Page 12 of Corrupted Empire

“Are you sure about this?” David asks.

“Yes.” I get out of the car, and he drives off. I dust off the wrinkles in my suit and enter the store, the bell above the door clanging to announce my arrival.

The stench of blood hits me like a wall as I enter. I wrinkle my nose and step over piles of books that have been stripped violently from the shelves, some of which have been knocked over completely. The posters have been ripped down.

The walls are decorated in slashes of blood instead.

I step in further, avoiding the bloody splotches on the floor. I find the shop’s owner by the till, with two other bodies. They have been sat up against the counter, arranged in a neat line that contrasts with the horrific and systematic mutilation of their bodies.

These people were not shot. Their deaths were not quick. This was an act of senseless violence, and the level of brutality suffered by the victims is far beyond anything I would ever dole out to an enemy. A wave of nausea rolls over me, but I suppress it, stepping over to the counter, which has been cleared of everything except one small square of paper.

Not paper, I realize as I approach. It’s a photograph. It is smeared with dried brown blood, but I would recognize the face anywhere.

Alexis.

This is their message, and I read it loud and clear.

I will make them pay. I will make them all pay.

The back door slams open, and three Cartel members appear, shouting to each other in Spanish as they surround me, guns drawn.

“Hands up!” one screams. “Hands up!”

I do as they say, lifting my hands into the air, still clutching the photo. More of them march out from the back, and I count at least eight in total. As the men train their guns on me, I can’t help but smile. I am going to enjoy this so very much.

The lights go out, and I duck down, swinging my leg out to knock the man in front of me onto his back. The men shout in confusion. I wrestle the gun out of the grip of the man on the ground just as gunfire starts to crack around me.

The lights flick back on and the Cartel thugs are surrounded. They yell to each other in alarm. One makes to flee, and Angelo tackles him to the ground. A couple of them are dead already, but I hop to my feet and help my men make short work of the rest.

When we are done, the bookstore is somehow bloodier than it was before. I feel better knowing that I can now tell the victims’ families that we avenged their deaths. Nobody should have to die like that, but until I put the Cartel down for good, this carnage will continue.

On my way back to the mansion, I stare at the bloody photo of Alexis, ignoring David’s concerned glances in the rear-view mirror. My face is covered in blood splatter, but that hardly seems to matter. Not when she’s in danger.

But why should that matter? This is a threat against Alexis, not Harry. I shouldn’t care if she lives or dies. I should hate her.

But of course, I don’t.

I call Silvano and tell him to order Alexis’ guards to sequester her and Harry in the apartment. If they are out, the guards are to bring her back by force if necessary. I will not take any chances.

* * *

It’s always convenient when the coward of a hostile group makes himself known. It takes the guesswork out of deciding which men to execute and which to take for questioning. In the case of the men who attacked me in the bookstore, I already know that the one who tried to escape is the one most likely to fold. That was why Angelo tackled him, kept him alive. And it’s why I expected to have an easy time questioning him.

Only I’m not.

His name is Carlos, and he has disgusting teeth. Parts of them are black, but mostly they’re an awful orange-yellow. He stinks, too, like sweat and moldy cheese. In my head, I compare him to Miguel Garcia, who was my contact with the Cartel before everything went to shit. Miguel was always impeccably clean, his suits pressed, his teeth pearly white. What I wouldn’t give to be dealing with him right now, instead of this human shit stain.

This human shit stain, I should add, who refuses to talk.

“Tell me who you get your orders from,” I demand, not for the first time.

Carlos is tied to the metal chair in the center of my basement, his curly black hair matted with sweat and blood. He spits on the floor by my feet. I grimace and punch him in the gut.

Carlos keels over, wheezing.

“Tell me who you get your orders from,” I repeat.

He continues to wheeze, head hanging over his chest, and I soon realize that Carlos isn’t struggling to breathe. That awful, breathy sound, like someone wrestling with bagpipes, is his laugh.

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