It's he who steps forward this time, invading my space with an air of authority, his face so close I get the urge to kiss him. But the anger in his eyes demolishes any thought but what comes next.
“Doesn't it bother you that she's using you to fight a battle that you have nothing to do with?”
He must see the surprise stutter through me, because he steps back, picks up his half-spilled coffee. He takes a slow sip as he wipes his hand on his pants, and stares at the floor. It takes me a moment to form a coherent thought, a rebuttal of some kind. The silence between is daunting.
“That's how it works, Freddy. I'm still in her debt,” I say, barely audible. I'm watching him, silently pleading that he look at me.
His brow furrows again and he shakes his head fiercely. “That's not how it works. This is what Derrik did to me, the same fucking thing. And I should have been dead for it.”
My breath catches in my throat and the rage melts into grief. Is he right? Charlie is dead because of revenge for something he didn't have a part in. I might die for the very same reason. This time the tears win, rolling forth and down my cheeks. A sniff brings his eyes to me.
“I heard what she said to you, that if you fail you are disowned. Those other asshats don't know Spanish, they don't know the depths of her cruelty, but I heard every goddamned word. It's not right. You know it's not.”
I can't speak to answer. My voice won't come, just that familiar suffocating grief. And the tears, they fall in earnest. My thoughts become a messy race to fruition: this is how it works in the world of a cartel. My grandmother has to be a cold-hearted bitch because she still has to answer to the top, the children of this family are meant to be used. Or am I justifying?
The edge in him softens and he steps forward, grabs my shoulders gently. He looks me in the eye and says, “This woman was willing to let her grandchildren die by her own hand, because of money.”
Indignation takes hold of my center that he would dare insult my family. It's an old habit, one that feels out of place now. Finally I find my voice.
“What else do I have? This family is my life.”
His grip tightens on my shoulders and his voice comes a little more strained when he says, “Leave it behind.”
Shock resounds, chokes off the tears, and I just stare at him as the last ones slip down my cheeks. I shake my head in dumb response, fear tearing through me that he would even mention it.
“I can't.”
It's just a whisper.
“I can show you how to disappear,” he says, those gray eyes burning holes in my composure.
Is he really saying what I think he is? Run away, leave this all behind? He's done it before, but this time, he doesn't want to go alone. Of anyone left in my world, he was the last I would ever expect to say those words.
“Ven conmigo,” he whispers.
How tempting it is, to throw some cash and clothes in the car and peel out to unexplored lands. Just now, I want nothing more than to ride the sunset down with him. Surely he can see it. But it wouldn't be right to Josh, or Izzy. It wouldn't be right to Charlie. I shake my head.
“I can't.”
He stares at me for a long time, the overt concern creasing his features. He releases one shoulder to wipe the tears from my cheek. He sounds so sad when he says, “I thought you might say that.”
“I won't blame you for leaving,” I say, my voice watery, weak.
Now it's he who shakes his head. He says, “I'm not going anywhere.”
He pulls me into a hug and the tears return. All the weary sadness of the loss of my brother and a new bleeding betrayal by my own family.
“We have to finish this, Frederick. You and me,” I mutter into his shoulder.
He squeezes a little tighter. His voice is gruff when he says, “I thought you might say that, too.”
“I want to blow up that whole goddamned warehouse,” I say through my sniffs.
He kisses the top of my head, like he does every time he sees me cry. He pulls me back to look me in the eye. He's serious when he says, “I can make that happen.”
Chapter 26 Codes in the Silence
Frederick
It's mid-day and it's too hot to move. Even the workers are on siesta. I'd sleep if I could put the brakes to my racing brain. Instead, I'm sprawled in a big rocking chair in my guest room, drapes drawn against the sun, with a fan blowing on high against me. The chair is cocked back and my bare feet are propped against the edge of a full-size bed. My hands have been abandoned on the chair arms for too long to gauge. Spread across the mattress on an old tattered sheet is my arsenal.
A floor lamp casts a weak half-light across an array of weaponry, highlighting their curves and edges. I've been here, wearing just a pair of shorts, staring at the pieces of my life since I laid them out in their full glory. There's one missing, the six-shooter my mentor gave me, the gun that initiated me into this life. Its absence is like a bloody hole in my chest, but what it represents has no place here, at what could be the end. Whether I die soon or not, I'll never shoot that gun again.
I slept a few hours in the smallest part of morning,
