Page 9 of Drawn Blue Lines

Rafael’s groan quickly turned into a cough as I glared at him over my shoulder. “Problem?”

“Nope.”

Giving my associate a curt nod, I circled José, his leather jacket brushing against his ripped jeans as he spun. The man looked like hell. His breath came rough and labored, which didn’t surprise me, considering the lead pipe that lay discarded at his feet. His nose was broken, his lip was split open, and blood dripped down his chin like a leaky faucet. I suspected broken ribs—maybe a punctured lung.

Rafael tended to be heavy-handed.

I couldn’t decide if I appreciated the preemptive gesture or resented being denied the pleasure of inflicting the pain myself. After all, it was my business he’d screwed with.

“José,” I acknowledged, clasping my hands around my back and walking a full circle around him. His swollen eyes tracked every move I made, and I had to give the guy credit; he didn’t plead for mercy. Most of the assholes who’d been in his position had already pissed themselves twice by now.

Of course, he was still gagged.

The legs of the chair slammed against the concrete again. “He kept trying to give me bullshit excuses,” Rafael explained with a shrug. “I didn’t want to hear any more.”

The attorney in me decided to let him plead his case. Years of litigation were too ingrained in me. Plus, I couldn’t walk away from a trial without a closing argument. Stopping in front of him, I jerked the sock out of his mouth.

“Where’s my shipment, José?”

“I don’t have your fucking blow.”

I should’ve punched out his teeth. Instead, I smiled. “Let’s try this again. Where’s my goddamn shipment?”

“Harcourt,” he rasped, licking his lips through a labored wheeze. “I’m surprised you’re still alive. I thought the sicarios would’ve taken you out by now.”

I gave his cheek a tap, sending him spinning again. “José, you’re acting real fucking stupid for such a smart man. I’m first lieutenant. You know I only answer to two men.”

He spat at the floor by my feet, smiling with blood-stained teeth. “Rezarás por tu vida a nuestros pies, Americano.” You will pray for your life at our feet, American.

Two steps forward and we stood nose to nose. “I’m not the one hanging from the ceiling, dumbass.”

José’s forehead wrinkled, and I didn’t bother hiding a smirk.

“Didn’t expect that, huh? Well, seeing as how I run an entire stateside cartel, I thought knowing some of the language might come in handy someday.” I tapped his cheek again. “What do you know? It did.”

“Pinche pendejo.” Fucking asshole.

“You know,” I noted, hooking my foot under the bloodied lead pipe and kicking upward into my hand. “The disrespect seems to have gotten out of hand. Maybe Rafael needs to beat some manners into you.”

José’s eyes widened as Rafael rose from his chair with his arm outstretched as if we were running some sort of demented relay race. “It’d be my pleasure.”

“No!” José yelled, twisting violently. “I swear I didn’t do shit!”

“You really shouldn’t swear unless it’s under oath. But I don’t blame you. I know you’re just the ‘yes’ man, José, so tell me who’s trying to reorganize your psychopathic bunch of assholes, and I might let you keep your eyeballs tucked inside your face.”

He stopped twisting, and his face blanked. “Me. It’s me.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

“Bullshit. Okay, let’s try another question. Why Chicago? Why not come straight back to Texas where the Muñozes had ties?” All I got in return was a glare of pure hatred, causing me to wave a dismissive hand. “Never mind. It really doesn’t matter.”

“Fuck you.”

“Last chance. Who’s calling the shots, José?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head violently, the motion causing his body to sway even harder.

“Ah, but you’ve already said that.” Cocking my chin over my shoulder, I caught Rafael’s eye and tilted my head back toward José. “There’s only one thing I hate more than a thief.”

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