Author: AJ Adams
Category: Humorous
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/aj-adams/page,8,480082-twisted_a_zeta_cartel_novel_book_5.html
"But he hasn't enough troops for an outright war." That got their attention. "He'll hit back but his major attention will be on sourcing more product."
"It won't occur to him you have put a stop to that," James grinned.
"Exactly. While he's fighting Dragon's blockade, we'll be taking out his main assets." Everyone liked that. We Zetas enjoy a slaughter. "As we're short of staff, I also want us luring away some of his top people."
"Is that wise?" Lencho frowned. "Won't Kowalczyk use that to infiltrate us? He's not the brightest crayon in the box, but he's not stupid. He'll have his most loyal men join our team, just to screw us over."
"Joder! Do you think I didn't consider that?" I couldn't help myself.
"No, no, of course not." Lencho was backing off, surprised at my sudden rage. "I misunderstood, Jorge, that's all."
"Poaching staff is a great idea," James was working hard, soothing tempers. "We check them out first. We'll know who we can trust."
"It won't involve trust," I had to force myself not to yell. "Kowalczyk's key people aren't players; they're just working stiffs."
Lencho was frowning, but he had the sense not to speak. Paco was silent as well but James got it. "Fuck me!" He was grinning. "In businesses like Bubbles, back of house staff come and go but great bartenders and DJs are pure gold."
"Exactly." I hit the printer and handed them the lists I'd been working on. "Here's a list of Kowalczyk's best staff. Do background checks and find out what makes them tick. I want to make them offers they can't refuse." Because we're all Godfather fans, aren't we?
James was smiling as he scanned the list. "Masseuses, dry cleaners, couriers and club staff. Jesus, why didn't I think of this? The club staff alone must bring in a fortune."
"Just get the background and report back," I wasn't taking any shit. "All hires are to be approved by me, personally."
"Sure, Jorge."
Paco had been running our communications, and he was on board instantly. "I'll get into their phones and check their WhatsApp groups. Knowing their gripes will help us sweeten a few deals."
"Yes, but I okay all offers."
James knew I was pissed. "Jorge's the boss, we all know that."
He meant well, but it came across as patronising. I bit back a hot reply and got on with it. "I'm working up the plan for removing Baros and his sicarios. We'll go over it tomorrow."
"Perfect," James sighed. He grinned at me. "That hijo de puta Pole won't know what's hit him. What else do you have planned, Jorge?"
That was my moment. I was ready to share. "Home is where the heart is, right? Well, last night I snatched his girlfriend."
There was a stunned silence.
"I grabbed her off the pavement, right in front of his mansion."
"Do you mean the model, Persia York?" James asked carefully.
"That's the bitch."
"Is that where you got that bite?" Paco asked.
"She didn't come easily," I grinned. To my surprise, they were silent. I thought they didn't understand. "We're fighting a war. By taking his woman, he'll be distracted. And that means he'll make mistakes. This gives us an edge."
The team looked worried. I'd been expecting admiration and so it bugged the hell out of me. "What?"
James twitched nervously, "Uhm, Jorge, what about the jefe's new rules?"
For a moment I was blank. Then, "You mean about vengeance being limited to players?" Their eyes told me I'd hit it on the nail.
"Family and bystanders are out of bounds," Paco said nervously. "The jefe made it plain, Jorge. It includes girlfriends, he was very specific about that."
In my fury, I'd forgotten. I mean, the idea was just nuts. Business is war and war is about winning, no matter what. Rules are for losers. But I wasn't going to diss my cousin or admit my rage had blanked out his instructions that had been handed down a year before. And anyway, I told myself; I had done nothing wrong.
"I'm sure Jorge got permission," James said quickly.
"I did not!"
"Oh fuck. The jefe will be pissed." Lencho was pale just thinking about it.
Arturo was an ocean away, and I was right there, yet they were more worried about his distant displeasure than my immediate rage. It was just too much.
"I did not get permission because I don't need to." I knew I was correct. "Persia York isn't a bystander, she's a player."
"How so?" James frowned.
"When I was at his place, she took part in the meeting." And she'd gone right for the throat, humiliating me, the bitch. "And after, she dissed me on her social media." I was still steaming at those disrespectful fucking memes. "She deliberately backed up Kowalczyk's play," I growled. "The two of them are definitely a team."
"I guess," James said slowly.
"But a woman? Working with Kowalczyk?" Paco hesitated.
It didn't sound right, but I buried any misgivings. Having been snatched off the street, a normal girl would have cried and pleaded, begging for mercy. But this bitch had fought like a Zeta. My balls still ached from where she'd booted me.
Is it in yet? That mocking voice, dissing me as I was fucking her. Pinche hija de puta! Humiliation flooded back; it was just inconceivable that an ordinary girl had gotten one over on me. Persia York was a player, and a hard-nosed zorra too.
"There aren't many women in our business," Lencho worried. "What if she's just a front?"
"The jefe himself says he'd be nowhere without the jefa," I reminded them.
Lencho was smiling instantly. "Aye, to have a woman like that. I mean," he traced curves in the air and sighed, "Aye-yay-yay."
The admiring silence spoke for itself. Solitaire, my cousin's wife, is well named as she combines strength and intelligence with stunning beauty. Arturo had fallen for her on sight and all of us had lusted after her as well - although at a discreet distance. My cousin is jealous as hell and as he's been known to boil his enemies alive, we're a little careful.
"The rules are plain," I went for it. "Persia York is a player." I wasn't going to share the details of my humiliation that proved my point. I'd die first. "She takes her chances, just like the rest of us."
James nodded. "Yes, but to be sure, you cleared it with headquarters, right?"
"Goddammit, no, I did not!" I was up on my feet, slamming the desk. "Joder, have some fucking respect!"
James was backing down, "Jorge, tranquilo, porva -"
My pent-up rage boiled over. "I am not your friend! I am your fucking boss!"
"Sorry." James was white. "I didn't mean -"
"You shut the fuck up when I speak!" I was an inch away from pulling out my gun and shooting him on the spot. "From now on I will have some fucking respect! Do you understand?"
"Yes, absolutely, boss."
James was nodding furiously, and the others were following suit.
I slammed my hands on the desk again. "You do your goddamn job! And that does not include second-guessing me!"
"Yes, boss. Sorry, boss."
The chorus was unanimous.
"And stop fucking telling me what I can and cannot do!"
"Yes, boss. Sorry boss."
"Good. Now fuck off and get to work!"
As they trooped out, I fell back into my chair. Sucking in huge gulps of air, I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. I told myself it had to be said. A man must have respect.
But as the fury ebbed, I felt my failure. As my cousin had noted, we were behind on our plans for London. I wasn't hitting my targets, and I wasn't on top of things. Jesus, I couldn't even kidnap a girl and prevent her from shooting me. But the team were wrong to question my judgement. That mouthy bitch was 100 percent for certain Kowalczyk's associate.
Yes, I know. That's how low I'd sunk. I just couldn't face admitting I'd screwed up.
I leaned back in my chair and winced at the sudden flare of heat in my arm. The bullet wound was clean but being hit by a slug of metal moving at 1700 miles an hour leaves a whacking great bruise. My balls were still t
ender and the bites on my arms, neck and chest hurt as well.
The pain reignited the rage and the conviction I was right. Cruising social media, and seeing the slurs she'd posted, had my fuming again. Her post, If all of Jorge Santos' brains were ink, he couldn't dot an I had over a thousand retweets alone.
How the team had thought her a civilian was beyond me. She didn't just live with Kowalczyk, she'd gone out of her way to smear me. Cyberspace was lit up with her comments about my failing business. And being a popular model, she was packing a punch.
Follow the money, they say. I did what I should have done at the beginning: I ran a credit check on her. A minute later, I had her profile: five stars. Digging deeper, I found two bank accounts, a mortgage, and a dozen bike loans.
Her current account was running low and her credit cards were maxed out, but the banks weren't pushing for payment because she had a fat investment account, and all her loans were up to date. Furthermore, she had two paid off mortgages, one for a luxury apartment and another for a home in north London.
A call to a contact netted me an executive worth statement: the fresa had £750,000 in investments and a cool £1.6 million in properties. There was only one way a model could make that kind of cash, and it wasn't by trotting up and down catwalks or decorating restaurants. She was dealing product, laundering cash, or both.
I sat back, feeling vindicated. The team had been wrong. I had the proof right in front of me. Persia York was up to her neck into Kowalczyk's business; the money stashed in the bank proved she was playing the game on her own behalf. Taking her was fair.
It was also an excellent strategy. Kowalczyk had attended a celeb party the night before, and Persia's absence had been noted. He had blown it off, "Persia's visiting her Mum" but I suspected it worried him. That was perfect because worried men are distracted and distracted men make mistakes.
He'd not reached out to me or mentioned me. It hadn't occurred to him that I had arranged his playmate's disappearance. His lack of concern for what I might do to him had me burning.
That got me focussed on business again. The team had written up solid reports. Plugging in their information plus the details I had gathered gave me a great overview of Kowalczyk's empire.
The Pole had built up his plaza around his dealers. Although he had some nice assets, he'd missed a lot of opportunities. I sat back and smiled when I saw it. Kowalczyk had partied too much. It suggested he was a weak enemy.
Even so, his business was complex enough to keep me busy. Fine-tuning my plan of attack to ensure maximum mayhem with minimum effort took me all morning. By the time I was done, I had a queue of waiting visitors: Luke, who managed our chain of massage parlours, Kent, who ran a fleet of trucks for us, and finally, Patel, who kept the books for the pubs we owned shares of.
Talking to them confirmed what I'd told the team: selling product, organising escort services, and all the other standard revenue streams brought in the real money but with the authorities always on our case, it was vital we laundered our ill-gotten cash through a large legal business base. Without ordinary management talent, our business would be up shit creek.
It was well past seven when I realised my phone was uncharacteristically silent. Usually it rang with updates, gossip, and jokes from the team. I checked it was switched on. It was. They were keeping their distance. With hindsight, I knew it had been a mistake to lose it.
Another failure.
The arrival of an unexpected visitor, Ben Cartwright, senior administrator of the Port Authority interrupted my thoughts. The second I saw his pink, sweating face, I realised it was trouble. "Good to see you! Come in, have a drink." Because form matters.
He shook his head, shaking with nerves. "Mr Santos -"
"Please, call me Jorge." I took his arm and settled him on the guest sofa by the window. "Hey, it's good of you to drop by. What do you think of the view? Nice, huh?"
"Lovely." Cartwright was determined to get it over with quick. "We have some concerns regarding your application, uhm, well, uhm."
"Just tell me."
"We received information, uhm, well, instructions really, uhm, from a Detective Inspector Smith."
Hell. Smith was intent on causing trouble.
"He says that you are, uhm," Cartwright was red with embarrassment. "A person of interest in, uhm, several ongoing investigations."
I leaned back in my chair and sighed. "This really upsets me."
Cartwright paled. "I didn't say so, Mr Santos!"
From the panicked reaction, Smith had told him who I was. Finally, some respect. But from a low-level flunky I didn't care about. "Please, call me Jorge. Unless you feel we can't be friends?" Yes, I'm a bastard.
"No-no-no!" He fell over himself to assure me. "Of course not!"
"I understand it's not you," I let him off the hook. "It's Smith. I'm afraid he's a racist."
"Racist?" Cartwright was appalled. That's the Brits for you; political correctness is their religion.
"Smith thinks every Mexican is a gangster," I moaned. "I'm not some street corner drug pusher. I'm a businessman. I went to Cornell, for God's sake."
"Oh dear. How awful." Cartwright had his cue. "I had no idea."
"I'll fix this. I will make an official complaint." I was on my feet and leading him to the door. "The application itself is good, right?"
"The financing is perfect and I think the architect will approve but with the Detective Inspector blocking you, we won't be able to get clearance from the Ministry," Cartwright babbled. "The Home Office are very strict about foreign investment. If they kick, our hands are tied."
"Don't worry," I repeated. "I'll deal with Smith."
"We will ask questions about your business," Cartwright warned.
"I will have my team answer every question." I was smiling on the outside but I was most unhappy. Smith could cause me real trouble.
As I escorted Cartwright out, James called. "Boss, we got that information you wanted." My phone beeped as the file rolled in. "If it's okay with you, we're off to check out Kowalczyk's warehouse."
"Sounds good."
But it didn't. James' brisk and respectful voice brought it home that I'd messed up. Yelling had given me ten seconds of relief and lost me a friend. Perhaps updating him on the seaport would help. Yes, I'd suggest we all go out for a drink and then I could smooth it all over. Not apologise but let them know I might have handled it better.
But James continued, "We want to go to Bishop's Stortford. It's a town north of here. We think Kowalczyk may farm there."
They really were distancing themselves. Right out of town. The impulse to share died. "Of course. Update me later, okay? And see you tomorrow."
"Right," James sounded distracted. "Oh, and word on the street is that Kowalczyk is going frantic searching for his girl."
"Good." At least that part of my plan was working.
"He says they had a fight, and she had a spat with her family as well. He thinks she's gone off with a girlfriend until she cools down. He's put out the word she's to be found, and fast."
"A smokescreen?"
"It seems genuine, boss. Your name hasn't come up at all."
So, Kowalczyk had no respect for me. I hid my anger. "Excellent. The longer we can keep him off balance and blind to the truth, the better."
"Yes, boss," James agreed.
"See you tomorrow."
I spent an hour putting ears and eyes on Kowalczyk and then I was done. I'd skipped lunch but didn't feel like going out and eating alone. Oh, I could have gone out and had a dozen girls flock to me but they'd be after one thing: money or me doing them a favour that made them money. I just wasn't in the mood. Also, I had that fresa to deal with.
I wanted to punish her, but that would take some doing. On a Mohs scale, the bitch would rate harder than carbonado. Still, she had to have a chink in her armour. I couldn't think of any but going over her tweets again helped. In the past, she'd mouthed off at trolls posting her sex video.
&
nbsp; Watching it didn't give me much. It was bad quality, dark and blurred. A couple on the ground, lots of drunken cheering from an invisible crowd, a bobbing ass and a glimpse of her face. It was less than spectacular but she'd reacted to it and that meant she cared. I could use that.
The idea came to me in a flash. A video of her being fucked, well-lit this time, and posted prominently, would get right under that peach soft skin. And when Kowalczyk saw it, he'd do his nut.
It was more classic strategy. If you're kidnapping for ransom, you make a tape of the woman looking fucked, and threaten to send her back in bits. The mark will give you every cent he has, begging you not to hurt her. And if you're playing hardball, you rough her up while he's watching, just to be nasty.
I wasn't looking for a ransom but honesty compelled me to admit that I'd been so incensed over her dissing me, that I had lost the plot. Punishing her was inefficient. Much better to make it get to him at the same time. I swore there and then I would not let my anger get the better of me again.
Gazing at the river, I decided to wait before taking action. Having Kowalczyk run around looking for his girl would confuse him nicely. Then, when he finally figured out the truth, I'd torment him with a video.
For a microsecond, I hesitated. The whole point of a tape is to rile up the enemy and you do that by putting on a show. It occurred to me that I'd worked over dozens if not scores of men but never a woman. But business is business. I was deciding to beat her, steeling myself at knowing it would have to be brutal to break her, when a pang of hunger clued me into a better strategy.
Beating is standard but there's more than one way to skin a cat. As Kowalczyk claimed the fresa as one of his best possessions, all I had to do was to take her away publicly. A video of me fucking his woman and her loving it would shrivel his balls nicely. And I knew exactly how to make her nice and cooperative.
An hour later, I placed two plates of roast chicken and salad on the living room table. Wafting the scent into the bedroom, I approached the wardrobe. Any hope she'd be sobbing steadily, died. There wasn't a peep coming from her.
"Out you come." I held my breath as I opened the door, but there was no stench. That was weird.