1–Blood on the Docks

GUSTAVO

I’m waiting at the docks with two of my lower-level subordinates. They normally take on menial tasks, and I don’t even know their names. I think one is Gianni, or Giuseppe, and the other is Mike.

I don’t want to be here. This assignment seems like a waste of my time, but the boss told me to get it done, so here I am. We’re waiting for an exchange. We—the Italian Mafia—recently made a truce with the Mexican Mafia, and they’re sending a couple men here to pick up some opioids in exchange for guns.

An underboss at an exchange is huge overkill. Antonio—my boss—probably sent me so these idiots don’t say anything that jeopardizes the truce. The two are very well suited for that type of work, but socializing with others isn’t their specialty.

A breeze runs through the docks, and I pull my jacket closer. It’s abnormally breezy in LA today. It’s usually scorching hot in October because we’re the Sunshine State.

“Where are these guys, anyways?” Gianni/Giuseppe complains.

“The Mexican Mafia aren’t known for their promptness,” I respond.

The concept of time is very flexible in Mexico. If someone says they’ll be a few minutes late, it will most likely be at least half an hour. It’s a cultural thing, albeit a very annoying one when trying to do business.

“We bring them 500k worth of drugs, and they leave us hanging. The fuck is up with that?” he says.

“Quit bitching. We need the guns. If we have to wait at the docks for an extra half hour, so be it.”

We don’t have to worry about looking suspicious, because no business happens at the docks during the weekends. All that’s down here is a bunch of warehouses that receive shipments Monday through Friday. There is a weekend security guard, but he’s on our payroll and looks the other way when we’re conducting business here.

“Is that them?” Mike asks.

A black SUV is driving in our direction. They slow down at different ports, and the driver appears to check if there are people before moving on.

“I’d hope so,” I say. “Because anyone else who sees us will get a bullet through their skull.”

The SUV finally reaches us. I can see there are multiple men inside, but only the two in the back step out. They do a quick search around the port, presumably seeing if we’ve brought more than the agreed-upon men. After they’re satisfied with the search, they nod to the driver, and the front two passengers step out.

“Gentlemen.” A Mexican man with light green eyes steps out of the passenger seat. I’ve already met him—he’s the right-hand man of the mob’s boss. “How are you?”

“Great. Yourself, Eduardo?” I say.

“Superb, as always. Excited to get this deal done.”

“As am I.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to inspect the goods before we take them.”

I nod at Giuseppe/Gianni, and he walks to Eduardo with the briefcase full of opioids. He rests the case on top of a wooden shipping crate and has one of his cronies start to count the contents.

“So how has business been?” Eduardo asks.

He doesn’t care. Eduardo plays a charming role, but he’s more like a viper and can strike at any moment. If there is one thing I know about the Mexican Mafia, it’s that he’s the last person to trust.

“Good. Our contacts have been quite cooperative,” I respond.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

His crony has almost finished counting the drugs. “Is the number of pills correct, Luis?”

“Parece que si.”

“Good. There’s something I’d like to bring up, Gustavo.”

I can see the viper look on his face, and I know whatever is coming next won’t be good.

“It’s about our truce. If I recall correctly, some vendors that you work with are supposed to cooperate with us. We’ve had trouble with one.”

I groan. Of course someone isn’t coming through.

“And who would that be? I’ll resolve the issue,” I say.

“Diego Medical Supplies.”

Diego Medical Supplies was not an agreed-upon vendor when our truce was made. We use them to run our opioids. Although we have various other income sources, opioids bring in the most money. And if the Mexican Mafia starts selling drugs in LA, that means less money for us. They’re not someone who will be shared.

“I appreciate you bringing it up, Eduardo, but Diego wasn’t an agreed-upon vendor. You know our relationship with them, and it isn’t one that will be shared.”

“Ah, of course.” Eduardo slams the briefcase full of opioids shut and hands it to his crony to take to the vehicle. “I meant to ask last time, why do they call you ‘The Devil’?”

The saliva in my mouth evaporates. I don’t like to think about the things I’ve done to earn that title.

“Play on my last name, I guess.”

“I see. Well, I suppose the rumors I’ve heard about you may or may not be true, then.”

He doesn’t bring out the guns we agreed upon. The other three men come and stand next to him, and the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me something is about to go very wrong.

“Either way, today I’ll get the privilege of killing the Devil.”

“Get dow—” I start to yell, but one of his men has already put a bullet through Gianni/Giuseppe’s skull.

I can’t get behind a shipping container in time. A bullet hits me in the right side of my stomach, and I fall behind it. Mike is crouched behind the other side of the container, firing at Eduardo’s men.

I push through the pain and use the container as cover as I shoot at the men.

They get Mike. His body crumples, and he falls to the floor.

Rage I’ve never known is burning through my body. We made a deal with these idiots, and they go and double-cross us. I may be about to die, but if I’m going out, Eduardo is going with me.

I lean out from the shipping container once more and take a head shot at him.

My injury impedes my aim, and I hit him somewhere along the neck.

“Vamonos!” he yells, grabbing the delicate flesh of his neck.

I must have hit around his jugular. If he doesn’t tend to that within a few minutes, he’s going to bleed out.

He and his men pile into the SUV, and I watch them speed away. Tending to Eduardo’s injury takes priority over double-checking I’m dead. He will die if he doesn’t find a doctor, and I bet his men are confident I will die.

I probably am.

We are so fucked. Gianni/Giuseppe took a bullet to the head, so I know he’s dead. I stumble over to Mike to see his injuries. If I can stop one of my men from dying, no matter their rank, you better believe I’ll do anything in my power.

He’s also gone. Mike took around seven bullets to the chest, and blood is leaking out of his mouth. He died with his eyes open, which I have rarely seen in the many deaths I’ve witnessed. And I’ve seen many, many deaths.

Eduardo isn’t the only one who may bleed out. My stomach is profusely bleeding, and even though I’m compressing the wound with my hand, it isn’t doing much to slow it. I wonder how long I have. If I don’t get medical attention, twenty minutes, maybe.

It’s not as simple as calling an ambulance. My only options are to be seen by the doctor at our office or go to one of the hospitals on our payroll. Whenever we have major injuries, they report them as ‘accidents,’ such as being caught in the crossfire of an unrelated drive-by. No one can know I’ve been at these docks.

I grab my phone out of my pocket and see there’s no service. Shit. I need to call Taime for help ASAP. My only option is to stumble out from under the docks and find service.

I hold the side of my stomach and walk agonizingly towards an area that doesn’t have a rooftop, in hopes that that is what’s blocking the cell service. Each step feels like a mile with this bullet lodged in my side.

There’s no way in hell I’m going to make it.

There’s a warehouse with the door cracked open. Maybe there’s something I can use. A shirt to better stop the bleeding, or a cart so I don’t have to keep walking.

I stagger the last few feet towards the warehouse. If there isn’t anything here, I’m done for. This isn’t how I pictured myself dying—I always thought the situation would be higher stakes. It’s a bit shameful for an underboss.

If I make it out of this alive, I will get revenge on Eduardo Rodriguez.

It’s the last thing I think of as I fall to the warehouse floor.