5. five

Current Day

"These fucking Saltillos are grating on my last fucking nerve," I huff as Diego and I both step from the car.

Relations with their cartel have plummeted since Luis died last month. His son-in-law, Hector, assumed control upon his passing and has no regard for any of the many arrangements we had made with Luis.

He"s more concerned with getting his cock wet and making money as quickly as possible than he is with longevity.

Se?or Marcano and Se?or Ramirez aren't giving him grace any longer. After attempting to infiltrate our cartel for a second time, it's been decided that Hector needs to learn what it's like to have someone fuck with his business the way he's been fucking with ours.

Diego has offed a couple of nobodies, but it's time to get Hector where it hurts—Guillermo and Jorge—his right-hand men. Only, these fucking bastards have been skipping around safe houses since Diego dumped Juan's crispy, char-broiled body at Hector's gate last week.

They know we're coming for them.

I don't have a clue how Diego found this place, but it's fucking shithole. It barely looks habitable, much less like a place the second and third in command of the Saltillos would be hanging out. Quite certain the place is abandoned, we don't spare any subtleties and walk straight to the front door.

Diego knocks twice and then abruptly kicks in the door. He takes a step inside and gags as he exhales, "Fuck!"

I barely make it over the threshold before catching a whiff of what caused his reaction. This place smells like absolute squalor. The lovely combination of squatters using it as an indoor toilet and death. The undeniable aroma of death.

A smell I'm all too familiar with.

The likelihood of anyone being here with what is likely a several-days-old body is slim, and as though we both had the same realization, we each lower our guns to our sides. Neither of us tuck them back into our waistband, as you can never be too certain or careful in our line of work.

Proceeding further into the house, the cloud of death only grows stronger. So thick that I can taste it on my tongue. Stepping into the open living room, we find the source of the stench flooding our nostrils.

Sitting in the middle of a blood-soaked couch is a bruised and bloated middle-aged man, or so I assume from his graying hair. His face is nearly indistinguishable. Even if it weren't for the fluid filling his face out, he clearly had almost every bone in it broken before someone decided to use his body as a knife block.

"He apparently pissed someone off." A dark laugh rattles from Diego as he speaks.

Hearing a rattling sound from the back of the house, I harshly hush him as I point toward the direction of the sound, "Shhh. We aren't alone."

Lifting my gun and pointing it in the direction, I walk toward the back of the house with Diego only footsteps behind me. Working both deftly and meticulously, we make our way through each of the bedrooms lining the hallway. Sweeping each, we find them all vacant and nearly devoid of furniture.

Pushing open the last of the doors, we are both overwhelmed by the pungent smell that wafts into the hallway. It reeks of piss and the rancid smell of death.

Stepping into the room, my eyes are immediately drawn to the naked woman, splayed and bound to the bed.

What a miserable fucking way to die.

Walking closer to where she lies, it is beyond apparent that her final days were nothing short of hell. Her face is bruised, the skin so ruddy and purple that it only accentuates the dried trails of tears staining her face. The rest of her body is riddled with bruises and bite marks in various stages of healing. Her thighs are crusted with what I can only imagine is cum of the men who took her life.

"Lo siento," I mutter to myself. "Que ellos se pudran en el infierno."

"Please." My heart stops, and I jump from my skin when the whisper of a word passes over her lips. Her heavy eyelids flutter. "No more."

"Fuck, Diego." I draw his attention to her as I begin cutting her free from the rope that is so tightly tied to her ankle that it has begun to embed into her skin. "Go and find something to wrap her in."

"I can't," she grits through her teeth as I peel the rope from her flesh. Blood and pus seep from the infected wound, but she barely acknowledges the pain. She continues to mumble as I cut her second foot free from the bed. Most of it is incoherent, but from what little I can understand she is begging for me not to touch her.

Rounding the bed, I lean over her and free her hands. Her words clear as her faint breath blows against my face. "Please…please don't."

I'm a man who kills people and leaves them for dead—although never like this—caring for them isn't in my nature. But when a single tear rolls down her cheek, I'm unable to stop myself from tenderly wiping it away with the pad of my thumb.

"We aren't going to hurt you." I continue to gently rub my thumb against her cheek as Diego lays a sheet over her body. "We're going to get you out of here."

"No…" she groans as I slip my hands beneath her back and under her legs. Being mindful of my hands and where I place them, her entire body tenses and becomes rigid as I lift her from the bed.