Club Alpha (6 page)

Instead of answering sensibly, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“Okay.”

His eyes don't drop, and neither do mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Paco

Sweat rolls down my body as my legs pound the wide cement swaths lining the malecón. The longest sidewalk in the world, it is twenty-one kilometers of seaside walkway flowing with pedestrian traffic by day and night.

I'll do just over a half-marathon's worth of running today. Even keeping my pace to sub-seven-minute miles, it's still brutal. I've become accustomed to the temperate Seattle weather after traveling back and forth to meet with the clients I hope to woo. There, early October is pleasantly cool as Indian summer gently kisses the hottest part of the year goodbye.

In severe contrast, early October in Mazatlán clings to heat and humidity as though its life depends on it.

The weather is a great training opportunity.

I smirk, throwing a glance behind me at Tallinn, who raggedly follows me. He extends his middle finger then quickly hides it behind him as two lovely senoritas sway by.

“You're killing me, Paco!” he shouts after they pass.

I pick up speed, breathing deeply through my nose and out my mouth. I make my way past the Fisherman's Monument in Playa Norte, where Tallinn catches up.

“You,” he gasps, “are the biggest dick.”

“Have,” I correct dryly.

“Whatever!” He huffs beside me. His midnight skin glows with sweat, which runs like ink. “You probably have a pencil dick—just sayinʼ.”

My eyebrow pops. I toss a disbelieving look his way and sprint up the gradual hill that winds around the huge cliff where Diablo's cave resides right across the busy street running parallel to the malecón.

Jogging to a stop, I shield my eyes from the mid-day sun.

A diver stands poised, perfectly balanced to drop the fifty feet to the shallow, glittering waters below.

This is the same view from my home. But it is more spectacular up close and personal.

I pace back and forth, waiting for the diver to jump.

Like a bronzed swan in flight, the man leaps from a board, plunging himself into waters too shallow for the maneuver.

“What the fuck?” Tallinn says in a hoarse whisper, rushing to wash his rapid plunge from the seaside railing.

They are experts, these fearless locals. My chest swells with pride for my fellow Mexican.

Vivir al día.

I don't realize I say it aloud until Tallinn says, “Huh?”

“Live for today,” I say like a prayer.

“Yeah… too cool.”

I smile, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Listen,” Tallinn begins, catching his breath as we cross the street and head up the steep hill toward the house. “I managed to stay on your butt through sheer willpower. But you need to beef up. No more extreme cardio. Lift the metal, pal.”

I sigh as I trudge up the ancient cobblestones.

“Yes, I accept.”

He frowns.

We're almost to the top of a great circular drive. An island surrounded by hand-cut antique-marble pavers encloses a small grove of palm trees.

“Accept what?” He shakes his head, still breathing hard. “Stop with the Bozo the Clown bullshit. The foreplay's killing me, Paco.”

“I accept the challenge to ʻbeef up.ʼ”

Tallinn’s critical eyes rove my body with the gaze of a
maestro
. We both know I cannot be taught. “Look, you're cut. You're like a pack of unused razor blades. Hard. Lean. So fit I could play a tune on those abs. But…” He grins. “There's some unrealized potential here”—he slaps my open palm—“and here.” His hands grip my shoulders.

“You're as broad as a house with bear paws for hands. Let's get the rest of your body matching your size.”

“Fine,” I wave a hand at him, smelling the homemade tortillas being lovingly made inside.

His nostrils flare at the same time. “I smell something that's awakening the beast!”

I grin at the proof of Tallinn's fine appetite.

We stroll into the house, and three men in suits rise from their seats in the grand foyer.

Narcos.

My maid, Amelia, speaks in rushed Spanish, explaining who they are.

I
already
know.

Tallinn's gaze flicks in my direction. Some males see potential for violence right away. Tallinn is one of those.

I did not hire him for just his personal training skills. His knowledge of weaponry and skill in using said weapons is renown. He's also instinctual—an excellent trait in a guard.

He steps away, giving us both room to maneuver.

The narcos have arrived at my doorstep a day earlier than we agreed. They’re in my home, where I eat, sleep, and relax.

I do not abide such things.

My thoughts flow through my mind in seconds. I know with grim certainty that my expression shows nothing.

“We have come to collect, Francisco.”

Manuel Rodriguez stands in the center of the knot of men. They carry concealed weapons.

I know this because Tallinn has taught me to spot uneven weight distribution and suits pulled taut where they should otherwise hang straight.

The gait of a man who has a knife strapped to his calf is unequal.

I count the weapons, stepping closer. The sweat from my run chilling against my body. “I am aware.” My eyes search his face. All the while, I wonder what I've done to garner this surprise visit. It can't be good. “I have never been late in a payment of any kind in the time we have been acquainted,” I say in crisp Spanish, without bothering to rein in my irritation.

Tallinn's mouth forms a thin line. My speech is probably too fast for the Rosetta Stone program I make him use to learn my native tongue. Like a bird of prey, he scans their body language. He is quick to act and slow to think. He is the kind of man I'm happy to have on my side.

Manuel takes in my sweat-soaked clothing as well as my hair tied in a tail at my nape.

“E
jercicio,
Francisco?”

“
Si,
” I reply, though I find the question to be a dumb one. Of course I was exercising. The question is a diversion.

Tallinn's eyes slim to slits.

“You are early for our meeting,” I say, switching gears to topics other than small talk.

“Things have changed.”

My guts cinch like a perfectly tied bow.

I reveal nothing of my feelings. I plant my feet apart, folding my arms against my drenched shirt. The sea breeze flows from the outside, swirling around us with cool insistence.

“We have reports of a cousin of yours....”

Ramiro.

Ice sheets inside me—he is like a brother to me.

“We need to see to her until you make full payment.”

The effort necessary to keep from launching myself at him is ugly.

Tallinn makes a small move forward, and one of the narcos shoves hands in his pockets, flashing his piece tucked neatly inside a holster.

Manuel holds up a hand inoffensively. “Come no closer.”

I still, only now realizing I’d moved forward.

“I am aware you are a lethal weapon in your own right, Francisco. We do not want you within arm's reach.”

“Why have you taken, Ramiro?”

A smile spreads like oil across his face. “I did not say it was Ramiro.”

We need to see to
her
until you make full payment.
My brain suffers the vertigo of my uncertainty.
Who?

Better question: why? “Who?” I bark out like a dog backed into a corner.

“
She,
Francisco. She is a distant cousin and is being watched by my people there.”

I go blank, utterly and completely blank.

“Where?” I ask.

He smiles a second time, and I want to end him. My eyes go to the vulnerable spot at his throat. One strike, and he would fall. My palms sweat with want; my fingertips dig into my forearms under the pressure of my restraint.

I've always paid. Culturally, that is how it is done. It is part of life in Mexico. I think it's enough to know that
my family is safe.

I am obviously wrong.

“We have not taken action, of course. And we might not have to—if you pay us the amount we require.”

I realize I've always loathed what the narco represents in the deepest part of my psyche. They go against everything I am.

Yet, the police are corrupt and my family is vulnerable, recourse is nonexistent. There isn't a wealthy person in Mazatlán who does not pay to keep his or her family from harm's way.

Instead of delivering the beat-down I envision, I take a stab at logic. “There is no reason for this. Whoever she is, I have done nothing wrong. I pay on time—every time. These threats are unjustified.” I look from one to the other of them, but my gaze moves back to Manuel. “I do not have a female cousin.”

His polite smile
becomes a grin. I can almost see the feather sticking between his lips after his meal of the canary.

Prick.

“She is currently in Norway, friend.”

I can't conceal my shock. My chin juts back as my arms drop. It is the most unexpected of answers.

“What? Are you
loco
? I have no cousins in Europe.”

Tallinn is silent, watching the ping-pong match of our faces, dialogue aside. He is watching hands, expressions and the subtle tells of our bodies.

Manuel goes for the pocket of his suit and I move in.

A gun finds its way into my face.

“Relax, friend. I but retrieve a photo of your lovely relative.”

The circle of the barrel greets my forehead. I swallow the bitter pill of my fear.

Ruthlessly regulating my breathing, I settle my heartbeats.

I will live another day.
My belief is absolute—like everything else about me.

The narco surprised me. A feat of epic proportions.

I thought to pay the cool five million tomorrow. I have the currency in a safe secured into the very foundation of my home.

This?

This is unexpected
—and unwelcome.

“Put the gun away, Emilio.”

Emilio twists his lips in the parody of a grin. He holsters his weapon, and my shoulders relax.

Manuel flicks the photo at me. The corner catches me on the chest then floats to the floor.

I stoop to pick it up, my eyes on my enemies.

I gaze down at the image. The subject of the photo is obviously unaware that her picture is being taken.

Blond hair like whitish silk is caught mid-breeze and rosy color blooms on skin a shade of vibrant pale cream.

Yet, it is her eyes that hold me prisoner.

They are depthless seas. The ocean of her soul is not stormy.

It is full of life. Cornflower blue is captured for all time in the still shot. A graceful, long arm is frozen forever, attempting to brush a strand of hair away.
Her long neck is fragile like a stem supporting the delicate flower of her face.

I swiftly study her face again. A vague memory floats to the surface of my mind, and I attempt to latch on.

My breath catches. The bar.
My angel.

I swiftly kick that possibility aside. I remember one moment of suspended time when I met her face with my gaze. It cannot be her, yet the memory of those brief seconds haunt me. The coincidence would be too serendipitous to entertain.

My gaze seeks Manuel again and I slowly, reluctantly hand the photo back to him.

His fingertips pluck it out of my hand, and as I itch to have the photo back, my extremities tingle.

“She cannot be a relative,” I say simply.

Though her loveliness is something I've never encountered in my thirty years on this earth, she is not blood of my blood.

“We say that she
is
.”

He lies.
I shift my weight, my confusion deepening.

“You are Spanish and French, eh?” Manuel asks as though explaining.

I nod absently. I'm not sure what my ancient lineage has to do with anything. Many people of Mazatlán can trace themselves back to those European areas. There is even Chinese blood here.

Though I can't think of why this obscure woman has been picked as my relative. I hate that she reminds me of the woman from the hotel. The coincidence commits me in ways I don't relish, in ways I'm helpless to deny.

“And the price of this year's protection has increased with inflation.”

I stare at him, my rage boiling. I know I'll explode.

“Thirty million, Francisco.”

My heartbeat grinds to a halt. “You are joking.” My eyes bounce between the three of them.

“What's going on, Paco?” Tallinn tenses. He understands just enough to know things have gone from bad to worse.