Chapter 22: Party Favors

The next day was busy, with people coming and going from the garage. At the same time, Peter and Maggy investigated the Tiburón cartel, researching its current personnel and determining exploitable strategic weaknesses.

“Since he took over from his murdered father, the cartel’s standing among other familias has fallen,” Arturo explained.

His uncle snorted derisively. “Angelo is just a sticky cum stain on the sheets compared to the great man who sired him!” He puffed on a cigarette. “Àngel is rolling over in his grave seeing how far his empire has fallen.”

“Not as far as it’s about to,” Peter muttered to no one.

“I like your thinking, my friend,” the old enforcer said, clapping him on the shoulder. “But to ‘demolish’ the Aguilar party palace, you need explosives.”

Peter nodded. “Do you know where I can get some?”

The old man laughed and looked at his nephew. “I have a friend who’s an expert in munitions and explosives. He’s created some interesting compounds you might want to check out.” He tapped his nose meaningfully. “A word of caution—he’s not exactly the most stable sort.”

Peter saw the two men winking at each other. “And this man can provide what we need?”

“For a price,” Arturo interjected. “Unfortunately, the services he can provide require rare and expensive ingredients and compounds,” he added. “Or I would have put that bunch down long ago.”

Peter stepped behind Maggy’s desk and bent down to reach for something at her feet. He returned with a stuffed duffle bag and handed it to the younger man.

Curious, Arturo unzipped the bag and whistled dramatically with raised eyebrows before tipping it to show the contents to his uncle. “That’s serious dinero, amigo,” he exclaimed.

“One million, U.S.,” Peter replied.

The munitions expert was an ancient stooped man missing several fingers and teeth. He spoke with guttural inflections that made it nearly impossible for anyone to understand. He had the most annoying laugh, Peter decided after introductions. He decided the man was crazier than the axe-wielding mass murderer who called him a friend. When brought into the garage, he was accompanied by a stream of mercenaries carrying crates, boxes, and cases of odd gadgets, electronic devices, detonators, fuses, tubes, and wire and det cord spools.

Maggy hurriedly stamped out her cigarette, nervously gazing at the demolition hardware. Arturo sighed happily and reached into a box, pulling out a fistful of opaque flexible straws with crimped ends. They were bound together with string, but he pulled one out and swung it around like a whip.

“What’s that?” Peter asked.

The Hispanic man grinned back at him. “A party favor, my friend. You have seen those glow-in-the-dark light sticks?” he asked as he felt along the tubing until he found something. He squeezed it firmly, and they heard a distinct pop. He grinned and shook the flexible straw until it began glowing with a soft purple light that grew brighter. His eyes lit up excitedly as he waved it back and forth rapidly until it created a fan-shaped spread of purple luminescence. “Cool, eh?” he laughed.

Peter, Maggy, and Iggy looked perplexed while the young man turned and addressed the ancient demolitions expert at a folding table holding a circuit board. A pile of electronic gadgets surrounded him. Arturo poked through a pile until the old man slapped his hand away. He looked up from his board and squinted at the purple glowstick before removing one of the gadgets and handing it to the young man.

Cackling with delight,, Arturo glanced at the spectators and nodded toward the garage, “Come on.”

They followed him into the open shop and watched as he paused to glance around. His eyes lit up at the empty carport where the table and TV were located with a group of mercenaries seated around it. They looked up at him curiously as he waved the party light. “Open the pit,” he ordered, and two men got up to slide a thick plywood sheet covering the mechanic’s pit. As the lid slid back, the dark pit yawned. “That’s good,” he stated, tossing the glowing straw inside. He stepped back and fumbled with the gadget resembling a black pencil with a short purple wire attached to one end. He held it like an ice pick and pressed his thumb into the opposite tip. “Fire in the...”

BANG!

A bright flash accompanied the report, and Maggy cried out in shock.

“Fuck me!” Peter exclaimed. “That could blow your hand off!”

“Exactly!” Arturo blurted with a maniacal grin. The art of dismemberment had evolved between generations.

Friday morning, Peter sat outside a café sipping an espresso under a large umbrella, shading him from the hot sun. He wore a custom white linen suit with a marbled silk tie and a cream-colored fedora, echoing old zoot suits. This aged fashion was popular south of the border, allowing for generous fabric cuts that seemed ridiculous elsewhere. He wasn’t thinking about fashion as he watched the crowded street flow around him like a sea of bodies. His eyes, hidden behind dark aviator Ray-Bans, were watchful. He knew what to expect, but it still defied logic. Suddenly, the crowd thinned and dispersed, leaving the boardwalk still and quiet. Siesta.

The streets emptied shortly after noon, leaving him alone, sipping his coffee in disbelief. Only a few people remained visible from his spot.

This was when the Tiburón mistress chose to shop, which suited her security detail. She liked to start her market excursion with a cup of the finest espresso—and there was no finer establishment than J. DeMarco’s at the outdoor market’s corner. A predictable routine is anathema to most professional protective details. However, the group overseeing Esmerelda Aguilar’s safety was mediocre. Not that she would have tolerated a disruption in her routine.

Peter turned at the sound of a high-performance motor and watched as a black and silver Lincoln Town Car parked by the outdoor seating with canopy umbrellas. The driver and a man in sunglasses exited. The driver opened the rear door for a woman in a backless, sea-green dress with a plunging neckline. A wide-brim Tulle Organza sun hat with a bow adorned her head, and a large pair of sunglasses concealed her eyes. She wore four-inch stiletto heels.

The bodyguards escorted her to the café entrance then stopped to watch the street while she entered to order her drink. Only the man to the left of the door noticed Peter nearby. He glared at him but said nothing as he crossed his hands and stood ready for his protectee’s return. Esme approached the counter and curtly ordered her usual cappuccino with specific instructions. When she turned to step outside, she didn’t notice the proprietor slip away and usher his two servers out the back.

“Hello, Esmerelda.”

She froze mid-step as the calm, mocking voice called out to her. Glancing to her right, she saw the man in white seated on the opposite side of the table next to her, shaded by the umbrella. She concealed her surprise even though the two bodyguards jerked and spun clumsily toward him. Slowly, she reached up and lifted her sunglasses, revealing two smoldering emerald eyes framed in dark eyeliner. “Do I know you?” she asked indifferently.

When he didn’t reply, she stepped closer and intently looked at his smiling face. A chill ran down her back as recognition dawned. She had no idea what this man looked like, but from the descriptions she had heard, she knew it could only be him. She once more concealed her nervous response by flicking her glasses back over her eyes. “I do know you!” she purred with sudden confidence. Out of habit, she glanced over her shoulder, beyond her guards, towards the street.

“I sit alone,” he assured her quietly. “Won’t you join me?”

She studied him as he casually lifted his cup and sipped his espresso. Her arrogant sense of superiority returned, and she sipped her drink in a disposable container. A thin layer of foam lined her ruby lips briefly before she licked it away with a provocative sweep of her tongue. Why not? she thought triumphantly. “They say you have two souls,” she purred with a thick fake Latino accent.

He watched her pull back the chair across from him and sit daintily. “They say you drink souls,” he replied.

She took another sip of her coffee and leaned forward provocatively, exposing a scandalous amount of cleavage. “Let me look into your eyes,” she stated in a silky voice.

He leisurely reached up with his left hand and grabbed the arm of his shades, removing them slowly until she found herself peering into a pair of radiant sapphire pools.

Her heart trembled briefly at the power emanating from his intense gaze. She masked her unease with another sip of her cappuccino. “Señor Shipley,” she breathed, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

“I think not,” he replied candidly.

“Is it true about your...?” she nodded toward the boardwalk and his loafers.

He smirked, slid his right foot into view, and lifted the hem of his linen trousers until the sun glinted off the gleaming black carbon fiber orthotic.

She caught her breath and gazed at the prosthetic with a deep smile. “Amazing,” she mused, raising her coffee to her lips again. “It must be difficult for you to get about.”

“Oh, I’m quicker than you think, I assure you,” he replied smugly.

His tone urged her to recheck her surroundings. She resisted and covered her discomfort with her cup. Anger flared deep within her as she berated herself for acting like a scared child. She doubled down on her haughty arrogance. “Surely you aren’t foolish enough to think you can waltz into my world and avenge your stupid little friend?”

Rage surged through him as he gazed back at her. He didn’t trust himself enough to speak, so he took another slow drink from his cup.

Once again, she felt foreboding as his eyes seemed to bore into her soul. She snorted disdainfully and mirrored his movement. She shrugged and sighed, “If you must know, he was disappointing...” She paused and blinked in confusion. Did she just slur?

“I’m sorry?” he replied with a damnable smirk. “What was that?”

“Wha...?” she started to reply and halted to lick her lips. Why did her mouth feel so dry? She blinked several times as her vision lost focus. “Wha...?”

“Are you well?” he asked, sounding concerned as he removed his hat and began fanning her while she swayed in her seat. Two buzzing sounds rang out, ending in wet-sounding slaps, and both bodyguards dropped to the ground. A second later, Esme fell forward, her face smacking into the metal table. Her cup fell from limp fingers and spilled onto the ground.

Heavy footsteps echoed from inside the cafeteria, and two of his mercenaries appeared, each stooping down to collect one of the dead guards, carrying them to the back of the black sedan, where Peter opened the trunk. After they were dumped inside, he closed it and tossed the keys to one man while the other collected the unconscious woman, lifting her from her seat. Her hat fell to the sidewalk as he carried her toward the Town Car. Peter held the rear door for him as she was tossed inside. He joined her as the two soldiers climbed into the front and started the motor. Moments later, the Lincoln disappeared into the city.

Dr. Serran drew a clear liquid from a vial, flicked the syringe to remove bubbles, and turned toward the queen-sized bed. The room was full of men intently watching the naked woman on the bed. Esmerelda Aguilar was stunning and sexually appealing, with large, enhanced breasts and a toned, hairless body.

“I’ll administer the sodium pentothal before the naloxone to reverse the tranquilizer,” the doctor stated as he approached with the syringe and bent over her naked body. He hardly needed a tourniquet to find a suitable vein as they bulged along her healthy arms.

Peter watched as he flicked her antecubital and inserted the needle. “Won’t the Narcan reverse the sodium pentothal, too?” he asked.

The doctor shook his head as he injected the medication into her vein. “Narcan reverses opioid narcotics only. It has no effects against barbiturates like thiopental.”

He injected another smaller syringe into the same arm, and she began moaning and weakly struggled to move her limbs. The doctor stepped back and nodded to Peter, who sat on the bed’s edge. He cupped one of her breasts with his warm hand, squeezing her nipple and eliciting a pleasurable sigh.

“Wake up, Esme,” he said firmly, tapping her forehead. “It’s time to join the party.”

“Hmmm?” she groaned, disoriented. “Party?” She opened her eyes and blinked against the subdued overhead lighting. “Where...?”

“There she is,” he smiled as she glanced at him bewilderedly. “Remember me?” he watched her glazed eyes as recognition came. Her face turned sour with an ugly sneer.

“I enjoyed slaughtering your stupid apish friend,” she hissed before smiling wickedly.

“Yes,” he replied flatly. “You did. His name was Alan. He was my best friend.”

“Oh...” she mimed dispassionately. “Your poor friend with the mouse-sized penis.” Her eyes glittered back at him hatefully. “Want to show me your penis?” she leered. “I’ll enjoy cutting off your balls and feeding them to you—just like I did to your friend ... with the little dick!”