Rafael saw only his mother. But his mouth uttered words that betrayed his heart and he felt a piece of himself die as he spoke his answer. "I am."
"What a relief that is to hear, my Rafa. When your opportunity presents, be a man of action, act swiftly and decisively. Matters of life and death are not to be taken lightly." Rafael heard the words, but his mind kept taking him back to the sound of his mother's choked gasps in the minutes she sat dying while strapped to a chair.
One of the twelve cell phones neatly arranged on a nearby table vibrated. Hector's assistant answered and then walked it over to his boss.
"Sir, it is one of your friends." Even in open air conversation, surrounded by guards and a walled fortress and acres of land enclosed with the Fuentes compound, they spoke code. The veiled speech was done more out of habit, but there was always the looming fear a government agency or rival cartel was eavesdropping.
Hector took the phone. Rafael remained within earshot to pick up both ends of the conversation. If his father hadn't wanted him to hear, he would have sent Raphael away. The fact that he didn't meant he wanted Raphael to listen.
"An American woman by the name of Daphne Nighthawk was poking around the department lobby this morning." Both men stood shoulder to shoulder and listened as the informant spoke. "She's looking for that girl. The redhead we moved through here the other day."
"And where is she now?"
There was a long pause. "I'm working on that as we speak."
"I pay you good money to handle these problems. I might be forced to seek assistance elsewhere." The threat unspoken, lingered in the air.
"Mister Fuentes, I tried. I did. I offered to have her come in to make a statement. She got spooked and left."
"You should've stopped her. You're a big strong guy. Couldn't stop a little woman from slipping away."
"She's not little. And besides, that loony reporter was in the lobby again."
Hector sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Find her. No excuses."
"And how would you like her handled?"
"I'd like to have Juan Carlos speak with her before she sets sail for the afterlife. Keep me posted." Hector ended the call and tossed the phone to his assistant who caught it in midair and then returned it to its rightful place. He then turned to his son. "Seems like your opportunity to prove yourself may rise quicker than I expected."
"Do you think it would be best handled by The Viper?" Raphael asked.
"He's returning from cleaning up that mess in Arizona. Plus, it gives me a chance to see you in charge. I'm leaving you as oversight on this problem. It should be a good warmup for things to come. How much trouble can one woman be?"
"I won't let you down." The words sickened Raphael. All his planned resistance to his dad's pressure folded the instant Hector confronted him.
"This will be your first test. And please, whatever you do. Don't fail me."
Eleven
The cigarette remained carefully balanced between Kyle Moss's trembling lips as he stared down the barrel of the silenced pistol used to kill his attorney, Neil Taylor, a second ago. Moss was paralyzed. Not frozen. Literally paralyzed to the point of needing to make a conscious effort to breathe.
The shot had been fired just as Moss lit the cigarette. Both his hands hovered just above the table as if somebody hit pause on his life. A fragment of Taylor's skull was stuck to his face, the blood and brain matter served as a glue, adhering it to the right side of his cheek. Kyle wanted to wipe it off. He wanted to put his hands down. He wanted to get to the gun on the bed. None of his brain's requests were being honored by his body. His state of disconnect left him rigid.
The black semi-automatic pistol in the killer's hand seemed to grow bigger with each passing second. The frozen Moss took shallow breaths of the smoke-filled air, waiting for the gunman to kill him. But as precious seconds ticked by, no shot came.
"You may relax your hands, Mr. Moss, but please keep them on the table where I can see them." The man in the dark wide brimmed hat and suit of matching color lifted the rectangular leather case, then set it on the table before him without moving the muzzle off its intended target, Moss's forehead.
A worn leather bracelet clung to the gunman's wrist just beneath his suit sleeve. A long rattlesnake's tail dangled freely from it. The sound of its rattle as the killer set the leather case down didn't bother him. But the rattle from inside the case nearly caused Moss to vomit.
"I don't understand. I called you." Moss found the courage to speak but the words came out in clunky spurts as if his mind were trying to assemble each word letter by letter before releasing them.
"You have stolen from Mr. Fuentes. I am here to collect that debt. Now let's get on with this unfortunate business. And who I am is not of consequence to you. And it will soon not matter to either of us that I tell you. I am Alfredo Perez, but few know it. To those who stare at the case, I'm called El Vibora, The Viper."
"Wait! What? Stolen? I didn't steal anything from Mister Fuentes. Absurd! Are you kidding me? Get your boss on the phone." The ice in his limbs began to melt away as his paralyzing fear gave way to anger. Getting the gun from the bed was becoming a more possible opportunity.
"Maybe your idea of theft is different from Mister Fuentes’。 Was there not a contractual arrangement made?"
"Yes," Moss said. Buy time. Get the gun. He knew what The Viper meant by contractual arrangement. Selling his stepdaughter into slavery had turned out to be the worst financial decision in Moss's long list of mistakes. It had been a hail Mary pass to save a dying business. And it backfired catastrophically. The climactic end of that karmic fallout was standing less than six feet away from him and holding a gun.
"So there it is, an arrangement was made. Money changed hands. Deals were made. Deals were broken. I am the one who repairs the damage."
"It wasn't my fault. And I never stole the money. You gotta believe me!"
"It doesn't matter what I believe. The call was made. I am here. Nothing short of a miracle will stop what comes next."
"You don't speak like a killer." Moss felt the statement slip out. Even offered an apologetic look to accompany it. But it was true. His English was soft and fluid. Educated in the US. His skin was pale. Hard to tell if he was even Mexican. His dark wire thin mustache and wide eyes gave him a Doc Holiday sort of look. None of it mattered. Kyle couldn't help but stare at the ghost-like marks underneath his right eye.
"Do you know a lot of killers, Mr. Moss?"
"Well—eh—no."
"Well, I do. And one thing I can tell you is that each of them approach death as uniquely as a set of fingerprints." He moved his hand toward the leather case. Three brass snap buckles separated the serpent inside from Moss.
Stall. Business 101. "Look, I told whoever I spoke to on the phone that I was planning to wire the money back as soon as the Feds unfreeze my accounts. My attorney was going to handle that," Moss shot a glance at the recently deceased Neil Taylor, "but not to worry, I can hire another."
The gun remained leveled at Moss's head, but The Viper didn't continue his reach for the case. "Even now, facing the tragic consequence of your life's decisions, you still cannot speak the truth. Sad really, if you stop to think about it. But you won't have long to ponder. So, please make use of the time you have left on this earth."