Page 24 of Saving Blood

Smoke smirks. “Don’t get our dicks shot off.”

“So, no plan.” No different than the way we handled other shit. Jumping in headfirst, taking our enemies off-guard and hoping for the best usually works, but we both know Hector isn’t the usual.

“We don’t need a plan.” Typical Smoke, balls out all the time. “‘Cause we’re just paying a friendly visit.”

Great. Only the semi-automatics these guys are toting kinda puts the edge on being neighborly.

We drop our kickstands, and the guards are already making their way down the driveway.

Smoke throws up his palms. “We don’t want any trouble.”

True, but Smoke and I are both strapped with .45 in our waistbands and ankle holsters under our jeans. Always pays to be prepared. Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

“This is private property,” the taller of the two says as they move closer.

“Is Hector here?” Smoke asks.

“Who wants to know?”

Smoke points to the Royal Bastards’ patch on his cut. “Just wanted to have a few words.”

The two guards exchange a look, like Smoke’s request isn’t in their orders for the day. The taller one says something to the other one in Spanish, and he runs off toward the ranch.

“Don’t move,” the remaining guard orders as he levels his AR-15. Have to hand it to the cartel. They have the best fuckin’ weapons. Main reason the Bastards shipped all their artillery up from Mexico. Top of the line all the way.

“Like I said, we don’t want no trouble.” Smoke keeps his hands at his side. “Just wanna talk.”

The guard keeps the semi leveled in our direction. Then the three of us do the alpha male staring thing until the other guy reappears, says something else in Spanish, then waves his rifle in the direction of the ranch.

“Pedro will take you in.”

We follow Pedro down the rest of the driveway, past the barn and into the ranch house. The inside looks like something out of an old western when the cowboys headed south of the border. Terracotta flooring throughout, stone walls, rough rafter ceiling and lots of bright colors. Pedro disappears into another room while we wait in the foyer.

“Nice place.” Either Hector bought it like this, or he’d been setting up shop longer than we knew.

The capos raked in the cash with exporting drugs, along with human trafficking and sex trade. Most were women and children abducted off the streets or drugged in nightclubs, never to be seen again.

“A little too nice.” I can tell by Smoke’s expression he’s thinking the same thing.

The sound of leather soles against the tile floor grows closer as Hector Rodriquez appears from somewhere in the back of the house. I’d seen pictures of him, but his notorious rep didn’t mesh with the short, stocky, slightly graying man standing in front of me.

“Welcome to my home, gentlemen.” Hector spreads his arms wide like he is welcoming long-lost friends. Then he extends his hand, waving us into a living area where bold tapestry decorates the walls, with matching area rugs and heavy wooden furniture intricately carved and polished.

“Sit, sit.” He motions to the couch, then speaks to Pedro in Spanish. The man retreats to the back of the room, still toting the gun, eyes glued on us.

Smoke and I exchange a quick glance.

“So, what brings you out here today?” Hector asks.

One thing I’ll never get used to down here is the way the cartel bosses come off all polite and shit while they plan your murder. When we had a sit down with a rival MC club, it was all “Stay the fuck outta our territory, or we’ll cut your balls off.”

And I gotta say, I like that a hell of a lot better. If I’m gonna lose my dick, I want to see it coming or at least be prepared.

“Just wanted to see what you had going on.” Smoke, on the other hand, loves all this bullshit dancing around words. And, fuck me, but he’s good at it.

Hector waves his hand around the room. “As you can see, I have a modest home here. Nothing special.”

“So, I gotta ask, if you’ve got all this in Rosarito, why move to Tijuana?” Smoke tempers his tone, but the question isn’t lost on Hector.

---