Men scattered as the cherry-red BMW swung into the lot. The automatic garage door had barely opened enough to admit the vehicle when it roared right through. Skidding on the greasy concrete, Stella Hawk braked inches from the line of white Dodge Sprinter trucks.
She popped the passenger side door and kicked the groaning man with her Roger Vivier heels. “Get out before you ruin my goddamn upholstery,” she screamed. Standing near the trucks, Pizarro Rojas watched her performance with interest. His brother Balboa, who had been examining Hugo Bix’s silver Jaguar, frowned at the woman’s vulgar display.
Curtis Manning tumbled out of the front seat, into a puddle of grease. Hugo Bix stepped forward, looming over the semi-conscious man.
“Hell,” he said with a crooked grin. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Lilly was not amused. She climbed out of the car, slammed the door. “You dumb bastards almost lost him,” she cried, eyes flashing. “Jesus Christ! Don’t you know that if Curtis got away, he’d have warned Jaycee something was going on over here.”
“We had it under control, honey,” Bix replied in a reasonable tone.
A sneering Stella scanned the faces around her, then glared a challenge at Carlos and Roland. “Next time, don’t send a bunch of taco benders and tamale stuffers to do your job, Hugo.”
Roland turned his back on the woman, walked back to the Jaguar parked in the corner to speak with Balboa and Pizarro Rojas. Together, the three men moved to the line of panel trucks, opened the door to one of them and climbed inside.
Carlos set Curtis Manning’s PDA and cell phone on the hood of Stella’s car, under Hugo’s nose.
“This man who was spying on you is not a gangster,” the Cuban announced. “I can’t crack the codes, but this device—” he touched the PDA. “This belongs to a federal agent. FBI, perhaps DEA. I was lucky to be able to hone in on the tracking beam.”
Hugo snorted, then threw back his head and laughed. “That dumb som’ bitch of a bastard Jager has a snake on his own damn team. This guy here’s probably working to bust his whole crew.”
Fat Frankie Toomes’ expression soured. “Too bad we stopped him.”
Bix peered at the man on the ground. Curtis hadn’t stirred. He looked to be dying, or dead already. “Yeah, maybe…” Bix grunted, glancing in Roman Vine’s direction.
Roland Arrias returned to speak with his partner Carlos. Pizarro and Balboa remained with the trucks. The brothers seemed reluctant to get involved with Bix’s business.
“The charges are set. A very professional job,” Roland reported. “There is more C4 than we asked for. More than enough to do the job. The Rojas boys are quite happy with the arrangement, despite the presence of this pig—” He spit on Curtis.
Bix smirked. Carlos faced the American. “You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”
A Cuban stepped forward, opened a leather attaché case. It was stuffed with cash. Stella’s eyes narrowed when she saw the money. She licked her lips.
“Five million dollars,” Carlos said. “You’ve already received the shipment of cocaine. Count the cash if you wish.”
Bix grinned. “I trust you, amigo.” He reached out, closed the case himself. Roman Vine took it from the Cuban.
“What do you want me to do with this here federale?” Bix asked, his booted foot prodding Curtis’s kidney.
“Throw him in one of the trucks. He killed two of my men, he can die with the others in the first blast.”
While a pair of Cubans grabbed Curtis under the arms and dragged him to one of the trucks, Carlos faced Bix.
“We have only one problem now,” he said. “One of the men this American agent killed was the brother of a waiter at the Babylon. He was to take his brother’s place this night, in order to plant the final bomb in the banquet hall.”
Bix frowned. “Spot of bad luck there, eh, amigo?” He rubbed his chin. “Look, I can provide you with a driver or two — for a price. But I can’t get you close to the VIPs, not without advance planning. I reckon nobody can. Not now…”
“I can.”
Carlos and Roland turned to face Stella Hawk. Head cocked, hands on her hips, she nodded. “Yeah, you heard right. I can get one or two of you in, anyway. I’m a performer at Risque, which is inside the Babylon, and my roommate is a waitress at tonight’s shindig. I’ll get you past security, or around it.”
Pizarro Rojas, who’d only been listening up to now, stepped forward. “How much is the ser vices of this… this puta descarada going to cost?”
The insult rolled off her back. “Five hundred thousand dollars,” Stella replied, extending her hand, palm up. “Payable right now.”
Pizarro glanced at his brother. “Pay her.”
Bix studied the man. For a guy who’d been forced to cough up an extra half million dollars, Pizarro Rojas seemed pretty calm. His brother Balboa didn’t look nearly so happy. Sour faced, he rummaged through the scuffed and dirty canvas bag that he’d carried across the border, came up with a stack of thousand-dollar bills.
“You better deliver what we’ve paid for, or you will not leave the hotel alive,” he grunted as he handed her the money.
Stella flashed him a smile. “Don’t worry, Pedro. Satisfaction’s guaranteed.” She climbed into her car, stashed the money in a secret compartment behind the dash.
Finally, Pizarro Rojas moved toward Hugo Bix, until the two men stood toe to toe. Rojas, a head shorter than the American, looked up to meet his eye.
“In a few minutes we will drive away from here in these trucks,” Rojas said. “But I will always remember the ser vice you and your men provided for me, for my family. In times of trouble, when the other gangs turned on us, you remained loyal.” Pizarro touched his head. “A Rojas never forgets his friends, as you shall soon discover.”
Turning his back on Bix, he headed back to the trucks. On the way, he took Stella’s arm, pushed her toward the first vehicle. Despite the rough handling, Stella smirked. Heels clicking, she obediently followed her new, high-paying boss.
“Adios, amigo,” Bix called as he walked to his office. “And good luck…”
By the time Bix reached his cluttered desk upstairs, the trucks were rolling out of the garage. Carlos Boca stood at the door, directing the deployment. He spaced each departure a few minutes apart — a wise move, Bix realized. It would look odd if six identical Sunflower Gardens Florist trucks rolled out of a garage nowhere near the location of the real shop on the other side of town.
Watching the last of the trucks roll on to their target, Bix lifted his phone, pressed a button.
Downstairs, Roman Vine answered the phone on the wall. “Yeah, boss.”
“Time to call the Wildman. Tell them it’s a go.”
Bix slumped down in the battered office chair and propped his feet on the desk. While the Rojas boys were having their fun, Hugo Bix had been planning a private party of his own. He’d just passed the order along to the out-of-towner gunmen Roman Vine hired from the El Paso mob. While the authorities’ attention was diverted to the big blowout at the Babylon, Bix was going to light his own kind of fire at the Cha-Cha Lounge, and Jaycee Jager and his crew were going to burn.