Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
A bull of a man stepped from behind one of the booths, hiding behind a shotgun. Miguel instantly zeroed in on the tattoo covering his chin. It was a compass indicating that North lay at the man’s feet, which anyone with any knowledge about organized crime would have recognized as the symbol of a gang known as the Conquistadors. No matter how much Miguel liked looking at Nero’s ink, he now wished Nero had a jacket to cover his Caiman-marked arms.
“The question is, what are you running from?” asked another voice, this one female with an accent he couldn’t place.
“It doesn’t matter. We lost our pursuers. All we need is some water and a place for the night.” Miguel glanced to the side, at the woman who emerged from behind a dilapidated fence with a small handgun. She had one arm, and the flashlight revealed an ugly scar going all the way from her jaw to her left eye.
“That’s Nero Moreno,” said someone else.
Miguel’s blood turned into mercury, poisoning every bit of him. The worst had just happened, and they were too outnumbered for him to protect Nero, even if he chose to give his life to the cause.
The woman sucked in air, and the gun in her hand gave a creak, as if she only needed to pull the trigger a little bit harder to blow Nero’s brains out. “Fuck the Caimans!”
The third voice gave a low groan. “I’m right here.”
A man emerged, and as he stepped closer to the circle of light, the scale-like tattoos on his exposed arm became obvious. He was very tall and slender, like a reed, but held his own gun with the confidence of someone with a frightening amount of experience. Still, the chopped haircut resembling a mullet with shaved sides, and a small mustache, made him look young.
“You’re no longer one of them,” the woman contested, and Nero finally moved, raising his head.
“Neither am I.”
Bull huffed and gestured at them with the shotgun. “Not every Caiman is a Moreno, but you don’t get that privilege.”
Miguel stepped closer to Nero. “We killed his father today, and you claim blood matters?”
The prolonged silence was the effect Miguel was hoping for.
The Caiman was the first one to lower his gun. “Raul Moreno is dead?”
Nero’s shoulders, which up to this point resembled the motionless branches of a tree, relaxed somewhat. “Killed by those he’d least expected.”
A fourth man, older, with a bald head and an eyepatch decorated with a bright X embroidered in the middle, revealed himself. Unlike the others, he still carried his weapon in the holster and walked to meet them, as if he had the status of the leader of this small band of outlaws from various gangs that in the real world fought for turf each day. But in the surreal universe of rusted steel and broken dreams, they stood together against a common threat.
Nero’s gaze zeroed in on the Caiman, betraying no fear. “You know no one wants someone like me at the reins. We killed my father and then ran, leaving the others to fight for power over his dead body.”
The older man eyed them from top to bottom, and in the end, he offered Nero his hand. “We welcome outcasts. The good news hasn’t reached us yet, but if you really did what you say, we owe you a drink. I’m Peto. If you intend to stay, you will need to pull your weight, but we can talk about that later.” One gesture from him had all the others lowering their guns.
Miguel exhaled and introduced himself when Peto squeezed his hand. He had a snake symbol etched in his forearm, the symbol of Los Serpientes, an organization famously squashed by the Moreno cartel in a brutal takeover a few years back. And yet he was here, respected by everyone else.
The woman spat on the ground but put her gun in a holster before pushing back her hair as the huge man approached to whisper something in her ear. Nero also shook the leader’s hand, and the former Caiman, who introduced himself as Dante, gave three short signals with a whistle, presumably communicating with the other members of this strange community.
“I’m Quinto,” the bull said, offering his hand to first Miguel, then Nero, as if he wanted to stress that former rank meant nothing here. “And this is Sofia.”
Despite introductions being out of the way, Miguel sensed tension in the air, but Dante was too curious about the details of Raul’s demise to let any silence sneak in. At least Miguel wasn’t forced to talk too much because Nero’s fake charm kicked in as he began to weave an entertaining tale of their escape. He repeated it as soon as they were led to a bonfire where several more men and women had gathered to eat and drink.