The Cartel Lawyer by Dave Daren (popular books to read .TXT) 📗

I slipped my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around my cell phone, but resisted the urge to call for help before I found out what was actually happening. I was already too far out of the city for anyone to reach me quickly, and if they weren’t about to kill me, then I didn’t want to give them a reason to do exactly that.

The mysterious driver veered across the three-laned highway, barely missed a white Accord, and took an exit that I didn’t recognize. There were a few gas stations, a McDonalds, and a Wendy’s right off the exit, but we passed all of them as the burly man drove away from any signs of civilization.

Just as I was sure that I was about to be murdered and fed to a gator, we reached a sleepy town that sprang up out of the long stretch of road. I waited and held my breath while I tried to memorize every detail, just in case, but then we pulled into the parking lot of a police station.

Osvaldo Fuentes was silhouetted by the wall of windows behind him, but his large frame was unmistakable as he turned toward the SUV. The vehicle stopped right in front of the muscular man, and before I could open my door, he had yanked it open.

“It took you long enough,” the gruff Cuban snarled to the driver before he turned his attention to me. “I expect nothing but perfection.”

His tone was almost a growl as he stepped aside so that I could climb out of the SUV. He was still backlit by the bright fluorescent lights of the police station, and the shadows cast over his face made his scar on his right cheek look more menacing.

Alvaro unfolded his massive frame, stepped nimbly from our ride, and then leaned in to say something to the driver. He spoke so quietly that I couldn’t hear what was said, though I thought I heard the name Camilo. The driver nodded, and then Alvaro shut the door.

“What are we doing here?” I asked as I looked from one man to the other.

“My son has been arrested,” the president of Fuentes Shipping huffed as he stuffed his hands into his pockets.

His eyes flashed with rage, and a shiver ran down my spine as his gaze met mine.

“For what?” I asked in what I hoped was a respectful tone.

The more information I had before we went in, the better, but the burly man just grunted. He glanced at Alvaro, and the tall tattooed man opened the door to the station instead.

It was a small police station compared to the ones in Miami, but the white tile floors and wooden benches were the same. There were posters of wanted criminals and information for emergency services on the pale-gray walls. The scent of stale coffee lingered in the air and mixed with the smell of bleach and BO. Somewhere, a radio clicked in and out with static-filled dispatches from the officers that were on patrol.

The front counter was just a normal office desk with a tan laminate cover and pens that were chained to the scarred surface. There were three clipboards with bail forms to the right and a computer to the left. Behind the desk sat an older woman with faded red hair, glasses, and a faded uniform that had seen better days.

“We’re here for Camilo Fuentes,” Osvaldo barked at the female officer.

The woman looked up from her book with a bored expression that quickly turned into fear as she saw the scarred man’s glare. Her eyes darted up to Alvaro and then quickly moved on to me. She shoved a receipt in between the pages of her book and then set it aside as she gave Osvaldo her full attention.

“C-Camilo Fuentes?” the officer stuttered underneath the harsh stare of the muscular man.

“Yes,” my new employer snapped. “I’m his father.”

“Of-of course,” the flustered woman agreed as she nodded her head.

Her wrinkled hands shook as she picked up the intake clipboard and flipped through the papers. She stopped on one with a dark-red jelly donut stain, and her lips pressed together as she read it over. She bobbed her head as she took in the information and then risked another glance at the angry father.

“Well, where is he?” Osvaldo demanded. His voice was a low growl, and his beefy hands curled into fists at his side.

“Interview room 2,” she answered as she quickly looked away from him. “It’s the second door on the left.”

She pointed toward the hallway to our right as she started to reach for the old landline phone. No doubt she was about to warn someone of our arrival, but that seemed like the least of our worries at the moment.

Osvaldo grunted at the woman before he spun on his heels and stormed away. He didn’t bother to knock when he reached the dark-green metal door. He simply grabbed the handle and flung the door open. It swung inwards so hard that it bounced against the bluish-gray cement wall and startled the young blonde officer that sat opposite a teenage boy.

Camilo Fuentes had the same short, dark hair as his father, though his brown eyes were a deeper brown. His lanky frame was wrapped in muscles, and I decided that the muscle look must be popular with the Fuentes clan and their lackeys. Curiously, the youth wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, pressed black slacks, and shiny ebony dress shoes. Not exactly standard fare for a teenage boy in Miami.

The younger Fuentes sat in one of the two silver metal chairs in the room with his feet propped up on the shiny chrome table, and his seat tilted back to balance on the back two legs.