Chapter 4 - The Cartel’s AuditThe basement of the warehouse on the docks of Newark smelled of stale motor oil, cheap tobacco, and the copper tang of fear.
Héctor "El Perro" Morales sat on an upturned crate of smuggled electronics, his silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal a heavy gold crucifix resting against his hairy chest. In his right hand, he turned a solid silver zippo lighter over and over, the metallic click echoing rhythmically through the cavernous space.
Before him stood the sole survivor of the assault on the Mercer estate—a scarred enforcer named Marco, whose left arm was bound tightly to his ribs in a makeshift sling.
“You’re telling me,” Héctor spoke softly, his voice a gravelly hiss that could freeze boiling water, “that three of my best men—men who cleared compounds in Juarez—were routed by one person?”
“It wasn't a person, boss,” Marco croaked, his voice trembling as he stared at the concrete floor. “It was a ghost. She was... she was soft-looking. Big. We thought she was just the help. But she moved like a shadow. She broke Luca’s elbow without even looking at him, and she tossed Jaime through a solid oak toy chest like he was a ragdoll.”
Héctor stopped clicking the lighter.
He stood up slowly, stepping across the oil-stained floor until he stood directly in front of Marco. Without a word, he raised the heavy metal lighter and smashed it across the bridge of Marco’s nose.
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Marco collapsed onto the concrete with a wet, choking gasp, blood pooling instantly beneath his face.
“You failed a simple snatch-and-grab on a banker’s brats,” Héctor snarled, signaling two guards standing in the shadows. “Take him to the renderer. And find out who is guarding Adrian Mercer’s house now. Because nobody—nobody—makes fools of my crew.”
