The two men walked toward the door, where Santiago ordered the driver to stand guard outside.
As they entered the outer office, a squat little man rose quickly from a chair behind a small desk. “Jefe, I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I’m not here to check anything,” Santiago said. “When Manuel and Gabriel arrive, they will have a woman with them. Tell Manuel to bring her to my office.”
Without waiting for a response, Santiago strode down a hallway and unlocked the last door.
His office wasn’t as opulent as his home, but it surpassed the average business office in the warehouse district. The walls were done in a rich, dark wood, with ornate trim. Leather and wood furnishings decorated the space. The floor was brown Ecuadoran tile.
Being the leader of the largest and most notorious gang in South Florida had its advantages. Need was a relative thing for Carlos Santiago; it bordered on what he wanted.
Santiago seated himself in the custom leather chair behind his desk. After opening his laptop, which was connected to a private network, he quickly checked the status of MS-13’s vast drug importation business while he waited.
Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
“Entra,” he said, and closed the laptop.
Manuel opened the door and came in. Gabriel was behind him, shoving a bound, gagged, and blindfolded black woman ahead of him.
“Go outside and bring me three strong men,” Santiago told Gabriel.
As he left, the big man closed the door behind him.
Santiago pointed to a chair in front of his desk and Ortolano pushed the woman down into it.
“Remove the gag and blindfold,” Santiago ordered, as he leaned back in his chair.
Ortolano did as he was told and the woman looked around, obviously frightened.
“Do you know who I am, puta?”
The woman’s clothes were disheveled. She had an open cut on her cheek, and dried blood smeared her skin.
“No,” she replied nervously.
“My name is Carlos Santiago,” he said. “I run MS-13 here in Miami.”
Her eyes locked on his. “What do you want with me?”
“Do you know what happened in Fort Myers last night?”
She looked up at Manuel, standing next to her with his arms folded across his chest, then turned panicked eyes back to Santiago. “I heard there were some shootings,” she said.
Santiago could see in her eyes that she knew about all the black prostitutes he’d ordered Razor to kill in retaliation for the murders of MS-13 hookers.
“Where were you when last night’s shootings happened?”
“I was in a rehab center,” she replied. “Please…I had nothing to do with what happened.”
“What were you doing in rehab?” Santiago asked, as he opened his desk drawer and took out a small bag of crystal meth.
She eyed the bag with a look that bordered on voraciousness.
Santiago produced a small meth pipe and butane lighter, placing them beside the drugs.
“Me and a b-bunch of other working girls went there,” she replied. “I left this morning. I couldn’t take being there anymore.”
“Just puta negras like you?” he asked, unworried that he might be insulting her. “Or were there Chicanas, as well?”
“Both,” she replied. “Even a coupla white girls. More than a dozen altogether.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Un minuto,” Santiago said, as he dropped a large rock into the pipe and pushed it and the lighter across the desk. “Go ahead,” he told the woman. “Ride the cloud.”
With her hands tied, she fumbled with the pipe.
“Untie her, Manuel,” Santiago said. “I think she is being very cooperative, don’t you?”
Manuel flicked a big knife open. “Si, jefe.”
The blade parted the nylon rope binding her wrists.
“What is your name?” Santiago asked.
“Aliyah,” she replied, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the bottom of the bowl. “Aliyah Wilkins.”
As smoke started to swirl in the pipe, she put it to her lips and inhaled deeply until it was all gone. Then she blew out a gray-blue plume and slumped back in the chair.
“Is that better?” Santiago asked.
“Oh yeah, man.”
“Open the door, Manuel.”
Ortolano turned and opened the office door. Gabriel entered, followed by three gang members—warehouse workers—stripped down to their jeans. Each had numerous gang tattoos covering their sweaty torsos. The three men looked at Santiago, then at the woman.
“Take this puta out to the warehouse and fuck her up good,” he told the biggest of the three men. “Let the others join in if they want. Just don’t kill her.”
Aliyah looked confused.
Two men lifted her by the arms and the third man grabbed her knees, bringing her legs up until her butt smacked his groin. She struggled, but not much, as the three men easily carried her out of the office.
“Do you think she knows anything?” Ortolano asked.
“Maybe,” Santiago said. “Go out there and question her while the men gangbang her. I want to know why so many were in rehab and I want to know who was responsible.”
I woke early, before dawn’s first light. Looking out the east-facing bedroom window, I could still see stars, which was all the weather forecast I needed. The old idiom of red sky in morning, sailor take warning was true—at least in spring, when weather patterns typically came out of the east.
It was going to be a nice day.
Savannah stirred as I rose from our bed. “What time are you leaving?” she mumbled, rolling onto her side.
“After sunrise. I texted Tank last night that we’d pick him up by zero eight hundred. He chastised me for being a late riser.”
“You’ll be back in time for dinner?”
“By mid-afternoon, at the latest,” I replied, pulling on my boxers. “Dink said he was getting cobia off Channel Key Bank.”
“Channel Key Bank?”
“A few miles northeast of Grassy Key.”
She sat up and the sheet fell down to her waist. We typically slept in the nude when it was warm. I was tempted to stay but knew Alberto would be rising soon.
“I’ll make some breakfast,” she said. “And some sandwiches to take with you on the boat.”
“Thanks. I’m gonna get Alberto up, get the
