Page 19 of Echoes and Oaths (Guardian Security Dynasty #4)

T he drive into town was one Jinx didn’t want to make.

Violence for the sake of chaos had never been in his nature. But this wasn’t about chaos. This was necessity. To rid the world of two of the most heinous monsters walking the earth, war was coming whether he wanted it or not.

His hands flexed around the steering wheel as his mind replayed the moment he'd held Eira in his arms, her body trembling against his, her grief spilling out in angry, broken sobs. The weight of her tears had gutted him, carved him hollow with guilt and regret. He had done that. He had caused that pain. If he had stayed … if he’d walked away from Gu ardian, maybe he could have spared her the heartache.

But deep down, he doubted it. She would’ve had to come with him. And he wasn’t sure she could’ve been convinced to leave her family.

However, once a man stepped into the cartel world, there was no walking away. Not unless he lived in the shadows like Jinx did, slipping through cracks, existing between worlds.

Jinx had pledged his loyalty once, a lifetime ago, to Guardian.

He’d never renounce that loyalty or do anything to harm the organization.

Integrity was something each Guardian had in measures that didn’t exist elsewhere.

Law enforcement worked damn hard to weed out the offenders, and the courts worked to keep them off the streets, but when they failed, when the world needed an entity wiped from existence, he and his teammates were called into action.

Loyalty to organized crime, cartels, factions, and crime families usually ended in bloodshed, death, and destruction.

When the enforcers and factions went to war over Montoya’s crumbling empire, he knew the outcome would’ve been the same.

He wouldn’t have bent the knee to Ortega’s regime.

They wouldn’t have pulled him in, so they would have eliminated him and anyone he cared about.

Probably slowly and loudly to ensure others fell in line.

That was what you did to the strongest of your enemies in that region of the world. And that’s why you left .

Ortega … Jinx’s jaw tightened as he wound through the cracked streets, the sun beating down on the rusted rooftops and faded paint of the small Venezuelan town.

Tomás Ortega was weak. A man like him didn’t rise to the top without someone propping him up.

Someone with power, connections, or an agenda.

How the hell had that piece of shit climbed the ladder?

That was a question Jinx needed to answer before this was over.

The town hadn’t changed. The same cracked pavement, the same buildings leaning into one another like tired old men.

A hardware store stood abandoned, its windows boarded and sun-bleached.

Paint peeled from the stucco walls lining the narrow streets, and the scent of exhaust, dust, and humidity clung to everything like a second skin.

Jinx knew exactly where he was going.

The cantina at the end of the road sat in the same sagging structure, its faded sign swinging in the afternoon breeze.

Right now, it was probably empty. That would change in a few hours, once the cartel boys shook off their hangovers, rolled out from under whatever woman had kept them warm, and came hunting for the hair of the dog that bit them.

His comms crackled in his ear. Brando’s voice came through. “I’ve identified most of the pictures Raven took. Sending them to your cell.”

“Copy,” Jinx replied, pulling into a dusty parking space across from the cantina.

The inside of the small building was dim and cool, shadows stretching across the cracked tile floor. Behind the bar stood a woman he didn’t recognize. She was in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, with dark eyes that gave him a once-over like she was sizing him up for trouble.

“What can I get you?” she asked, wiping down a spotted glass with a rag that had seen better days.

“One beer,” he replied, laying cash on the scarred wood of the bar.

Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, but she took the money without question and filled a dusty glass with beer, sliding it across to him.

Jinx carried it to a table in the far corner, his back against the wall, a clear line of sight to both the door and the grimy windows. He leaned back, tipping his chair just enough to balance, and pulled out his phone .

Brando’s pictures with faces, names, and sparse information flicked across the screen. Too sparse. The men on that hill weren’t the average cartel scum. They were military-trained bastards from other countries, ghosts in their own right. And ghosts were hard to kill.

When the bartender disappeared into the back, Jinx spoke low. “There are four pictures without any information.”

“I know,” Brando replied. “I’m working on it.

I dumped all the images into Interpol’s system.

It’s scraping for hits. Most of these guys aren’t locals.

I thought it was a good place to start. Raven said there were a couple of the brown-nosers who she couldn’t get a good picture of.

I’m having AI recreate the full face from the partials she took, and I’ll be scraping those, too. ”

Jinx grunted in agreement but didn’t reply. When the bartender returned, he shifted his focus back to the pictures, memorizing faces, names, nationalities, and known connections.

Forty percent of Ortega’s men, he recognized. The other sixty percent were new, fresh meat drawn in by promises of power and money. It was the way of the cartel. Loyalty meant nothing. Life expectancy meant even less .

He drained the last of his beer, warm now and bitter, when the sound of fast engines shattered the stillness outside. Black SUVs rumbled to a stop in front of the cantina, their exhaust fumes curling into the air like snakes.

Jinx rose, moving to the bar just as the woman glanced toward the street.

“If you want to avoid trouble,” she murmured, her voice low, “you should leave now. There’s a back door.”

“I know. Another beer, please,” Jinx said calmly, placing more cash on the bar.

She gave him a long, measuring look. Something flickered in her dark eyes, recognition, maybe, or wariness, before she shook her head and turned to the tap to pour him another drink.

The door creaked open behind him.

A mangy dog slunk in off the street, ribs sharp beneath matted fur, tail wagging nervously.

It made a beeline for Jinx like it recognized one of its own.

Jinx crouched, scratching behind the animal’s ears as two SUVs’ doors slammed shut outside, followed by crude laughter and the sharp, grating sound of men who thought they owned the world.

The dog tucked itself behind Jinx’s legs as the men filed into the cantina, swaggering and loud .

Until they saw him.

The room shifted, voices dying like someone had sucked the air out of the place. Jinx smiled to himself and lifted his beer, taking a slow sip.

It was always good when the wolves recognized there was a viper in their midst.

One of the men pushed through the crowd, muscling his way toward the bar. Jinx slanted a glance his way and felt recognition flash cold and sharp through his veins.

Newer enforcer. Fresh blood. A bastard, if Brando’s files were to be believed, and they always were.

That one had a reputation. A video, even.

He’d made his bones on the dark web, carving a family apart with a machete.

He forced the wife to watch as he mutilated her husband and sons before killing them.

A coward with a taste for violence only when his victims were already broken.

Jinx met his gaze over the rim of his beer, his smile sharp and cold.

The bastard would do.

The man squared his shoulders, hitching up his jeans like he thought it made him bigger, meaner. His eyes locked on Jinx at the bar. Jinx could feel the fucker zero in on him. He couldn’t have scripted it any better .

“Hey, you! This ain’t your bar. You need to leave.”

Jinx didn’t even glance his way. He set his beer down with a quiet clink, staring at the glass like it had more of his attention than the fool running his mouth.

“I said, leave,” the man barked, stepping closer. “Do you not hear me?” The man’s hand clamped down on Jinx’s shoulder.

Mistake.

Jinx reacted in a split second, faster than breath. He spun, automatic in hand, and pressed the barrel to the man’s temple. Before anyone could process what was happening, Jinx pulled the trigger.

The man’s body crumpled to the floor in a heap.

Without hesitation, Jinx drew his second automatic, leveling it at a man he recognized. A messenger boy from back in the day, before Jinx had walked away from this nightmare.

“Tell them to back the fuck off,” Jinx ordered, his voice low, razor-sharp.

Recognition flared in the man’s eyes. “Mateo? Holy hell … Mateo, is that you?”

“Mateo? What? Who?” another man said, gaping at the corpse on the floor. His voice shook. “Ortega’s gonna order us to kill this bastard.” The man motioned toward Jinx .

Jinx’s revolver shifted instantly, pressing hard against the second man’s forehead. He stepped close, invading the man’s space like death itself. “One more word,” Jinx said softly, dangerously, “and you’re dead.”

Behind him, the stray dog whimpered and then yelped. “Move, fucking mutt.” The bastard had kicked the defenseless animal. Jinx’s instincts flared. His revolver snapped to the side and fired without hesitation.

Another man dropped like a stone.

He was back on target with his forty-five before anyone understood what happened. “Anyone else care to test me or kick an innocent animal?” Jinx asked, voice dripping ice.

The first man, the one who’d recognized him, threw his hands up, palms wide in surrender.

“Mateo, yo … we’re cool. We’re cool! Ain’t nobody gonna bother you or the dog.

Right, guys? This is Mateo Rivas. Enforcer from Montoya’s time.

The Mateo, man. You’ve heard stories about this guy, and they’re all fucking true. ”