Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Costa raised his cigar to a comrade across the restaurant. A signal that we had things under control.
But over the past two days, we’d lost more than just control.
“How close?” Costa asked.
“Some of the drop was made.” I looked to the ceiling to subtract what we’d potentially lost and the containers that had made it. “If we move everything left, we’re likely still within a percent or two of what we guaranteed the Maldonados would make it across the border.”
“So you need a ninety-nine percent success rate for what’s left.” Costa set his jaw. “Not one seizure at the border. It can’t be done.”
“It can if I move slowly, carefully, and strategically,” I said.
“You’ve run out of time for that,” my brother said. “You’re being targeted, and you need everything in the States immediately.”
Cristiano had to comprehend the scope of that operation, even for a company in supply chain management. To mitigate risk, product was stored all over town, then moved in small batches across the border, mostly by individual vehicles. “I can’t just send it across all at once,” I said.
“And what if another stash house falls tonight? Tomorrow?” Cristiano asked. “You’d be a dead man walking. You, and everyone associated with you. Including Costa.”
I pulled at my collar feeling suddenly parched. The situation was dire, yes, but Cristiano was just trying to rattle me. “That won’t happen,” I said after gulping some water. “I’ve called in all our security and alerted them to the gravity of the problem. It’s all under guard.”
“By men who have inside information about where everything is kept,” Cristiano pointed out.
“You have inside information,” I shot back at my brother. “And you were the last to show up around here. So how the hell do I know you’re not behind this?”
“Tranquilo, Diego,” Costa warned. “Calm down.”
Cristiano took a slow sip of his mezcal, watching me over the rim. The Cristiano I’d known had never touched alcohol and wouldn’t have cared enough to distinguish top-shelf tequila from sludge. Then again, I’d never seen him in a suit until his return, either, and definitely nothing near the fine, custom-made ensemble he currently wore. What was the point of a gangster like him in a bespoke suit that’d surely be ruined by the blood of his enemies? He could show off all he wanted, but while some of us did what was necessary to get by, Cristiano thrived on being a natural killer.
“I’ve spent the past decade trying to get back in Costa’s good graces,” Cristiano reasoned. “Why would I immediately turn around and jeopardize that?”
“That’s what I intend to find out,” I said.
The corner of Cristiano’s mouth ticked. “There’s no ruse. I can tell you the truth of it. It’s that I’ve missed this—strategizing under fire. Enjoying a meal with the great minds at this table. Spending time with mi familia.” He said family with an edge that Costa seemed to miss. That, or he didn’t want to see it. Cristiano looked between both of us. “It has been too long.”
“It has,” Costa agreed.
I bit my tongue. What Cristiano missed wasn’t family—he’d given that up long ago. It was the prestige and power he could gain by partnering with Costa.
Prestige and power I would earn by pulling off this deal.
“Your brother is right,” Costa said. “You need to get every last kilo over the border as quickly as possible.”
That was easy for Costa to say. He had nothing but constraints to contribute to the process. He was asking for complete accuracy on an impossible schedule. It wasn’t as if he’d be down in the trenches with us. “Even with a full crew, I don’t have the manpower,” I said.
Cristiano drank some mezcal and studied his glass. “I do.”
Of course he did, but I wouldn’t allow him to insert himself in my deal. “I’ll make it work.”
“Then at least let me try to reason with the Maldonados,” Cristiano said. With his elbow resting on the back of his seat and a passive expression, he could’ve been discussing anything from wine varietals to horse racing.
“Why would that make any difference?” I asked.
“We have history,” he explained, “and they need my guns more than I need their money.”
As Cristiano and I locked eyes, his plan began to take form before me. His timing wasn’t a coincidence. Cristiano wanted in on this deal. But if I knew him, it wasn’t about the money. He wanted the credit. By saving my Maldonado deal, he’d be the hero. He’d win back Costa’s favor. And he’d undercut me in the process. Everything he wanted with one fell swoop.
“I can’t guarantee anything,” Cristiano continued, “but perhaps it’ll help ease the sting if I tell them they might not get the results they were promised.”
The results I had promised was what he meant. Results that were challenging but should’ve been attainable. Unless someone with a motive to bring me down had interfered.