Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(12)

“I don’t understand,” I say, though I know he’s telling me to drink. It’s one small piece of control I hold—the fact that they think I don’t understand Spanish. I’d like to keep it that way. Except, I’ll admit, the idea has crossed my mind that if I can play on Pedro’s childlike nature he may help me escape. But I haven’t figured out how to pull that off without it backfiring on both of us.

Pedro moves my fingertips to the top surface of the can, where my fingers meet with the can’s tab.

“It’s sealed.” I nod. My captors have found a different way to try and get something into me. “I’ll drink.”

Pedro pops the top and brings it immediately to my mouth. It tastes like chocolate and chalk. The liquid is tell-tale thick too. I’m pretty sure it’s a meal replacement drink—like Carnation or Ensure.

“Sing to me again, Pedro.”

He answers sadly, “No hablo inglés.”

I hum a melody, and he says, “Ahh . . .” I imagine I detect a smile in his tone.

And his singing begins, but this time his cousin doesn’t stop him.



Ryder





I wake to my cell going off—it’s Briggs.

“You know you’re sitting in the most heated and battled for drug distribution corridor in the US,” he begins as I make my way to the mini fridge for a Red Bull.

He goes on about all the organized crime in the area and shady activity while I put the lousy hotel tap water into the coffee machine and run it over the crappy complimentary coffee grounds.

Briggs goes quiet for a second then accuses, “I can hear the coffee brewing.”

When I don’t deny it he asks, “Drinking or smelling?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, just drink it, for Christ’s sake!” he says with annoyed but humorous frustration.

“How many times do I have to explain? If I smell fresh brewed coffee it’s soothing and makes me feel like everything is right in the world. If I taste it, it makes me crave a cigarette, and I’m not smoking again. Can’t have one without the other, Briggs.”

“Alright, whatever, but about your location—I’m not exaggerating. Every gang and cartel nationality you can imagine is angling for power and control there—Asians, African-Americans, Mexicans, f*cking Aryans, for Christ’s sake—you name it.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Sounds like you should get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Local authorities?”

“Either have their hands full or in the till. I’m still trying to sort the good guys from the bad guys.” I can hear the frustration in his voice and his fingers beating furiously at his computer keyboard. “The FBI, DEA, NSA, DOJ and now the YSA are all in on the action.”

“What is the YSA?”

“Your Sorry Ass.”

“Ah.”

“And it appears there have been multiple accidents involving Mason Enterprises employees. After each, some business or individual in the city gets a greased palm to quiet the case of the squeaks.”

“Coercion.” I pull on my pants. “The waitress from last night flipped after one question. Could be a fresh wound. Said Mason owned the city.”

“I don’t doubt it—his name is growing and is on almost everything coming in and going out of that place, from food distribution trucks and railway boxcars to cargo freight.”

“I’m going in today. Time is a real factor; this has to be done quickly before he bounces.”

“We’re not as young or pretty as we used to be, and this shit is way above our pay grades. I know you, Ryder. Don’t play cop, just get your skip and get the f*ck out.”

“Get me intel on the accidents.”

“No, Ryder. That is exactly the f*cking opposite of what I told you to do.”

“Let’s find out what we can. Maybe we could throw the FBI a bone.”

“Or maybe I’ll be throwing your dead body into a shallow grave.”

I laugh. Briggs hangs up on me.

I breathe in the hot black coffee vapors while watching the sun come up out the window as I tempt myself with the less than delicious brew. Force of habit. I stop myself right as the liquid hits my lips, with minimal damage done. I let my tongue glide over the warm, flavored moisture.

I’ve got to stop doing this. It’s f*cking pathetic.

Setting the cup on the nightstand, I turn my attention back to considering how I’m going to get into Miguel’s palace.

“What would Chief do?” I wonder aloud, remembering a time when my mentor and adoptive father sat in the driver’s seat looking over at me as I sat in the passenger seat of his ‘89 Dodge Charger.

He was patient. He always wanted me to think more than he wanted to get paid. And he always forced me to look at all the angles—the wrong ones and the right ones—until I hit the idea that clicked like a grenade ignition—how it quietly ignites its spark and then, the big bang.

Chief would say, “It’s not about right or wrong, it’s about what works and gets the job done while keeping you alive.”

Quietly, I meditate. Positioning my elbows on the floor and lifting my legs over my head, I begin a series of asana poses. Using awareness, box and tactical breathing, I clear my mind with an assurance that the answer will manifest into existence.