Page 9 of Strike Fast

There was that little flutter in the pit of her belly again. “I likenicecars.”

At the grin he flashed her, any remaining awkwardness melted away, and she was glad she’d accepted the impromptu invitation to go with them. They were essentially strangers, but this was already promising to be the most enjoyable night she’d had in a long time.

Chapter Three

Music blared from the secluded house, so loud that the thump of the bass reverberated in Carlos’s chest and covered the thud of his cane on the concrete as he walked to the front door. The aging bungalow was set back a long way from the road. Spanish moss gleamed a pale, ghostly gray in the moonlight as it hung from the gnarled branches of the cypress trees that surrounded the property and arched over the low roofline, giving it added privacy. The location was perfect for their needs.

Out here there were no neighbors, no passersby to nose around and spoil the fun.

Going by the amount of noise coming from inside, his guys were having one hell of a party, and he wasn’t going to miss out on a night’s entertainment. They’d carried out his most recent orders perfectly, executing three traffickers who had tried to screw him, so he didn’t mind them letting loose for the next couple days. He felt perfectly safe here. This backwater area out in the Louisiana swamp was so isolated there was little chance anyone would find him even if they were out hunting him.

Still, one couldn’t be too careful. His list of enemies was longer than his erect dick, and he wasn’t taking any chances. Not when he’d finally started living the kind of high-roller lifestyle that had been denied him until a few months ago.

The smell of booze and pot hit him the moment he opened the front door, mixing with the underlying stench of B.O. and piss. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and shut the door behind him while his two bodyguards stood outside on the covered porch. He didn’t mind the boys having fun, but getting wasted to the point of no longer caring about personal hygiene was gross.

In a room off the run-down foyer that looked like it hadn’t been touched since the early eighties, four of his enforcers were sprawled out on the peach-and-green sofas and scarred hardwood floor. Each had a naked woman on their lap, one wearing a slave collar to signify that she wasn’t there willingly. When Carlos met her frightened gaze, she cowered away from Javier and tried to cover her naked breasts as she lowered her head, shame etched into her face.

Carlos ignored her and stood facing his men. He’d lost several of his best guys over a year ago when they’d been killed by DEA agents up in D.C. Those who remained weren’t nearly at the same level as the dead men, but they were good enough, loyal, and enjoyed what they did.

The four of them called out to him with the joyful tones of the sloppy drunk—or the wasted high. “What are you lazy fuckers up to?” he said in Spanish over the music, unable to keep from grinning. From the looks of things, they’d been partying for quite a while already. The room was full of ashtrays overflowing with discarded weed buds, along with empty beer cans and liquor bottles.

“Reaping the rewards of working for you, boss man,” Javier said, his gold front tooth flashing as he grinned. One arm locked around the cringing woman’s shoulders, he squeezed her naked breast and laughed when she tried to slap him away. “She’s new. You know I like ‘em feisty.”

She was pretty enough, tits still firm, decent body. They could get a good price for her with their next shipment. Along with one very special addition.

Carlos flapped a dismissive hand at them as he turned away, his mind on other things. “Carry on.”

He was here to check that special addition in person. Had driven all the way here from Tallahassee just to see her.

In the kitchen, he found his head enforcer next to the fridge, helping himself to a massive burger in one hand, and a bottle of beer in the other. Stone cold sober, as usual. It’s why Carlos had made him head enforcer. Carlos had enough to do without having to babysit his guys.

Carlos nodded at him and shouted over the music. “Antonio. How’s it going?”

“Good,patrón,” he answered, stuffing his mouth full.

Carlos surveyed the rest of the open concept great room that looked as shabby as the rest of the place. Six more of his guys were in the living room and kitchen. Three of them were busy entertaining the whores they’d picked up, one was mostly out of view as he fucked a woman in the corner, and the last two were snorting coke at the kitchen table.

He wrinkled his nose again. He enjoyed his booze, fine cigars and liked to party with the best of them, but he never touched dope. Ever. He’d seen too many stupid assholes ruin themselves by partaking of their product and getting hooked. It always ended the same way. Either in self-destruction, or a fellow enforcer sent to end them.

The guys doing lines at the table were taking a huge risk in getting addicted on that shit, especially given how potent their labs were making the stuff, cutting it with poison like fentanyl, which could easily kill someone in small concentrations. They liked to live life on the edge, riding the razor-sharp between getting high, and turning into yet another junkie created by their product. A tightrope very few could walk without falling off.

Not Carlos’s concern. It was Antonio’s job to monitor them. If any of their men got hooked and could no longer be trusted to carry out their duty, he alerted Carlos, and they were dealt with immediately.

But people throughout North America were looking for a more potent high, and the old stuff wasn’t cutting it anymore. For the cartel, the trick was finding the tolerance threshold that the average human could handle. Culling the herd with overdose deaths was okay to a point, but it made no business sense whatsoever to kill off every potential customer who triedVenenocoke or heroine. Making it strong enough to hook them on the very first try, but not kill them, was the key.

Again, not his department. His job was to expand the cartel’s territory and eliminate the competition wherever he found it. By whatever means necessary.

As for his men…

Carlos swept his gaze over the great room once more. The couple in the corner must be near finishing, because there was a lot of thrashing going on now. A shrill female scream pierced the racket blaring from the speakers of the ancient stereo and a lamp fell, smashing to pieces on the floor.

He sighed inwardly, feeling like an old man in the midst of a wild frat party. Even though he was only thirty-four, he felt ancient compared to these guys, most of whom were in their early twenties. As long as they did their jobs when he gave them orders, Carlos didn’t care what they did in their spare time, or with whom. They were a means to an end, rabid dogs he’d brought to heel and kept leashed with the lure of money, product and free women.

In exchange, when he needed something done he unleashed them, and they reverted back to their natural state. Soulless killers, every single one of them. So sadistic it made people’s blood run cold. And he was the only one who could control them. If that changed, he had them put down. Simple. Every one of them knew the rules, and the arrangement suited Carlos perfectly.

He turned back to face Antonio, growing impatient. “Where is she?”

Antonio shoved the last bite of burger into his mouth, chewed it fast. “Out back.”

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