The Relic Runner Origin Story Box Set by Ernest Dempsey (non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

forth as the guard placed the bloody rag over the prisoner's face, then pushed down with both hands to keep the victim still.

"No!" Eduardo's muted screams filled the room, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls and going no farther. No one would hear him. Not even upstairs in the mansion where Giovani Mendoza conducted business as usual.

One of the other guards, a man with a shaved head and matching crosses tattooed on both cheeks, picked up the plastic bucket and held it over Eduardo's head.

Luis waited for a second, and then said, "Who put you up to this, Eduardo?"

"Please! I didn't—"

His voice cut off as the guard dumped a stream of water onto the rag. Eduardo choked and gagged. The man with the bucket righted the container for a moment while the prisoner coughed.

"Who?"

After another ten seconds of gurgled coughing, Eduardo tried to speak. "Please, Luis. Please!"

Luis ignored the pleas and nodded again at the guard. Once more, the bucket tilted. The liquid poured onto the rag. Eduardo shook violently, jerking his head in every conceivable direction, but he couldn't escape. Water seeped into his mouth and lungs. The coughing returned as his body tried to reject the liquid. Eduardo's chest burned and squeezed in terrible agony.

The guard tipped the bucket back to its upright state and waited again.

"Tell me, Eduardo. Tell me who put you up to this. I want to know where the guns went. Give me everything and I will make this end."

Eduardo hesitated. Luis hadn't been certain of the man's guilt. It was entirely possible they were torturing an innocent person. That, however, came with the job. Sometimes the innocent were punished, but that was how control was maintained. That hesitation, though, told Luis he'd been right about Eduardo.

"Guerreros," Eduardo yelped. "Nuevos Guerreros." He sobbed openly now from under the soaked rag. His body convulsed with ever choking tears. "They said they would kill my family, Luis. My parents, my wife. They said they would execute all of them."

Luis inclined his head at the information. He'd suspected the Guerreros were responsible. They were the only organization clever enough to pull a stunt like that, in this part of the country, anyway.

The intention, Luis believed, was to make it look like Dorado Aguila had taken to butchering American missionaries. The plan would have worked if not for Marco's quick decision and Luis' ability to manipulate the media.

He'd spun the story on its head, turning it against the Guerreros before they could take further action. Now, they were a target for both the Mexican government and the Americans. The latter wouldn't do anything official. They would send in covert ops, teams of them, to mete out their own brand of justice.

One thing Eduardo said, however, needled at Luis. His heart—for the briefest of seconds—tensed at the prisoner's comment about his family.

Luis swept the emotions under a resolute, grim façade. "Thank you, Eduardo. I knew it was them. I'm glad to see you have confirmed my suspicions."

The man holding the rag pulled it back and revealed Eduardo's face again. "Please, Luis," he begged between feeble coughing fits. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again. I sw—"

Luis raised a pistol in his right hand and fired. The suppressor muffled the sound to just above a click, like someone flicking their fingernail on a desk.

Eduardo's head fell back against the wooden board and slumped to the side, a blackened crimson hole in his forehead.

"Get rid of him," Luis ordered his men. "Leave his body at one of the known Guerreros pickup locations. It's time to send them a message."

He turned and stormed out of the room and up the stairs, never once looking back.

Five

Guadalajara

Dak scrolled through his phone, reading an article about the terrible massacre that happened on the road between Uruapan and the village of Tiamba. His heart ached for the victims and their families. Yet all he could see from the incident was an ongoing argument between the local cartels. The government, for their part, also helped gloss over the tragedy by continuing to put out statements about how the investigation was ongoing and they weren't certain who was responsible.

Could Luis have been behind the killings? The possibility was 50/50 at this point.

Dak sat at a corner booth so he could keep an eye on everything and everyone in the place. The cantina harkened back to the days of old Mexico, when outlaws roamed freely, kicking in doors and settling matters with pistols instead of law and order. Ironically, it seemed much of the country still embraced those antiquated customs. At least here, in this part of the big city, the cartels' grasp wasn't as firm. Expensive high rise condos and apartment buildings reached to the sky over the rolling plains of Guadalajara. He'd passed Ferrari, Aston Martin, and Maserati dealerships on his way to the bar—a telling contrast between the lives of the wealthy and those who kept the country running from the depths of blue collar mediocrity.

To her credit, Will's contact had picked a place between the two. The location of the bar on one of the many side streets Guadalajara had to offer gave it enough business to look legitimate, but not enough to bring in any significant revenue.

That, Dak knew, came from somewhere else.

The bar was nearly empty, only playing host to three other patrons. To be fair, it was still early in the day, but he estimated the busiest time would only produced six or seven more customers. The books probably reflected that, showing just enough profit to keep the lights on and the cops away.

He set the phone down on the table and picked up the glass of light gold tequila. He raised it to his lips and took a sip, letting the peppery liquid sit on his tongue before swallowing it.

He exhaled as the smooth burn slipped down his throat.

A black-haired woman in a white v-neck button down and faded blue jeans emerged through the manager's door to his left.