Page 55 of Death

Suddenly, I hear something clanking behind me, and with droplets running down my face, I turn to look at the partially shut door of one of the stalls.

Lifting my machine gun, my finger curls around the trigger as I slowly walk closer.

“Either you come out, or I’m shooting you. The choice is yours,” I say, my tone laced with warning.

“I’m coming out,” a man says, and seconds later, he appears with his hands in the air. “Please, don’t shoot.”

I move closer and pat the fucker down to make sure he isn’t armed and pulls a gun on me. Sure that he’s unarmed, I look at his face. I know what every single person who works for the club looks like, and not recognizing the man, I say, “Get out of here.”

He hurries toward the door, and I follow after him. While the man runs for the exit, I glance at the four fuckers that are kneeling in front of a bar, their hands restrained with cable ties behind their back.

Knowing the police will be here at any moment, I order, “Load them into the vehicles. Let’s get out of here.”

I stalk toward the exit, and Pedro catches up to me. “There are three women who barely speak English. I think they’re Polish.”

“We’ll get someone to translate for them at home,” I reply. “Have two of the men take them to the airfield while we deal with the fuckers.”

Pedro nods and falls back to give out the order.

I climb into the passenger seat of the SUV, and I don’t have to wait long before Pedro gets in behind the steering wheel.

We have safe houses and warehouses everywhere, and after starting the engine, Pedro drives us toward our destination in Santa Cruz de la Sierra. It’s situated near the airfield, so we’ll be able to make a quick getaway after dealing with the four men who worked at the club.

We drive for about twenty minutes before Pedro pulls up to the warehouse that looks abandoned.

I climb out and watch as the other SUVs park. My men take the prisoners into the warehouse, and I glance around the area to make sure it’s quiet before I follow them inside.

I hand the machine gun to Pedro and pull my deck of tarot cards out of my pocket.

The four men are forced to kneel while I shuffle the cards, then I say, “There are so many other ways to make money.”

“Who are you?”

I glance at the man, then ask Pedro, “What’s his name again?”

“Braga. He’s in charge of the club.” Pedro points to a man dressed in a three-piece suit. “That’s the owner, Campos. The other two are just soldiers.”

I reach behind me, and pulling my handgun from where it’s tucked into the waistband of my pants, I aim and give the soldiers quick deaths by shooting them in their heads.

“Remove the bodies and cut the cable ties on the other two,” I order.

I tuck my weapon back into place behind my back and continue to shuffle the cards.

Campos keeps staring at my hands, fear tightening his features, and it makes me chuckle. Tilting my head, I say, “You’ve heard of me.”

He nods. “My cousin drew one of your cards.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Which one?”

“Temperance.”

With that card, I tie a noose around the guy’s neck and make him balance with one foot on a wooden pole. If he can hold out for twenty-four hours, he’s free to go, and if not, he hangs himself. Pedro and I came up with that one over a dozen beers out on the veranda.

“He must have good balancing skills,” I say. “Seeing as he lived to tell you about it.”

Campos nods.

“Braga first,” I mutter. “Stand up and choose your card.”