“Does J.J. know what you’ve just volunteered him for?”
“Mason has only been well enough to speak to us for a couple days. He still has to recover from his wounds. He barely escaped paralysis, so it will be some time before he is in a condition to do anything besides recuperate. The important detail is that he’s no longer on the radar of either the Amador or Zavala cartels, yet has intel on both of them, which will put him in a unique position to help when the time comes.”
I tilt back my drink and realize I’ve already emptied the glass but have no recollection of doing so. Leo takes it from my hand and refills it, and I take a big gulp as I try to process all this.
“Your brother’s alive,” Leo finally says, squeezing the back of my neck. “Does anything else really matter right now?”
I look up and meet his eyes, then my gaze catches on the chain around his neck and the mangled bullet that hangs against the front of his shirt. I shake my head, because he’s right, and if anyone understands how monumental that is, it’s him.
My brother is alive.
Epilogue Two
Mason
The call with Maddox ends and I close the laptop. “Thanks for that. What happens next?”
Eerie, pale blue eyes assess me. This Amon fucker is creepy as hell, but I can’t argue that he knows what he’s doing. The night he helped us clean up the two bloody cars in my brother’s garage, I got a firsthand look at his skill and how coldly efficient he is at carrying out whatever task Arturo Flores sets for him. “You heal.”
“I’m on it, but I’m not an idiot. I know there’s more to it than that. Care to enlighten me, or is your vocabulary too limited? Do we need some flashcards or do you communicate via smoke signals?” I jest, but I can’t help but wonder if he means heel, like I’m a dog and he wants me to behave, but I’m not about to ask him that.
He doesn’t even react, just stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. “When you can walk, we will talk.” Then he leaves the room.
The truth is, as thrilled as I am not to be dead, I’m exhausted and I hurt all over, but I’m not about to flood my system with any more pain meds than I need to take the edge off. I don’t trust Arturo Flores for a second, but I can’t exactly tell him no. He saved my life and he controls my brother, whether Maddox knows it or not.
Plus, he’s set me up in some pretty sweet digs for my recovery. I didn’t see where he took me, since I was in the back of an ambulance for the trip, but I know it’s within an hour of LA, by the beach, so my guess is Malibu.
I have an ocean view and a pair of private nurses who work in shifts. One is actually pretty cute, but they have a male orderly who bathes me. Too bad I’m not into dudes like my brother or I’d have a lot more fun. Maybe I can ask the cute nurse for a sponge bath for Christmas. Or even better, maybe I can request the pretty doctor who first saw me when I was brought into the ER a week ago, though I can’t help but wonder if she was just a dream. Even if she’s real, my dreams are probably a safer place for her than my reality.
The doctor I do have, Dr. Yao—fucking hilarious name for a doctor—visits daily to check on me and says I’m healing well, but my legs still aren’t quite working. They will. I have feeling in them. I guess there’s just swelling around my spine or something that’s preventing me from walking yet. When Gustavo shot me, the bullet just missed my heart but grazed a vertebra badly enough to nearly paralyze me. But hell, I’m alive, so that’s something.
I just don’t know what the hell they want with me. I can guess though. I got in deep enough with Zavala over those three months I ran guns for them that I have some solid contacts, and I know they’re big enough rivals of Amador that they’re intent on destroying him and taking over his territory. Organizations like them are ruthless and devious, employing just as much subterfuge to get what they want as the fucking CIA. I know they have intel on Amador—on how he works, and what he wants—and I’m pretty sure that’s what Flores is hoping to get from me.
Except with J.J. Santos officially dead, I’d have to get in as my alter-ego, the name I used to keep a measure of distance between my family and my job. Zavala only knows me as Mason Black, who, by necessity, isn’t the man with the contacts at the Naval Weapons Station.
Thanks to Amon and Flores any trace of J.J. or cartel contacts who can ID me on sight are gone. I predict they’ll come to me with the second request as soon as I’ve recovered. And I have to say I’m looking forward to officially being someone new, even if it means running headlong into a new shit storm. I’m also more than ready to fully embrace my new identity. I chose the name for two reasons: One, because I hate my real name and the man who gave it to me; and two, because I’ve always been the black sheep, so it suits me well.
As of today, Julian Santos Jr. is dead. Long live Mason Black.
Read On
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