be sitting here in the first goddamn place.

A tense breath whistled through his teeth, and another line creased his forehead before a slow smile parted his lips. “The man’s name is José Rojas. I don’t know how much you can find out from that, but that’s all I got. We both know their reach extends far beyond border walls. They’ve already infiltrated Chicago. If you ask me—”

“I didn’t.”

The smile on his face faded, irritation flaring in his eyes. “If you ask me, whoever has the balls to rebuild is hiding in plain sight. It’s the last place people ever look.”

I raised an eyebrow as he stood. “What’s in it for you?”

He tugged on the cuffs of his shirt. “This isn’t a Colombian problem. This isn’t even a Sinners problem,” he continued. “What we have is a cartel rivalry that needs to settle their shit out of Chicago. I’m sure Ronan doesn’t care if you bomb each other to hell and back. But, obviously, considering our recent arrangement, I have a stake in seeing the Carreras win. You get the Muñozes out of my way, and I’ll replace the eight-hundred kilos they stole.”

“What’s the catch?” There always was one. No one did shit for free in this business.

The corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smirk. “You find this José Rojas and make him give you the name of the pendejo in charge. I’ll take it from there.” Carlos held up a hand before I said a word. “Or I keep the kilos and you can explain to Valentin Carrera why you forged a partnership with a family he strictly forbade and then lost seventeen million dollars of his money.”

I winced hearing Val’s name.

“You wouldn’t contact Val,” I said, calling his bluff. “Then you’d have to admit to selling against his main Colombian distributor. That would be a death sentence for you.”

Carlos’s only response was to lean forward so that his elbows rested on the table, a patch of graying hair falling over one eye like some kind of demented pirate.

“Let’s get one thing straight, I’ll do anything I want. That being said,” he continued, the fire in his eyes calming. “I don’t make a habit of getting involved in shit that isn’t my business.” Lifting his drink, he paused, holding it inches from his face as he watched me. “However, I’d bet the payout from my last job that Val has no fucking clue he’s doing business with the Sinners.”

And he’d walk away from that bet an even richer man.

I’d tried multiple times to force an alliance with the Chicago syndicate but always backed down when the heir to the Carrera empire swore he’d cut my balls off and shove them down my throat. He never explained his reasoning, but he didn’t have to. Nobody threatened a man quite like Valentin Carrera.

I was screwed either way. If I agreed and Val found out, he’d kill me. If I refused and Val found out, he’d kill me. However, accepting Carlos’s offer bought me time that refusing it didn’t.

“How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”

“You don’t.” Without another word, he pushed his chair back and stood. “Although this has been entertaining, I have better things to do. Am I to assume we have an agreement?” All my attention focused on the huge pulsating vein in his neck as he extended his arm across the table.

Did I really have a choice?

Allowing Carlos to dictate the dealings of the Houston leg of the Carrera Cartel was nothing less than suicide. However, calling up the head of said cartel and explaining my actions didn’t fare much different of an outcome.

In our world, black and white didn’t exist. Even though we lived our lives in shades of gray where lines always blurred and actions had no consequences, there was still an unspoken hierarchy. A drawn line in the sand separating the royal blue blood of Mexico’s underworld and the common red blood of those who served them.

The ones trusted enough to walk the line but forbidden to cross it.

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