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

knew Mendoza would be fine with that. Such action would bring suspicion, investigation, and more trouble than any of them needed. He was going to have to hurry things along, and Luis hated to rush. Careful planning was his MO.

"Seventy-two hours," he said, confirming Mendoza's order.

The boss gave a single nod, stood, and walked out of the room with his four guards in tow. Luis stood alone in the room for nearly a minute before Marco entered from just outside.

"What are we going to do?" Marco asked.

Luis didn't want to say it, but he knew it was the only way. This gig grew more nauseating by the minute and it sickened him to think of what he'd become, what he'd done, what he was going to do to keep his family safe. But how long would that truly last? There was no way of knowing.

He stared at the table, ignoring the question until Marco pressed him by saying, "Luis?"

Luis raised his eyes and met the man's questioning gaze. "We're going to have to blow up some boats."

Ten

Uruapan

Dak hunched over the bar at the Caballo Oscuro Cantina, his fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of tequila. When in Rome, he thought. His normal drink of choice, a neat whiskey from Kentucky or Tennessee, was his preference, but he figured he should probably do everything he could to fit in.

Being a gringo in most Mexican towns wasn't so bad. Few people paid any notice, especially since he dressed like an ex-pat who'd been there for years on a meager salary. Those who moved to Mexico and dressed extravagantly drove expensive cars, they were the people who made easy targets and drew too much attention, the wrong kind of attention.

Ironically, attention was exactly what Dak wanted at this bar. And he was after the worst kind.

The bartender stood at the edge of the counter in the corner, leaning on one elbow as he watched a soccer game on a television behind the bar. Leon and Club America were fighting it out in a 2-2 thriller with twenty minutes to play.

Most of the people in the bar were likewise glued to the match, including the one female at a booth with two other men.

Four guys at the bar sat together, watching with keen interest. With every foul, every near-miss, their emotions rose like a tidal wave and crashed onto the rocky shore of disappointment.

Dak knew immediately they were part of the organization he sought, along with the bartender. The other three at the booth, he wasn't sure.

One of the players in a white, green, and yellow Leon uniform fired a shot into the top right corner of the goal, sending the occupants of the bar into a frenzy. The four men down the counter from Dak leaped out of their seats, slapped each other on the back, and chanted songs. They high-fived the bartender who joined in the jubilation with his own brand of celebration, pumping both fists over his shoulders.

The man was older than the rest of the people in the cantina by at least twenty years. A thin ring of black hair clung to his scalp, just above the ears, and his head gleamed from the overhead lights. A dense mustache stretched out over his lips and draped down past the corners of his mouth until they nearly reached his jaw. His potbelly betrayed a sedentary life, probably much like the one Dak currently witnessed.

The raucous celebration died down as the ball was returned to midfield and play resumed.

The tension, however, was even higher than before, reaching to Himalayan heights at the thought of their team pulling off an upset that, no doubt, also involved some pretty heavy wagers.

"Could I get another tequila?" Dak asked, keeping his eyes on the counter.

The bartender didn't budge. His eyes remained fixed on the flatscreen.

Dak nodded at the poor service and dumped the last bit of Reposado tequila down his throat. He slammed the glass down on the counter loud enough that it startled the bartender and the four men at the bar. He didn't bother to look back at the group sitting around the booth.

"I said, can I get another tequila," Dak repeated, this time with feigned irritation.

The bartender fired him an irritated glare, then reluctantly walked over to the shelves behind the cash register, grabbed the bottle he'd poured from before, and spilled another shot into Dak's glass.

The barkeep locked eyes with the American, glowering at him until the glass was full. "Drink that and don't bother me again until the game is over."

He set the bottle next to the glass and turned back toward the television. He was about to amble back to his standing spot in the corner when Dak stopped him.

"That's not good business," he said. "Pretty sure your boss wouldn't appreciate you giving away free drinks."

The bartender froze in mid-stride and turned slowly. "What did you say?"

The four men at the counter also perked up, each spinning around to see who dared mention the bartender's boss.

It was one of those moments that Dak had seen in the movies, where the music stops and everyone freezes, time slows down, and then all eyes shift to the offending party.

He raised the glass and took a sip. The warm liquid washed over this tongue and eased down his throat with a slow burn.

"Although, with tequila like this, I can see why you'd give it away. Who made this anyway?"

Dak saw the four men to his right ease out of their seats and plant their feet on the ground. He already knew they were armed, each carrying a pistol on their right hip, tucked into the back of their jeans. Their untucked button-up shirts did almost nothing to hide the weapons from plain sight. But when you worked for the Guerreros, you weren't worried about petty laws.

It was easy to assume the bartender was armed too, probably with a shotgun hanging from a couple of hooks under the counter. If Dak had to guess, it would