Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (grave mercy .TXT) 📗

I do a last check to make sure my weapons are in place, and grab my keys. There’s a guy a few blocks down who sells street food out of the to-go window of his bar. He has saved the night more than once.

The rain has given up by now, but the streets are still fairly empty. The looming Quarter buildings glisten, and a creeping fog rolls over cracked sidewalks.

As I place my order for an empanada, I’m also cycling through all my connections for another route of information. There’s no one I trust enough not to rat me out for asking questions about what Abuela is up to. Even under my new security name tag, it’s not my job to investigate the boss.

It takes less time to get my food and pay than it did to calm myself down earlier. The empanada burns my hand through the package, and I can smell the grease. My stomach growls, so I tear off a bite that I know will hurt.

Steam wafts from it as my tongue plays hot potato. Reality is bittersweet to go with the savory that comes through once the burn fades. I’m going to have to change strategies if I’m going to figure shit out before it hits the fan.

By the time I get back to where my bike is parked, the empanada is history. I’m feeling less pissy and more sleepy. I have to pass out eventually. Not yet, though.

The drive to the Garden District is uneventful, if slow. Wet roads are especially dangerous when you’re on two wheels, so I play it safe. Could be that I’m dreading this meeting more than I admitted to myself before now. It’s already a precarious game. How much do I divulge? Abuela never specifically told me to investigate the situation, but she had to expect me to.

I roll through the gate without slowing down at the security shack. They know me, they know my bike. They can see enough to tell the team inside that I’m here. I park in the side lot.

I notice how quiet it is when I cut the bike’s engine. It’s not strange for this part of town, but it feels ominous this time. Not that far from here, Izzy is stuck at that fancy ass hotel, with his ex. What a piece of work, that one, and I understand what Johnny Rocks said about her. I could tell right away that I’d hate her.

Time to tuck those thoughts away with my other speculations.

Inside the detail on duty motions for me to stop. When he reaches for my weapons, I hand him my leather jacket. His eyes narrow, and I nail him with a classic Freddy deadpan.

To be fair, I outrank him. To be stripped of my guns by someone below me, it doesn’t sit right. I know the rules, but still I just stare.

The welp clears his throat, and I catch him shifting his weight from foot to foot. I’m making him nervous. This fucker has to go. He couldn’t screen the line for an amusement park ride.

Movement farther inside catches my attention. My nerves spike as I notice Abuela watching the exchange. When I look her way, she makes a tiny smirk.

“Let him in,” she says.

The color drains from the guy’s face. He swallows thickly, and nods. My surprise isn’t so obvious. On one hand, it makes sense. She chose me for this position, she ought to trust me to be armed in her presence. On the other, I have never actually been armed in her presence with nobody else there. This changes everything.

I don’t nod or smirk. I give them nothing as I go deeper in. I stay at a respectful distance, waiting for her directive. She motions for me to follow, so I do. I hate it even as I flank her. The move comes natural, but it doesn’t feel right with her.

This time of night, the mansion runs a skeleton crew. The result is that I can hear the creaks and groans of the old walls in the absence of people noises. The otherwise silence is as off-putting as the fact that we’re not going to her office.

It feels like an hour before we enter an ornate wooden door. It’s a bar, I realize as we cross over the threshold. The space is so true to period that I expect to see a dark-skinned maid waiting to fill orders. There’s no one else here.

Abuela motions for me to sit at one of the armed stools in front of the bar, as she slips behind it. She’s quiet as she chooses a decanter and plucks the stopper out. It’s tequila. I would know it even if I couldn’t smell it.

“Would you like a drink?” she asks, her Spanish soft against the low lighting.

“No, thank you.”

She knows I don’t drink.

She’s not offended or surprised by my answer. She proceeds to pour herself a healthy shot into a highball, straight up. She corks the decanter, then levels her eyes on me over the rim as she takes a sip.

I don’t believe she expects me to spill any guts without a prompt, so I wait it out. During the wait that I pretend isn’t tense, my memories trail back to poker on the porch, a royal flush, and that dirty smirk on her lips. It wasn’t all that different from the one when I arrived here.

A red flag waves majestically in my brain. It has been twenty-four hours since this shit went down. A drive-by involving her granddaughter, one that seriously injured one of her rank. Josh still isn’t out of the red, and she’s more concerned with this cat mouse game with me.

She sets the glass down, and says, “There is something you need to be aware of as ranking security. The Rubio family is making moves against me back home, and I fear those moves have finally come across the border. I