Chapter One

Michael

The night is dark, cold, and I've got a bad feeling. A really bad feeling. Gabriel Trujillo called me earlier and told me we needed to meet. And when Trujillo calls, you don't say no. You clear your fuckin' schedule and go where he tells you to. It's a lesson I learned the hard way.

I shudder and pull my coat tighter around me, attempting to ward off the chilly Colorado night. I'm standing in the parking lot of a rest stop on a hill, overlooking the city of Denver. I was born and raised here and I'm probably gonna die here. I just hope that death is still a long time comin' though.

My cell rings. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the ID. Trujillo.

“What the fuck?” I mutter to myself.

With a sigh, I connect the call and stare down at the glitter and sparkle of the lights in the city below me. I'm not an overly sentimental man, but looking down on the city makes me appreciate its beauty.

“I'm here,” I say irritably. “I've been here for twenty minutes already.”

“Running late,” Trujillo said, his Mexican accent coloring the words. “I'm a couple of minutes out. Relax, my friend.”

“Hurry up,” I snap. “It's freezing.”

I disconnect the call and drop the phone into my pocket. Ordinarily, I'm more deferential to Trujillo. Given who he is and what he does, it only seems prudent, if not wise. I don't know what got into me just now. Talking to him like that is a good way to get my teeth kicked down my throat.

I guess I'm just cold, tired, and stressed the fuck out.

Turning back, I stare out at the city again, trying to block out the cold, calm myself down, and not to think about what's about to happen. Truth is, I don't know what that is. Maybe nothing. Trujillo has a flair for the dramatic and might just want to make an impression by meeting me in this secluded spot in the middle of the night.

Yeah, either that or he's going to put two in the back of my fuckin' head.

A few minutes later, I see headlights coming around the bend and feel my balls tighten instantly in response. He's here. Shit.

“Get a grip,” I mutter to myself. “He can't kill you. Otherwise he gets nothing.”

It's something I've repeated to myself a million times already. And even now, after saying it one million and one times, it doesn't make me feel one iota better. Trujillo is a wild card. He's unpredictable and I never know what he's going to do, let alone what he’s thinking. He very well could decide that I’m more trouble than it’s worth. That he'll eat the money I owe him just to wash his hands of me. I just don't know.

And it's that uncertainty that has my balls climbing up into my throat.

The black SUV pulls into the rest stop, as I’m trying to avoid comparing the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires with the sound my bones would make beneath those same tires. The SUV pulls to a stop in front of me and the driver cuts the lights. After being nearly blinded by the headlights, it takes my eyes a minute to re-adjust to the darkness.

I hear the door open. Blinking away the spots, I watch as the driver walks around to the rear door and opens it. Gabriel Trujillo steps out of the vehicle and makes his way over to me. His dark hair is slicked back, and his thick beard neatly trimmed. The dark designer suit is well-fitted to his frame, with a vibrant blue pocket square, complete with matching tie - providing the only bit of color. Trujillo looks the part of a respectable businessman.

He's anything but respectable though.

Gabriel Trujillo is the head of one of the most notorious, violent, and brutal drug cartels in Mexico. Like most of the cartels, he's expanded his business operations into the U.S., moving drugs, guns, and girls. He's also eliminating his competitors along the way. The mass graves that seem almost commonplace south of the border these days, have been cropping up in places like Arizona and New Mexico. Recently, a couple had even been found in southern Colorado.

There is no question that Trujillo is solidifying his hold on power in this part of the States. And I'm right in the middle of all this shit. If I'd known who and what he was when he first approached me, I never would have gotten into bed with him in the first place. But, desperation and a lack of options make a man do stupid things sometimes. Hell, all the time.

He stops a couple of feet in front of me, smiling. He hands me one of the two cups he's holding. I look at it for a long moment, feeling completely uncertain.

“Cappuccino,” he says. “I picked one up for you on our way. Thought you might like something to warm you up.”

I reach out and take one of the cups, eyeballing it skeptically. “T-thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

We stand in silence for a moment, Trujillo sipping his drink as he looks out over the skyline of Denver, admiring it as I had been before he pulled up. I look down at the cup but don't drink, hoping he doesn't notice. Though, I know that poison isn't exactly his style. No, when Trujillo wants you dead, he makes a statement about it. It's a fact I've unfortunately had to learn as he seems to enjoy trumpeting his kills.

After a few moments, he turns around and looks at me. “It's beautiful up here at night,” he says. “Gorgeous view.”

I nod, as thick tendrils of dread wrap themselves around my throat, pulling tighter and tighter. Trujillo's eyes are darker than space and just as unfeeling. It's almost as if he can peel the skin off my bones and completely eviscerate me, with nothing more than a glance.

“Nice to see you, Michael,” Trujillo says, his accent rich and cultured. “Thank you for meeting me out here tonight.”

“Did I really have much of a choice?”

Trujillo smiles. “No, not really. But I am a firm believer in manners,” he says. “What can I say, my mother raised me to believe in being polite and observing social norms.”

“It's cold out here,” I say. “What can I do for you, Mr. Trujillo?”

“I was wondering about the money you owe me,” he says, his voice smooth and pleasant. “And more specifically, when I can expect full payment on your debt.”

I clear my throat and look down at the ground. “I'm working on it, Mr. Trujillo,” I reply. “I mean, we're doing a good job of cleaning a lot of it through the construction projects, and –”

“Yes, you're cleaning some of it and turning a tidy profit,” he says. “But, that is ultimately, a slow process. Considering the interest accruing on your original loan, you're barely breaking even at this point. I'm looking for a more – substantial – payment, Michael.”

Shuffling my feet on the ground, I kick a small stone away. “I'm working on that, Mr. Trujillo,” I say softly. “Times have been tight lately. Some of my bids are getting undercut by –”

Trujillo moves so fast, I barely have time to register the fact that he's in motion before his hand lashes out and slaps the cup of coffee out of my grasp. I watch numbly as the cup sails through the darkness of the night, hitting the gravel of the rest stop. The top pops off and the drink spills out all over the ground.

I turn to Trujillo, my heart hammering, and a sick, queasy feeling rising in my stomach. He's staring at me, his eyes darker and harder than I've ever seen them before. Jaw clenched, body tense, fists balled at his sides, I can see Trujillo trying to physically control and restrain himself.

I should have known better. I feel myself grimacing. Trujillo is not a man who likes explanations and justifications. He expects results. Action. Those are the only things he respects.

“I don't want excuses, Michael,” he says, his voice as cold as his eyes. “I want my money.”

“I understand, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “And I'm –”

He holds his hand up and I fall silent. The look of patience on his face is forced and I can tell, is taking a Herculean effort on his part.

“Michael, I want to make sure you understand the seriousness of your situation,” he says.

“I do, Mr. Trujillo,” I say.

The greasy, nauseous feeling rises even higher within me and I'm half-afraid I'm going to throw up on his thousand-dollar shoes.

“Are you certain of that?” Trujillo asks.

I nod. “Yes, I'm sure.”

He looks at me for a long moment, a look of skepticism on his face, which makes my stomach churn even more. Yeah, if this little meeting doesn't end soon, I'm going to puke all over the place right in front of him.

“I'm not certain you are, Michael,” he says. “I think I need to do a better job of making you understand the gravity of the situation you're in.”

Images of severed limbs, decapitated and eviscerated bodies fill my mind – all courtesy of the photos of his handiwork Trujillo has shown me. As I imagine myself winding up like those poor assholes, my stomach roils, my balls are tighter than ever before, and I'm closer to vomiting than I've been in years.

Trujillo signals to his driver and the large Mexican man opens the back door of the SUV again. He reaches in and I hear someone sobbing. The driver drags a man out of the back – he had obviously been “worked over” by the cartel already. The driver pushes the man down to his knees in front of Trujillo and puts his large hand on his shoulder, keeping him in place.

The man on his knees is sobbing and Trujillo looks down at him, a look of absolute disgust on his face. The man's face is a bruised, bloody mess. His eyes are swollen closed, his lips are split, and when he opens his mouth to breathe – no doubt, because he can't breathe through the mess that was once his nose – I can see that he's missing a number of teeth. It's going to take weeks, if not months, for this poor schmuck to heal. Who knows if he'll ever breathe correctly again.

If Trujillo wanted to make an impression on me, he did. In spades.

“I get it, Mr. Trujillo,” I say quickly. “I understand the seriousness of the situation and believe me when I say –”

“This man,” Trujillo says, cutting me off as if I hadn't been speaking, “owes me ten thousand dollars. Substantially less than you, yes?”

I nod slowly, the queasiness in my belly growing worse by the second. Trujillo looks at me intently, letting me know the question is not rhetorical and he's expecting an answer.

I nod. “Yes,” I say. “Substantially.”

Trujillo nods. “This man was one of my distributors. A nephew of mine, actually,” he says. “Moved a lot of product for me and always did a good job. But, he got careless. Sloppy. Got some product stolen.”

The fact that Trujillo is willing to do this to somebody in his family doesn't bode well for me. I can only imagine what he'll do to me if I let him down.

“This man thought that because he's my sister's kid, he can do whatever he wants without consequence,” Trujillo says.

The man on his knees shakes his head, speaking as quickly as he can through his busted-up mouth. His voice is thick and he's speaking in Spanish, meaning I don't understand a damn word of what he's saying. But, I don't need to be fluent in the language to know that he's begging and pleading for his life.

“But, there are always consequences to our actions,” Trujillo continues. “Don't you agree, Michael?”

I open my mouth to speak but find that my throat is dry and my tongue so thick, I can't form words at all. Instead, all I do is nod. Trujillo smirks, obviously understanding that I'm doing my best to project an image of confidence that I don't truly feel. Truth is, I'm downright fucking terrified right now.

“A man should always be true to his word,” Trujillo says. “After all, if our word, as men, means nothing, what else do we have?”

I shake my head, not understanding what he means. Although, the irony of a man like Trujillo speaking about being true to his word –a drug and gun dealing murderer – is not lost on me. Though, he doesn't seem to see it.

“When a man gives me his word,” Trujillo says, “I expect him to hold true to that word. To be honorable. To do what he says what he'll do.”

Trujillo looks to me, obviously expecting an answer from me again. Still unable to speak, I nod again vigorously. A predatory smile crosses his face and I watch as his eyes seem to grow even blacker – something I didn't think was possible.

“I'm glad you agree, Michael,” he says. “This man does not know the meaning of honor. Does not believe in being true to his word.”

The man on his knees is shaking his head, his voice growing louder as he begs and pleads. Trujillo looks at him, the disgust on his face and the coldness in his eyes growing with each passing moment.

“I am giving you this demonstration to remind you of your obligations,” Trujillo says.

I nod and like a rusted gate finally breaking open, my voice erupts from my throat. “I understand, Mr. Trujillo,” I say. “And, don't worry, I'm a man of my word. I will get you the money I owe you. I swear it.”

Trujillo looks at me for a long moment, as if he has some sort of lie detector in his head that's weighing and judging the truthfulness of my words. Finally, he gives me a small nod.

“I'm so glad to hear that, Michael,” he says. “I like a man who puts value on his word. I respect that.”

I nod, hoping this meeting is over. I need a goddamn drink. Or twelve. Trujillo nods to his driver and I stare in stupefied horror as the large man pulls a chrome plated pistol out of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion and I find myself noticing the stupidest things – the way the moonlight glints off the cold steel of the gun barrel, the smell of the man pissing himself, and the dark pool of liquid spreading out beneath him.

Standing rooted to the spot, terror sending electrical jolts through my veins, I watch as the big man puts the barrel of the gun against the kneeling man's head. I see the bright flash of the gun, hear the muffled sound of the shot, and then feel the warm, sticky spray of the man's brain and blood splash across my face. I watch as the man falls over onto his side, limp, blood pouring out of the large, ragged exit wound on the side of his head.

His body hits the gravel with a wet, meaty thud, his eyes wide, sightless, staring at the cold light of the moon in the sky overhead. And before I was aware of it, or able to stop it, I double over, hands on my knees, and watch in horror as a stream of vomit comes shooting out of my mouth like the goddamn Exorcist or something. The taste is awful, and my head is spinning, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. It takes some effort to keep from passing out.

Eventually, the vomit stops and I'm able to get myself under control. More or less. I stand up and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Looking down, I look at my vomit mixing with the blood on the ground, feeling a bit guilty that I'd puked all over a dead man. Trujillo is staring at me with a small amused grin touching the corners of his mouth.

“I am confident you understand the gravity of the situation now, Michael,” he says.

My eyes riveted on the corpse at my feet, I just shake my head, my body growing numb.

“Excellent,” he says. “Now, if I were you, I would throw that body over that embankment. Let it roll down into the forest below. Should take quite a while for it to be discovered.”

I look at him, horrified. The last thing I want to do is touch the corpse. But, when I look at Trujillo, it's clear that this is part of the lesson he's trying to teach me. Reinforcing what happened tonight in my mind. He gives me another nod and walks back to the SUV, allowing the driver to open the door for him.

I watch as the car drives off, leaving me standing there alone in the darkness. Well, not entirely. Not if you count the corpse at my feet. Not knowing I had anything left in me, I double over and puke all over the body of the dead man again. Apparently, I needed to add more insult to his injury.

“Sorry, kid,” I say.

As I struggle to drag the body over to the hill at the edge of the rest stop, adrenaline is coursing through me and my heart is thundering in my chest. If Trujillo can do this to his nephew, the thought of what he'll do to me leaves me breathless, my stomach tied in knots.

I look at the face of the dead man a moment before pushing him over the edge, listening as he rolls noisily through the undergrowth, not knowing how in the fuck I'm going to come up with the money I owe Trujillo.