A Jar of Hearts Read Free Page B

to forge a new life, even if it was under the name of a dead man called James Connelly.

CHAPTER 3

     
     
     
     
     
    James strode up to the house that served as a local base for The Pachecos.
    “Hey, Jamie,” one man greeted him on the way.
    “Hey, Roberto,” he replied, giving him a slight nod. He glanced at his bright white sling shirt over his colorful knee length shorts. His white socks were pulled up his leg and almost up to his knees. It was the traditional dress code for most Hispanic gang members. The one thing he had learned in his stay with The Pachecos was that they always stayed fresh, clean and with an admirable sense of loyalty to both their gang and their families. He had once amusingly observed one rugged member, respectably feared by his peers, being cuffed the upside of his head by his very small and petite mother for forgetting to bring back home a crate of eggs. Until he had become a part of The Pachecos, he had always believed them to be merciless humans with no empathy or emotions for anyone other than themselves. They were still cruel bastards, but he couldn’t help credit them for their loyalty to their families.
    He stepped into the house and was immediately greeted with chatter and the whirring sound of a tattoo machine.
    “Juan,” James said as he approached the man sitting on a chair receiving yet another tattoo in his inked covered body.
    “Jamie,” Juan Carlos grimaced.
    James grabbed a chair and watched the man who led the The Pachecos skewing his face in pain as the tattooist deftly moved his needle along the drafted design on his skin.
    “Why don’t you get one?” Juan said, lifting an eyebrow at him. “You got too clean a skin, man. You need some ink.”
    “I don’t like being branded.”
    “You don’t like being a Pacheco?”  There was a clear hint of suspicion in his voice.
    James leaned back into his chair, trying to act as mellow as he could. “I would like to think you can measure my loyalty other than by a bit of ink on my body.”
    Juan smirked. “Unlike Little Dimey. He had our brand all over him and yet he ratted us out.”
    James shrugged. “Perhaps. My position in the gang is to remain silent and hidden. Any markings would only make me conspicuous. It would make it difficult for me to blend in with the public if anything happened.” He licked his lips. “Besides, I’m not too fond of needles.”
    Juan laughed. “You’re scared of needles?!”
    James smiled and shook his head. “I had a nagging feeling not to tell you that.” Inside, he was only too glad to diffuse the tension between them. The Pachecos didn’t take betrayal very well. “So what is this new assignment you’ve called me for?”
    Juan waved the tattooist away, wincing from the pain in his arm. He stood up from his chair to look over the tattoo in the mirror. “It’s meant to be a Pacheco wearing a sombrero.”
    “It’s getting there,” James said, his eyes resting on Juan’s reddened arm.
    “Ahh, the pleasure in pain… and the beauty.” He turned back to James with a grin. “We have a training coming up in two days. And we’ve got a former Navy Seal to teach the boys how to properly use these guns. It’s going to be awesome.”
    A former Seal? Teaching gangsters how to properly use a gun would be a game changer on the streets. There would be an all out war between the law and the outlaws.
    “That is certainly something we needed,” he said aloud, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Who is this guy?”
    Juan slapped his shoulder gently. “Brett Johnson. He was a naval special warfare operator. We will be in good hands.”
    A nerve beat rapidly in his temples. This was going to be terrible. The chaos unleashed on the streets by a gang who were knowledgeable in the art of using warfare would be unfathomable. Even without that training it was crazy.
    “Where is the training?” he asked as casually as he could.
    “On a ranch in Mexico. We’d have to cross over to the