Fistful of Benjamins (14 page)

 

I
can't sleep.

Every time I close my eyes I feel as if I'm suffocating—drowning. And if that's not enough, every forty-five minutes another nurse pokes her head into the room to check up on me. By the time dawn breaks and the nursing staff rotates, I'm so anxious to get out of the bed that I feel like crawling out of my skin.

I'm scheduled for another full day of CT-scans, MRIs and X-rays. Not to mention another day of people asking every five minutes if I remember anything yet. Some people look at me as though they think I'm faking this shit and this is all some elaborate scheme for me to get attention. After dinner, I receive my first visitor not on the medical staff: a reporter.

“
Hey
. How are you doing?” he asks with a fake grin that stretches across his entire face. “You still seem to be quite the mystery around here.” He laughs to himself. “Oh. I'm Felix by the way. Felix Garcia for the
Playa Times
.” He jets out a hand and starts pumping mine with exuberance. “I did a story on you when you were first found on the beach. I can't believe that you've been in a coma all this time.”

“And you found out I woke up how?”

The reporter's neck reddens with embarrassment. “A good journalist never rats out his sources.” He winks.

I'm instantly annoyed.

“Anyway. I came to get the story before the cops swoop in. Have they been here to see you yet?”

I shake my head.

“Good.” Garcia slaps and rubs his hands like some evil genius. “Well, let's start from the beginning. What's your name? Where are you from?”

“I don't know.”

“Wow. A real, honest-to-God amnesia case, huh?” He whips out a camera phone and snaps a picture.

“
Hey!
”

“Oh. I'm sorry. Do you mind?”

“Well—”

“You never know. Maybe someone out there will see my story and step forward.”

He has a point. I squash my objection and endure an awkward interview during which I don't have much to say.

I'm a man without a name—without a past. Yet I can't help but feel like I'm in sort of danger. Then again, that could be the paranoia talking.

 

“W
hat the fuck is this?” I slap down a printed copy of the
Playa Times
. “Is this shit for real?” I eyeball the team leaders assembled before my desk. “Is there a chance that this is really him?”

Danny speaks up. “We don't know, boss. The shit came over the wire today and I thought that you might want to see it. It does kind of look like him, doesn't it?”

I lace my knuckles on the desk and lean forward to take another look. Despite the patient's beard and lean frame, I'm certain that I'm looking into the eyes of a ghost. I hesitate only because I've already been on numerous wild goose chases in the last six months and I'm not anxious to get involved in another one. But if there's a chance . . .

“All right. Have this shit checked out,” I tell them. “If it's him, bring him to me.”

“You got it, boss,” Danny says, snatching up the paper.

I watch them as they file out of my office before I turn my attention to the bank of monitors that are my eyes and ears in every part of my family estate. The screen that holds most of my attention lately is the one that shows Rosales's prized princess, Cataleyna, pacing back and forth. My heart quickens a beat as I watch her move gracefully in red silk and diamonds.

She looks like a queen. My queen.

It was a miracle we rescued her out of the ocean that night. All of our intricate plans went up in smoke—mainly because Cat's charging lover caught up to us and then put up such a fight. When our boat exploded on the ocean there were two more of our boats nearby.

Now I have Vicente's most prized possession and I have no intention of ever letting her go. All I plan to do now is sit back and watch his empire slowly crumble to the ground. The old fool actually thought that he could erase decades of animosity between us. Vicente had no clue that my brother and I had already cut a lucrative distribution deal with the Zetas. Now our product flows seamlessly through the southwest market without a single police dog sniffing around.

Our father would be proud. He always hated Vicente Rosales, and never forgave him for marrying the woman he'd wanted as his wife. I remember Isabella Rosales well, and her daughter Cataleyna is her spitting image. I see now how she's enchanted so many—including my brother. Her long ebony hair, flawless skin and . . . my gaze roams over her protruding belly.
His baby.
She's soiled. With a flash of anger, I crush out the cigar that I'd absently picked up. I toss it into the wastebasket and start pacing.

My mind zooms back to the newspaper article.
Is it him?
The question loops in my head until I feel the need to let off some steam. Exiting the office, I descend down into the ten-thousand-square-foot estate's dungeon. A crescendo of screams and wails greets my ears and carves a smile onto my face.

Nothing clears the mind like engaging in a little torture. And I have the right touch that can get the hardest gangsters to piss in their pants and sell their souls to make me stop. There's nothing quite like power. My brother taught me that.

As I walk down the center of the dungeon, I can hear the six prisoners I have chained down here scurry behind their iron bars. Today, I have my mind set on one prisoner. My current pet.

I stop before his cage, look up and meet his black stare. My pet looks up, at least as far as his spiked collar will allow him. When he thrusts up his chin with a false bravado, my dick hardens. “Why don't we play for a little while?” I reach for the medieval morning star flail and then unlock the cage.

My pet squirms on the floor, but he's unprepared when I club his chest and the iron spikes flail open his skin.

“AHHHHH!”

I laugh and hit him again. Twenty minutes later the stone walls are painted my favorite color: blood red.

 

“I
t's him! The muthafucka is still alive!” I toss a copy of the
Playa Times
at Salazar. “Look at the fucking picture and tell me that isn't him.”

Salazar picks up the newspaper and squints at the image. “I don't know, boss. I mean, I guess it sort of looks like him.”

“It's him.” I survived a stroke, and I'm now confined to this fucking wheelchair—the shit has slowed me down. After I saw the Vazquezes' boat explode on the water, my body turned on me. My empire has suffered, too. I lost most of my good men at my daughter's birthday massacre. Most of the rest were pilfered by the Sinaloa and Zetas cartels. Now I'm left with just a handful of loyal men. Then again, after Julian Arias's betrayal, maybe there's no such thing as loyalty.

“Have it checked out. If it's him—bring me back his head.”

“You got it, boss.” Salazar grabs the paper and races to carry out my orders.

Once alone, I exhale and then knock down that pinprick of hope growing within me. I can't afford to get my hopes up again. For months I refused to accept my daughter's death. How could I after reading her letter?

I power the wheelchair to my desk and then remove Cat's crumbled letter from my top drawer. The anger I felt when I first read it has long since ebbed away and has been replaced with anguish and sadness.

Unlike the first dozen times I read the letter and crumpled it up, I carefully fold and return it to my top drawer. Though I still want Julian Arias dead, I prefer the thought of him and Bella off together with my first grandchild than at the bottom of the ocean with the Vazquez brothers. It's either one or the other—but right now, it's the not knowing that's driving me mad. “She's out there,” I whisper under my breath. “Please, let her still be out there.”

“H
elp, Julian! Help!”

I wake up gasping and choking. It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I'm not sinking in some dark water, paddling for my life. But echoing in my head is that voice—that blood-curdling scream that leaves me anxious and powerless.
Who is she?

I rack my brain for a full minute, trying to get a name to fall off the tip of my tongue. Instead, my migraine worsens.

The clock on the wall tells me I've managed to sleep for a full ten minutes. With that woman's screaming in my head I can't see my sleeping pattern changing any time soon.

I've got to get out of this place.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and decide to test their strength by standing up. Almost instantly, the room starts spinning. My arms flail out and I grab hold of the IV stand until the spinning stops. After that, I take my time hobbling toward the bathroom, convincing myself that I'm getting stronger as I go.

When I enter the bathroom, I come face-to-face with my reflection. I look like a woolly mammoth with purplish burnt-crêpe skin beneath my chin and stretching halfway across my chest. On top of that, my eyes are bloodshot and weighed down with thick bags. In short, I look like hell.

Quickly, I splash water onto my face. Even that causes more images to click pass my closed eyes.
Moon. Rain. Gunfire. Scream.

I'm dizzy again and I pull away from the mirror. Not ready to climb back into bed, I decide to take my IV stand for a stroll. Exiting the room, I step into the bright light. There's a steady sound of beeps and trilling phone—but there's no one in sight. The hair on my neck stands up, but then I remind myself that the third shift probably operates with a skeleton crew. Pushing my unease to the back of my mind, I inch down the hallway. When I arrive at the nurses' station, I'm taken aback at seeing Nurse Nichelle face planted in a bag of Cheetos.

“Excuse me, ma'am?”

She doesn't move.

I lean forward to see whether I can hear her snoring.

Nothing.

In fact, I'm not sure that she's even breathing. “Ma'am?” I reach down to shake her shoulder. The second my hand touches her; I know that she's dead. “What the fuck?”

I glance up to see one of the room doors opening.

“Hey. I need some help over here!”

A man dressed in black but with the words
Policia Federal
stitched across his chest looks up. Then I notice the gun.

“Holy shit.” Abandoning my IV pole, I dive toward the other side of the nurses' station as muffled shots sound off.

The needle is ripped out of my arm as I spring back to my feet and scramble around to the back of the station.

One bullet grazes my right ear. I duck lower while still sprinting down the other side of the hallway.

I corner onto the next hall, ramming my shoulder into the wall. “Shit.” Stars dance before my eyes. The elevator doors up ahead are starting to close. Digging in deep, I race forward with all my might. I dive into the small box at the last second.

A bullet ricochets around me and punctures the key panel. But at least my ass made it.

Something lands on the roof. Startled, I look up and see a door open and a cop jumps down into the compartment. Instinct takes over, and I deliver a high kick to the man's gun arm, knocking his weapon to the ground. Next, I go in hard, delivering blows to his eyes, gut, and thorax. My attacker drops to the floor like a stone but I belatedly realize it brings him closer to the gun.

I go for the weapon as well, but he's able to get his hands around the butt and I have to wrestle him for it. I don't know where my strength is coming from but I'm fighting this dirty muthafucka with all I got.

A bell dings and the doors slide open.

“Aaaaah,” a woman screams.

He squeezes the trigger.
Poof! Poof!

The woman is silenced as she drops to the ground and the elevator doors close. The elevator descends as we wrestle and sweat like pigs. With my injuries, I'm the first to weaken. A second later, the gun arches in my direction.

The doors open. I have to get out of here.

I jack my knee straight up and crush the man's balls.

“Oof!” He releases his grip enough for me to grab control of the gun and point it his way.

The cop's body jumps and I look into his face to see his widening eyes. Slowly, a trickle of blood oozes from the corner of his mouth. He's dead.

Quickly, I shove the body off of me and then scramble out of the elevator and into the parking deck.

Panting and clutching the dead cop's gun, I have no idea which way to go or even where to go. Everything within me is telling me to run—that I'm not out of danger yet.

A police car turns onto the deck. I immediately hunch down and creep in between two cars. I move from car to car as the police car rolls closer to the elevator. Suddenly, it stops and I hear the car door open. “Fuck! Frank!” The cop races to elevator where his buddy is still lying in the doorway.

“Shit.” I crouch even lower, hold my breath, and wait.

The police radio squawks.

I eyeball a ramp that leads toward an upper deck. I weigh whether to make a run for it. I'll risk exposure.

At the next squawk, I suck in a deep breath and then go for broke.

“Hey!” the cop barks.

I take off.

Gunfire follows in my wake. Chips of cement bite into my ankles but I keep going. On the upper level, I hear the revving of a car's engine shortly before a pair of red and white lights bolt toward me. Unable to stop, I hit the back of a silver Mercedes convertible.

“Yo! Wait! Help!” I pound on the trunk and then rush around to the passenger door.

It's locked.

“Open up! Open up!”

I make eye contact with the woman behind the steering wheel—and recognition sets in.

“Malena! Please! Open the door!”

Her confusion barely clears when her passenger-side window shatters. Without thinking, I punch out the rest of the glass and dive in. “Go! Go! Go!”

She ducks and screams as more gunfire explodes, but she does have the sense to shift into drive and punch the accelerator.