Page 7 of Drawn Blue Lines

After leaving him standing in silence a few more seconds, I slowly shook his hand. “Provisional agreement.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning provisional—arranged or existing for the present, possibly to be changed later. You know how we operate, Carlos.” Cocking an eyebrow, I added in a low tone, an arrogant smile tugging at my lips, “So, don’t fuck me over.”

I’d never seen anyone go from smug to furious so quickly. Instead of responding, he flipped his middle finger and stormed toward the door.

“Carlos?” I called out.

He hovered halfway in and halfway out, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles turned white. “What?”

“You didn’t pay for your drinks, you cheap ass.”

A slew of curses followed him out the door as it slammed behind him.

I chuckled to myself.

Being underestimated was the biggest advantage a man could have over his enemy. I’d lived long enough to know that given the right incentive, even the strongest ally could be an enemy.

Raising my glass, I conceded round one.

But it was round two, and the gloves were coming off.

I didn’t go from an assistant district attorney in Houston to first lieutenant of the Carrera Cartel by waving a white flag at the first sign of a threat.

I ran that motherfucking city.

Chapter Two

Brody

Houston, Texas

Rain pissed me off.

Not that I’d ever been a rainbows and sunshine type of guy. I preferred dark clouds and thunder. They usually brought everyone’s optimism and cheerfulness down a few notches, which always improved my mood.

However, today the muggy September rain conspired against me. As soon as I got behind the wheel, the sky opened up, and now it was coming down so hard, I could barely see the car in front of me. If I had half a brain, I’d take it as an omen and turn the hell around.

No, if I had half a brain, I never would’ve left home in the first place.

Squeezing the steering wheel with one hand, I rubbed a damp palm across my nose and swallowed the nausea trying to claw its way up my throat.

I didn’t need this shit right now. Last night, I drank my weight in cheap scotch, trying to forget my own name. Unfortunately, today, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl out of this car and throw up my spleen.

And punches. I wanted to throw punches.

It took longer than I expected for the call to come in. Forty-eight hours too long, to be exact. Someone’s balls would be overnighted to their mother for the time I spent pacing my living room while waiting for Rafael to collect a thief.

I was a lieutenant in the fucking cartel.

Second in line for the bloodstained Carrera throne.

And because of it, here I was, regardless of my lack of sobriety.

Besides, as my Colombian watchdog reminded me, I didn’t have much choice in the matter. It was either drive the final nail in the Muñoz coffin or climb inside my own. Since today’s agenda didn’t include a death wish, this seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

The more I drove, the more pissed off I became. Instead of driving on a road to nowhere, I should’ve been at the cantina, pretending to run it like a legitimate business instead of a one-stop-shop currency cleaner. I was the face of it, after all. Honest, trustworthy Brody Harcourt. An all-American civil servant dealt a bad hand. Righteous to his core despite being born into a band of psychos.

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