Suicide Mission Read Free Page A

flat-screen TV dominated one side of the room. The opposite wall was glass, revealing a courtyard with a pool surrounded by a tiled patio.
    Normally the lights around the courtyard would be on so that Pablo could frolic in that pool with the drug-addicted putas he preferred. Those women might be young and still beautiful, not yet showing the ravages of the poison they put in their bodies, but they were still whores, Alfredo thought, and they were prime examples of just why Pablo couldn’t be trusted with anything too important.
    Sometimes in the past when Alfredo had visited the villa, one or more of the women had tried to entice him. After all, he was slim, elegantly dressed, and with his dark hair he was handsome even when wearing the steel-framed glasses. Because he hadn’t succumbed to their charms, they had talked about him behind his back and proclaimed him to be a homosexual.
    That was nonsense, of course. Alfredo enjoyed the company of women, but only the right women. There was a professor of antiquities in Mexico City . . . a diplomatic liaison . . . a lawyer . . . women who were intelligent enough to carry on a conversation and refined enough for an important man to be seen with.
    So let the whores make their scurrilous comments about him. They were unimportant, not worth caring about.
    Pablo came back into the room, trailed by five men. Two of them stumbled as they walked because they had black hoods over their heads and couldn’t see where they were going. The other three prodded them along with machine pistols.
    â€œThat’s far enough,” Alfredo told the three guards. He gestured, and one of the gunmen pulled the hoods off the prisoners’ heads.
    Their faces showed the marks of the beating they had endured. Their mouths were bloody, their eyes swollen almost shut. Bruises discolored their features. Smears of blood had dried on their skin.
    One of the men was Hispanic, the other black. They looked terrified but also stubbornly defiant, meeting Alfredo’s speculative gaze without looking away.
    â€œYou’re certain they are who you say they are?” he asked Pablo.
    â€œThe information is trustworthy,” Pablo said. He pointed to the Hispanic prisoner. “This one is Border Patrol. The other works for the DEA.”
    Alfredo smiled coolly and said, “I wasn’t sure the Americans even had a border patrol anymore. What purpose does it serve when the funding is cut to the bare bones because the President wants more and more illegals in the country so they can vote for him?” He turned his gaze to the black prisoner. “And why enforce the drug laws? Sooner or later all drugs will be legalized in your country, because that’s what the voters want, eh, amigo?”
    â€œYou’d better hope that day never comes,” the man answered. “When it does you’re out of business.”
    â€œA good point,” Alfredo admitted. “But until that time, we all still have our parts to play in this little drama.”
    â€œLife isn’t a telenovela ,” the Hispanic prisoner snapped.
    Alfredo raised his carefully barbered eyebrows and said, “If it were, it would be so much more entertaining, wouldn’t it? All the men would be handsome, all the women gorgeous.” He clasped his hands together behind his back. “Tell me what you know.”
    The two men stared sullenly at him and remained silent. After a moment, Alfredo nodded to Pablo, who barked an order. One of the guards lowered his machine pistol, pulled a blackjack from his pocket, and smashed it into the back of the Hispanic prisoner’s right knee. Despite his obvious determination not to, the man cried out in pain and fell to the floor as that leg folded up underneath him. The guard struck again with the blackjack, this time shattering the man’s kneecap.
    Howls of agony filled the room until the guard put his foot on the prisoner’s throat, choking off the