Page 2 of His to Bedevil

He frowns and looks away. “I told you, this man is dangerous. He’s mafia, and it won’t be the cops or the FBI that will be coming after us if we get caught. If either of us do, we’re dead. He’s notorious and feared by anyone who knows his name.”

I nod my head again. “We won’t get caught. This is just like the job we did overseas not even two years ago. They, too, were mafia. I don’t get why you’re so worried about this one. We didn’t get caught then, we won’t get caught now. Especially because you’re a genius, right?”

He lets a small smile break through. “Be careful, Fynn,” he says as he stands to his feet. “Stick to the plan. After you’re safely off the yacht, wait two days to contact me.” He gives me a solemn look. One I’ve never seen from him before. “Unless you run into trouble.” I go to protest because that’s always been the deal. We don’t involve each other if we ever find ourselves in a calamity. I know he would never rat me out, and I would die keeping his identity a secret. Not that he really has one, and I always use a fake one. He holds his hand up to stop me. “I told you. This time is different. It’s the most dangerous one we’ve done yet. I don’t care, if you eventhinkyou’re being followed, contact me.Please.”

I have no idea what he is so paranoid about this time. He’s extremely adept at what he does, and I’m a master at what I do. Making us the perfect team. Plus, I know how to defend myself. I’ve done it my whole life, and because of my size, people have always underestimated me. Coming off as feeble and innocuous rather than lethal.

I don’t say anything as I nod my head. I won’t lie to him and tell him that I’ll call him if things go awry. If I’m caught or being followed, I’m on my own to sink or swim. No point in both of us going down.

Taking my silence for compliance, he nods once and then walks away. I slide the small pouch he inconspicuously placed between us into my Yankees hat and pick my book back up. After reading for a while longer to let some time pass after Matches left, I finally call it quits and pack up to go home.

When I toss my water bottle into the trash bin on my way out, I slip in the burner phone as well to dispose of. I envy Matches’s technological skills. He never has to use burner phones. Must be nice to own a smartphone.

My tiny studio apartment is just about a mile away from the beach. The building is in the destitute part of the city, but I’m more than capable of taking care of myself. I’m more amongst my people slumming it here than in a more affluent neighborhood. I am a criminal myself after all. Plus, it’s cheap and makes a good hideout. No matter the crook, rats are the most deplorable of all.

After taking a long, hot shower and finishing up packing my bag for my trip, I pop open my secured laptop and do a little research on our next big job. Supposedly the most dangerous one yet: Alejandro Martinez.

Matches had sent me a large file on him already, and I barely looked through it then. When I open up the file now, I realize he has added to it. Pictures of the man himself. Leaning forward to get a closer look at the screen, my eyes widen in surprise. “Damn.” I was expecting some old dude with a gut to match his avarice and gaudy gold jewelry. This man is not at all what I had concocted in my head. He isgorgeous. And I mean men’s magazine, front cover, every female’s wet dream come truegorgeous.

Flipping through the pictures of him, I see that he gets better and better. Alejandro Martinez is thirty-three years old, six feet, two inches tall, with a body that is too perfect to be real, bronzed skin, jet-black hair that he keeps a little long but always in place, nicely trimmed facial hair making him look rugged, and eyes that are a startling honey brown. They shine like copper with little crinkles around the edges. Everything about him is flawless, and although he isn’t smiling in a single picture, I bet his teeth, too, are perfect. Wow, I definitely won’t mind looking at him for a day or so. However long it takes me to complete the job.

On to more important things, I learn that Alejandro is the eldest son of the recently deceased Mateo Martinez and has a younger brother, Lucas Martinez, age twenty-eight, and their mother is Benita Martinez. The Martinezes pretty much own Miami and run half of Cuba. They’re Cuban born and raised with a huge empire built by his great grandfather, Manuel Martinez. Matches was able to confirm that their empire runs off of everything from heavy arms dealing, to drugs, to human trafficking, and of course some legal businesses sprinkled in there to launder money through. Yeah, I don’t feel bad at all for stealing money from them. They probably won’t even notice.

Rereading through everything else, I feel like I know everything I might need to know about this man. His right-hand man, or as the mafia refer to him a consigliere, which is the family advisor, is Alberto Rodriguez. He’s been with the family for decades as a foot soldier and seems to be the most trusted to them.

Quickly running the program that wipes everything from my laptop, I close it and put it back in its hiding place under the tub. I keep an emergency bag there, as well as guns, cash, and more burner phones. From the looks of it, it’s just a normal tub. You would have no idea that it lifts up to reveal a secret compartment underneath.

Opening a bottle of wine, I pour a glass and put in a movie to fall asleep to in bed. Alone and content with the solitude of my tiny place. Not able to have real friends or date, it sounds like a lonely life, and sometimes it feels that way. But I don’t think I could live an uneventful, vapid life like most of the world does. I have a propensity for adventure and a proclivity for temerity. I need the danger of walking along the precipice and the thrill of escaping great peril. It’s empowering and invigorating.

After a few glasses, I drift off to sleep, not too worried about the job I start tomorrow, even with Matches’s warnings. I will be posing as a stewardess on Alejandro’s private yacht. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, and it won’t be the last.

Irma

As I stand with a detached look on my face, steadily holding a tray full of champagne flutes filled with the priciest champagne, you would never know how jittery I am on the inside. The homely wig I’m wearing is prickly as fuck, and I have an itch on my real nose underneath the fake one I’m wearing. You’d think I would be used to them by now, but I’m not at all. I’m a deft actor, though, that can fool anyone.

Most jobs I just wear a wig and colored contacts to make me seem bland, but Matches insisted I do more for this one, to be safe, saying I don’t want anyone taking a second glance at me or remembering my face.

“Fynn, you cannot draw any attention to yourself around these men.”

I groan when I look down at the prosthetic nose he sent me. “So, I’ll wear an ugly wig and colored contacts like I usually do,” I argue.

“That won’t be enough. You’re too striking, and you need to look plain. Less noticeable.”

I pick up the nose and inspect it. It’s not huge or anything, but it’s not at all the shape of my tiny one. But I understand what he’s saying. My long auburn hair, my bright green eyes, and my small and soft features stand out all together. Even when I wear wigs and contacts, I still don’t completely blend in.

I huff dramatically over the phone. “Fine. I’ll wear the damn nose. But just this once.”

I’m in a line with the other crew members waiting for “Señor Martinez” and his people to arrive. I’m told there will be six of them boarding now and seven more will be brought by boat sometime tomorrow when we’re anchored out. I need to find out exactly where we’ll be anchored. If it’s more than a few miles offshore, I’ll need to somehow contact Matches to get me a ride out if I get the opportunity to get ahold of Alejandro’s laptop. I already know which room is his and which room he uses as his office here. Matches also insisted that I not wait till toward the end of the charter to execute the plan. He thinks I need to do it as soon as I can and then get the hell off the boat. He’s so paranoid about this job. He’s always protective, but this time he almost seems scared.

With my plain-Jane medium-length brown wig and my slightly larger nose, my height makes me feel a little self-conscious. I’m only five feet tall, but I’ve never had a problem with that, and if anything, it’s only helped. My exotic features have always made me feel big. Now, I look like an average girl, and since we are barefoot, I feel even more insignificant and unseen. But right now, that’s a good thing. I need to remind myself of that. I do not want to draw any kind of attention.

A group of men begins to descend the private dock toward us, and I can feel the tension in the air become thick and stifling. Everyone is practically holding their breaths as they get closer and closer. Everyone except for me. I’m trying my best not to breathe as heavily as my lungs will me to, but my heart is erratically pounding, and I have no idea why. He’s just another rich asshole, another mob boss, another job. Damnit, Matches. His paranoia has rubbed off on me.

Two large men with menacing features lead in the front, then Alejandro Martinez with some pretty arm candy in the middle, and two more menacing guards in the back. They’re openly packing M15s, and it’s starting to sink in how powerful this man really is.Shit.

The captain stoically greets Señor Martinez, both conversing in Spanish, and although I, too, speak Spanish, they’re too far away for me to eavesdrop.Damn it.They’re probably talking about where we’ll be going and when. Information that’ll be quite useful.

When they’re done speaking, Alejandro begins inspecting the crew one by one. He doesn’t introduce himself to any of us, and we were instructed not to do so with him. We’re to be polite but quiet. Only speak when necessary.

---