He turned the volume down, steered them back on to the road with one hand draped over the steering wheel, and followed the road’s turn as it passed by the gas station. As expected, blue and red flashing lights flooded the area. Local troopers combed through the store and his truck, wondering what the hell just happened in their one gas station, two stop light town.

If they hadn’t found the bodies already, they’d be stumped. Podunk Kentucky didn’t see a lot of shootouts, and it didn’t have a regular body count.

CHAPTER SEVEN

After the gas station debacle and two separate motel incidents, Diego Cortes didn’t have the disk or the lady. She was on the run with a proficient partner. Sweat soaked through his shirt. If El Jefe knew of his failures, it would be a writ of execution. Juan Carlos Silva was as vicious as he was creative. This was bad, but he could salvage it. Diego’s reputation and beating heart were on the line, and if ever there were a chance to prove he was worthy, it was now.

Representing the Silva Cartel was an honor. He wouldn’t fail.

The Lady of the Rosary medallion under his collar stuck to his chest. He pulled it out and flipped the medal between his fingers. Santa Madre de Dios, please help.

Diego was the last man standing and, like he was told by Senor Silva, he needed to use his brains. He should have done that before, but, no, his head was too big. Hiring local criminals was a mistake. More than a mistake. They were amateurs. And now, they were dead. He’d handed them a handful of bills after trolling for sordid men jonesing for an American dollar. He should have found an investment instead of a quick fix.

He knew Senor Silva better than most. Diego slaved under his tutelage, earned his trust, and swore to the Virgin Mary his loyalty. If he didn’t complete his task, Senor Silva would take immense pleasure in his death. He would nurse a crystal glass of high priced liquor, bleed him out, and delight in calling his mama. Senor would torture her, recounting how Diego failed the Silva cartel. Their family, his legacy obliterated. How his mama would weep, mourning for so many reasons.

No. Success must happen. The holy medallion slipped back under his shirt, tangling in his chest hair. It pulled, ripped a hair loose at the root, and reminded him this sting was a mosquito bite compared to what could happen.

He prayed for strengths and triumph. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios.

Winters eyed Mia. She rolled the window down, slapping the button as it shorted out, twice. He needed to do the same, anything to air out the stench of leftover fast food and stale smoke. The car was disgusting. The steering wheel was sticky, and empty beer cans rolled on the floorboards. He needed to wash his hands pronto. This clunker was foul, but according to Titan, not hot.