Page 75

I didn’t have insider knowledge, and they were wary of strangers. I couldn’t afford to fuck up. Time was running out.
This meeting? It was the one I dreaded most. No one ever tried to contact them, let alone meet them. They were the one organization out there completely unbothered by the rest.
The Jungles had two key leaders: one for the Colombians, one for the Brazilians. The third and unofficial claim was for the French. Whispers circulated that they were aligned, creating an unusual alliance. A trio of leaders. I turned to the web for answers, but found almost nothing. Just more proof of how well-protected they were.
Despite their past, they appeared united and grew in numbers each day.
They were all about narcotics, supplying both the US and Europe with their gummy juice. Thanks to their product, the endless parties in Miami, Ibiza, and Mykonos kept going. They were probably the richest organization on the market, though no one could confirm it. No generational wealth of the Russians compared to the stacks these guys had.
Their instructions were simple: wait for transport at a bus stop in a nearby town. No weapons. No phones.
I’d debated all night whether to comply. Too much was on the line, and I couldn’t risk messing this up. With only my abilities to rely on, I showed up at the meeting point the next day.
A four-wheeler pulled up, driven by a guy who looked barely legal. Tall and skinny, his bleached blond hair was a mess. He had a hoop earring in one ear, wearing a white tank top and ripped jeans. A couple of years ago, he would’ve fit in a boy band, but that wasn’t something I planned to tell him.
“Taya?” His accent made his loyalties clear.
I nodded.
“On.” He held up a ski mask, the eye holes stitched shut. With no way out, I complied, pulling the fabric over my sweaty forehead.
Warm hands guided me toward the vehicle, pushing me to the spot behind the driver. When he slid in, he placed my hands on his abdomen.
A bit too cozy for our first meeting, but I got the reason behind it. I interlocked my fingers, trying to stay composed.
The vehicle sped down a bumpy road, and neither of us spoke. Through the fabric, I could barely make out the blur of green rainforest as it whizzed by.
Ten minutes later, I’d counted, he fired off some quick Spanish into the walkie-talkie before we came to a stop.
“Can I take it off? I’m going to melt,” I complained.
“Oui,” he said, his voice calm.
Thank God. The humidity in the air wasn’t for everyone. Certainly not me.
When the mask came off, I rushed to get a good look at the place. A fenced area filled with buildings made from shipping containers stretched across the land. Some were two stories tall, while others were interconnected, joined together in what appeared to be squares. They all had windows and solar panels, and all carried an industrial look.
My escort took off walking toward the heart of the camp. Not wanting to be left behind, I swiftly followed. The grounds were filled with activity. People were hard at work, unloading crates or moving supplies.
Heading for the building in the middle, the young guy opened the side door, letting me enter first. The square-shaped house was made of at least three containers on each side, stacked on each other, forming a multistory building. The middle served as an inner yard with a pool and a grassy area. The space felt futuristic, yet resourceful.
One could mistake the building for an industrial unit from the outside, but the inside was a different story.
A hallway led us to a lavish living room with huge leather sofas and Persian rugs. The fire crackled in the fireplace, which caught me off guard given the surrounding heat. A wide staircase led upstairs, likely to the living quarters or offices.
I took the chance to scan my surroundings when a raspy voice called from behind me. “Assassin.”
I guessed the voice had been worn out by smoking before the cloud of smoke reached me. The Colombian materialized right in front of me. He was shorter, but the lack of height didn’t detract from his harsh features. A deep cut split his left eyebrow, oddly complementing his face. His hair, styled in a mohawk, suggested youth, probably close to my age, if not younger.
Steps echoed down the stairs, signaling a third presence. I glanced over the Colombian’s shoulder and spotted who I assumed was the Brazilian.
Our eyes met just as he zipped up the fly on his jeans. Upstairs, a door slammed shut, a subtle reminder that he wasn’t alone.Duh.
“You’re going to have to excuse him. He lacks manners,” the Colombian grunted.
The new arrival slouched into the nearest armchair, rubbing his eyes frantically. He shot me a shit-eating grin that reminded me of someone I knew too well. “Or all the right ones.”
A familiar reaction stirred within me. I bantered right back. “All you mafia gangsters,” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t you ever get tired of flirting?”